I watched the Reese Witherspoon movie Wild yesterday. As you may know, it's based on Cheryl Strayed's memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. I haven't yet read the novel, so my comments relate exclusively to the film.
I find something fascinating about these sorts of accounts of people who go into the wilderness to challenge themselves or find themselves, and am often surprised at the diverse range of morals and lessons that can be gleaned from the different ways the stories are told.
In the case of Wild, I was most struck by the treatment of women in the film. Although the primary plot seems to be Reese Witherspoon's character, Cheryl Strayed, coming to terms with the death of her mother and being able to move beyond her grief to live again, the film also functions as an exploration of how women are perceived and treated.
Cheryl's journey leads her into encounters with a number of men and women, and virtually every interaction is somewhat archetypal and her cheerfulness and passivity I think not only places the viewer in the position of the character, but forces an examination of whether it's right for Cheryl to be treated as such, solely because she's a woman. I'll number the character interactions that I can recall.
Her journey begins with her getting a room in a hotel.
1. Woman who makes assumptions about her promiscuity. The desk clerk doesn't believe Cheryl is getting a room just for herself. She (the clerk) is quite confident that Cheryl will be receiving male company. Cheryl calmly refutes this, but the clerk is unmoved in her assumption that Cheryl will of course be having male visitors.
In the morning, Cheryl hitches a ride. At a gas station she can choose between a car with a preoccupied father and teenage son, or a car whose driver is staring intently at her.
2. Staring Guy. Guy staring at her without speaking or smiling. She does not choose this car. Likely a fairly common interaction.
She chooses the father and son car.
3. Boy who ignores her existence. The son completely ignores her, buries his nose in a book and pretends she isn't there at all. Is it because he's shy? He doesn't want to have to interact with women? He's just absorbed in his own world? She doesn't know.
4. Preoccupied Dad. The father makes some attempt at small talk, but has his own concerns and is just getting his jobs done. He's appropriate in his interaction, but doesn't take any particular interest in Cheryl. He just views her as one more obligation he's fulfilling, and most of his comments are about how he is impacted by her being there, not about what she's doing. "So we'll be the last human contact you'll have for a while" is more about him than about her.
She meets a farmer on a tractor.
5. Man who wants to make decisions for her. He makes it very clear that he doesn't feel obliged to help her, and wants her to know that he has power over her. He intentionally makes her nervous about his intentions and letting her know that he is choosing her destination for her. When he takes her to his house he spends the dinner describing what he would and would not permit her to do, and what women should and should not be allowed to do. In the morning, he lets her see that he's doing it out of concern for her wellbeing, but doesn't apologize for trying to control what she can do.
6. Woman who ignores her. The farmer's wife doesn't speak a word directly to her, but treats her like a stray of some kind. She responds only to her husband, and while periodically seeming to stand up for Cheryl's right of self determination, is not prepared to actually engage with her.
She meets a hiking superstar on the trail.
7. Patronizing Man who wants to tell her how to do it. On the trail she meets Greg, an experienced hiker, who is quick to point out that he's travelling at three times her rate of speed. He has all kinds of advice for her, and wants to tell her where to go and how to go there. He acknowledges that she's doing it herself and while not directly criticizing her decisions, his patronizing attitude makes her feel inferior in each interaction. When she meets up with him again, he has talked to the whole camp about her, and is making jokes at her expense.
8. Supportive or Suffocating Husband. I'm a little unclear on the role the husband plays, but the overall sense is that he is also preventing her from self actualization. He's passive aggressive in many ways, and perhaps an enabler. He wants to help her, and rescue her but he wants to do so in a way that makes her conform to what he wants her to be. He acknowledges her accomplishments in a supportive seeming way, but injects himself into her journey, and tries to make her journey about them, rather than her. He acts like a team player, but takes over her ability to make her own decisions.
A guy at the camp tells her how to pack her backpack.
9. Overprotective Advisor. At the camp, after Greg has mocked the size of her pack, one of the hangers on wants to give her advice on what she needs and what she doesn't. For the most part he's giving advice and letting her make the ultimate decision, but he also wants to tell her she shouldn't be packing birth control for her hike.
Ultimately following Greg's advice, she hitchhikes around part of the trail.
10. Man who won't listen. In hitchhiking, she meets a writer for the Hobo Times, who believes she's a hobo, not a hiker. He won't listen to anything she says, he's already made all of the assumptions he needs about her, and doesn't even give her the opportunity to consent or refuse to consent to the interview or a picture. He gives her a hobo loot bag, which he assumes she wants, but doesn't care about what she needs or wants.
She hitches a ride with a group of three. In deciding to hitchhike, Cheryl is forced to confront the possibility that no one knows where she is, and expressly thinks to herself about the dangers of being raped and dismembered.
11. Mother. The driver is a mothering figure, who herself lost a child. She stands up for Cheryl, without doubting Cheryl's ability to look after herself. So does Cheryl's actual mother, wanting Cheryl to make her own choices for herself.
12. Man who thinks she can take it. The husband also lost his son, but despite his wife's obvious grief is oblivious, and is only concerned with how tough she is, that she doesn't need help or support. The only statement about his son that he calls to mind is that he was tough, and phrases it in a way that is at once a compliment to and a denigration of his wife, but emphasizing that he expects that she won't show any sign of weakness.
13. Men who want to comment on her looks / Potential rapists. There are several versions of these, but the backseat passenger in the car is perhaps the mildest. He keeps commenting on Cheryl's looks, perhaps to see if it will get anywhere with her, in a manner somewhat designed to make her uncomfortable. The hunters escalate this to greater levels, with one making comments about how he might like to pass the time with a good looking girl and no one around, though he insists he's "just messing with [her] head". The other one gets aggressive, accusing her of tricking him, and suggesting the woods aren't safe for little girls. The successive collection highlights the escalation, from Cheryl feeling uncomfortable and trying to change the subject, to making an excuse to leave, to running and hiding, but establishes that each of those comments are part of a range on a spectrum.
14. Woman who thinks she should care more about her looks. A drugstore clerk wants to tell her how to take care of her hygiene, and makes her feel self-conscious, rather than proud, of her accomplishments to that point, solely based on her looks.
15. Random Hookup(s). There appear to be several of these, from the guy handing out flyers for a concert, to those in her memory. The guy handing out flyers doesn't ask her anything about herself, and doesn't show any interest or concern for the wounds and injuries she's suffering on her journey. Once alone together, he doesn't speak to her again.
16. Violent Taker. A man holds a knife to her throat and takes her money. He uses physical violence, and his physical dominance to overcome her, despite him being comparatively scrawny and small himself (as shown by the cinematography). It serves to emphasize that men may try to take what they want due to their belief in physical superiority, whether or not it's justified.
17. Gradual/Continuous Taker. Cheryl set various boundaries for herself, but when she was with her dealer, he kept pushing those limits as he felt appropriate. He moved on to injecting her without asking, just moving her further to where he was or he thought she should be without seeking her consent. This may be similar to how she lost herself with her husband, one step at a time until she can't see her own goals anymore.
18. "You're not important" Man. Her therapist seems to keep emphasizing to her that she's not important, by the posters on his walls, to his lack of willingness to respond to her questions or treat her as an individual. He tells her she's not important enough to warrant Kleenex, or a couch, and when she leaves, makes a point of not even calling after her. In every aspect of their interaction, he's showing her he doesn't care about her... despite that arguably being his job.
19. Little Brother. He's there for her as a friend, he's irresponsible, and he expects women to fill a woman's role, making him meals etc. He's not there for support or to help grieve, and abandons their mother... whether it's because grief and illness support is woman's work, or he can't deal with it, and he's not heard from again.
20. Abuser. Her father physically abuses Cheryl and her mother. Though he doesn't have much role in the film, he overshadows her life, and her ability to make herself happy. At times she doesn't know how she could achieve happiness with him as her father.
21. Woman of solidarity. Cheryl meets one other woman on the trail, who affirms for her what she's doing, and mentions men who failed on the way.
22. Man with Unreasonable Expectations. When she arrives to pick up a parcel, the guy will only get it for her if she agrees to go for a drink with him.
23. Guys who Minimize her accomplishments. The guys she meets at the camp suggest that she has it much easier than them because she's a woman and guys all along the trail are helping her out. Rather than see the additional challenges, they relate it to themselves and feel hard done by because they don't get what they see as "special treatment", oblivious to the additional challenges Cheryl undergoes.
It's curious in that each person fits into a kind of archetype, and each one is almost the lone example of that type, except when highlighting a spectrum. It seems more as those Cheryl's journey on the Pacific Crest Trail gives an opportunity for her to examine her interaction with the world at large, throughout her life.
And through that lens, it's a bleaker film than I was expecting, with a characterization of men as almost uniformly out to take away a woman's sense of self and self determination, whether violently, gradually, by minimizing her or controlling her in a wide variety of ways.
I don't think it's coincidence that the body of the film does not include her future (and unnamed) husband, nor her future son. It's probably to permit a sense of optimism to suffuse the ending, but instead it does nothing to take away from the overall sense that the challenges Cheryl endured on the trail are perhaps not as great as the challenges she endures daily, just by being a woman.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen
The Great God Pan is a fascinating story, for what it does and how it does it. Arthur Machen's novel predates H.P. Lovecraft, but so many aspects and themes are similar that I double checked to confirm he wasn't just writing a Lovecraft pastiche. I would guess there are a number of papers and theses on how heavily H.P. must have been influenced by this story.
What's really neat about it though, is how it takes the notion of a character that most people are familiar with, picks up some of the characteristics people know, but ignore or gloss over, and create a great suspense or horror story from it. I've seen The Great God Pan cited by several authors as an influence (e.g. Stephen King), and I can see how inspirational it would be to an aspiring author looking for how to get some ideas.
My first exposure to the concept of Pan, or satyrs or fauns, is probably from the animated television series Hercules. The one with Newton, the centaur and Toot, the faun as Hercules' sidekicks. ("Hey Herc, Hey Herc! It's Daedeulus! It's Daedelus!" Said in a high pitched, Mickey Mouse type voice, I think you could understand why I wanted to name my younger brother Newton).
I liked reading about Greek mythology, and in most books there was page referring to the fun loving fauns and nymphs who played their pan flutes and danced around all day. Even as I got older, and got the sense that maybe there was an element of lust and self absorption associated with fauns and satyrs, they still seemed pretty innocuous, not particularly interesting compared to other mythological creatures, and Pan seemed mostly the musician for the dances.
Perhaps at some point I connected the concept of the pan flute to the Pied Piper, but not particularly directly.
Arthur Machen, in The Great God Pan takes that somewhat familiar concept, and imbues it with a sense of dread and horror. He refers to images and decorations that adorn an ancient house with the face of a satyr, and makes the reader recall that the Greeks and Romans worshipped many gods (pantheists, though he doesn't use the word in the novel, leaped to my mind), and had reasons for doing so. He forces the reader to think more closely on the meaning of a half human, bestial god that would be prayed to for debauchery and plays his flute to make human-like animals dance to his tune and finds the horror behind it, by slightly changing the lens through which we view familiar imagery.
Similarly, the concept of lust, particularly as one of the deadly sins, sometimes seems less objectionable to modern sensibilities. Seeing where (I thought) the story was going, I was prepared for some level of Victorian moralizing that desire for its own sake was wrong, or a Jane Eyre style cautionary tale about what happens when a person gives themselves over to their desires. There is a little of that. But Mr. Machen uses the element of the unknown to permit the reader to start to imagine, then shrink away from the precise element of the horror described, without filling it in. His description of the nature of the lust is telling, I think, in how he removes the element of passion, while tilting the perspective to make it seem, when imposed upon humanity, the work of a terrifying and cruel god. He describes the "furious lust, hate, loss of hope and horror" brought about by interaction with the ancient god.
It is written in the Victorian style, and with the element of placing the reader and narrator at a remove through letters and recordings, similar to Lovecraft, but also to Shelley and Stoker. It allows the reader to piece together some of the mystery themselves, and has greater impact for trusting the reader to that extent. It's a great horror novel, frightening, inspiring and timeless.
What's really neat about it though, is how it takes the notion of a character that most people are familiar with, picks up some of the characteristics people know, but ignore or gloss over, and create a great suspense or horror story from it. I've seen The Great God Pan cited by several authors as an influence (e.g. Stephen King), and I can see how inspirational it would be to an aspiring author looking for how to get some ideas.
My first exposure to the concept of Pan, or satyrs or fauns, is probably from the animated television series Hercules. The one with Newton, the centaur and Toot, the faun as Hercules' sidekicks. ("Hey Herc, Hey Herc! It's Daedeulus! It's Daedelus!" Said in a high pitched, Mickey Mouse type voice, I think you could understand why I wanted to name my younger brother Newton).
I liked reading about Greek mythology, and in most books there was page referring to the fun loving fauns and nymphs who played their pan flutes and danced around all day. Even as I got older, and got the sense that maybe there was an element of lust and self absorption associated with fauns and satyrs, they still seemed pretty innocuous, not particularly interesting compared to other mythological creatures, and Pan seemed mostly the musician for the dances.
Perhaps at some point I connected the concept of the pan flute to the Pied Piper, but not particularly directly.
Arthur Machen, in The Great God Pan takes that somewhat familiar concept, and imbues it with a sense of dread and horror. He refers to images and decorations that adorn an ancient house with the face of a satyr, and makes the reader recall that the Greeks and Romans worshipped many gods (pantheists, though he doesn't use the word in the novel, leaped to my mind), and had reasons for doing so. He forces the reader to think more closely on the meaning of a half human, bestial god that would be prayed to for debauchery and plays his flute to make human-like animals dance to his tune and finds the horror behind it, by slightly changing the lens through which we view familiar imagery.
Similarly, the concept of lust, particularly as one of the deadly sins, sometimes seems less objectionable to modern sensibilities. Seeing where (I thought) the story was going, I was prepared for some level of Victorian moralizing that desire for its own sake was wrong, or a Jane Eyre style cautionary tale about what happens when a person gives themselves over to their desires. There is a little of that. But Mr. Machen uses the element of the unknown to permit the reader to start to imagine, then shrink away from the precise element of the horror described, without filling it in. His description of the nature of the lust is telling, I think, in how he removes the element of passion, while tilting the perspective to make it seem, when imposed upon humanity, the work of a terrifying and cruel god. He describes the "furious lust, hate, loss of hope and horror" brought about by interaction with the ancient god.
It is written in the Victorian style, and with the element of placing the reader and narrator at a remove through letters and recordings, similar to Lovecraft, but also to Shelley and Stoker. It allows the reader to piece together some of the mystery themselves, and has greater impact for trusting the reader to that extent. It's a great horror novel, frightening, inspiring and timeless.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Can one sentence ruin a book? Shell Scott.
I've been having trouble writing this column. I wanted to be able to answer the question above with "No."
I want to enjoy the books I read. I make an awful lot of allowances for the times in which a book is written, sometimes finding it fascinating based on the time in which it was written. Even if I don't agree with the mores reflected, I like to read them based on what they tell us about the culture of the time and place in which the book was set.
I once read a book by Leslie Charteris (The Saint series) written in the early 1930s which referred to the madman running Germany. I once found an economics text from the 1920s, pre-dating Keynes. There are all kinds of neat treasures in historical books, even if aspects of how they are written seem offensive to contemporary mores and sensibilities. It's also fascinating to see what would have been considered progressive at the time, and to try to understand what the author was trying to achieve in that regard as well.
Which is to say, I consider myself to have a reasonably high tolerance for the odd bit of casual discrimination or stereotyping. Not that I think it should be left unexamined, or that authors should always be given a pass based on the era in which they are writing, but it's not usually sufficient reason for me to want to abandon an author or discard some of the lessons available with the offending statement.
The Shell Scott novels by Richard S. Prather I tend to find fun. I don't give a lot of weight to the political opinions expressed therein, because most of the books are so far over the top it's hard to tell which is intended as a real opinion and which is satiric commentary. One of the Shell Scott novels featured an election between two candidates, one of whom supported adding fluoride to water and the other who did not. It gave the narrator (Shell) an opportunity to rail against government intervention and the nanny state in a libertarian diatribe. Read in these times, it's so difficult to understand the objection to fluorinated water, that it's interesting as a historical piece to think there were once strongly diverging views. Whether Shell's views reflected those of the author is more difficult to tell. When he rails against communists, is that the ex-marine character speaking, or a reflection on the late 50's era in which it was written, expressing a genuine concern in the populace? One reason I find Prather interesting is that the political commentary of his books seems on the far right side of the spectrum... but Shell isn't held up as anyone's example of an informed or intelligent political commentator.
Similarly, the Shell Scott novels tend to be cavalierly chauvinistic. Shell Scott characterizes every woman he meets based on her physical attractiveness, and often gets proven correct if he distrusts a woman because she's not as attractive. He solves the case and saves the day, always without help from women, and usually coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress who then falls into his arms and into his bed, to be forgotten by the next novel. He is an avid reader and supporter of Playboy magazine, and considers that he supports feminism by advocating that women free themselves of their girdles. As indicated, it's over the top, written in what seems to be tongue in cheek, an elevation of the escapist fantasy of private detective novels taken to such an extreme that a reader can't help but recognize the implicit silliness of the fantasy.
From time to time, I've read Shell Scott novels that had a line or two that rubbed me the wrong way. In one (Joker in the Deck) a character refers to a certain group of people as "pigs" (women in a women only bar). The character is not otherwise depicted in a favourable light, so I couldn't say it necessarily reflected the author's views or those of the main character. In one short story, Shell solves the mystery of a serial killer by intuiting that the murderous appetites of a male serial killer would be the same as those of a homosexual female serial killer. It's not well written, it's offensive in a number of ways, but it's a short story, and perhaps Prather was trying something different that didn't quite work.
In one of the last of the Shell Scott novels (I think it was Shellshock, but haven't read it in a while, so hesitate to confirm), Shell hops into bed with a woman, in a manner where it is not at all clear that he has her consent, and in the context of the book she calls him on it, and makes him recognize the wrongful element of what he was doing... but in my recollection, Shell says sorry, they carry on and still end up in bed together at the end. My discomfort with that was the suggestion that this line was included because times had changed (Shellshock being written some 15 years after the previous Shell Scott novel), and the implicit commentary is that what would have been acceptable 20 years ago isn't now. I didn't like that at all. I think the more appropriate view would be that it was never acceptable, but the fantasy element of the private detective (ex-marine, black belt, one man office, drives a corvette) who hands women a line and they line up to fall into bed with him would have been better highlighted as a fantasy, in his own head or otherwise, without suggesting that he's cavalier about getting the consent of women. If that were the element of satire, well, I'm not sure there's a way to handle it with humour or taste in a way that gets the correct message across, but if there is, I don't think Mr. Prather possessed the capability to do so.
In any event, I recently read Dead Heat (1963), and was upset, disappointed and angry with the sentence that ruined the novel for me, and makes me question my previous enjoyment of Shell Scott. It's another Shell Scott novel, and I think it is written to be light and fun. I had picked it up because I recalled other Richard S. Prather novels took a similar view of con men to that which I saw in Take Down and I wanted to comment further on the issue.
Read While Walking: Take Down: Spoilers for the Ending
In short, yes there is a con man, and yes, the view of con men is treated in a similar fashion to my conclusion, but in the end I couldn't analyze that aspect, because I couldn't let go of the one sentence. I tried to find fun at the end, since arguably the whole book is written for the sake of a pun. One character calls herself Nell Duden, and adopts the nickname "Doody". I'm tempted to say the one sentence that ruined the novel is the last, after Doody orders Shell to volunteer again. "A word to the wise is efficient: I saw my Doody, and I did it."
It's a pun, it's kind of offensive in tone, and it seems like a large part of the novel is part of a set up for a fairly weak pun, but by the time I got to the end, I wasn't even in the mood to give a good groan.
I think I may be off the Shell Scott novels as a result of the one sentence, because I can't away rationalize it away by any means. I can't begin to rationalize it based on the era (the book was written in 1963), since I think the statement would sound wrong no matter what era the novel was written or set in. Whether it's classified as in-character observation versus authorial commentary it doesn't work, as satire or anything else. If accepted as in-character observation, it sets up all of Shell's adventures with women in an extremely uncomfortable light. If it's authorial commentary, that's probably even worse.
The line bothered me, and yes, it ruined the book for me. I need to acknowledge that one sentence also probably ruined (or seriously damaged) the author and character for me as well. For those interested in the sentence, I'll include the paragraph for context:
"Well, sex. It's a funny thing: here in the U.S. of A. s-e-x is like the purloined letter in reverse -- we know it's right there in plain sight, but pretend not to see it. Everywhere you look: boing -- something sexy. Movies, books, magazines, Madison Avenue, billboards, television commercials -- wow, television. In two hours of twisting the dial you can see more nude and seminude tomatoes, and even potatoes, showering, tubbing, rubbing, shampooing, wiggling, smelling, smoking, puckering, and doing practically every ring-a-ding- 'ing' you can think of, and for what purpose? What else? To get raped, of course. That is the only possible conclusion a balanced mind could draw from all this feverish preparation."
I want to enjoy the books I read. I make an awful lot of allowances for the times in which a book is written, sometimes finding it fascinating based on the time in which it was written. Even if I don't agree with the mores reflected, I like to read them based on what they tell us about the culture of the time and place in which the book was set.
I once read a book by Leslie Charteris (The Saint series) written in the early 1930s which referred to the madman running Germany. I once found an economics text from the 1920s, pre-dating Keynes. There are all kinds of neat treasures in historical books, even if aspects of how they are written seem offensive to contemporary mores and sensibilities. It's also fascinating to see what would have been considered progressive at the time, and to try to understand what the author was trying to achieve in that regard as well.
Which is to say, I consider myself to have a reasonably high tolerance for the odd bit of casual discrimination or stereotyping. Not that I think it should be left unexamined, or that authors should always be given a pass based on the era in which they are writing, but it's not usually sufficient reason for me to want to abandon an author or discard some of the lessons available with the offending statement.
The Shell Scott novels by Richard S. Prather I tend to find fun. I don't give a lot of weight to the political opinions expressed therein, because most of the books are so far over the top it's hard to tell which is intended as a real opinion and which is satiric commentary. One of the Shell Scott novels featured an election between two candidates, one of whom supported adding fluoride to water and the other who did not. It gave the narrator (Shell) an opportunity to rail against government intervention and the nanny state in a libertarian diatribe. Read in these times, it's so difficult to understand the objection to fluorinated water, that it's interesting as a historical piece to think there were once strongly diverging views. Whether Shell's views reflected those of the author is more difficult to tell. When he rails against communists, is that the ex-marine character speaking, or a reflection on the late 50's era in which it was written, expressing a genuine concern in the populace? One reason I find Prather interesting is that the political commentary of his books seems on the far right side of the spectrum... but Shell isn't held up as anyone's example of an informed or intelligent political commentator.
Similarly, the Shell Scott novels tend to be cavalierly chauvinistic. Shell Scott characterizes every woman he meets based on her physical attractiveness, and often gets proven correct if he distrusts a woman because she's not as attractive. He solves the case and saves the day, always without help from women, and usually coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress who then falls into his arms and into his bed, to be forgotten by the next novel. He is an avid reader and supporter of Playboy magazine, and considers that he supports feminism by advocating that women free themselves of their girdles. As indicated, it's over the top, written in what seems to be tongue in cheek, an elevation of the escapist fantasy of private detective novels taken to such an extreme that a reader can't help but recognize the implicit silliness of the fantasy.
From time to time, I've read Shell Scott novels that had a line or two that rubbed me the wrong way. In one (Joker in the Deck) a character refers to a certain group of people as "pigs" (women in a women only bar). The character is not otherwise depicted in a favourable light, so I couldn't say it necessarily reflected the author's views or those of the main character. In one short story, Shell solves the mystery of a serial killer by intuiting that the murderous appetites of a male serial killer would be the same as those of a homosexual female serial killer. It's not well written, it's offensive in a number of ways, but it's a short story, and perhaps Prather was trying something different that didn't quite work.
In one of the last of the Shell Scott novels (I think it was Shellshock, but haven't read it in a while, so hesitate to confirm), Shell hops into bed with a woman, in a manner where it is not at all clear that he has her consent, and in the context of the book she calls him on it, and makes him recognize the wrongful element of what he was doing... but in my recollection, Shell says sorry, they carry on and still end up in bed together at the end. My discomfort with that was the suggestion that this line was included because times had changed (Shellshock being written some 15 years after the previous Shell Scott novel), and the implicit commentary is that what would have been acceptable 20 years ago isn't now. I didn't like that at all. I think the more appropriate view would be that it was never acceptable, but the fantasy element of the private detective (ex-marine, black belt, one man office, drives a corvette) who hands women a line and they line up to fall into bed with him would have been better highlighted as a fantasy, in his own head or otherwise, without suggesting that he's cavalier about getting the consent of women. If that were the element of satire, well, I'm not sure there's a way to handle it with humour or taste in a way that gets the correct message across, but if there is, I don't think Mr. Prather possessed the capability to do so.
In any event, I recently read Dead Heat (1963), and was upset, disappointed and angry with the sentence that ruined the novel for me, and makes me question my previous enjoyment of Shell Scott. It's another Shell Scott novel, and I think it is written to be light and fun. I had picked it up because I recalled other Richard S. Prather novels took a similar view of con men to that which I saw in Take Down and I wanted to comment further on the issue.
Read While Walking: Take Down: Spoilers for the Ending
In short, yes there is a con man, and yes, the view of con men is treated in a similar fashion to my conclusion, but in the end I couldn't analyze that aspect, because I couldn't let go of the one sentence. I tried to find fun at the end, since arguably the whole book is written for the sake of a pun. One character calls herself Nell Duden, and adopts the nickname "Doody". I'm tempted to say the one sentence that ruined the novel is the last, after Doody orders Shell to volunteer again. "A word to the wise is efficient: I saw my Doody, and I did it."
It's a pun, it's kind of offensive in tone, and it seems like a large part of the novel is part of a set up for a fairly weak pun, but by the time I got to the end, I wasn't even in the mood to give a good groan.
I think I may be off the Shell Scott novels as a result of the one sentence, because I can't away rationalize it away by any means. I can't begin to rationalize it based on the era (the book was written in 1963), since I think the statement would sound wrong no matter what era the novel was written or set in. Whether it's classified as in-character observation versus authorial commentary it doesn't work, as satire or anything else. If accepted as in-character observation, it sets up all of Shell's adventures with women in an extremely uncomfortable light. If it's authorial commentary, that's probably even worse.
The line bothered me, and yes, it ruined the book for me. I need to acknowledge that one sentence also probably ruined (or seriously damaged) the author and character for me as well. For those interested in the sentence, I'll include the paragraph for context:
"Well, sex. It's a funny thing: here in the U.S. of A. s-e-x is like the purloined letter in reverse -- we know it's right there in plain sight, but pretend not to see it. Everywhere you look: boing -- something sexy. Movies, books, magazines, Madison Avenue, billboards, television commercials -- wow, television. In two hours of twisting the dial you can see more nude and seminude tomatoes, and even potatoes, showering, tubbing, rubbing, shampooing, wiggling, smelling, smoking, puckering, and doing practically every ring-a-ding- 'ing' you can think of, and for what purpose? What else? To get raped, of course. That is the only possible conclusion a balanced mind could draw from all this feverish preparation."
Friday, July 24, 2015
Take Down: Spoilers for the Ending
In Take Down by James Swain, the portion of the ending which surprised me related to Maggie. I liked her character through most of the novel, though when she was relegated to being chained up in the truck I thought it didn't fit her character. She's a con woman, has been all her life, and she can't make the cops buy the fact that she's prepared to turn in Billy, so they handcuff her in the truck while she stares impotently at the monitor. It didn't fit the character for me.
I think Mr. Swain was trying to show she was reckless and desperate, but I think there were more subtle ways of showing that.
In any event, Billy finally gets together with Maggie, his crush from the time he was a teenager. He sleeps with her and then decides he's done with her, that she's no further use to him. He doesn't say goodbye, doesn't talk to her, instead he leaves some cash on the pillow as he leaves the room, telling himself that she'll get the message and be grateful for the cash.
It's pretty hard to take from a character who has been the protagonist, and there's very little way to justify it, beyond the recognition that he sees people as things to be used.
It goes to the heart of the cruelty of a con man, and what the con man takes. The confidence man earns people's confidence and trust, then exploits it. In so doing, he takes not just the money, but the trust and faith that people have in humanity, and leaves them poorer, not just in their wallet, but also in spirit.
For Billy, the rest of the world are either grifters or marks and marks are meant to be used and left behind. In leaving the money for Mags on the pillow, he didn't just use her, he wanted her to know she had been used, that she was a mark, and he was leaving her behind. He wanted her to know that she had no hold over him, and he had conned her into thinking she did. It occurs to me that it's similar in attitude to Michael of The Reader,
Read While Walking: The Reader, Exploitation and Victimization
and I wonder if Maggie will react in the same way as Hannah.
I think Mr. Swain was trying to show she was reckless and desperate, but I think there were more subtle ways of showing that.
In any event, Billy finally gets together with Maggie, his crush from the time he was a teenager. He sleeps with her and then decides he's done with her, that she's no further use to him. He doesn't say goodbye, doesn't talk to her, instead he leaves some cash on the pillow as he leaves the room, telling himself that she'll get the message and be grateful for the cash.
It's pretty hard to take from a character who has been the protagonist, and there's very little way to justify it, beyond the recognition that he sees people as things to be used.
It goes to the heart of the cruelty of a con man, and what the con man takes. The confidence man earns people's confidence and trust, then exploits it. In so doing, he takes not just the money, but the trust and faith that people have in humanity, and leaves them poorer, not just in their wallet, but also in spirit.
For Billy, the rest of the world are either grifters or marks and marks are meant to be used and left behind. In leaving the money for Mags on the pillow, he didn't just use her, he wanted her to know she had been used, that she was a mark, and he was leaving her behind. He wanted her to know that she had no hold over him, and he had conned her into thinking she did. It occurs to me that it's similar in attitude to Michael of The Reader,
Read While Walking: The Reader, Exploitation and Victimization
and I wonder if Maggie will react in the same way as Hannah.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Take Down by James Swain and the Conscience of a Confidence Man
Take Down by James Swain follows a cheater and his crew as they scam casinos in Las Vegas, and he is then hired/blackmailed to protect a new casino from all the other cheats in town.
Two things make Take Down different from the other James Swain novels. The casino Billy is protecting (a wide open candy store) is run by gangsters. Most of the Tony Valentine novels are more about the plot and the cons than the characterizations. Here, James Swain does a very neat job of drawing convincing villains, who are understandable in their motivations. Ike and T-Bird are somewhat sympathetic, and somewhat stupid, often played for comedic effect, but I didn't find it overdone. I found Shaz Doucette understandable, and also genuinely frightening. The villains, more than the mechanics of cheating, gave the novel its pacing and excitement.
The second aspect is that the protagonist is a con man. Unlike the Tony Valentine novels, Take Down is told from the perspective of a cheater. It's similar to James Swain's other novels, and includes some of the same cons and tricks. In many ways, it's easy to forget that the protagonist here is a cheat, as opposed to a detective dedicated to catching cheats.
I like stories about con men. I enjoy reading about the con, I like the cleverness, I like to think about whether it would be possible to carry off the con in reality, and I look at it a bit like a magic trick. I don't tend to think of con men as particularly bad in the criminal food chain, particularly because it seems to be a trope that con men don't carry guns and avoid violence. I also tend towards the idea that the con man takes an amount that won't leave the mark too poor, and ideally in such a way that the mark can't complain about the theft (usually because the mark is engaged in illegal activity). So fleecing people who think they're ripping off someone else seemed to me that the con man is like the Robin Hood of criminals.
James Swain hasn't taken this approach to con men and cheaters in his past novels. I've always had the sense that Tony Valentine takes pride in catching a cheater, that he has absolutely no doubt that the cheater is morally wrong, and never feels sympathy for the cheat.
It's an aspect of his character that, while it rings true in-story, has a hard time getting my sympathy in reality. I roll my eyes a bit at the thought that a casino might be losing money, and considered that the narrative intrusions about how bad cheating is for the gaming industry, and the inherent goodness and expertise of the Nevada Gaming Commission to be authorial recompense for giving Mr. Swain access to some of the insider information on casinos.
So I was surprised to find Take Down featuring a cheater as the protagonist, and was curious to see how Mr. Swain would manage to prevent him from becoming too sympathetic a character, or if he would fall in line with the usual con man Robin Hood sympathies (perhaps ripping off a gangster-owned casino creates its own moral justification).
I think Mr. Swain did a very good job of showing a con man for what he is, for why he's morally wrong, while doing it subtly enough that it's easy to miss the cues as the reader roots for Billy's success.
The key to being a con man, I think I have to acknowledge, is a lack of conscience. If a con man feels sorry for the suckers, he can't uphold the con. (Paul Newman learns this in The Color of Money). The con man has to have no sympathy or empathy with his victims... and the entire world forms his potential victim pool. Accordingly, the con man is exclusively interested in his own welfare. As I indicated, Mr. Swain builds it very subtly, occasionally letting Billy even convince himself that he's justified in ignoring the welfare of anyone who means anything to him.
For myself, I was genuinely surprised at the ending of the novel and the decision Billy makes. It's consistent with his character as we've seen it throughout the novel, it's just not consistent with what I wanted to believe his character was throughout the novel. I've tried to reconsider his actions, or come up with some other justification (he's young, he didn't think it through) but I'm forced to come back to the realization that he's a cheat and looks only to his own self interest without the slightest twinge of conscience. To me, that was much more effective than authorial sidebars on the harm caused by cheaters, and one that will influence how I look at stories about con men going forward.
Two things make Take Down different from the other James Swain novels. The casino Billy is protecting (a wide open candy store) is run by gangsters. Most of the Tony Valentine novels are more about the plot and the cons than the characterizations. Here, James Swain does a very neat job of drawing convincing villains, who are understandable in their motivations. Ike and T-Bird are somewhat sympathetic, and somewhat stupid, often played for comedic effect, but I didn't find it overdone. I found Shaz Doucette understandable, and also genuinely frightening. The villains, more than the mechanics of cheating, gave the novel its pacing and excitement.
The second aspect is that the protagonist is a con man. Unlike the Tony Valentine novels, Take Down is told from the perspective of a cheater. It's similar to James Swain's other novels, and includes some of the same cons and tricks. In many ways, it's easy to forget that the protagonist here is a cheat, as opposed to a detective dedicated to catching cheats.
I like stories about con men. I enjoy reading about the con, I like the cleverness, I like to think about whether it would be possible to carry off the con in reality, and I look at it a bit like a magic trick. I don't tend to think of con men as particularly bad in the criminal food chain, particularly because it seems to be a trope that con men don't carry guns and avoid violence. I also tend towards the idea that the con man takes an amount that won't leave the mark too poor, and ideally in such a way that the mark can't complain about the theft (usually because the mark is engaged in illegal activity). So fleecing people who think they're ripping off someone else seemed to me that the con man is like the Robin Hood of criminals.
James Swain hasn't taken this approach to con men and cheaters in his past novels. I've always had the sense that Tony Valentine takes pride in catching a cheater, that he has absolutely no doubt that the cheater is morally wrong, and never feels sympathy for the cheat.
It's an aspect of his character that, while it rings true in-story, has a hard time getting my sympathy in reality. I roll my eyes a bit at the thought that a casino might be losing money, and considered that the narrative intrusions about how bad cheating is for the gaming industry, and the inherent goodness and expertise of the Nevada Gaming Commission to be authorial recompense for giving Mr. Swain access to some of the insider information on casinos.
So I was surprised to find Take Down featuring a cheater as the protagonist, and was curious to see how Mr. Swain would manage to prevent him from becoming too sympathetic a character, or if he would fall in line with the usual con man Robin Hood sympathies (perhaps ripping off a gangster-owned casino creates its own moral justification).
I think Mr. Swain did a very good job of showing a con man for what he is, for why he's morally wrong, while doing it subtly enough that it's easy to miss the cues as the reader roots for Billy's success.
The key to being a con man, I think I have to acknowledge, is a lack of conscience. If a con man feels sorry for the suckers, he can't uphold the con. (Paul Newman learns this in The Color of Money). The con man has to have no sympathy or empathy with his victims... and the entire world forms his potential victim pool. Accordingly, the con man is exclusively interested in his own welfare. As I indicated, Mr. Swain builds it very subtly, occasionally letting Billy even convince himself that he's justified in ignoring the welfare of anyone who means anything to him.
For myself, I was genuinely surprised at the ending of the novel and the decision Billy makes. It's consistent with his character as we've seen it throughout the novel, it's just not consistent with what I wanted to believe his character was throughout the novel. I've tried to reconsider his actions, or come up with some other justification (he's young, he didn't think it through) but I'm forced to come back to the realization that he's a cheat and looks only to his own self interest without the slightest twinge of conscience. To me, that was much more effective than authorial sidebars on the harm caused by cheaters, and one that will influence how I look at stories about con men going forward.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Indigo Slam by Robert Crais
I read Indigo Slam immediately following Sunset Express. I guess it's a testament to my enjoyment of the Elvis Cole novels, but I also wanted to assess the cohesion of the series, and the extent to which the novels were interlinked.
I was extremely pleasantly surprised, and gained significant admiration for the series.
The story itself was good, though it involved perhaps a few too many agencies with differing goals. I had a tough time getting the actions and motivations of Clark, the absentee father to line up properly. But it was a fun plot, a good resolution and retained the distinctive character of Elvis Cole, with Joe Pike beginning to develop more of his own character that would be more fully fleshed out in later novels.
Each of the Elvis Cole novels can stand on their own. I haven't read them in order, and I don't think there's any requirement to do so. I had thought there were only casual nods to continuity, such as the Jimminy Cricket décor of Elvis' office and the presence of the cat at his house.
I have to credit Mr. Crais. The novels have an excellent continuity, and significantly more interconnection than I appreciated. Not just the little things, like Peter Alan Nelson of Lullaby Town showing up to babysit for Ben, but long term planning in how the relationship between Elvis Cole and Lucy Chenier will play out.
One of my favourite Elvis Cole novels is The Last Detective (which, if you are following the numerical order of the series, follows L.A. Requiem, which follows Indigo Slam). There is a subplot involving Lucy's opportunity to get a job with a television station in L.A. I really liked how that subplot was handled, giving Lucy her own power and agency to resolve the situation without Elvis needing to come to her rescue. However, in a complete surprise to me, done subtly and skillfully, plot elements dealing with Ben's father were sown into Indigo Slam as part of this side plot and presage events in The Last Detective.
To my mind that level of foreshadowing and interconnection takes significant advance planning, and is a comforting assurance that Mr. Crais has a clear idea of how the story and his characters will develop. I'm looking forward to reading more of the Elvis Cole novels to gain greater appreciation for this level of craftsmanship.
I was extremely pleasantly surprised, and gained significant admiration for the series.
The story itself was good, though it involved perhaps a few too many agencies with differing goals. I had a tough time getting the actions and motivations of Clark, the absentee father to line up properly. But it was a fun plot, a good resolution and retained the distinctive character of Elvis Cole, with Joe Pike beginning to develop more of his own character that would be more fully fleshed out in later novels.
Each of the Elvis Cole novels can stand on their own. I haven't read them in order, and I don't think there's any requirement to do so. I had thought there were only casual nods to continuity, such as the Jimminy Cricket décor of Elvis' office and the presence of the cat at his house.
I have to credit Mr. Crais. The novels have an excellent continuity, and significantly more interconnection than I appreciated. Not just the little things, like Peter Alan Nelson of Lullaby Town showing up to babysit for Ben, but long term planning in how the relationship between Elvis Cole and Lucy Chenier will play out.
One of my favourite Elvis Cole novels is The Last Detective (which, if you are following the numerical order of the series, follows L.A. Requiem, which follows Indigo Slam). There is a subplot involving Lucy's opportunity to get a job with a television station in L.A. I really liked how that subplot was handled, giving Lucy her own power and agency to resolve the situation without Elvis needing to come to her rescue. However, in a complete surprise to me, done subtly and skillfully, plot elements dealing with Ben's father were sown into Indigo Slam as part of this side plot and presage events in The Last Detective.
To my mind that level of foreshadowing and interconnection takes significant advance planning, and is a comforting assurance that Mr. Crais has a clear idea of how the story and his characters will develop. I'm looking forward to reading more of the Elvis Cole novels to gain greater appreciation for this level of craftsmanship.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Sunset Express by Robert Crais
I really enjoyed Sunset Express, as I enjoy most of the Elvis Cole series. I really liked the character, and I think it's because of my fascination for how he lives and how I can learn from it myself.
Most private eye novels have characters who are prepared to mouth the formulaic disclaimer that it's just another job, and the romance wears off with the end of the first case. But they say this even as risking their lives for the principle that they owe everything to their client, and work day and night without rest or food in support of that duty of loyalty, whether or not there is financial compensation to match.
Elvis Cole is a change from the usual formula, in a way that's almost hard to explain.
He's an ex-special forces U.S. Ranger who fought in Vietnam and was heavily decorated for his bravery there, which he doesn't like to discuss. He had a rough childhood which he rose above to join the military. He also has a black belt in martial arts. Following his return, he developed good connections in the police department, opened a one-man private detective outfit, and is scraping by with his small office, in the heart of L.A., while he lives in a large house with a great view and drives a convertible sports car. All of this is pretty standard private detective fare, and judging from most fiction is probably part of the job suggestions the military hands out as part of the exit package.
Unlike many private detectives in fiction, Elvis has a girlfriend. Lucy Chenier is attractive, a media personality, independently wealthy, an Olympic class athlete and a lawyer. Still pretty standard for fiction, and perhaps in another series of novels she'd be solving the cases instead of Elvis, but perhaps that's for a later installment.
Elvis Cole's friend, Joe Pike, remains enigmatic in these earlier novels, still more of a concept to bail Cole out of trouble than a fully realized character, but he's coming along. (Joe is also ex-special forces, a martial arts expert, has mysterious and unending sources of income and has a troubled childhood and connections in the police department).
So far, not too out of the ordinary, though a bit difficult to find principles that can be developed into life coaching lessons.
The part I like about Cole though, and the part that lifts this series above plot machinations to say something about the human condition is that Elvis actually seems to live a life. He knocks off work on the case in the afternoon. He heads home and cooks dinner for himself. He takes time with it, and seems to enjoy the act of cooking in a way that relaxes him for the evening. There is usually a detailed description of what he's cooking for dinner that sounds both achievable and realistic for a guy living alone with time to enjoy cooking and eating healthy foods which strike a balance between healthy and convenient (there's a heavy use of canned foods, even canned potatoes).
Sometimes he has a beer, but he doesn't overindulge. He feeds the cat and sits with him while he eats. He watches movies, sits on the deck, plays with his cat, and goes to bed in good time. In the morning he undergoes an extensive exercise routine on his back deck. Sometimes it's just for enjoyment, sometimes it's to work out some of his stress. He enjoys the morning air, and usually makes himself a substantial breakfast. Then, at his own pace, he heads into the office.
He doesn't check for messages, nor follow up leads in the evening. He's not an alcoholic. He doesn't have connections to the criminal underworld that he cultivates all night, and he doesn't mix around L.A. nightlife trying to pick up leads. He calls witnesses, makes appointments and schedules sufficient work for the day without trying to do too much. It's a quiet life alone, earning enough for a living he's comfortable with, but not working so he doesn't have a life. And I can picture him being able to do it. Leave aside the black-belt ex-special forces business and this kind of life should be achievable.
Rare though it is, in fiction or life, Elvis Cole appears to have a genuine work-life balance. This despite the fact that he works on important, life or death cases. As impressive as it is to create a fictional character with work life balance, somehow Mr. Crais also manages to introduce a sense of urgency into the timeline, despite Cole refusing to be hurried or moved to compromise how he lives his life for the job.
In later books, Pike indicates that one of the reasons he's attached himself to Cole is because he's fascinated by how centered Cole seems to be. He has it all together and prioritizes that which is important and Pike wants to learn from it.
In Sunset Express Cole makes time to tour his girlfriend and her son around L.A.. They're not in danger, and they don't form part of the more urgent elements of the plot. It's just more stuff that Cole does to achieve balance in his life, and he takes time from the investigation to spend with them. Sometimes things come up that necessitate an adjustment in plans, but Cole is not putting work first or second, he's simply doing what needs to be done in each aspect of his life. It's really amazing. Part of that is what fascinates me, like Joe Pike, into continuing to follow Elvis Cole.
Most private eye novels have characters who are prepared to mouth the formulaic disclaimer that it's just another job, and the romance wears off with the end of the first case. But they say this even as risking their lives for the principle that they owe everything to their client, and work day and night without rest or food in support of that duty of loyalty, whether or not there is financial compensation to match.
Elvis Cole is a change from the usual formula, in a way that's almost hard to explain.
He's an ex-special forces U.S. Ranger who fought in Vietnam and was heavily decorated for his bravery there, which he doesn't like to discuss. He had a rough childhood which he rose above to join the military. He also has a black belt in martial arts. Following his return, he developed good connections in the police department, opened a one-man private detective outfit, and is scraping by with his small office, in the heart of L.A., while he lives in a large house with a great view and drives a convertible sports car. All of this is pretty standard private detective fare, and judging from most fiction is probably part of the job suggestions the military hands out as part of the exit package.
Unlike many private detectives in fiction, Elvis has a girlfriend. Lucy Chenier is attractive, a media personality, independently wealthy, an Olympic class athlete and a lawyer. Still pretty standard for fiction, and perhaps in another series of novels she'd be solving the cases instead of Elvis, but perhaps that's for a later installment.
Elvis Cole's friend, Joe Pike, remains enigmatic in these earlier novels, still more of a concept to bail Cole out of trouble than a fully realized character, but he's coming along. (Joe is also ex-special forces, a martial arts expert, has mysterious and unending sources of income and has a troubled childhood and connections in the police department).
So far, not too out of the ordinary, though a bit difficult to find principles that can be developed into life coaching lessons.
The part I like about Cole though, and the part that lifts this series above plot machinations to say something about the human condition is that Elvis actually seems to live a life. He knocks off work on the case in the afternoon. He heads home and cooks dinner for himself. He takes time with it, and seems to enjoy the act of cooking in a way that relaxes him for the evening. There is usually a detailed description of what he's cooking for dinner that sounds both achievable and realistic for a guy living alone with time to enjoy cooking and eating healthy foods which strike a balance between healthy and convenient (there's a heavy use of canned foods, even canned potatoes).
Sometimes he has a beer, but he doesn't overindulge. He feeds the cat and sits with him while he eats. He watches movies, sits on the deck, plays with his cat, and goes to bed in good time. In the morning he undergoes an extensive exercise routine on his back deck. Sometimes it's just for enjoyment, sometimes it's to work out some of his stress. He enjoys the morning air, and usually makes himself a substantial breakfast. Then, at his own pace, he heads into the office.
He doesn't check for messages, nor follow up leads in the evening. He's not an alcoholic. He doesn't have connections to the criminal underworld that he cultivates all night, and he doesn't mix around L.A. nightlife trying to pick up leads. He calls witnesses, makes appointments and schedules sufficient work for the day without trying to do too much. It's a quiet life alone, earning enough for a living he's comfortable with, but not working so he doesn't have a life. And I can picture him being able to do it. Leave aside the black-belt ex-special forces business and this kind of life should be achievable.
Rare though it is, in fiction or life, Elvis Cole appears to have a genuine work-life balance. This despite the fact that he works on important, life or death cases. As impressive as it is to create a fictional character with work life balance, somehow Mr. Crais also manages to introduce a sense of urgency into the timeline, despite Cole refusing to be hurried or moved to compromise how he lives his life for the job.
In later books, Pike indicates that one of the reasons he's attached himself to Cole is because he's fascinated by how centered Cole seems to be. He has it all together and prioritizes that which is important and Pike wants to learn from it.
In Sunset Express Cole makes time to tour his girlfriend and her son around L.A.. They're not in danger, and they don't form part of the more urgent elements of the plot. It's just more stuff that Cole does to achieve balance in his life, and he takes time from the investigation to spend with them. Sometimes things come up that necessitate an adjustment in plans, but Cole is not putting work first or second, he's simply doing what needs to be done in each aspect of his life. It's really amazing. Part of that is what fascinates me, like Joe Pike, into continuing to follow Elvis Cole.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
FaceOff ed. David Baldacci
FaceOff is a neat concept book. It gathers together a number of authors and has them collaborate, in pairs, to create a short story involving their main characters.
I was really excited to read it to see Harry Bosch and Patrick Kenzie work together (Michael Connelly and Dennis Lehane, respectively), and also Paul Madriani and Alex Cooper (Steve Martini and Linda Fairstein) and Jack Reacher with Nick Heller (Lee Child and Joseph Finder). Basically, the collection seemed to assemble quite a number of authors I enjoy reading, and would have short stories featuring their characters.
From a fan service standpoint, I'd say the collection was a success. The reader gets to see their favourite characters interact with each other and work together on a brief case. I guess what I was hoping for however, was a little more of Harry Bosch's impressions of Patrick Kenzie and vice versa, and to see them use their strengths to work together. The trouble with that, is it probably needs more room than is available in a 20 page short story. So the collection worked from a tasting menu perspective. You got to see a glimpse, it is probably what you were looking for, but not fully satisfying.
For myself, I am interested enough in a couple of the authors featured to pick up books featuring their characters (Jeffrey Deaver and Linwood Barclay), but it's difficult even to tell whose writing style you're getting in the course of the short story. So I'm not sure I could recommend this as a way of getting into new authors, but at most for giving a brief sense of the characters involved. Sometimes that's enough I suppose, but I think FaceOff is ultimately targeted at people who are already fans of the authors and characters.
I was really excited to read it to see Harry Bosch and Patrick Kenzie work together (Michael Connelly and Dennis Lehane, respectively), and also Paul Madriani and Alex Cooper (Steve Martini and Linda Fairstein) and Jack Reacher with Nick Heller (Lee Child and Joseph Finder). Basically, the collection seemed to assemble quite a number of authors I enjoy reading, and would have short stories featuring their characters.
From a fan service standpoint, I'd say the collection was a success. The reader gets to see their favourite characters interact with each other and work together on a brief case. I guess what I was hoping for however, was a little more of Harry Bosch's impressions of Patrick Kenzie and vice versa, and to see them use their strengths to work together. The trouble with that, is it probably needs more room than is available in a 20 page short story. So the collection worked from a tasting menu perspective. You got to see a glimpse, it is probably what you were looking for, but not fully satisfying.
For myself, I am interested enough in a couple of the authors featured to pick up books featuring their characters (Jeffrey Deaver and Linwood Barclay), but it's difficult even to tell whose writing style you're getting in the course of the short story. So I'm not sure I could recommend this as a way of getting into new authors, but at most for giving a brief sense of the characters involved. Sometimes that's enough I suppose, but I think FaceOff is ultimately targeted at people who are already fans of the authors and characters.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Absence of Light by Zoe Sharp
Absence of Light is a novella by Zoe Sharp, featuring her protagonist Charlie Fox. In Absence of Light Charlie is providing protection services to a humanitarian search and rescue group, while also investigating possible criminal activity by the organization.
I enjoyed this novella. I really liked the early Charlie Fox novels, but the last few I haven't enjoyed as much... perhaps due to the plot circumstances with Sean Meyer, but I think also some of the things I liked about the first novels have been decreasing as Ms. Sharp writes more novels and the character of Charlie develops.
Absence of Light, like almost all of the Charlie Fox novels, uses the flashback technique to plunge the reader right into the action. Just like Shell Scott, by Richard S. Prather, most of the Charlie Fox adventures start with her in the heat of action, or suffering an injury and reflecting back on how she got to this point. Used well, it can be an effective technique to start things off with an exciting first chapter and build up goodwill for some exposition immediately thereafter, while building suspense about how things must transpire to reach that point.
It needs to be used carefully though, because it can also have the effect of limiting suspense (since you know certain characters must be alive when the flashback catches up to current events) and sometimes giving clues to the outcome of the mystery. It's actually the latter point that I think trips up a number of authors. By trying so hard not to reveal clues in the initial scene, or in the flashback, sometimes the narration becomes awkward, unrealistic, or seems as though the initial scene is forced into the novel.
It can also be tricky for authors to transition back to present time when it comes time to bring the flashback to a close and resolve the initial suspenseful event.
As I said, Richard S. Prather does it well, and in many of her novels, so does Zoe Sharp. In Absence of Light she uses an embedded flashback, so within the flashback Charlie flashes back to how she got to that point. It's actually pretty smoothly done. And she avoids pitfalls of bringing the flashback to a close by ending the novella with an epilogue once the flashback catches up to the present.
It's more like the old style of Charlie Fox that I enjoy. Some action, a mystery, some cleverness by Charlie (that's always the part I like best). I liked the setting, and thought the tie-ins to Parker, Sean and the ongoing plot points were well done and subtle enough that a non-series reader could enjoy the story without full knowledge of the relationships.
Ms. Sharp describes the novella as a bridge between the Charlie Fox novels, and perhaps it will be, but it also stands on its own very nicely.
I enjoyed this novella. I really liked the early Charlie Fox novels, but the last few I haven't enjoyed as much... perhaps due to the plot circumstances with Sean Meyer, but I think also some of the things I liked about the first novels have been decreasing as Ms. Sharp writes more novels and the character of Charlie develops.
Absence of Light, like almost all of the Charlie Fox novels, uses the flashback technique to plunge the reader right into the action. Just like Shell Scott, by Richard S. Prather, most of the Charlie Fox adventures start with her in the heat of action, or suffering an injury and reflecting back on how she got to this point. Used well, it can be an effective technique to start things off with an exciting first chapter and build up goodwill for some exposition immediately thereafter, while building suspense about how things must transpire to reach that point.
It needs to be used carefully though, because it can also have the effect of limiting suspense (since you know certain characters must be alive when the flashback catches up to current events) and sometimes giving clues to the outcome of the mystery. It's actually the latter point that I think trips up a number of authors. By trying so hard not to reveal clues in the initial scene, or in the flashback, sometimes the narration becomes awkward, unrealistic, or seems as though the initial scene is forced into the novel.
It can also be tricky for authors to transition back to present time when it comes time to bring the flashback to a close and resolve the initial suspenseful event.
As I said, Richard S. Prather does it well, and in many of her novels, so does Zoe Sharp. In Absence of Light she uses an embedded flashback, so within the flashback Charlie flashes back to how she got to that point. It's actually pretty smoothly done. And she avoids pitfalls of bringing the flashback to a close by ending the novella with an epilogue once the flashback catches up to the present.
It's more like the old style of Charlie Fox that I enjoy. Some action, a mystery, some cleverness by Charlie (that's always the part I like best). I liked the setting, and thought the tie-ins to Parker, Sean and the ongoing plot points were well done and subtle enough that a non-series reader could enjoy the story without full knowledge of the relationships.
Ms. Sharp describes the novella as a bridge between the Charlie Fox novels, and perhaps it will be, but it also stands on its own very nicely.
Monday, July 13, 2015
The exclusive right to publish. Finders Keepers legal commentary.
Under the Copyright Act, authors (or first owners) of a literary work have the exclusive right to publish the work, or any substantial part thereof.
The Berne Convention on Copyright (which has 93 countries as members including the U.S., China, Japan, Canada and the EU) provides that authors of literary works shall have the exclusive right of authorizing their work to be made available to the public through sale or transfer of ownership. It is, however, permissible for member countries to create exceptions once the author has first published the work.
But the concept, almost universally where copyright is recognized, is that an author has the exclusive right of publication of his or her work.
This gives an author the right to claim infringement, and therefore sue for compensation if someone else publishes work they have created. It's a right that makes sure that authors are compensated for their creations, and that someone else can't steal and print their work and receive all the financial rewards.
But what of the corollary? Because the author has the exclusive right to publish the work, it must also mean that the author has the right to choose not to publish a work. If an author wrote works while a juvenile, or political position papers or rough drafts, the author would have the right to restrain anyone from publishing those works. Most authors would probably support that position.
In Finders Keepers by Stephen King, someone finds new work by an author after the author has been dead for about thirty years. In the book it's viewed (potentially) as a collector's treasure; the notebooks that can be sold for millions. That aspect is correct, from a copyright standpoint. But the idea that those books could be turned into movies, or published and distributed, would be an infringement of the author's copyright, which continues for 75 years following the author's death.
In the context of the novel, the author is one of the great American writers, not dissimilar from J.D. Salinger. By his choice, he elected not to share his works with the world. Is that intended as a right the author has? Beyond merely the question of who should receive the remuneration for the publication of work, should a writer be able to withhold his work from the world from beyond the grave?
Agatha Christie left instructions for Sleeping Murder to be published after her death. (Curtain had similar instructions, but apparently Dame Agatha authorized its publication while still living). Robert Jordan left detailed instructions for the publication of the final volume(s) of his Wheel of Time series following his death, as well as the completion of the series by Brendon Sanderson. It is a bit unclear how much of the final volumes appropriately identify Robert Jordan as the author, but it seems generally agreed he wrote particular scenes which appear in the final novels.
So authors can, and do, control and authorize publication from beyond the grave. As indicated above, I think most people would accept the proposition that an author can control their work while alive, including restricting it from publication. The idea that an author should be able to entirely destroy their work is a bit harder to swallow if you're a fan, but would be almost impossible to regulate by law.
Should the restriction on the right to publish continue after death though? If someone discovers works of the author, shouldn't they be entitled to publication? I acknowledge the estate should still reap the financial benefits, but is it up to the estate to determine whether or not the author would have wanted the work published at all? And should the estate be entitled to destroy the work if they deem it unsuitable?
What if Christopher Tolkien determined that The Silmarillion should not be published at all, but should be destroyed instead? Some of the richness and wonder of Middle Earth might be lost to us.
Finders Keepers, in avoiding any discussion of the author's estate, sidesteps the question a bit, and its ending ignores potential claims by the estate for infringement. But I think it raises an interesting question as to which copyright rights should survive after death, and whether the estate should have the sole right to determine which works are fit for publication, which authors will "complete" the work, the extent to which they disclose what is original and what is added, or which works will never be seen by the public.
With a copyright term that extends 75 years beyond the death of the creator, I think it's worth asking the question whether that term after death should be solely to provide compensation to three generations of heirs, or whether that term is intended to give the third generation rights to control the use and distribution of work created by the author.
The Berne Convention on Copyright (which has 93 countries as members including the U.S., China, Japan, Canada and the EU) provides that authors of literary works shall have the exclusive right of authorizing their work to be made available to the public through sale or transfer of ownership. It is, however, permissible for member countries to create exceptions once the author has first published the work.
But the concept, almost universally where copyright is recognized, is that an author has the exclusive right of publication of his or her work.
This gives an author the right to claim infringement, and therefore sue for compensation if someone else publishes work they have created. It's a right that makes sure that authors are compensated for their creations, and that someone else can't steal and print their work and receive all the financial rewards.
But what of the corollary? Because the author has the exclusive right to publish the work, it must also mean that the author has the right to choose not to publish a work. If an author wrote works while a juvenile, or political position papers or rough drafts, the author would have the right to restrain anyone from publishing those works. Most authors would probably support that position.
In Finders Keepers by Stephen King, someone finds new work by an author after the author has been dead for about thirty years. In the book it's viewed (potentially) as a collector's treasure; the notebooks that can be sold for millions. That aspect is correct, from a copyright standpoint. But the idea that those books could be turned into movies, or published and distributed, would be an infringement of the author's copyright, which continues for 75 years following the author's death.
In the context of the novel, the author is one of the great American writers, not dissimilar from J.D. Salinger. By his choice, he elected not to share his works with the world. Is that intended as a right the author has? Beyond merely the question of who should receive the remuneration for the publication of work, should a writer be able to withhold his work from the world from beyond the grave?
Agatha Christie left instructions for Sleeping Murder to be published after her death. (Curtain had similar instructions, but apparently Dame Agatha authorized its publication while still living). Robert Jordan left detailed instructions for the publication of the final volume(s) of his Wheel of Time series following his death, as well as the completion of the series by Brendon Sanderson. It is a bit unclear how much of the final volumes appropriately identify Robert Jordan as the author, but it seems generally agreed he wrote particular scenes which appear in the final novels.
So authors can, and do, control and authorize publication from beyond the grave. As indicated above, I think most people would accept the proposition that an author can control their work while alive, including restricting it from publication. The idea that an author should be able to entirely destroy their work is a bit harder to swallow if you're a fan, but would be almost impossible to regulate by law.
Should the restriction on the right to publish continue after death though? If someone discovers works of the author, shouldn't they be entitled to publication? I acknowledge the estate should still reap the financial benefits, but is it up to the estate to determine whether or not the author would have wanted the work published at all? And should the estate be entitled to destroy the work if they deem it unsuitable?
What if Christopher Tolkien determined that The Silmarillion should not be published at all, but should be destroyed instead? Some of the richness and wonder of Middle Earth might be lost to us.
Finders Keepers, in avoiding any discussion of the author's estate, sidesteps the question a bit, and its ending ignores potential claims by the estate for infringement. But I think it raises an interesting question as to which copyright rights should survive after death, and whether the estate should have the sole right to determine which works are fit for publication, which authors will "complete" the work, the extent to which they disclose what is original and what is added, or which works will never be seen by the public.
With a copyright term that extends 75 years beyond the death of the creator, I think it's worth asking the question whether that term after death should be solely to provide compensation to three generations of heirs, or whether that term is intended to give the third generation rights to control the use and distribution of work created by the author.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
The right way to use callbacks for external reference points. Finders Keepers
If I told you that I had just read a book which involved an obsessive fan of an author's work, who discovered that the author had killed off, or fundamentally affected the life of the author's principal character and it caused the fan to become so upset that the fan had to confront the author, take the author hostage and demand an explanation before violently assaulting the author... could you guess which book I had read?
Some spoilers follow if you're trying to guess.
What if I added that the protagonist used his knowledge of how the character's story arc turned out in the yet unpublished novel to taunt the antagonist, and at a crucial moment, set the author's manuscript on fire, causing the antagonist to attempt to put out the fire with their bare hands, eventually burning to death in the conflagration?
Would you think perhaps that the book was ripping off Misery by Stephen King? Those exact things happen in Finders Keepers by Stephen King. So is it self-plagiarism? I said before that I liked the book, and I do. I see it as a reference to Misery without being a retread. I haven't re-read Misery in some time, so I can't really say whether Finders Keepers has something different to say about creators and their relationships with or obligations to their fans... though my impression is that Mr. King's views as expressed in Finders Keepers seemed pretty consistent with his views on those matters as I had recalled from his earlier works, whether from Misery or The Dark Tower or others.
And while those events happen, and unquestionably a key element of the novel is the question of the relationship between readers and authors, as I indicated in my earlier post, to me the novel shows the ways in which love for a novel can lead to good while also having the potential to lead to something worse, but in either case if it speaks truth about character, then it can speak to vastly disparate people and find elements to unite them.
Read While Walking: Finders Keepers by Stephen King
If Finders Keepers had been written by another author, I probably would have felt the author was plagiarizing Stephen King. As it is, it seems more like Mr. King is deliberately referencing his earlier work for the enjoyment of his fans. I had some of the sense of Misery at the beginning of the novel, but it subtly built up, increasing the anticipation that the protagonist would pull out a lighter and threaten the manuscripts, because it was so clear that must happen in the worlds of Mr. King. When he did, it felt earned, appropriate, and a treat for longtime fans.
I'm reminded of the Spartacus television series on Starz. The series built the anticipation for the viewer to hear the phrase "I am Spartacus" and built, and built, to the point it started to seem funny, then almost forgotten, and finally rewarded the viewers so desperate for that phrase. Spartacus did it better, but Finders Keepers was trading on that same need for its knowledgeable fans to feel as though they know something more than the immediate text would indicate and will be rewarded for their knowledge and loyalty.
I like that type of external reference as a treat to reward the loyal fan, but only when it's done in such a way that doesn't detract from the work itself, nor cause those unfamiliar with the reference to feel as though they have been left out or are missing something. I thought both Finders Keepers and Spartacus handled that type of reward about as well as it's possible to do.
Some spoilers follow if you're trying to guess.
What if I added that the protagonist used his knowledge of how the character's story arc turned out in the yet unpublished novel to taunt the antagonist, and at a crucial moment, set the author's manuscript on fire, causing the antagonist to attempt to put out the fire with their bare hands, eventually burning to death in the conflagration?
Would you think perhaps that the book was ripping off Misery by Stephen King? Those exact things happen in Finders Keepers by Stephen King. So is it self-plagiarism? I said before that I liked the book, and I do. I see it as a reference to Misery without being a retread. I haven't re-read Misery in some time, so I can't really say whether Finders Keepers has something different to say about creators and their relationships with or obligations to their fans... though my impression is that Mr. King's views as expressed in Finders Keepers seemed pretty consistent with his views on those matters as I had recalled from his earlier works, whether from Misery or The Dark Tower or others.
And while those events happen, and unquestionably a key element of the novel is the question of the relationship between readers and authors, as I indicated in my earlier post, to me the novel shows the ways in which love for a novel can lead to good while also having the potential to lead to something worse, but in either case if it speaks truth about character, then it can speak to vastly disparate people and find elements to unite them.
Read While Walking: Finders Keepers by Stephen King
If Finders Keepers had been written by another author, I probably would have felt the author was plagiarizing Stephen King. As it is, it seems more like Mr. King is deliberately referencing his earlier work for the enjoyment of his fans. I had some of the sense of Misery at the beginning of the novel, but it subtly built up, increasing the anticipation that the protagonist would pull out a lighter and threaten the manuscripts, because it was so clear that must happen in the worlds of Mr. King. When he did, it felt earned, appropriate, and a treat for longtime fans.
I'm reminded of the Spartacus television series on Starz. The series built the anticipation for the viewer to hear the phrase "I am Spartacus" and built, and built, to the point it started to seem funny, then almost forgotten, and finally rewarded the viewers so desperate for that phrase. Spartacus did it better, but Finders Keepers was trading on that same need for its knowledgeable fans to feel as though they know something more than the immediate text would indicate and will be rewarded for their knowledge and loyalty.
I like that type of external reference as a treat to reward the loyal fan, but only when it's done in such a way that doesn't detract from the work itself, nor cause those unfamiliar with the reference to feel as though they have been left out or are missing something. I thought both Finders Keepers and Spartacus handled that type of reward about as well as it's possible to do.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Are character actions determined by the author or by outside forces? Finders Keepers
Finders Keepers by Stephen King has a great deal of commentary about the role of the author and how the characters in a novel turn out. Many of these seem to be done in the authorial voice, so that the reader has a sense they relate more to Mr. King's views than the views of the characters in the novel.
While I found the descriptions consistent with Mr. King's other works and observations, I also found it interesting to consider some of the issues he raises, and how they relate to other authors.
The first element I found interesting is the question of who controls the characters?
Finders Keepers justifies the in-book fictional character arc of Jimmy Gold by saying the authors don't control the characters. Authors get inspiration and the story takes them where the story needs to go, all the author does is to record.
This approach is consistent with that described in The Dark Tower series and elsewhere in Mr. King's writing. Whether it's inspiration coming from Gan, or a mean gunslinger threatening the author, the characters have a life of their own, and for the author to try to force them in another direction doesn't work for the story or the character.
Having created a world and its characters, there are some things those characters can and will do, and some they will not. The author can only move them so far before he feels them straining at their own reality. The interesting point in Finders Keepers (or perhaps The Dark Half?) is that sometimes the characters move in ways that may not have been originally anticipated by the author.
Perhaps this is caused less by a muse directing the author's hand, and more by the author's understanding of the character he or she has created. For the author, the character is fully real, four dimensional in the author's mind (three dimensions, plus time) and must organically react to certain events or even drive events in particular ways in the story or series. The author knows, with a bone deep understanding, not only how the character would look or behave in a given circumstance, but also how the reactions would change depending when in the story or series arc the character is confronted with the circumstance.
I get the sense that Michael Connelly would have this sensibility about Harry Bosch and his other characters. Harry acts in certain ways when he's a cop in Hollywood division, differently when he's a private detective, differently again when he's on the cold case squad and after he becomes a single dad. I think Mr. Connelly would talk about what Harry would or would not do as though he's a real person... and to him (and many readers) he is.
Other authors, for all their realism in developing fully formed, four dimensional characters, never cease to see them as constructs of paper to be moved and dealt with as they wish.
I'm reminded of George R.R. Martin asking how many children Scarlett O'Hara has. She has one in the movie version of Gone With the Wind but three in the novel. So which is correct? Mr. Martin proposes that a correct answer is none... Scarlett O'Hara is a fictional character.
I find Mr. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series fascinating, because he seems to hold that attitude throughout, while somehow managing to give real depth to his characters. Readers intuitively know what Jaime Lannister would do in a given situation, how he would react as though he is a real person. The same is true for most of Mr. Martin's characters, in that series and otherwise. And yet, he seems to feel no more attachment for them than he would for any other constructs of paper. If they get tortured in hideous ways, or killed, I don't get the sense it bothers Mr. Martin internally, since they're just fictional characters.
I get the sense that Karin Slaughter would share Mr. Martin's sensibility about Will Trent.
I don't say that's a bad thing, but it does make a different reading experience.
Messrs. King and Connelly and their spiritual colleagues would be loath to kill off their characters or put them in life altering scenarios. It would feel to them like they had killed a real person or put a real person in those circumstances, so it wouldn't happen without a lot of careful thought, and probably some sense in the book that it had been earned, or was a worthy experience somehow. That gives me as a reader a certain sense of assurance and comfort in reading their books. If they do kill a character or cause some life altering experience, I anticipate I'll get some kind of satisfying closure.
With Mr. Martin and Ms. Slaughter, I feel a greater sense of danger when I read their books, because I feel as though the floor could drop out from under any character at any time, and I don't know if things will be resolved in a meaningful way, or even if it will happen for a reason.
When I started writing this commentary, I was tempted to refer to Agatha Christie and her steps to kill off Hercule Poirot. In the end though, her decision in Curtain was not so much indicative of where she finds her inspiration and plot directions, but instead about the importance for an author to control the works in which a character appears. And in that regard, I suspect Mr. Martin, Mr. King, Mr. Connelly, Ms. Slaughter and Ms. Christie would all agree that the author ought to be entitled to control where their characters appear and how they are portrayed.
That may be a good segue into the question of what rights readers and fans have to direct the course of a work, which will be a topic for later this week.
While I found the descriptions consistent with Mr. King's other works and observations, I also found it interesting to consider some of the issues he raises, and how they relate to other authors.
The first element I found interesting is the question of who controls the characters?
Finders Keepers justifies the in-book fictional character arc of Jimmy Gold by saying the authors don't control the characters. Authors get inspiration and the story takes them where the story needs to go, all the author does is to record.
This approach is consistent with that described in The Dark Tower series and elsewhere in Mr. King's writing. Whether it's inspiration coming from Gan, or a mean gunslinger threatening the author, the characters have a life of their own, and for the author to try to force them in another direction doesn't work for the story or the character.
Having created a world and its characters, there are some things those characters can and will do, and some they will not. The author can only move them so far before he feels them straining at their own reality. The interesting point in Finders Keepers (or perhaps The Dark Half?) is that sometimes the characters move in ways that may not have been originally anticipated by the author.
Perhaps this is caused less by a muse directing the author's hand, and more by the author's understanding of the character he or she has created. For the author, the character is fully real, four dimensional in the author's mind (three dimensions, plus time) and must organically react to certain events or even drive events in particular ways in the story or series. The author knows, with a bone deep understanding, not only how the character would look or behave in a given circumstance, but also how the reactions would change depending when in the story or series arc the character is confronted with the circumstance.
I get the sense that Michael Connelly would have this sensibility about Harry Bosch and his other characters. Harry acts in certain ways when he's a cop in Hollywood division, differently when he's a private detective, differently again when he's on the cold case squad and after he becomes a single dad. I think Mr. Connelly would talk about what Harry would or would not do as though he's a real person... and to him (and many readers) he is.
Other authors, for all their realism in developing fully formed, four dimensional characters, never cease to see them as constructs of paper to be moved and dealt with as they wish.
I'm reminded of George R.R. Martin asking how many children Scarlett O'Hara has. She has one in the movie version of Gone With the Wind but three in the novel. So which is correct? Mr. Martin proposes that a correct answer is none... Scarlett O'Hara is a fictional character.
I find Mr. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series fascinating, because he seems to hold that attitude throughout, while somehow managing to give real depth to his characters. Readers intuitively know what Jaime Lannister would do in a given situation, how he would react as though he is a real person. The same is true for most of Mr. Martin's characters, in that series and otherwise. And yet, he seems to feel no more attachment for them than he would for any other constructs of paper. If they get tortured in hideous ways, or killed, I don't get the sense it bothers Mr. Martin internally, since they're just fictional characters.
I get the sense that Karin Slaughter would share Mr. Martin's sensibility about Will Trent.
I don't say that's a bad thing, but it does make a different reading experience.
Messrs. King and Connelly and their spiritual colleagues would be loath to kill off their characters or put them in life altering scenarios. It would feel to them like they had killed a real person or put a real person in those circumstances, so it wouldn't happen without a lot of careful thought, and probably some sense in the book that it had been earned, or was a worthy experience somehow. That gives me as a reader a certain sense of assurance and comfort in reading their books. If they do kill a character or cause some life altering experience, I anticipate I'll get some kind of satisfying closure.
With Mr. Martin and Ms. Slaughter, I feel a greater sense of danger when I read their books, because I feel as though the floor could drop out from under any character at any time, and I don't know if things will be resolved in a meaningful way, or even if it will happen for a reason.
When I started writing this commentary, I was tempted to refer to Agatha Christie and her steps to kill off Hercule Poirot. In the end though, her decision in Curtain was not so much indicative of where she finds her inspiration and plot directions, but instead about the importance for an author to control the works in which a character appears. And in that regard, I suspect Mr. Martin, Mr. King, Mr. Connelly, Ms. Slaughter and Ms. Christie would all agree that the author ought to be entitled to control where their characters appear and how they are portrayed.
That may be a good segue into the question of what rights readers and fans have to direct the course of a work, which will be a topic for later this week.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Finders Keepers by Stephen King
I was quite surprised and really excited to find that Stephen King had written a sequel to Mr. Mercedes featuring Det.-Ret. Bill Hodges.
Read While Walking: Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King
I know there's a certain amount of fan service involved in being an author, but I was extremely gratified to see that Mr. King had seen my wish for a series featuring a PI firm run by Holly and Hodges and decided to answer it... though with a book about the dangers of failing to cater to your fans.
In the result, Finders Keepers was a really good book, and a good story. Mr. King didn't spend much time on the characters of Hodges and Holly, assuming that readers were familiar with them from Mr. Mercedes. Instead, the book centered on the two characters who received the stolen notebooks, Morris and Pete. Briefly, both Morris and Pete (separated by a number of years) are ardent fans of an author and his trilogy of books. But the author has become a recluse and stopped publishing, though he hasn't stopped writing. His notebooks are stolen and contain two sequels to the original trilogy. Both Morris and Pete want the opportunity to read the novels and learn about the further adventures of their hero Jimmy Gold. Potential financial consequences of the find are decidedly secondary. I also laughed when one of the characters considers trading the notebooks as part of a plea deal, but concludes that a prosecuting attorney couldn't appreciate the value of them, and probably thinks that Erle Stanley Gardner is great literature.
There's a bit of proselytizing which seems to be coming more from Mr. King than organically from his characters about the role of the author, but it's to introduce explicitly some ideas about authors and their obligations which may not be obvious if left sub rosa.
There's some good suspense and action sequences, a couple of narrow escapes which show Mr. King is still a bit of a softie, but it's why I like his books; I don't need to worry about getting too upset at the bleakness and tragedy unless it's fully earned and provides closure in some ways.
I guess the best part of Finders Keepers for me is the way Morris and Pete are two sides of the same coin. They both have the same drive to read, and both place the work of literature as central in their lives. Mr. King has to work fairly hard to make sure Morris is sufficiently unlikeable that he comes across as the bad side of obsession to Pete's good side of love for literature. I think, from time to time, I could see where Stephen King was starting to make Morris more sympathetic and then pulled back just a bit for contrast to prevent too much sympathy from falling on him or to remind us he's not a nice guy. It's fascinating how easy it is (for me at least) to start to feel sympathetic with a character just because he likes books... but I think to some extent that's what Stephen King was trying to show in this book. That a good story can unite people and help us to understand what we have in common with them, even if it's as little as a shared love of the same literature. Knowing what they like to read tells us something about them, and despite everything else, if we like the same books, they may not be that different from us in how they see themselves and the world around them.
Read While Walking: Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King
I know there's a certain amount of fan service involved in being an author, but I was extremely gratified to see that Mr. King had seen my wish for a series featuring a PI firm run by Holly and Hodges and decided to answer it... though with a book about the dangers of failing to cater to your fans.
In the result, Finders Keepers was a really good book, and a good story. Mr. King didn't spend much time on the characters of Hodges and Holly, assuming that readers were familiar with them from Mr. Mercedes. Instead, the book centered on the two characters who received the stolen notebooks, Morris and Pete. Briefly, both Morris and Pete (separated by a number of years) are ardent fans of an author and his trilogy of books. But the author has become a recluse and stopped publishing, though he hasn't stopped writing. His notebooks are stolen and contain two sequels to the original trilogy. Both Morris and Pete want the opportunity to read the novels and learn about the further adventures of their hero Jimmy Gold. Potential financial consequences of the find are decidedly secondary. I also laughed when one of the characters considers trading the notebooks as part of a plea deal, but concludes that a prosecuting attorney couldn't appreciate the value of them, and probably thinks that Erle Stanley Gardner is great literature.
There's a bit of proselytizing which seems to be coming more from Mr. King than organically from his characters about the role of the author, but it's to introduce explicitly some ideas about authors and their obligations which may not be obvious if left sub rosa.
There's some good suspense and action sequences, a couple of narrow escapes which show Mr. King is still a bit of a softie, but it's why I like his books; I don't need to worry about getting too upset at the bleakness and tragedy unless it's fully earned and provides closure in some ways.
I guess the best part of Finders Keepers for me is the way Morris and Pete are two sides of the same coin. They both have the same drive to read, and both place the work of literature as central in their lives. Mr. King has to work fairly hard to make sure Morris is sufficiently unlikeable that he comes across as the bad side of obsession to Pete's good side of love for literature. I think, from time to time, I could see where Stephen King was starting to make Morris more sympathetic and then pulled back just a bit for contrast to prevent too much sympathy from falling on him or to remind us he's not a nice guy. It's fascinating how easy it is (for me at least) to start to feel sympathetic with a character just because he likes books... but I think to some extent that's what Stephen King was trying to show in this book. That a good story can unite people and help us to understand what we have in common with them, even if it's as little as a shared love of the same literature. Knowing what they like to read tells us something about them, and despite everything else, if we like the same books, they may not be that different from us in how they see themselves and the world around them.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Strip for Murder by Richard S. Prather
Strip for Murder features Shell Scott, private detective. I like the Shell Scott books. They tend to be a lot of fun, pretty campy and over the top and a bit of a send-up of the hardboiled detective novel.
Richard S. Prather imagines a world where the criminal underclass is identifiable by their nicknames and their Dick Tracy-like villainous physical identifiers. They speak in hood-speak, a linguistic code known to few outside of criminals, tipsters and our hero, Shell Scott.
I mentioned earlier that Donald Lam's weakness seems to be a good book
Read While Walking: Why Donald Lam is my favourite detective. Shell Scott has a weakness for women. It's done in a humourous, bordering on ridiculous manner, but it usually draws a laugh, since he can't seem to think straight or keep his mind on his objective when there's an attractive woman in close proximity.
Strip for Murder involves Shell Scott investigating a nudist colony. A surprising number of Shell Scott novels involve the detective being obligated to be around women with clothing deficits, and it usually means our detective is unable to make his brain fully function. He gathers clues through his criminal underground telegraph, and blunders around until he solves the mystery and saves the day.
A couple of elements from Strip for Murder seem a bit recycled, and the mystery isn't much of a trick for those who can decipher hood-speak, but it's still fun. Richard S. Prather tries to include a little more characterization than usual for the love interest, having her demonstrate a few emotions from time to time, but quickly breezes past that to get on with the plot. The big set pieces, involving a knight in armor, and the finale with the balloons had me chuckling out loud, and that's why I like to pick up the Shell Scott books.
Richard S. Prather imagines a world where the criminal underclass is identifiable by their nicknames and their Dick Tracy-like villainous physical identifiers. They speak in hood-speak, a linguistic code known to few outside of criminals, tipsters and our hero, Shell Scott.
I mentioned earlier that Donald Lam's weakness seems to be a good book
Read While Walking: Why Donald Lam is my favourite detective. Shell Scott has a weakness for women. It's done in a humourous, bordering on ridiculous manner, but it usually draws a laugh, since he can't seem to think straight or keep his mind on his objective when there's an attractive woman in close proximity.
Strip for Murder involves Shell Scott investigating a nudist colony. A surprising number of Shell Scott novels involve the detective being obligated to be around women with clothing deficits, and it usually means our detective is unable to make his brain fully function. He gathers clues through his criminal underground telegraph, and blunders around until he solves the mystery and saves the day.
A couple of elements from Strip for Murder seem a bit recycled, and the mystery isn't much of a trick for those who can decipher hood-speak, but it's still fun. Richard S. Prather tries to include a little more characterization than usual for the love interest, having her demonstrate a few emotions from time to time, but quickly breezes past that to get on with the plot. The big set pieces, involving a knight in armor, and the finale with the balloons had me chuckling out loud, and that's why I like to pick up the Shell Scott books.
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