- Language
- Italian
- Published
- 2023
- Publisher
- Frassinelli
- Pages
- 324
- ISBN
- 9788893426831
On the day Oliver Marks is released from a ten-year prison sentence for a murder he may or may not have committed, the detective who put him away is waiting. Detective Colborne is retiring and wants to know what really happened all those years ago. The story that unfolds is one of seven young Shakespearean actors at an elite, secluded conservatory where ambition is fierce and the lines between art and life are dangerously thin. Within this world of leather-bound books and firelight, Oliver and his friends play the same roles onstage and off: the hero, the villain, the tyrant, the temptress. But in their final year, a shift in casting disrupts their delicate balance and long-held rivalries begin to turn violent.
When the make-believe of the stage spills over into real-world bloodshed, one of the seven is found dead. The survivors face their greatest acting challenge yet: to convince the police, and themselves, that they are blameless. Oliver's confession is a captivating story of loyalty and betrayal, where friendship is a performance and the truth is the most devastating role of all. This is a novel that explores the intoxicating and perilous boundary between life and art, and what happens when the parts you play consume you completely.
When the make-believe of the stage spills over into real-world bloodshed, one of the seven is found dead. The survivors face their greatest acting challenge yet: to convince the police, and themselves, that they are blameless. Oliver's confession is a captivating story of loyalty and betrayal, where friendship is a performance and the truth is the most devastating role of all. This is a novel that explores the intoxicating and perilous boundary between life and art, and what happens when the parts you play consume you completely.
Original edition
If We Were VillainsOriginally published in 2017 English Affirm Press
Other editions (65)
Listen to the summary Narrated summary
I'll tell you a story. It begins after I've spent ten years in prison for a murder I did not commit, when the detective who put me away comes for one last visit. Joseph Colborne is retiring, but he cannot rest without knowing the truth. He offers me a deal: my story for his peace of mind, strictly off the record. Secrets carry weight, like lead, and I have carried mine long enough. “All right,” I say. “But you have to understand… it's not an apology.” For you, Joe, it was just one day. For us, it was one day, and every single day that came after.
There were seven of us then, in the autumn of 1997, our fourth and final year at Dellecher Classical Conservatory. We were a small, meticulously trained dramatic troupe, living apart from the other students in a stone house we called the Castle. We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, and we spoke Shakespeare as a second language. For four years, we had been assigned the same roles, on and off the stage: Richard, the tyrant; his beautiful girlfriend Meredith, the femme fatale; his cousin Wren, the ingénue; Alexander, the villain; Filippa, the chameleon; my best friend James, the hero. And me, Oliver, the loyal sidekick. Our lives were so steeped in theatre that the lines blurred. When we were cast in *Julius Caesar* in the exact roles everyone predicted, it felt less like a performance than a prophecy.
The stage blood first became real on Halloween. For our annual outdoor performance of *Macbeth*, James was cast as the doomed king and I as Banquo. We stood hidden in the trees as our three leading ladies emerged from the lake like phantoms, their wet dresses clinging to their bodies in the bonfire's glow. “When shall we three meet again?” Meredith called out, her voice low and lush. “In thunder, lightning, or in in rain?” The night was electric, the performance blurring into a ritual as real as any pagan rite. Later, at the party on the beach, the spell broke. Richard, drunk and seething with a jealousy none of us understood, nearly drowned James in the black water of the lake. We pulled them apart, but the damage was done. The good year Richard had predicted was over before it had truly begun.
After that night, Richard's tyranny was no longer confined to the stage. During rehearsals for *Caesar*, his violence became terrifyingly real. He left bruises on James's arms, raw and vivid blue under his sleeves. He threw Meredith to the floor with such force that blood snaked from her elbow. We were his company, but we were also his victims, trapped in a drama of his making. And so, a new plot was written. “Richard can't fight off all three of us at once,” Alexander whispered to James and me in the wings. “Tomorrow, if he tries anything, instead of assassination we give him a righteous ass-kicking.” Onstage, under the hot glare of the lights, our theatrical tragedy became a true one.
The night of the final performance of *Caesar* was the night it all came undone. At the cast party, Richard, enraged that Meredith had finally left him, exploded. He punched another student, and when Meredith confronted him, he grabbed her by the hair. “You slut,” he snarled, and the word was horrifically different from the thousand times we'd used it in jest. In the ensuing chaos, I saw Meredith in the stairwell. “You really want to help?” she asked, and then she kissed me. We fled to her room as Richard hammered on the door, his voice a muffled roar of threats: “I'LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU BOTH.”
Later, in the pre-dawn quiet, Filippa woke us. We followed her down to the dock, where a grotesque pale shape floated in the mist-shrouded water. Richard. His face was a broken mask of agony, blood crawling from a crushed eye socket. We stood in numb silence, and then he moved, a hand stretching feebly toward us. “Oh, God,” James choked out. “He's still alive.” In that moment, the world tilted on its axis. Alexander's voice was a venomous whisper. “Five minutes ago when we thought he was dead, what did you feel?” We all knew the answer. Relief. So we stood on the dock, six tragic figures in the cold morning light, and did nothing. There is no comfort like complicity.
The investigation was a performance of its own. We swore it was an accident - he was drunk, he fell. We stuck to our story, a fragile shield of lies. But the cracks began to show. Wren collapsed from the strain. Alexander overdosed. And James… James was unraveling. During a rehearsal for *King Lear*, he broke my nose with the hilt of his sword, the violence onstage once again spilling into reality. That night, on the frozen lawn behind the theatre, he finally confessed. He had followed Richard to the dock, intending to reason with him. But Richard had taunted him, dared him, pushed him. In a moment of terror, James had swung an old boat hook, striking Richard in the face. “I didn't mean to,” he sobbed, his body trembling in the raw moonlight. “I thought he was dead.”
Our final performance of *Lear* was the end of everything. As James and I fought our final duel onstage, I saw Detective Colborne standing in the wings. Meredith was beside him, whispering in his ear. She had told him. The play collapsed around us, the lines blurring, the ending rewritten. As the curtain fell, Colborne came forward. “Are you ready to tell me the truth?” he asked James. Before James could speak, I stepped between them. “Yes,” I said. “I am.” I took his crime for my own. It was the last role I would ever play.
Now, ten years later, my story is told. Colborne knows the truth, and I am finally free. But as I leave the prison, Filippa tells me the one secret she kept from me all this time. “James is gone,” she says, her voice a distant echo. “He drowned himself. Four years ago.” The guilt, she explains, was killing him. He drove to the coast and walked into the sea, his body never found.
I am left with a letter he wrote, a final, cryptic passage from *Pericles* that ends with a plea: *For that I am a man, pray see me burièd.* In the end, we were all tragedies. We were all villains. There was no other way for the story to go. For what is a tragedy but a flawed hero's fatal error? And what is a hero but a man who is not a villain? *Exeunt omnes.*
There were seven of us then, in the autumn of 1997, our fourth and final year at Dellecher Classical Conservatory. We were a small, meticulously trained dramatic troupe, living apart from the other students in a stone house we called the Castle. We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, and we spoke Shakespeare as a second language. For four years, we had been assigned the same roles, on and off the stage: Richard, the tyrant; his beautiful girlfriend Meredith, the femme fatale; his cousin Wren, the ingénue; Alexander, the villain; Filippa, the chameleon; my best friend James, the hero. And me, Oliver, the loyal sidekick. Our lives were so steeped in theatre that the lines blurred. When we were cast in *Julius Caesar* in the exact roles everyone predicted, it felt less like a performance than a prophecy.
The stage blood first became real on Halloween. For our annual outdoor performance of *Macbeth*, James was cast as the doomed king and I as Banquo. We stood hidden in the trees as our three leading ladies emerged from the lake like phantoms, their wet dresses clinging to their bodies in the bonfire's glow. “When shall we three meet again?” Meredith called out, her voice low and lush. “In thunder, lightning, or in in rain?” The night was electric, the performance blurring into a ritual as real as any pagan rite. Later, at the party on the beach, the spell broke. Richard, drunk and seething with a jealousy none of us understood, nearly drowned James in the black water of the lake. We pulled them apart, but the damage was done. The good year Richard had predicted was over before it had truly begun.
After that night, Richard's tyranny was no longer confined to the stage. During rehearsals for *Caesar*, his violence became terrifyingly real. He left bruises on James's arms, raw and vivid blue under his sleeves. He threw Meredith to the floor with such force that blood snaked from her elbow. We were his company, but we were also his victims, trapped in a drama of his making. And so, a new plot was written. “Richard can't fight off all three of us at once,” Alexander whispered to James and me in the wings. “Tomorrow, if he tries anything, instead of assassination we give him a righteous ass-kicking.” Onstage, under the hot glare of the lights, our theatrical tragedy became a true one.
The night of the final performance of *Caesar* was the night it all came undone. At the cast party, Richard, enraged that Meredith had finally left him, exploded. He punched another student, and when Meredith confronted him, he grabbed her by the hair. “You slut,” he snarled, and the word was horrifically different from the thousand times we'd used it in jest. In the ensuing chaos, I saw Meredith in the stairwell. “You really want to help?” she asked, and then she kissed me. We fled to her room as Richard hammered on the door, his voice a muffled roar of threats: “I'LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU BOTH.”
Later, in the pre-dawn quiet, Filippa woke us. We followed her down to the dock, where a grotesque pale shape floated in the mist-shrouded water. Richard. His face was a broken mask of agony, blood crawling from a crushed eye socket. We stood in numb silence, and then he moved, a hand stretching feebly toward us. “Oh, God,” James choked out. “He's still alive.” In that moment, the world tilted on its axis. Alexander's voice was a venomous whisper. “Five minutes ago when we thought he was dead, what did you feel?” We all knew the answer. Relief. So we stood on the dock, six tragic figures in the cold morning light, and did nothing. There is no comfort like complicity.
The investigation was a performance of its own. We swore it was an accident - he was drunk, he fell. We stuck to our story, a fragile shield of lies. But the cracks began to show. Wren collapsed from the strain. Alexander overdosed. And James… James was unraveling. During a rehearsal for *King Lear*, he broke my nose with the hilt of his sword, the violence onstage once again spilling into reality. That night, on the frozen lawn behind the theatre, he finally confessed. He had followed Richard to the dock, intending to reason with him. But Richard had taunted him, dared him, pushed him. In a moment of terror, James had swung an old boat hook, striking Richard in the face. “I didn't mean to,” he sobbed, his body trembling in the raw moonlight. “I thought he was dead.”
Our final performance of *Lear* was the end of everything. As James and I fought our final duel onstage, I saw Detective Colborne standing in the wings. Meredith was beside him, whispering in his ear. She had told him. The play collapsed around us, the lines blurring, the ending rewritten. As the curtain fell, Colborne came forward. “Are you ready to tell me the truth?” he asked James. Before James could speak, I stepped between them. “Yes,” I said. “I am.” I took his crime for my own. It was the last role I would ever play.
Now, ten years later, my story is told. Colborne knows the truth, and I am finally free. But as I leave the prison, Filippa tells me the one secret she kept from me all this time. “James is gone,” she says, her voice a distant echo. “He drowned himself. Four years ago.” The guilt, she explains, was killing him. He drove to the coast and walked into the sea, his body never found.
I am left with a letter he wrote, a final, cryptic passage from *Pericles* that ends with a plea: *For that I am a man, pray see me burièd.* In the end, we were all tragedies. We were all villains. There was no other way for the story to go. For what is a tragedy but a flawed hero's fatal error? And what is a hero but a man who is not a villain? *Exeunt omnes.*
What other readers say
Liked
The book "If We Were Villains" is frequently praised for its compelling dark academia premise and immersive atmosphere, drawing many readers in from the very first pages. Reviewers often highlight the strong initial engagement, describing it as a page-turner that creates a palpable sense of tension and drama among its cast of young Shakespearean actors. The setting, a secluded campus where ambition and competition run high, is widely appreciated for its moody and intense vibe. Many found themselves captivated by the intricate character dynamics, the sharp bickering, and the blurred lines between love and hate that fuel the narrative, making the characters easy to become invested in, for better or worse. For those who enjoy a story rich in theatrical aesthetics and deep emotional impact, the book delivers a thrilling experience, with some readers reporting a profound emotional connection and finding it difficult to put down.
Disliked
Despite its promising start, several reviewers express significant frustration with the book's execution as the narrative progresses. Common criticisms include a perceived decline in pacing and excitement, with many feeling that the plot loses momentum and becomes predictable. Character development is frequently cited as a weakness, with characters sometimes appearing as stereotypes or acting inconsistently, sacrificing authenticity for plot progression. The frequent incorporation of Shakespearean quotes and the characters' pretentious dialogue were off-putting for some, described as over-the-top or even "basic" for avid Shakespeare enthusiasts. Furthermore, some reviewers point out issues with the portrayal of female characters, citing instances of perceived misogyny and slut-shaming. Concerns were also raised regarding the handling of LGBTQ+ representation, with some finding it to be superficial or problematic, and the plot was seen by some as lacking nuance and relying heavily on familiar tropes.
In short
Ultimately, "If We Were Villains" emerges as a polarizing read, capable of eliciting strong opinions, both positive and negative. While it captivates many with its dark academia setting, initial intrigue, and intense character relationships, others are left disappointed by its narrative choices, character depth, and thematic execution. This book would likely appeal most to readers who are drawn to atmospheric campus thrillers, enjoy high-stakes drama, and are fond of Shakespearean aesthetics, even if not deeply familiar with the plays themselves. It is best suited for those who prioritize an immersive emotional experience and compelling premise over flawless character consistency or unpredictable plot twists, and who are prepared for a story that can be both addictive and, for some, frustrating.
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