I certainly didn't dislike Pynchon's Bleeding Edge
, because I've never disliked anything Pynchon has written. It's well-crafted, has some lovely bits of ludicrousness in it, and has a sense of fun that's too often lacking in mainstream litfic*. But in spite of all the great stuff in this one --- and any book with a strip joint called "Joie de Beavre" will get a pass on so many grounds -- there was just something about it that never clicked for me. It too often felt calculated instead of charming, with Maxine simply never working for me as a lead character. Still, it's highly recommended.
But then there's Marisha Pessl's Night Film
, which is compared to Gillian Flynn, Stephen King, and *shudder* Steig Larsson in the hype, which is the sort of misleading claptrap that a half-literate marketing intern would have come up with, not being capable of understanding that although a novel may contain horrific things and thriller tropes, it can still take its stylistic direction from another source**. But what you have here is everything you'd expect from a Pynchon novel, right down to the ludicrous conspiracy theories, mysterious insane asylums, the world's most successful underground Oscar-winning film director, fake articles from Time and Vulture supporting the plot, and a journalist-cum-private-eye whose allies are a junkie lothario and a homeless Florida teen who has come to New York City to be an actress in spite of having no talent whatsoever.
I could talk more about it, but it's too good to do so. Like any Pynchon novel, it's a little too ludicrous to just take the plot at face value, but it's also too much fun to care.
*Of course, that's because Pynchon hardly writes mainstream litfic, but that's another story.
**In fairness, I suspect Pynchon's name carries less weight than those other three.