I like Dickens; I've got to admit that at the outset. And Oliver's a pretty likeable kid, even if he lays the big eyes on a bit heavy at times. But there were times during this novel that I found myself wondering what the point of it was.
I like Dickens humor, that sneaks up on you in the midst of such thick description of the place and psychology of his characters, that you're often not expecting it. I also love the way the narrator intervenes to poke fun at characters and those around them. And he does turn a nice phrase.
But I found myself about three quarters of the way through the book wondering what the point of it was. Most Dickens ends up as social commentary, and although there are the portraits of poverty and squalor that are characteristic of Dickens portrayal of the city (one of the things I like about him), this one felt shallow. The story began to strike me as melodramatic, the sort you find in those bad movies where there's not enough dialogue or action between plot points to give you an idea of why a character did a certain thing. You get that the character is mad, but you don't know why. Here too, there seemed to be gaps like that - not big ones, but places where I wondered why some of the characters did the things they did, like why Nancy gave herself away by being so anxious to make her first meeting with Mr. Brownlow, or why Monks was such an ass to Oliver, who he didn't know and could have stayed far away from without worry of interference (I mean, after all, in the end he goes to the new world to spend what's left of his fortune - why didn't he do that earlier and avoid any possibility of Oliver's true parentage being discovered and coming back to haunt him?) Small things, but they really made me feel let down. Perhaps I'll just stick with later Dickens from now on.