Killing Commendatore - Murakami Haruki

"In Killing Commendatore, a thirty-something portrait painter in
Tokyo is abandoned by his wife and finds himself holed up in the mountain home of a famous artist, Tomohiko Amada. When he discovers a previously unseen painting in the attic, he unintentionally opens a circle of mysterious circumstances. To close it, he must complete a journey that involves a mysterious ringing bell, a two-foot-high physical manifestation of an Idea, a dapper businessman who lives across the valley, a precocious thirteen-year-old girl, a Nazi assassination attempt during World War II in Vienna, a pit in the woods behind the artist’s home, and an underworld haunted by Double Metaphors. A tour de force of love and loneliness, war and art."

This is my second Murakami and I think I prefer this book to The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles. While still infused with Murakami's trademark surrealism and many similar metaphors and motifs, Killing Commendatore seemed more coherent. The plot was simpler and the message that Murakami was trying to convey was elegant and present. 

The painting elements were compelling and beautifully written. There's also a deep point about the life of ideas and how they travel to people and places, moving outside of time and how ideas have a life of their own outside their original thinker. 

However, I feel pretty conflicted. On the one hand, I enjoyed reading it until the final 100 pages or so turned into a slog. I genuinely love Murakami's focus on the mundane and the sense of ennui that it encourages in the reader. On the other, it's repetitive and minimalistic in a way that felt generationally out of touch.

The unnamed main character is in one of these classic Murakami in-between periods in his life, where everything has fallen apart but he's somehow fairly financially comfortable and has time to re-evaluate things. He gets involved with a questionably shady guy, and they start investigating some slowly unfolding mysteries.

That should be great, but the edge parts simply don't work. In particular, the main character has a lot of deeply uncomfortable conversations with a teenage girl about her breasts, conversations which continue on and off for about 400 pages. She's such a poorly imagined character that it seems like it's all she thinks about. Also pretty much every women we meet has their breasts sized up to the point where it is the first thing that we know about them. That's never been ok in these books and it's not ok now.

Murakami novels rely on the uncanny, on coincidence and strange encounters that seem normal but have an undercurrent of anxiety and oddness. The main reason I love them. Some of that was here in a watered down form. The problem is the novel is simply too big for the small amount of story it contained. It has the essence of his tropes but the prose is too weak and stretched to utilise them fully.

Age Rating 16+. Some weird sexual elements with the main character having many affairs and being mildly obsessed on his dead 10 year old sisters breasts.