SAD JANET

In Britsch’s darkly humorous debut, a deeply miserable woman is given a once-in-a-lifetime shot at happiness, just in time for the holidays.

Why fake happiness when you can luxuriate in despair? If Janet, Britsch’s Fleabag-esque antihero, had a mantra, that would pretty much sum it up. Janet’s spent most of her life being sad—even going so far as to lovingly give herself the name “Sad Janet.” “It’s manageable melancholia, which feels chic and French,” she argues. Much like Ottessa Moshfegh’s disaffected heroines, Janet takes pleasure in shirking societal pressures to always be striving. She finds some semblance of happiness idly working at a run-down dog shelter and has managed to hold onto a relationship with her boyfriend. That is, until her family stages an intervention about her depression and he breaks up with her right before the holidays. When a new company claims they have a pill you can take to make Christmas tolerable, she acquiesces and tries it out—with both a pro and con being “if I don’t give in, my mother will never speak to me again.” Here’s where the plot would inevitably turn. But it doesn’t. Instead, it moves with the same inertia as its narrator, like a pill caught halfway down the throat. A sardonic portrayal of self-improvement in an age where sadness is stigmatized, Britsch’s novel feels so apt right now. However, by its end, it becomes a sort of echo chamber unto itself, full of cynicism, angst, existential ennui, and no solution. Perhaps that is life.

A misanthropic tale goes awry.