THE QUEEN OF TUESDAY

A fictionalized version of Lucille Ball’s life, including a love affair with the author’s grandfather.

For decades, Strauss, the author of the award-winning memoir Half a Life (2010) as well as novels including Chang and Eng (2000), has been obsessed with the fact that his grandfather Isidore Strauss might have met Lucille Ball at a 1949 party thrown by Donald Trump’s father to celebrate the destruction of the Pavilion of Fun on Coney Island. The complicated concoction of memoir and fiction that has emerged from this spark of inspiration interweaves imagined scenes from Ball’s life on and off the set with imagined scenes from his grandfather’s. Between these chapters, he slips in vignettes of what seems to be memoir, documenting his earlier attempts to bring attention to this passion project. The novel begins at Trump’s party, written up in a highly stylized, flashy prose style: “Hey, that’s your favorite celebrity over there. On the boardwalk, her white shoes scuffed black with sand. (If she’s not famous now, just wait.) She’s striding—confidenting—right into this party.” Before the night’s over, Desi Arnaz will have punched Isidore Strauss in the eye. What follows incorporates impressive research into the progress of Ball’s career—the author hopes to “remind people that Lucille Ball starred in America’s first big-time interracial love story; was the first powerful woman in Hollywood; that she owned more movie sets at one point than did any movie studio.” However, in addition to grafting his made-up story onto the facts of Ball’s life, he admits to monkeying with other details, which undercuts even the informational aims of the book. Mingling fictional characters with famous historical ones worked to brilliant effect in E.L. Doctorow’s Ragtime and many similar novels since, but this feels more like a thought experiment than a compelling story. The jaunty narrator is not just omniscient, but presumptuous and intrusive, spending a good deal of time in the characters’ heads, confidently reporting their thoughts. In a scene in which Ball is having sexual intercourse with the author’s grandfather, Strauss has her meditate on why she likes him so much. “Really, it was the fucking. It’s hard not to love something you’re really good at. She was really good at that.” Oof.

This odd book stands to anger Lucille Ball’s fans and bemuse Darin Strauss’.