A few years ago, Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 was published posthumously. It was met with riotous praise, as critic after critic waxed rhapsodic over what a masterpiece it was. Despite its incredibly dark subject matter (a thinly fictionalized take on the unsolved murders in Juarez) and daunting length, I was excited when a blog read-along was organized, and happily embarked on a challenging but rewarding literary journey.
I loathed it. Of all the books I have ever read, none come close to the depths of my hatred for this one. I hate it with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. There are plenty of books I’ve thoroughly disliked, but was happy enough to have finished that I kept them on my shelf. (I’m looking at you, Franzen.) I couldn’t give my copy away to the local library fast enough. If I were trapped on a desert island, I’d rather have the phone book than this one.
And yet, the critics loved it. Loooooooooved it. Picking the first five reviews that pop up on Google, they’re all utterly unsparing with their praise. Where I see a brutal, ugly heap of incoherent, garbled nonsense, they see an epic masterpiece.
This happens to me every so often. I remember how much the critics loved “Sideways,” which I thought was a movie about two schmucks.
So, here’s my question for you — what movie/book/album/TV show have you watched/read/heard that everyone else seemed to love, that you hated? The more critically acclaimed, the better.