I'm mystified by the first two major reviews I've read of James Frey's Bright Shiny Morning, a sprawling novel set in Los Angeles by the author who dared to lie to Oprah.

I suppose one is expected to have a strong opinion about Frey, one way or the other, but I really don't. After the first thing I ever read about him -- a New York Observer profile full of undisguised, even proud, foolishness -- I threw him in the indifference bin.

In Time, Lev Grossman delivers a mostly positive review of the new novel, but also writes things like this: "The worst bits of Morning are probably worse than anything else you'll read this year, but Frey is such a relentlessly entertaining storyteller that you just won't care."

Hmm. You've got to be pretty relentless to make me not care about the worst bits I've read all year.

But Janet Maslin at the New York Times wrote a similar review, in which she seems to be straining to convince us (and herself) how much she loved the novel. (This is if you can get past the always annoying -- and particularly so in this case -- method of the reviewer adopting the tone of the book. At least, that's what I assume is happening here.)

So I guess my question is, what's going on? Is this a great novel that critics can't call great for fear of siding with Frey? Or is it a bad novel that's getting praised because critics feel like that makes for the better story? If anyone here reads it, I'd love to know what you think.