A Scandinavian crime series that doesn’t release episodes endlessly? Finally, some peace! The protagonist of Samuel Bjørk’s The Boy in the Headlights is severely troubled but otherwise a brilliant detective. The abundance of personal issues is a mandatory foundation for every Scandinavian crime novel, although brilliant detectives are relatively rare among them; they’re more often just diligent and hardworking. Okay, granted, Nesbo’s Harry Hole is genuinely brilliant to some extent, but in return, he’s an alcoholic. Based on all this, it seems that in the case of Scandinavians, intellectual abilities are directly proportional to problems—well, you can imagine what the situation is with poor Mia Krüger.
At the beginning of each episode, the girl is either suspended or undergoing psychiatric treatment. Sometimes, if she feels like it, she wants to slash her wrists, while being a heavy alcoholic too. But she’s likable otherwise. And for some reason, dang it, they always want to fire her from her job. The devil knows why. (However, her boss, the chubby Holger, always defends her.)
The Boy in the Headlights is not your usual template crime novel, that’s for sure; because it would be good if it were! But in this book, you’re bombarded with information from five different threads simultaneously, barely able to keep up, and you feel like you could use some brilliance yourself—because without a razor-sharp mind, you are unable to keep so many characters in mind.
Moreover, these characters in The Boy in the Headlights appear so rarely that you wouldn’t even remember them if your mind, this delicate mechanism, didn’t work with above-average efficiency. But sometimes, damn it, a bunch of unknown figures still pop up! Dum them!
True story, everybody beware! Although Mowgli’s story has not been proven to be just a clever fabrication, the girl who hung out with wolves (Misha Defonseca: Surviving with Wolves) has admitted that she just made it all up. Now you might think I have preconceptions, but hello, I’m definitely writing this review after reading The Girl With No Name.
If you also read it, two things will be clear about Marina Chapman’s text: one, it’s an unbelievably naive narrative, and two, you must be very gullible to buy into it. Okay, sure, for someone raised by monkeys, a naive worldview is forgivable, it would be different, I guess, if she had been nursed by Nile crocodiles in her early years.
And the monkey part isn’t even that bad. The Girl With No Name feels like a somewhat simple, sentimental adventure novel, a sort of Tarzan-light, in a girly version, swinging minus the vines. (Those unfortunately break, supposedly even under a little girl… let alone the big lug Tarzan. Of course, he’s just a fabrication too, don’t believe otherwise!)
Perhaps only the kind, old monkey stands out from the text (and the other monkeys), saving our hero from poisoning. And the girl’s long hair, because you believe that anyone would run around waist-deep in a mane of hair through the undergrowth without getting tangled in every other bush? I don’t.
Marina Chapman’s troubles come from people. Damn people, again. And it’s not about the little girl with no name communicating like a monkey while people just stare, as if at the movies.
Living among monkeys is exotic. Period. Living among people in 1960s Colombia, in a run-down brothel, is not. Being among people, the protagonist ends up in worse and worse places, and through her eyes, pay attention now!, you get to know a lot of things you ALREADY KNOW. A bed, a table, TV. Not very interesting.
The narrator (and the ghostwriter) knows this too, so she joins the street kids instead. From here on out, it’s David Copperfield – Colombian edition. And no matter how hard the no-name protagonist tries, for example, to be taken in by normal people, she always ends up back on the street. EXCEPT when a thoroughly wicked gangster gang takes her in as a maid, who regularly beat her.
Well, here it becomes most obvious, as the protagonist inexplicably does not escape from here, that The Girl, who had no name, is just a foolish invention. As you witness increasingly ludicrous twists, you begin to feel like you’re watching some sort of pseudo-documentary film that throws bigger and bigger absurdities at you, waiting for you to finally slam your hand on the table and say “Enough already!”
There’s, for example, the unrealistic friend the monkey girl meets from atop a tree, and they (these two linguistic super-talents) DEVELOP THEIR OWN SILENT SIGN LANGUAGE during their spare hours, so that the gangsters won’t overhear them. And then there’s the BOMB!
A person from far away can say whatever they want. If you claim that mongooses raised you in Indochina from the age of five, and taught you snake hunting, who’s there to prove otherwise?
5/10
The Girl With No Name by Marina Chapman – Lynne Barrett-Lee – Book Review 256 pages, Hardcover Published in 2013 by Pegasus
In Marjorie Liu & Sana Takeda’s Monstress comic series, a 17-year-old girl explores her own past after a devastating war waged by humans against the Arcanics, who are roughly similar to humans. Roughly. This usually leads to bloodshed. Especially since many Arcanics possess animal characteristics, such as fox tails and ears, wings, or goat heads on their necks. (So it might easily happen that you yourself would strike first and ask questions later if you encounter one in a rougher neighborhood.)
Fortunately, Maika Halfwolf belongs to the more striking Arcanics. And not only has she been sold into slavery, but an ancient entity resides within her, seeking to take control over her. So, Maika has plenty to do and problems to solve as she embarks on a Kill Bill-esque revenge spree against her enemies, while Monstress – Volume 1: Awakening touches on themes such as genocide, reckless lust for power, or humanity in an inhuman world.
But what can be said about a comic that appeals to both amputation fetishists and cat lovers? Perhaps that it’s beautiful? Yes. Monstress, Vol. 1: Awakening is beautiful, occasionally hauntingly erotic, with some panels that resemble detailed, baroque paintings created seemingly just for the joy of drawing. And you haven’t seen characters exuding such ethereal beauty in a comic before. Compared to them, even the equally beautiful characters of Locke & Key look like simple gnomes.
The Saxon Stories, Cornwell’s historical novel series (and his most successful work), has now reached its eighth installment. The story continues with The Empty Throne, narrating the creation of unified England – a tale filled with the clang of weapons. The series, which began with the early years of King Alfred’s reign in the last quarter of the 9th century, has long followed the same recipe:
British kingdoms teetering on the brink of collapse under the pressure of Norwegian-Danish migrants, evolving into permanent no-go zones; the increasingly powerful Catholic Church; and Uthred, who, despite wanting nothing more than to reclaim his god-damn, stolen family inheritance, finds himself shouldering the weight of a nation’s survival. Again. And again. And again.
And this recipe works again and again – as it does in the case of The Empty Throne, thanks to meticulous preparation, an effortless yet pleasant writing style, and above all, Bernard Cornwell’s endearing, infinitely relaxed protagonist (who learned this attitude from the fine, cheerful, and also bloodthirsty Vikings who raised him.)
Yes, I know, don’t even say it, you’re among those discerning, cultured consumers of spy novels who could vomit at the mere mention of Le Carré’s oeuvre. Like the author of these lines, who intentionally avoided reading Le Carré for 15 years to spare himself… he had had enough of the baroque over-craftiness, the snobbish, pinkie-finger-raised delicacies, or simply the plain, dull boredom (The Tailor of Panama, uh?) that the author tried to cram into his books under the guise of literature. Brrr.
So, what now? The years just passed like minutes, and suddenly you stumble upon The Night Manager, which you can’t give a rating lower than 8.5. What’s this, did the guy learn to write in his old age? Yes. No, because you realize that The Night Manager was created in 1993, so you’re utterly lost.
Anyway, let’s leave that. So, The Little Drummer Girl. There’s this Arab dude in this book who blows up EVERYONE in Europe. I mean everyone, nobody’s safe, especially if they’re Jewish. So, the other Jews in Israel declare a fatwa on him, which means he’s done for. Yeah, but he’s not done for, not yet, because they can’t find him anywhere, he’s always hiding from them. He only shows up when he feels like blowing things up. What a scumbag! So what should they do? They decide to get him a girl!
There you go, you can describe the essence of The Little Drummer Girl this easily, without any unnecessary frills or embarrassing efforts. And what’s in this book? Well, unnecessary frills. It’s full of them! Overwriting, meandering, and insider know-it-all-ness.
“Of the kidnapping, little need he said.”
– this shameless author lies to your face, then there are seven (IN SMALL PRINT) pages about kidnapping. He’s deliberately messing with you, I tell ya!
Because of this, you squirm uncomfortably while reading, especially at the beginning… then slowly but surely, bugger it, you get used to this sarcastic, entertaining cynicism. And you start to like it in “The Little Drummer Girl.”
True, the story eerily resembles Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon novels (or rather that one resemble this, whoops, see: The Other Woman by Daniel Silva), with the difference that his books are not cursed with such verbosity. However, it’s now clear that they all came straight out of Le Carré’s cloak.
Perhaps this is the first spy novel I’ve read that is not unequivocally biased towards the Israelis. Silva would personally slap all the Palestinians if he could. A significant part of Le Carré’s book deals with the situation of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. Then you look it up and realize, by Jehoshaphat!, this book is from 1983; nearly 40 years have passed, and the situation of the Palestinians is still more or less the same. And you also realize that maybe, Le Carré writes better books as you read them backwards in time. Because “The Little Drummer Girl,” for example, has aged incredibly well, it could easily deny thirty years from its current age. Perhaps even more.
Of course, you know who’s going to fall in love with whom, and you suspect what the poor response will be – if everyone survives. The Israeli intelligence chiefs are clueless idiots (this, perhaps, is the only not too believable moment in the book).
However, you watch with envy as Joseph meticulously (and patiently, like a spider) strings Charlie along (she’s the girl they intend for the Arab guy. But they really just want to screw him over. Yeah, only the Arab guy.)
Just the recruitment alone takes half a book. From then on, everything gets more exciting. And against Charlie, the author dares to depict her as a light-hearted, back-and-forth romping alley cat – while, listen!, he manages to make you genuinely like her. How on earth does he pull that off?!
If you’re looking for action, The Little Drummer Girl is not your book. But if you enjoy leisurely planning, intricate maneuvers, and a series of intrigues, then you’ll have a great time with this sparklingly intelligent, cheekily chattering classic spy novel.
8.5/10
The Little Drummer Girl by John le Carré 560 pages, Paperback Published in 2018 by Penguin Books Canada
Africa in an imagined future apocalypse. The why and how of the apocalypse is not explained, and Okorafor doesn’t delve into its impact on the present, just a few scattered half-sentences and done. But you feel like there’s no need for more; this gives just the right amount of mystery to the book titled Who Fears Death. However, the daily life of the black continent, from tribal hatred to superstitions and child soldiers to the ritual mutilation of women, is just like what you see in the media today.
This picture is complemented by magic, which fortunately is not the Harry Potter kind of spells (Curriculum Vitae, etc.) and the world of childish waving of wands, but rather a well-functioning nature magic within its own framework.
After a promising and magical start, a few chapters into Who Fears Death, the text slows down, everything becomes more insignificant, and it starts to stagnate. There’s a very thin main plot, and Nnedi Okorafor stretches it out with all sorts of childish conflicts, resentments, and sulks. Although the blurb says this is the author’s first novel for adults, it seems more like a slightly overthought young adult novel. Events trickle slowly, neither too interesting nor too boring, but they have little to do with the main storyline, often feeling unnecessary.
Black people shouldn’t feel like a curse is upon them, not now, not in an imagined future post-apocalyptic world, that’s the main message of Who Fears Death. Plus, transcendent femininity (ha-ha) can work wonders if it’s given enough sacrifice. Unfortunately, it won’t work without it. However, these lessons are wrapped in a lot of unnecessary text. (And why the “ha-ha”? Well, because you can put transcendent femininity on your hat while developed countries export weapons instead of knowledge to the black continent… oh, and while the residents there routinely pepper each other with Kalashnikovs and slice each other up with machetes.
And despite Okorafor’s text being imbued with a commendable level of concern for present-day Africa, you still feel like the author will accomplish much less than intended. And the long and drawn-out spiritual wanderings in Who Fears Death only manage to culminate in a feeble, philosophical conclusion.
7/10
Who Fears Death (Who Fears Death #1) by Nnedi Okorafor 386 pages, Hardcover Published in 2010 by DAW Hardcover
Would you dare not to pick up a book endorsed by Chuck Norris on the cover? Obviously not, especially if Jack Carr’s “The Terminal List” promises to be an excellent action thriller.
A full SEAL unit led by Major Reece is blown up in Afghanistan. If that weren’t bad enough, Reece finds himself entangled with NCIS, who turn out to be a bunch of fools. (Hey, isn’t that what we learned from the TV series!) Reece is then whisked back to the USA, where another pech hits him: his family is slaughtered. There’s a smell of a nose-tickling conspiracy here! Blood is demanded!!!
And then what happens? NOTHING. Although Jack Carr relentlessly drills into Reece and into you that the Major must seek revenge, instead of opting for a more civic approach like filing a police report, still NOTHING happens.
You’re just plunged into a long and monotonous buildup, during which you realize that the main character of “The Terminal List” is sorely lacking in charisma, just a template of a thick-necked, tough, and kind-hearted American patriot (God, country, family!). His wife is GOOD and BEAUTIFUL too! (I admit, from this point on, I myself fondly reminisce about the idyllic family life of Reece and set it as a shining example for us, especially when the fucking Screaming and Yelling starts here at home.)
The evil conspirators turn out to be very evil. Moreover, they’re idiots like hell because they turn SEALs into guinea pigs for their conspiracy, who are known to be the elite commandos of the US Navy. Instead of, say, trying with Mexican immigrants, where it might not even be noticed if a dozen of them blow up.
When the Major finally takes action… Ta-da-dam… the novel remains just as sluggish. There’s no one among the adversaries who could match Reece’s weight class, except maybe Holden, but the author doesn’t even exploit him. Although you would rightfully expect Reece, driven by righteous vengeance, to occasionally whack the bad guys with a club before GENTLY sending them off to a better place, the confrontations in “The Terminal List” lack any tension. Nobody is chasing Reece at all, so he just strolls forward and neatly shoots everyone down one by one.
The author perhaps attempts to offset the naive perspective of his somewhat clumsy and drawn-out work by sporadically interjecting rather simplistic right-wing propaganda into the narrative (Similar to the wise, thoughtful, and far-sighted President Trump, he probably watched Fox News too much as well.) The essence of which: no matter how many filthy scumbags his bad luck throws his way, by some strange coincidence, they always seem to turn out to be filthy Democrats.
The STUPIDEST SENTENCE IN THE BOOK is uttered in the context of the over-idealized, perfect American family, concerning the Major’s declining mother:
„…to put her in a place that would take good care of her, and she had quickly become a staff favorite.”
Ah, of course, she must have won the esteemed title of “Demented of the Month” in a row…
Overall, except for a few more exciting scenes, “The Terminal List” is like a simple „Shopping List”: 2 kilos of potatoes, a liter of cooking oil, four pieces of bratwursts, etc., which Major Reece ticks off happily after putting them in his basket. (But it would be better if good old Chuck didn’t hear about my opinion!)
6.7/10
The Terminal List (Terminal List #1) by Jack Carr 407 pages, Hardcover Published in 2018 by Atria/Emily Bestler Books
If your brain fried from the overthought metaphors in Dean Koontz’s previous series (see The Whispering Room) then I have both good and bad news for you about The Crooked Staircase.
But before we dive in, let’s have a good example:
You look out the window, and a gentle breeze stirs your pathetic peach tree outside. In the book, it would go something like this:
“For a moment, it seemed as though the wildest typhoon, the Divine Wind itself, swept through in front of your window’s time-frozen glass, and with an irresistible force of a prehistoric giant, tore and tugged at the stubborn, robust roots of the furrowed, oxygen-breathing creature, that clinging tenaciously to existence, perhaps reaching down to the burning center of the Earth.”
Sounds good, right? Yep. (Actually, not really.) Twice a page? Not so much anymore.
The bad news is that the author’s beloved heartstring-pulling metaphors still plague The Crooked Staircase. The good news is that their quantity has become more tolerable, thus presumably reducing the harmful effects on your mind. Hooray!
There’s more good news: The Crooked Staircase, as a thriller, is just as gripping as its predecessors, and the author piles on even more excitement for this installment. Teetering on the edge of believability though, the continuous action, cat-and-mouse chase, and thrill of the hunt are all captivating. Moreover, beyond the usual recipe (where Jane, in their own home, stalks and dispatches one scumbag after another, then starts the whole process over with someone new), two new threads emerge to avoid the allure of repetition.
One of these new paths in The Crooked Staircase follows Jane’s friends, Gavin and Jessie, which not only brings refreshing diversity but also creates tension beyond Jane’s basic storyline: after all, you know Jane is indestructible, but worrying about her friends becomes serious business, especially since they have the little boy. (And it would be such a shame for that adorable young lad.)
Two new characters also enter the scene whose fates are cause for concern: Sanjay and Tanuja. It’s not entirely clear why they’re here, as they never intersect with Jane or her friends, making their inclusion somewhat baffling. Although the quantity of pages doesn’t particularly require it, it’s hard not to think that they’re just present to fill space – even if these two characters are well-crafted, along with their clever improvisations and desperate escapes, which only add to the tension. Unfortunately the outcome of their plight becomes increasingly ominous along the way.
Mr. Koontz wisely discovered while writing the third installment of the Jane Hawk series that if all the villains are evil, cookie-cutter sociopaths or remotely controlled broccoli brains, whose resistance Jane can overcome within moments, it becomes boring after a while. So, he singled out two miserable blockhead from the wild bunch and began to flesh them out with their own chapters.
This creates a puzzling situation: “Bob and Bobek” are two unscrupulous bastards, but as you get to know them better, you somewhat develop a liking for these two dirty rascals. Or you just get used to them, I don’t know, as they amusingly annoy each other. (And less amusingly, murder innocent people.) May they step on a Lego in the dark!
The consistently high quality of The Crooked Staircase easily surpasses the previous two installments of the series. However, it also becomes apparent that after Koontz uncle hastily got rid of the main financial and IT geniuses of the conspiracy, he struggles to create another believable main antagonist for us.
8,3/10
The Crooked Staircase (Jane Hawk #3) by Dean Koontz 491 pages, Hardcover Published in 2018 by Bantam
Well, here we go again, another blonde chick with a psycho-thriller? Which, according to authoritative opinions (primarily my own), is the bottom of the barrel in crime literature. “-Why did you even bother, smarty pants?” Well, because I thought Perfect Remains was just a regular crime thriller.
And indeed, half of Helen Fields’ book is exactly that: Inspector Callanach, exiled from Interpol to Scotland, has plenty of problems dealing with a serial killer and his own French accent.
The investigation starts promisingly, and based on the beginning, you’re sure the inspector will have his hands full with a wicked genius, but the chase for the culprit gradually loses its significance. Lacking ammunition, Fields tries to fill the void with side plots: a colleague’s case takes more space, then some romance pops up, and the inspector’s less-than-glamorous past comes to light.
The weakest parts of the book are the forced conflicts with colleagues, but aside from these few scenes, there’s not much wrong with Perfect Remains… until about halfway through the book, where the style starts to deteriorate, which is most evident during Superintendent Overbeck’s hysterical outbursts… later compounded by the addition of an irremovable amateur profiler, making the pursuit of Dr. King downright laughable and unprofessional. And Helen Fields’ book as well.
Parallel to the investigation, in chapters intended as psychological thrillers, you get a glimpse into Dr. King’s petty and pathetic mind. Evil genius, you say? Yeah, sure! He’s just a simple psychopath afflicted with inferiority complexes, getting himself deeper into trouble with his increasingly grandiose plans. The realistic description of the tortures committed by tricky Dr. King would be better suited for horror movies than crime novels. I wouldn’t be surprised if at the point when Dr. King demonstrates his autodidact knowledge of dentistry, some people would throw Fields’ psycho-thriller out the window in terror.
By the end, the standard of Perfect Remains completely sinks: relatively intelligently written chapters alternate with logical somersaults (the cunning Dr. King bases his plan on an utterly unfounded assumption, which, darn it, works for him) and plot twists akin to shark jumps. When the old acquaintance appears at the “payroll” and also during the pathetic bargaining with the car dealer, it’s you who feels ashamed, deeply so, instead of Helen Fields.
6.5/10
Perfect Remains (D.I. Callanach #1) by Helen Fields 416 pages, Paperback Published in 2017 by AVON (HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.)
Finally, a fantasy where there is no magic. In Tracy Townsend’s book “The Nine,” instead, there is a bit of mystique and a unique premise: a book that writes itself. At least seemingly. Because who else could be the author of such a work in a world where science and religion have merged, where temples have become bastions of knowledge, and where logarithmic equations adorn the walls instead of Stations? Probably none other than the Lord Himself. At least presumably.
You know that old Jewish legend that says the fate of the world rests on the shoulders of thirty-six righteous people? Well, it seems that in Lucy Townsend’s novel “The Nine,” they have been reduced to nine. The mysterious author of the book writes their fate on its pages. And of course, there are those who want to defy God’s plans, even if it’s pretty clear from the start that planning such things usually only causes trouble for oneself.
At first, you might think that the setting of “The Nine” is a twisted, slightly steampunk version of our world. (Although, truth be told, it wouldn’t hurt our world if priests focused on science instead of committing sexual abuses.) But then it turns out to be a parallel world, because there are two other races besides humans. The tree people, okay, they’re passable with a bit of fertilizer. But the others, the aigamuxa, are the book’s biggest, laughable blunders. They wear their eyes on their FEET, and if they want to LOOK, they have to stand on their hands. From an evolutionary standpoint, it would be more useful if they peeked out from their own butt cracks.
