Title: Malachy McCourt is no Frank McCourt, nor is he PG Wodehouse.
Product review: I began McCourt's book with high hopes, having been an enormous fan of his brother's work, Angela's Ashes. Within a few pages, I had the oddest feeling that I was reading a poor imitation of P.G. Wodehouse. Within a chapter or two, the acknowledgement was made: McCourt is a fan of Wodehouse. The book is so derivative that I'm surprised he didn't have to pay royalties to the Wodehouse estate. The book is tedious, and I soon grew tired of McCourt's name dropping and pointless stories. My fatigue grew to distaste as I read McCourt's self-congratulatory, unenlightened account of his life. May God pity his children and keep them from repeating the mistakes he so clearly made throughout his life. And finally, I believe that the book and the mere fact that it was published is a sad commentary on a brother who was willing to ride his brother's coat tails, and a publisher who was willing to do it in the interest of making a quick buck.
Would you say this review depicts the product in a flattering or unflattering light?
