I adore Roddy Doyle. He is, far and away, one of my favourite authors. Keep that in mind when I say that I *hated* this book. Really hated it. Fifty pages in, I was fighting an uphill battle to finish it, which is really astounding, considering that Doyle's prose usually flies off of the page at the reader with a speed that is both easy and remarkable. Henry Smart in Ireland is fast, witty, and amusing. Henry Smart in America, however, is a slow-thinking, grating hodgepodge of repetitive slang.

This is a book I wish I never read. "A Star Called Henry" was a remarkable novel, and one that should not be sullied by the travesty that is "Oh, Play That Thing". While I understand the ambition behind this work, and I do see wonderful aspects of the author's style throughout the narrative, any positive features of "Oh, Play That Thing" are overshadowed by the feelings of boredom and frustration that this novel evoked in me.

Roddy Doyle, what were you thinking? ( )

An uneven sequel to A Star Called Henry follows the protagonist / narrator Henry Smart on the run to New York, then Chicago, and then across the country. In a Forrest Gump way he interacts with celebrities of the Roaring Twenties and Depression era, most prominently a friendship with a young Louis Armstrong that dominates the central portion of the book. Doyle captures the intense paranoia of Henry Smart, as well as the jazz age riffs of South Side Chicago. He fails in that the narrative is plodding and directionless. You could actually see where he runs out of ideas and relies instead on "the amazing coincidence" and "unbelievable reunion." A section in which he becomes a priest for a libertine evangelical woman (seemingly based on Aimee Semple McPherson) is totally boring and confusing and falls on its face. Doyle's increasing obtuse writing style seems more of a rip-off than a tribute to James Joyce. Things pick up again in a humorous yet fantastical bit where Henry Smart travels across the dust bowl listening to stories of the heists of his wife and children. But it's really too little too late at that point. One hopes Doyle can finish strong with the third installment of the trilogy, but I'm not looking forward to it so much. The cliff-hanger ending with John Ford doesn't really have me sitting on the edge of my seat. ( )

Henry Smart is as full of himself as ever, only now he's made his way to America, and seems to be grabbing everything it has to offer with both hands. ( )

I don't think I can fully express how dissappointed I am. This novel was simply unnecessary.

It's prequel, A Star Called Henry, remains one of my favorite novels. Yet I'm afraid that this piece of writing falls far below Doyle's usual standards. If anything, the story has been taken too far for too long.

Removing Henry from his native Ireland was the first misstep - Take away the land and you remove an essential component of this character. It is impossible for me to believe that he is able to continue functioning without an Irish backdrop. It is in his blood, it is in his words, it is in his breath. Henry is a shell of a man without it. Attempting to turn him into an American is like trying to paint Uncle Sam as a Russian - It's awkward, it's wrong, and anyone familiar with the character at all will hate you for it.

While the foundation based around jazz music is a commendable idea, Doyle is not able to fully expound upon it. Do not include this element unless you intend to fully discuss it. Jazz cannot and will not be an accessory. Unless you are prepared to fill it out as a character in and of itself, jazz should not be included as such an important part of the narrative.

Lastly, I found the unceasing flashbacks into the previous novel unnecessary. Leave the past in the past. Henry himself lives within the moment and his narrative should follow that same example. ( )

This follow-up to "A Star Called Henry" was a major disappointment. One of the very few books that I have ever given up on after 50 pages. ( )