Rex Stout: SOME BURIED CAESAR

At least half--okay, a third--of the fun of reading one of Rex Stout's "Nero Wolfe" stories is watching Wolfe unravel an extremely convoluted mystery without leaving his home or varying his highly-structured routine. Gathering clues, doing legwork, making love to beautiful but dangerous women (in short, all the usual tasks of a private detective) are the province of Wolfe's personal assistant, Archie Goodwin (who, it just so happens, also narrates the pair's adventures). You might say, in fact, that the relationship between Wolfe and Goodwin, and the unvarying roles played by the two, are what make Nero Wolfe mysteries Nero Wolfe mysteries. As a departure from that tried-and-true formula, then, how well does Some Buried Caesar work? Well, that's actually a fairly complicated question. As a novel, just fine, really; in fact, it's proof that Stout is talented writer with the ability to soar above and beyond what might otherwise have become a tired formula. But as a Nero Wolfe mystery? Well, it's just not the same. And therein lies an interesting paradox: if all Nero Wolfe mysteries stuck to exactly the same formula, that formula would become dull and trite rather quickly--but they don't all work out in precisely the same way, and as a result it's actually the exceptions that seem a little dull. In my opinion, this is because they can then be compared to your standard American detective fare of the same period, and just don't pack the same level of excitement as a Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade tale. But that's just my opinion. So what do I have to say about Some Buried Caesar in particular? Read it, but only if you've already read some other Rex Stout / Nero Wolfe stuff beforehand (I remember enjoying The League of Frightened Men thoroughly). This one gets just a B-, but bonus points to anybody who can remember the poem from which its title is drawn (I don't feel like looking it up again). Oh, and ignore that sticker on the cover. You know, the one that says its one of the 100 all-time best mysteries, as selected by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. I'm telling you, League of Frightened Men all the way.

Evelyn Waugh: SCOOP

Somewhere along the line, I managed to accumulate quite an Evelyn Waugh collection. It helps, naturally, that many of his novels have for some reason been published in a convenient two-books-in-one format, effectively doubling said collection's size. But, to be honest, that doesn't even begin to account for the volume. But don't take this as a complaint: I don't remember how such a thing came to pass, but I'm awful glad it us. Every now and then, after some serious reading, there's nothing to take the edge off like some comedic post-war British lit (you think I'm joking? Try Kingsley Amis's Lucky Jim). Waugh's Scoop was no exception. It's as if, say, George Orwell tried to write a Marx Brothers movie (and succeeded!)--or, alternatively, as if Evelyn Waugh tried to write an Evelyn Waugh book. There's some confusion about names at the London daily Beast, you see, and the wrong man entirely is sent off to cover the Ishmalian revolution in East Africa. Hilarity ensues, the news industry is sent-up in a manner that ages surprisingly well, and everything denoues to the sort of happy ending that one might logically expect from such an illogical tale. Waugh is British satire at its bitingest, a true heir to Swift and...well, and to everyone else, there's no point in name-dropping here. An easy read, this one gets a solid B+.

Matt Haig: THE DEAD FATHERS CLUB

With The Dead Fathers Club, Matt Haig updates Shakespeare's Hamlet for the 21st century, focusing himself primarily on adding to the famous play's postmodernity and cuteness levels; he hits both with ease by replacing Hamlet with an unreliable, grade school-aged narrator. Our narrator (I'm never very good with names, although this one is on the tip of my tongue...it's not Philip, is it?) encounters the ghost of his recently-deceased father, who cries murder-most-foul and asks Philip (let's just go with Philip, shall we?), well more like demands of Philip, that he (Philip again) kill his (Philip's) uncle, who is now trying (rather successfully) to bed Philip's mum and take over the family pub. Hamlet ensues, sort of. I'm not entirely certain what to make of this book, to be honest. I enjoyed it, and made my way through it with great ease and velocity. I certainly wouldn't call it "bad" by anybody's standards (well, that's not true, some people just have terrible standards), and have since recommended it to people. Certain people. Certain people who like certain types of books. So I guess that's it: The Dead Fathers Club is worth reading if you think it's worth reading, because it is a good book. But, you might not think it's worth reading. That's up to you. Decide. Ignore my B+ grade, if so you choose.

Ian McEwan: AMSTERDAM

Ian McEwan, it is widely acknowledged, is one of our most talented living novelists, definitely in the running (although I wouldn't say winning the race) to be remembered long past his death. Or so I'm told. You see, prior to this morning, I'd never read anything by Ian McEwan, and starting with Amsterdam apparently wasn't the best way to kick things off (so the reviewers tell me, and so I am inclined--based on my reading experience--to believe). It's not that Amsterdam is a bad book, because it's not, or at least not in any way that I can pin down. McEwan is a good writer, and his good writing shines through here. What is shines through, however, is a pretty simplistic and mechanical plot. That's not necessarily a bad thing, as many a great novel has overcome a plodding or overdone plotline and soared to success; this one, however, doesn't. There's no point at which a reader can sit back for a second and think, "Ah, here we go!" We never do go anywhere, really, although the main characters make it to Amsterdam in time to arrange each others' deaths (didn't see that coming halfway through? Get your eyes checked [metaphorically: eye exams are pricey things, although one-a-year always seems to've done me good]). Amsterdam did inspire in me an interest in reading more McEwan, but it's not an interest that's going to burn a hole in my to-read list. I'll get to Atonement and the rest of them someday, but if anything, Amsterdam, which takes home a solid C, has pushed that day back a good year or two.

The lit columnist who came in from the cold...

If you're anywhere near the Manayunk Brewery tonight (in other words, if you can make it up to Manayunk), check out the release party for Daniel Putkowski's new novel, Bonk's Bar, published by the Delaware Valley's own Hawser Press (I think they're based in Media?). Yours truly contributed a cover blurb for the book, just before slipping semi-permanently into obscurity. Think of it as my last book reviewing gasp, at least until Metro, Citypaper or Philly Weekly picks me up (an eventuality of which I am in no way assured). Anyway, here's my blurb:
"With Bonk’s Bar, Daniel Putkowski brings the gritty, gristly northeast Philadelphia netherworld into delightfully vivid life like no author since roman noir grandmaster David Goodis. In less than 300 action-packed pages, Putkowski succeeds where the Greater Philadelphia Tourism Marketing Corporation has unceasingly failed: alternately heart-warming and bone-chilling, Bonk’s Bar shows that there’s more to Philadelphia than just cheese steaks, the Rocky franchise, and an astronomical murder rate."
Only the way they print it, it's a little more political correct (read: they axed the "astronomical murder rate" part), and doesn't name-check the GPTMC (which was pointless anyway). But yeah: show up for the party, read the book, etc. Putkowski's apparently the best-selling author in Aruba, or something along those lines--take from that what you will. It's a fun read, at any rate.

Gideon Defoe: THE PIRATES! IN AN ADVENTURE WITH COMMUNISTS!

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a sucker for pirates--but it's not because of Johnny Depp. I'm a sucker for pirates because I like William Hope Hodgeson's maritime horror stories, and because you can't beat Raphael Sabatini's Captain Blood for seafaring action. Johnny Depp's on the list, somewhere, because the first Pirates of the Caribbean truly was a good time, but he's on there with Errol Flynn and plenty of others. I'm not enamored with Captain Jack Sparrow. Not at all. I'm not a newcomer to the pirate bandwagon either, and I've got countless childhood Halloween snapshots to prove it (I looked great with a penciled in beard, long before I had it in me to grow a real one [in fact, I'm still tempted to pencil in the scraggly growth I've got now]). Where am I going with this? I'm headed towards Gideon Defoe's The Pirates! and their many adventures, but in particular The Pirates! In an Adventure with Communists! Now, this should theoretically appeal to me: I'm a socialist, and I like pirates. But really, I mean, Defoe's whole schtick is getting old. He's exploiting the Pirate Captain and the various pirate jokes, but he isn't doing anything with them. The fact that this book featured communists didn't make it significantly different from the others in this series (yes, I've read them all, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit it). Defoe's humor should change to take advantage of each different subject the series visits--but it doesn't. The same cheap pirates jokes, all the time, just aren't going to cut it. I'm sorry, Gideon, but this may be it. I mean, I bought the other books, but this one? Library check out. And a D.

John Irving: THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP

John Irving's 1978 novel The World According to Garp became a best-seller at the time of its release, and remained one for some time after. In the years since, it's come to be regarded as a work of some moderate literary significance--unfortunately so, in my opinion. Because it has taken on this facade of respectability, I'm glad that I've read Garp: I'm now familiar with the story, and can pass on or withhold recommendation of it as I see fit. To be entirely honest, I probably won't be recommending it all that often. Garp suffers primarily from exactly that which also makes it a somewhat worthwhile read (this is confusing, but not oxymoronic. In fact, the same thing happens to many would-be-literary books). Irving devotes most of his energy, it seems, to writing about Garp's writing, and as a result, the reader becomes highly aware of all the literary and plot devices Irving employs. In short, when reading Garp, it's impossible to ignore the actual writing, which to a postmodernist might make the whole project worthwhile. Unfortunately, however, because so much of Irving's effort and awareness goes into this aspect of the novel, other--and arguably more important--aspects seem to be overlooked. Perhaps the most glaring of these is Irving's characterization, which seems flat and monotonous precisely because everybody seems more like a plot device than an individual. Result? Not a bad book, but not a great one either. Give it a C+, maybe a B-.

Kevin Smith (yes, that Kevin Smith): GREEN ARROW- QUIVER

Green Arrow is dead; long live Green Arrow (add that to the growing list of literary allusions I can't quite place--it's Shakespeare ["The King is dead; long live the King!], but I'm not sure which play)! Well, actually, Green Arrow isn't dead, but he was. Only he doesn't know that. Yet. So naturally, he's pretty confused. In short, this isn't your typical comic book storyline, but then again Kevin Smith (I say it again: yes, that Kevin Smith. Clerks, Clerks II, Chasing Amy, Dogma, the works. Also quite a few comic book credits to his name, including a memorable run on Daredevil) isn't your typical comic book writer, although he is a very good one. #1 Difference, Smith knows how to tell a good story (something lost on many contemporary comic writers, which is odd when you consider the graphic novel's recent elevation to a Genre Worthy of Literary Consideration). And tell a good story he does here. I like Green Arrow (as you may recall from an earlier post here), and I liked Quiver. It wasn't necessarily a ground-breaking story, the way the Green Lantern / Green Arrow team-ups of the '60s were, but it was a truly enjoyable story, which to tell the truth is all I'm looking for (Alan Moore aside) from a comic book (a somewhat ironically parenthetical apology for all the parentheses in this post, by the way). There's a lot of talking, I mean a lot of talking, but it's talking that tells a story. And the story is about relationships, and apologies, and learning to admit when you've totally fucked up and taking responsibility for doing so. But it's also about Green Arrow kicking ass, here and there. What more could you ask for? Quiver is a Grade-A piece of work (although I can't say I love the artwork).

Brad Meltzer: IDENTITY CRISIS

So you liked Watchmen? Well, that means one of two things: either you're not normally into comics, but hell, it's Alan Moore, and anybody with a head on their shoulders can appreciate Alan Moore...or you are already really into comics, so of course you love (or hate, admittedly) Alan Moore (A note: it is possible to fall into both categories. I read a lot of comics growing up, but fell out of the habit when I started spending time with other human beings [that didn't really happen until high school, to be honest]; reading Watchmen in college got me back into the comic book game). If the latter is true, and you're totally into reading a watered-down version featuring all your favorite superheroes, then Brad Meltzer's "Justice League of America" (JLA) miniseries Identity Crisis is totally the book for you, fanboy. While reading, it's easy to forget, or at least to ignore, the ripped-off aspects of the book, and just fall into it (provided you're up on DC continuities). After reading, well, it's hard to ignore those very same ripped-off aspects. The rape scene, the cover up, all of it just seems so, well, easy. But then there's Sue Dibny's funeral, and a two-page, Where's Waldo-style spread that's enough to make any DC-diehard cream their pants. If this book went on forever, if you could never put it down, I'd give it an A; since it has an ending, and since putting it down caused me to realize how, again, easy the whole thing was, I'm not going to be able to do any better than, say, an even B. Oh, and it looks nice. Real nice, actually.

Jack London: THE ASSASSINATION BUREAU, LTD.

Alright, here's the rub, right off the bat: I forget the name of the guy who edited / completed this book for Jack London (who, to reuse the word in a drastically different sense, rubbed himself out before finishing this book off). Of course, that would be bad news if I were to sing his praises, but that (un?)fortunately isn't the case. No, in fact, I think The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. was actually closed out pretty shittily. I mean, you've got a tremendous premise (is it a rip-off of Edgar Wallace's Four Just Men, or possibly its inspiration? Or just a remarkably similar contemporary?): a secret society of professional assassins, who kill only if the assassination can be socially justified, and are now asked to kill their chief--by the chief, who's been convinced by his daughter's fiancee that the Bureau must be wiped out, and that the Bureau is the only instrument capable of it. Yes, I know: the perfect mixture of philosophy and adventure. And, for the first 3/4 of the book, it plays out that way; coincidentally, those 3/4 are the ones written by London. As for the douche who finishes things off? All "adventure," although it doesn't read like it. Rather than sticking with the extensive notes London had compiled, the editor apparently tries to finish everything off as soon as he possibly can, with a highly-unlikely Hawaiian murder spree. Yeah, whatever. Grading this one is tough: an F(+?) for the last 1/4, and a B for the first three...let's call that a C and have the whole thing done with.

Paul Krugman: THE RETURN OF DEPRESSION ECONOMICS

Let's get something straight, before I start to write to write about this book: I like Paul Krugman because I like John Maynard Keynes, and I like John Maynard Keynes because he's the World's Greatest Economist, Ever (and not in the least outdated, thank-you-very-much-economics-professors-nationwide). That being said, I also like The Return of Depression Economics, which should now come as no surprise. Our current recession has not been the most kind to me--I'm currently unemployed, uninsured, and rather unhappy about all of that--and I've never liked Reaganomics, anyway. So I'm squarely on Krugman's side, here. That being said, I wouldn't call Return the best Krugman book by any means; it's an alright introduction to the root causes of the current crisis, but in general Krugman is a better writer when all he's got to work with is a single column (otherwise, he risks both sounding overly polemical, and overly repetitive if you've read his columns/other books with any regularity). Would I recommend reading this book? Yes, I would. Strongly, in fact, given the current economic situation. But from a solely-literary standpoint, it's not one of Krugman's best, and I'm only going to be able to hand it a B-. But hey, it's a solid B-, whatever that means.

Dennis O'Neil and Neal Adams: GREEN LANTERN / GREEN ARROW, Vol. I and II

Whoa! Two Dennis O'Neal collections in a row! This is just getting crazy (in truth, I'm just reading a lot of comic books for escapist purposes, because you can't just keep applying for jobs forever. At least, not without some reason for hope. Not that there's no reason for hope, which is why I eventually start again. That, and my addictions to eating / drinking, wearing clothes, and sleeping underneath a roof)! This time around, we've got his complete Green Lantern / Green Arrow run, with art by the inimitable Neal Adams (probably my favorite comic book artist? Tough to say, but the man can really draw...). I loved these books, but then I was already inclined to: Green Lantern was my favorite DC hero--hell, my favorite hero, period--growing up (maybe rivaled by Batman), and Green Arrow's been my favorite since I discovered social democracy (well, at least since I discovered that he discovered social democracy, which confuses the timeline a bit, but you get the point: I've always liked Green Lantern, and now also like Green Arrow. Got it?). Add to that the fact that these were groundbreaking comics (they were, however cheesy they seem now; Speedy on heroin is still a great story, forty years or so later), and, well, they're just great. GL is the straight-laced, law and order sort, GA the rowdier, bawdier believer in freedom, equality and the kind of justice that law and order don't always mete out. So, yeah: these are great stories, not just great comics, and deserve their A+.

Dennis O'Neil: THE QUESTION, Vol. I, II, III (ZEN & VIOLENCE / POISONED GROUND / EPITAPH FOR A HERO)

A faceless, should-have-died-in-the-first-issue superhero (actually, drop the "super": in his spare time, the wholly-human Vic Sage is an on-again, off-again muckraking Hub City newscaster) who meditates in his spare time. That's The Question. I mean, sure, Batman meditates, but c'mon--he's Batman, and Batman does whatever a particular writer thinks will make him look mysterious, in control, and smarter than absolutely everybody else. The Question is perhaps the most human hero out there (another good reason to strike "super" from the first sentence of this post), and as such he makes mistakes. In fact, he makes a lot of mistakes, so many mistakes that it's almost amazing he only almost-dies once in these three volumes (well, really almost dies. They're comic books, after all, so he kind of almost dies pretty much every issue). See, The Question doesn't even do a particularly good job cleaning up Hub City, and he knows it; to that end, however, no other hero in the DC Universe seems too interested in taking on the Hub City challenge. The mayor isn't exactly corrupt, but he's always drunk enough that it doesn't really matter whether or not he is. In fact, for a while, the town is run by a maniac priest intent on making Hub City into Sodom + Gomorrah + Watts (leading me to believe that the city is actually modeled on Detroit). Anyway, the point is, there's so much wrong with this place, only a zenned-out hero like The Question could even begin to deal with it. The art's alright, but Dennis O'Neil's writing makes up for its shortcomings, snagging these books a solid B+.

Richard Corben / William Hope Hodgeson: THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND

I've never understood the appeal of William Hope Hodgeson's House on the Borderland. Well, that's not entirely the case. I understand its appeal, but not relative to the obscurity in which most of Hodgeson's other, far stronger works seem to languish. I mean, the man could write a sea story. And a horror story. And a horrific sea story, horrific meaning horror-filled, not bad, because the last thing Hodgeson's writing ever is, is bad. Well...except for House on the Borderland. Which, again, isn't bad, but is thoroughly mediocre. And I mean thoroughly. There's not a single point in the (very short) book that jerked me upright and shouted, "Hey, this is some vintage Hodgeson right here!" No, not one. But whatever: apparently H.P. Lovecraft loved it, and who are we to shout down good old H.P. (never mind that he was a racist bastard in addition to be being a great writer, and thus cannot perhaps always be looked to when defining what is and isn't good taste). Which leads us to the graphic novelization of House on the Borderland, by Richard Corben. Corben makes some changes, modernizing the story a bit and speeding it up significantly, but doesn't change the fact that, relative to Hodgeson's other work, I find the whole thing to be nothing but, well, mediocre (sound familiar? That's because I'm repeating myself all too much). It doesn't help, I suppose, that I'm not a fan of Corben's art, which might otherwise have livened things up. Oh well; I give this a C+ only out of respect for the rest of the William Hope Hodgeson corpus.

Christopher Fowler: THE SEVENTY SEVEN CLOCKS

Anglo-American detective fictioneer Raymond Chandler, in his essay "The Simple Art of Murder," described the difference between British and American mysteries better than anybody before or since. British detectives piece together singular clues to uncover elaborate and altogether unrealistic murder plots; American detectives get beat up a lot, and sometimes figure out who killed who, but sometimes don't, or don't care (Chandler, as I explained above, said this way better). More than half a century later, the British are still striving for mastery of the "esoteric / arcane murder plot" genre. Some writers are more successful than others (I'd count Jonathan Barnes among the surefire successes, and as the most brilliant contemporary British writer I've have the opportunity to read), but I'm not yet sure just where to place Christopher Fowler. His Peculiar Crimes Unit series chronicles the teamwork of Metropolitan Police detectives Arthur Bryant and John May. One of them is a cranky genius, the other a hardworking womanizer. I think Bryan is the former and May the latter, but don't quote me on it. In The Seventy Seven Clocks, Bryant and May encounter what I hazard to guess must have been one of their more devious adversaries, and uncover an aged and secret plot involving London's craft guilds and the pre-Raphaelite painters. And, for good measure, just about everything else you can think of (Yep, Raymond Chandler told us so). As convoluted as the book's plot is, it's at least that entertaining, and I wouldn't hesitate to give Fowler my full-fledged endorsement did he not seem to be a little too smart for his own good. The plot is a little too twisted, and thus the book a little too long in unraveling it. I know that length sells these days, but it doesn't a classic make--that's why I wouldn't give Seventy Seven Clocks any more than, say, a mid-range B. Fowler's challenge in the future will either be shortening his books, or making them seem like they actually need to be this long, and aren't just gratuitously bulky.