Hammerklavier is Yasmina Reza's first novel; more a novella really. Her plays 'Art' and 'Life x 3' have been tremendously successful, a feat which Ms Reza fails to achieve in this debut book.

Autobiographical, the novel opens with a description of her father failing to play Beethoven's 'Hammerklavier' and being admonished by the maestro himself, in heaven. The vignettes that follow are part autobiographical and part fiction; combined together in a frothy mix of "celebrity exposé" style of writing. It is hard to tell whether Ms Reza is the most appalling snob or a truly brilliant narrator. The 'name dropping' is the worst offence.

The conceit of a having a divine conversation with Beethoven is bad, but there are worse paragraphs like "No sooner does he (her father) begin to develop the theme than Raymond Barre (French Prime Minister 1976-1981) enters in the fifth bar: "Tirilalalala…."…under the guidance of the gloved hands that my father, first violin, is waving in the air". The book proceeds thence.

Feted as a "profound and unsettling meditation on music" I found it far from so. Vikram Seth's 'An Equal Music' does greater justice to music and provides a more meaningful insight into how musicians think. In Hammerklavier all that the reader learns is that the piece is difficult to play and that her father plays it so that "in a glutinous mass, the notes go off to join some untitled primal magma, eternally chaotic and raw".

In the book, the narrator goes to a performance of Handel's 'Messiah' and is so obsessed with thinking the lead singer is a childhood friend that she wants the concert to end so she can meet her childhood chum. On another occasion, she goes to a performance of Beethoven's first sonata and can think of nothing else except a recently purchased necklace and bracelet. Hardly edifying or illuminating on the subject of music!

The rest of the subject matter is obviously deeply personal and painful; reflecting at times on the life of the narrator's dead father. But, despite Ms Reza's inimitable style and brevity with words in describing everything from the mundane to the meaningful, this novel does little to engage the reader. It is like musical trinket box, with a ballerina twirling around in front of her own reflection in the mirror. You will probably open to lid once or twice, but the self-absorption and musack will quickly leave you bored.

Vignettes are terribly difficult to write, the brevity of paragraphs belie the deep thought required to generate those few choice words. By their very nature, vignettes can be shallow and unmoving. Done well, they can offer tantalising glimpses into a story, but often this is a style is more suited to scripts for plays and films.

What this book fails to communicate, in my opinion, is sufficient detail to activate the reader's imagination, enticing them to turn the pages with interest. The novel puts all its merchandise in the window, leaving precious little for the true enthusiast to savour. I must admit to snorts of disbelief at times, particularly when chapters started to read like fragments of thought jotted on the pack of a cigarette packet.

Overall, Hammerklavier is a slim and shallow effort that does little justice to Ms Reza's literary skill.

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