"The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo:" P.S. It's Not About the Men

From the invigorating dedication (“Smash the patriarchy, sweetheart”) to the 400th page of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s “The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo,” the utter confidence of the author is flawlessly transfused into the novel’s 79-year-old main character, Evelyn Hugo. Evelyn is a retired Hollywood icon who has spent decades secluded from the media, only to suddenly propose an ultimatum: a chance to publish an exposé on her enigmatic, carefully-concealed life, written by undiscovered Vivant-magazine newcomer Monique Grant, or nothing.

The novel places you in the shoes of a bisexual Cuban immigrant whose worth has been reduced to her objectified body, presumably an uncommon experience. Yet each of Hugo’s retaliations against the misogynistic expectations of the Hollywood industry, each time she manages to manipulate the over-sexualization of her beauty and the belittlement of her talent into ultimately advancing her agenda, feels startlingly like a personal victory.

Hugo is the quintessence of power. She is unparalleled in her determination, even as the iron bars of racial and gender discrimination of the fifties attempt to confine her to the lifetime of poverty she is seemingly destined for in the wake of her mother’s death. It is those same rigid bars that she grips with both hands, bending and twisting until she has transformed them into a ladder that she uses to climb to the top of stardom, emerging as a legendary movie star whose scandalous life, complete with seven inconsequential husbands and one bona fide wife, has left the world breathless for her truth.

Reid expertly shapes Hugo as an unexpected role model for curious reporter Grant as Grant finds herself emulating the bold essence of Hugo, immersed in Hugo’s tenacious spirit and uncovering the courage to eliminate the instinctive apprehension with which she had previously approached life. Eschewing propriety and graciousness, Grant liberates herself from a lifetime of being undervalued, both in her stagnant career and in her bleak life as a recent divorcée.

TSHOEH to its readers is what Hugo was to Grant—a stretch of space, a suspension of time, a maternal figure carving out a piece of the world to say, “Here, take up space. You deserve it.”

At its heart, the novel is not about the mystery of why Monique Grant was chosen to write the autobiography of Evelyn Hugo. It’s not about any of Hugo’s seven husbands. It’s not even about Hugo’s one true love the world never discovered.

TSHOEH is about a woman who stood before the world and unashamedly, unapologetically, did whatever it took to reach her goals. It’s about a woman who knew her power and refused to let anyone deny it.

The novel is a testament to Reid’s indisputable talent as she leaves all the young Moniques of the world a message about the steel bars that try to constrain them and the boxes that try to define them: no matter what it takes, always, always, bend the bars, and destroy the boxes.