In Maud Ventura’s gripping sophomore novel, Make Me Famous, we meet Cléo Louvent, a French-American singer whose lifelong ambition to become famous drives her relentlessly toward a destiny that is equal parts glorious and disastrous. The narrative begins on a remote island where Cléo is supposedly taking a break from her celebrity life to compose her fourth album. As she reflects on her journey from ambitious girl to global superstar, we witness the corrosive effects of fame on a personality already predisposed to narcissism and cruelty.
Ventura’s unflinching portrait of fame’s psychological toll captures both the intoxicating highs and devastating lows of celebrity culture. Through Cléo’s first-person narration, we see how her initial dreams of recognition morph into an insatiable hunger that leaves her increasingly empty and isolated despite—or perhaps because of—her extraordinary success.
A Star is Born, But at What Cost?
The novel cleverly structures Cléo’s journey into three symbolic parts: Faith, Ascension, and Glory. In “Faith,” we meet young Cléo, the only child of intellectual parents, convinced from childhood of her special destiny. There’s a chilling inevitability to her path when she discovers that her name, “Cléo,” derives from the Greek word for “glory.” This etymological revelation becomes both prophecy and permission for the ruthless pursuit that follows.
Ventura excels at portraying the transformation of an ambitious but ordinary young woman into a calculating machine built for success. Early on, Cléo tells us: “To become famous, you have to accumulate a sufficient amount of resentment, boil with frustration for months, stew for decades.” This psychological insight permeates the novel, suggesting that sustainable fame often grows from deep-seated inadequacy rather than pure talent.
As we follow Cléo through “Ascension” and into “Glory,” the novel becomes increasingly disturbing. What begins as determination hardens into brutal ambition. Cléo’s self-harm—cutting her thighs to punish herself for perceived failures—evolves into harm directed outward. By the time she achieves international stardom, she has become a monster of her own making, treating those around her with escalating contempt.
Brilliant Characterization Through Unflinching Honesty
Ventura’s greatest accomplishment is creating a protagonist who is simultaneously repulsive and magnetic. Cléo is not a villain you love to hate—she’s a deeply damaged person whose self-awareness makes her all the more tragic. She knows exactly who she is and what she’s doing, even as she continues down her destructive path.
Consider passages like this, where Cléo reflects on her treatment of staff:
“I wasn’t getting any help. You had to explain everything to her, even how to put one foot in front of the other. But I didn’t have time. I wasn’t running a day care. I was trying to maintain my stardom.”
The novel never flinches from showing Cléo’s cruelty, including horrific scenes of psychological abuse directed at her assistant Linda. Yet somehow, through Ventura’s skillful characterization, we understand Cléo even when we cannot condone her actions. This nuanced portrayal elevates the novel beyond simple morality tale into something more complex and disturbing.
Critical Reflections: Where the Novel Succeeds and Falters
Strengths:
- Psychological depth – Ventura crawls inside Cléo’s mind with remarkable precision, showing how fame warps her perception while maintaining her terrible lucidity about what she’s becoming.
- Cultural commentary – The novel offers a scathing critique of celebrity culture without becoming preachy. It reveals how the industry machinery both creates and destroys its stars.
- Narrative voice – Cléo’s first-person narration is razor-sharp, witty, and horrifying in equal measure. The prose is elegant yet accessible, with moments of startling insight.
- Structural ingenuity – The island framing device works brilliantly, creating suspense while allowing Cléo to reflect on her path with some distance.
Weaknesses:
- Uneven pacing – The middle section occasionally drags, particularly during Cléo’s relationship with John Cutler, which receives perhaps too much attention relative to its importance.
- Limited scope – While the focus on Cléo’s internal experience is powerful, the novel could have benefited from more development of secondary characters. Even key figures like Aria and Celeste sometimes feel like sketches rather than fully realized people.
- Predictable trajectory – The downward spiral follows a somewhat familiar pattern for stories about fame. Though beautifully executed, there are few genuine surprises in Cléo’s journey.
- Extreme protagonist – Some readers may struggle to spend 300+ pages with someone as toxic as Cléo, despite the brilliance of her characterization.
Style and Technique: The Precision of Ventura’s Prose
Ventura writes with clinical precision and a sharp eye for detail. Her sentences are crisp, her metaphors unexpected but apt. Consider how she describes Cléo’s first experience of insane fame:
“Fame is soft to the touch. The memory of my ascension will always be associated for me with the padded comfort of plushy fabrics: cozy goose-down duvets, Egyptian combed cotton sheets, thick towels in hotel bathrooms, fluffy bathrobes, velvet slippers at the foot of the bed, silk negligees—and, of course, my cashmere pajama set, the most pleasant wearable invention since the sleep sack.”
This tactile, specific description does double work, conveying both the luxury of fame and its cushioned unreality. Throughout the novel, Ventura employs similar techniques, using concrete details to illuminate psychological states.
The translation by Gretchen Schmid deserves special mention. As detailed in the afterword, Schmid worked closely with Ventura (who speaks fluent English) to create a translation that captures not just the words but the rhythm and cultural references of the original. The result reads not like a translation but like a novel written in English by a bilingual author with a distinctive voice.
Comparison to Contemporary Works
Make Me Famous bears comparison to other recent works exploring fame’s dark underbelly. Like Taylor Jenkins Reid’s Daisy Jones & The Six, it peels back the glamorous façade of stardom to reveal the human cost beneath. But where Reid’s novel maintains a certain nostalgia for its 1970s rock milieu, Ventura’s work is colder and more contemporary in its assessment.
The novel also recalls elements of Patricia Highsmith’s psychological thrillers, particularly in its amoral protagonist and mounting tension. Like Tom Ripley, Cléo is a character whose moral compass is permanently askew, yet whose intelligence and determination make her disturbingly compelling.
Fans of Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation will find similar themes of privileged self-destruction, though Ventura’s protagonist lacks even the minimal self-doubt of Moshfegh’s narrator.
Final Thoughts: A Disturbing Triumph
Make Me Famous is not an easy read, but it is an extraordinary one. Ventura has crafted a penetrating study of ambition, narcissism, and the corrupting influence of fame that lingers long after the final page. The novel’s conclusion—which I won’t spoil—delivers a perfect, chilling culmination to Cléo’s journey.
After her acclaimed debut My Husband, Ventura confirms her status as a major literary talent with this unflinching exploration of success and its shadow side. She has created in Cléo Louvent one of contemporary fiction’s most memorable antiheroes—a woman whose talents are matched only by her capacity for self-delusion and cruelty.
For readers willing to follow a deeply flawed protagonist through the glittering halls of fame into its darkest corners, Make Me Famous offers rich rewards: psychological insight, cultural commentary, and prose that cuts like a diamond. It’s a novel that will make you reconsider what it means to get exactly what you want—and at what cost.