Aly in Wonderland

Gone Girl: A Novel

Gone Girl: A Novel - Gillian Flynn After Devouring the Film.

I actually watched the film nearly a month ago, but never got round to, er, 'reviewing' (?) it. Sometimes, my laziness amazes me.


T'is me.

Moving on.

I went to watch the movie with beyond low expectations. Movie adaptations can either be ginormous farts or all confetti and glitter and awesomeness. Gone Girl was both, but the farts were the child-excited ones, because it was amazing.


The actors played Nick & Amy perfectly and my friend, who hadn't read the book and had no idea what the film was about, was hypnotised by the mindfuck relationship and story line.


I think the only thing I would change about the film was the music, which seemed to pop up at the most awkward times, and sometimes the music didn't sync to the scene. As in, echo-y, mournful music to an up-beat, angry scene. You know? It might just be me, but whatever.

So yeah, 4/5 to the film! And my rating for the book is staying the same because I still want to shove a cactus up Nick's butt.


Look at that smarmy face. I just want to punch it.


"There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold."

Hi! I'm Nick Dunne, and I'm a fucking asshole. I guess that -- considering I admit that I'm an asshole -- it should make me less of an asshole. I have a cleft chin, which I like to mention in passing (don't women find it adorable? The cleft chin? The proper American-boy thing?) and I'm a goddamn asshole. I'm such a huge asshole that I took my wife away from New York, dragged her to my childhood town in Missouri and then decided to have an affair, rather than divorce her and give her a happier, better future, because I'm a fucking asshole. I'm a selfish mama's boy who likes to get his own way, much like my wife, because I've been babied and petted my entire life -- but I won't admit that to those who matter! Ho ho ho! Because I'm not actually the baby of the family, I'm older by a whole three minutes. Oh yeah, I have a twin sister, Go, and she thinks I'm an asshole, too. In fact, she thinks I'm such a huge dickweed that she likes to tell me this every so often. I'm also the asshole who treats my father, who has Alzheimer's, like shit because he's an asshole, who passed his stupid, annoying fucking genetics onto me and made me an asshole. So I hate him. I'm like a prepubescent child who hates everything and everyone and yes, maybe I did murder my wife, because why the fuck not.

Dear Diary,

I am scared. I am terrified. Because I'm a psycho bitch who is trying to frame my husband for my murder. There is no wrath like a woman scorned, amirite? He's a lying, cheating, philandering, spineless bastard who got his just desserts. No, I am not a psycho bitch. No, I do not see any harm in trying to trap my husband in a loveless marriage while he screws his pretty, young student and ruins everything we built. No, OF COURSE I am not a spoiled rich brat! Yes, I do hate my parents for getting rich off my life. It's okay, I will punish them, too, much like I punished everyone who has ever dared turn against me.

I am a calculating bitch. I know what makes my husband tick, I know his patterns; it's like studying an animal in its natural habitat... I even know how many times he pisses in a day. A fascinating study on how to make the Cheating Bastard pay.

He doesn't know that, though. He thinks I'm dumb, too busy baking cupcakes and playing nice with our little shit neighbourhood, too stupid to realise he's screwing away, coming home with some slut's scent on his skin...

He doesn't know that I am under his skin. I will RUIN him.

Nick again!

My wife is missing. I'm not bothered though, I never really liked her anyway. Like a broken toy. I played with her, I unscrewed her and now, poof! She's gone. I should really try to cooperate more, instead of wallowing in self pity, be an asshole and screw my mistress, but I shan't. Instead, I will get drunk, cry to my poor, poor twin sister then go balls deep between the legs of a girl who has fallen in love with me.

I am an asshole.

Dear Diary,

The plan is in place and the man shall suffer! I can't wait to see him unravel and be torn to pieces by the rabid, hungry, desperate public. I cannot wait to see how they make me a glorious, wonderful, loveable saint and he, a demon. I can't wait!

In fact, I'm currently holing up in some cabin on a lake (very Hollywood!) where no one know's not'in and no one asks not'in. However, I have made friends with a poor, abused bitch and a weird fishy guy. Literally. We watch the Ellen Abbott show and cry over that poor, poor girl, Amazing Amy, mysteriously missing... and all the clues point to her cheating, philandorous husband! The horror, the shame!

I love it.

I am in trouble. I am a trouble asshole. Every clue, everything, points to me. I am the husband who murdered his wife and threw away her body in the river, thanks to a web search I did when I was thinking about writing a book... I say thinking, because I suck at everything and I never go through with anything. In fact, for four years of marriage, it was always yes dear, sure dear, anything you want honey because I cannot for the life of me do something decent with my life. In the shower, I have a wank, then I go to the kitchen and have a drink, go to The Bar (hurrhurr we thought we were BRAINY and COOL and possibly slightly HIPSTER so we could appeal to the younger public! Aren't we funny?!) and do a few hours work because I am a waste of space, then come home, bitch at my wife used to bitch at my wife and go to bed. If I didn't go out and screw my mistress.

Anyway, I am in trouble. But I am innocent.

I think.


After reading the above, how do you feel?

a) Confused?
b) Angry?
c) All of the above?
d) All of the above and more?

If you answered D, ding-ding-ding! We have a winner, because Gone Girl is a huge, confusing, messy clusterfuck of mini and large mindfucks. If you think you know, forget it, because you don't. I went into the book thinking, "Okay, okay. I can see where this is going. Very clever."

But the truth is, I didn't see where this is going. It was a lie. Everything you read is a ginormous, stinking lie. There is literally nothing you can... let me rephrase that: nothing you read can be can be trusted. I am giving you fair warning.

It's the day of Nick and Amy Dunne's 5th anniversary. There are crepes and mentions of love in the air... until Nick gets home and his wife is... mysteriously... gone.

Much atmosphere, very ooooh.

I hate Nick with the burning intensity of a thousand suns. He's an asshole, a prick and I would skewer him with a hot poker if I could. Right through the belly button and I'll even spin him around for a little bit, so he can get the full 360 feel of it. He is the exact reason why some women have commitment issues. He is the embodiment of the lying, two-faced man that will ruin your life. He's the man who will take take take and never give, never say thank you ... he will projectile vomit over your dreams, everything you love and he will isolate you from the world.

He will hurt you.

He is that man cockroach.

Gone Girl is the book you cannot talk much about without seriously spoilering the life out of people, so I will keep the rest of this review brief. Gillian Flynn says she loves Nick so I am not sure whether she ever intended to make him such a dislikeable, horrible character, but if she did it worked incredibly well. I never felt an ounce of sympathy for him.

Okay, maybe once. Once. That's it.

All I'm going to say is: this book was worth the... four days it took me to get through it, and that's just because I didn't like Nick. I sometimes had to physically remove myself from the room where the book was, in case I did something crazy, like burn it. But this book is so, so, so worth the migraine at the end. It's worth the bottle of wine you will drink whilst rubbing your temples and thinking, what the shit? It is worth the emotional hangover you will have in the morning.

SO worth it.

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