SOURCE: O'Toole, Laurence. “Cut!” New Statesman and Society 8, no. 349 (21 April 1995): 36-7.

In the following review, O'Toole offers a negative assessment of Still, faulting Thorpe's prose as ineffective and “banal.”

Imagine it's ten minutes to midnight, 31 December 1999, and you're stuck listening to the interminable ravings of a complete bore. You can't get free of him. The end of the century, and this fuming, bitter, twisted, pain-in-the-neck, totally has-been English movie director called Ricky won't stop talking: about his past, his loves, his movies, his many mistakes. What a terrible way to see in the new millennium.

Such is the would-be comedy at the heart of Adam Thorpe's new novel, [Still,] the successor to the infinitely praised Ulverton. As jokes go, it's sort of okay. For a brief while. But during nearly 600 pages of rambling, difficult, chaotic prose, the laughter dwindles. So, just to show he's no one-joke wonder, Thorpe...