The title, Paris to the Moon, derives, as the author points out, from a book by Jules Verne (From the Earth to the Moon [1865]). It may also conjure up, as it did in my mind, George Melies silent masterpiece, "Le Voyage Dans La Lune (1902), with its unforgettable image of the man in the moon wincing as the rocket hits him square in the right eye. Unfortunately, this is only one of many of Gopnik's rather forced allusions, and for the most part, his prose doesn't quite measure up to his aspirations. His attempts at coming across as a reverse-crossing Alexis De Toqueville never acquire the necessary intellectual weight to be taken seriously. This leaves him in Peter Mayle territory, the French capital equivalent of the Provencal ex-pat, wending his way somewhat comically through the trials and tribulations of Gallic bureaucracy, with large dollops of cultural commentary along the way. Here again, however, the comparisons do not lend themselves favorably to Gopnik. Mayle is much better at this sort of thing. For one thing, Gopnik's anecdotes are far less amusing than Mayle's. Whereas Mayle's vignettes capture perfectly the charming idiosyncrasies of his Provencal neighbors, Gopnik's come across as recherche, almost contrived. Again like Mayle (who must at the least, have been in the back of Gopnik's mind as a model for this sort of writing), Gopnik frequently digresses in his story to discuss cultural and particularly political variants in Parisian society. Yet whereas Mayle might take off on a tangent that actually leads to some new insight into "the French character," Gopnik provides no real revelation or compelling portrait. We just get his less than insightful musings in too many instances.
The book's strong points, on the other hand, look, at first glance, as among its most glaring weaknesses. At one point in the book, he writes for several pages about a bed time story he made up for his young son. It revolves around an infant baseball player, named the kid, who becomes a pitcher for the early-century New York Giants. What starts out as gaggingly cloying, turns out to be rather inspired story telling. It also provides a very sweet, genuinely touching portrait of the relationship this father had with his little boy.
Another high mark goes to Gopnick for providing some genuinely useful information for Americans who might wish to make a prolonged sojourn in Paris. His discussion of the differences between American and French appliances and the varied assortment of outlet prongs should serve as a valuable warning to Yankees who want to follow in Stein's, Fitzgerald's and Hemingway's footsteps, as should his depiction of apartment hunting in the city of lights.
Some reviewers I've read have objected to the fact that Gopnik was in too privileged a position and vantage point to be somehow "authentic." This is beside the point. These were "New Yorker" articles, after all, not Michelin Guides. Though a little pseudo-intellectual at times, Gopnik does not come across as a snob.
There are shortcomings and merits to this book. As a family journal, it succeeds, as we do get a clear picture of what it is like to raise a small nuclear family (later a "choix du Roi [sp?]) in the environs of Paris. Where the book fails, is in its measure of wit, which by Maylesian standards, is sub-par.