Murder at the Academy Awards, Joan Rivers

Author R for the Great Library Challenge.

I've been somewhat fascinated by Joan Rivers since reading all the profiles and reviews that came in the wake of the documentary, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work. What's most fascinating is that she's so candid about her desperation to be the centre of attention in Hollywood and her shameless antics for staying there.

With a career that literally spans decades in front of the camera, Ms Rivers has turned her hand to writing and along with Jerrilyn Farmer (the author of the Madeline Bean culinary mystery series) penned this novel, which I vaguely understand may be turned into a series.

In Murder at the Academy Awards, the protagonist Maxine Taylor is the extremely-thin veiled literary doppelganger of Rivers herself. She and her daughter Drew do what Rivers and her daughter Melissa do in real life: stalk celebrities on the red carpet for interviews as they head into the Academy Awards ceremony.

The mystery begins when one of Hollywood's brightest young starlets, who also happens to have been a close school friend of Drew's, drops dead on the red carpet mid-interview with Max Taylor. Very soon, Max is on the chase, using her wiles to enter rehab under false pretences and crash glamorous parties to find the murderer and clear her daughter's name.

It's an easy to read, light-hearted romp that basically expounds the cleverness of Max Taylor and her love for her daughter Drew. However, Rivers' sharp wit doesn't translate that well in written form, and many of the gags seem rather belaboured. It's all in the name of fun though, and if you can wade through the heavy name dropping and you don't mind the re-imagining of Hollywood with Rivers and her daughter as the nucleus, you may enjoy it.

Here's an interview with Rivers from Amazon editorial:


Q: What kinds of books do you enjoy?
A: At my age, anything in large print.

Q: Is it true when they say that you should “write what you know”?
A: Absolutely, which is why my next book is about having thighs that are visible from outer space.

Q: What is it like having a novel published at the age of 75?
A: I am so old, even the spine of my book has osteoporosis.

Q: Computer, typewriter or pen and paper. What tools did you use to write your first book? 
A: Chisel and stone.

Q: Are you one of those writers who work at home in a dirty old bathrobe without showering for days? 
A: Yes, except for the part about working at home.

Q: What’s the first step in getting a publisher interested in your book?
A: A check for fifty grand made out to “cash”.

City of Tiny Lights, Patrick Neate: book review

I'm back on The Great Library Challenge after a bit of a break, and for my N author I chose Patrick Neate's book City of Tiny Lights, mainly because of the cool cover art and Frank Zappa reference.

The protagonist is 'Paki-immigrant Ugandan Indian English' hard-boiled detective, Tommy Akhtar. The story starts with such a corker of a private eye cliche (his client is a hooker who's looking for her hooker flatmate who's been missing since her johnny, a prominent politician, was murdered in a fleabag motel) that at first I thought the book was taking the piss out of the genre.

It wasn't. But neither does it take itself so seriously that you can't enjoy the ride.

In the way of good detective novels, the story starts with a simple premise that becomes increasingly complex as the Akhtar digs deeper into the case. What's unique about this particular detective novel is that the hero is an immigrant with a complicated background and completely dysfunctional relationship with his father and brother, which is actually kinda explored (though not fully) and not just glossed over.

I have to admit I got lost a few times as the plot increasingly moves forward at a frenetic pace, and there are a lot of minor characters that are easy to lose track of, as well as a host of MI5 and CIA agents, terrorists and 'thug-lites' who pop their heads in. But overall it was an enjoyable read, quite witty and patched together with a light touch.

The great library challenge: Akunin, Boris Turkish Gambit

The first author of the alphabet is now down, with Boris Akunin's Turkish Gambit complete and under my belt. Actually, I just found out his real name is Grigory Chkhartishvili, so perhaps he should've been my 'C' author.

I mentioned previously that Akunin had been compared with other Russian literary greats like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. The similarity for me as a reader was in that I wanted to skip all the war bits and get down to the human drama. I'm not sure if T or D would have written political crime fiction if they'd been alive today, but if they did, I'm guessing there would have been less swashbuckling action and more human tragedy.

Instead, what we get in Turkish Gambit is Erast Fandorin, a 'gentleman sleuth' in the epicentre of war between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, surrounded by intrigue, espionage, and a strong-willed and spirited young Russian woman, Varvara  Suvorova. In fact, there's so much political intrigue that it's sometimes hard to follow.

Turkish Gambit is part three of a series of Erast Fandorin novels by Akunin, and knowing this, I now wish he'd intruded more in the narrative than he does. I like what I've glimpsed of him so far – super-cluey, intelligent, modest to a fault and highly respected – sounds like my kind of guy. In this book, he's the modest hero who does the grunt work, while the story is told from the point of view of Varvara, who has journeyed to the Balkan front to reunite with her fiance, a war telegrapher who is wrongly jailed.

The ending is a little... unsatisfying, but the story resolves of its own volition, thanks to the hero. Also thanks to the hero, Russian crime lit has just gone up in my radar.

Now, onto B. I've chosen Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell, apparently an 'ice cold and ferocious read'. Is it really? I'll let you know.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Swedish movie)

From the first shot of middle aged, saggy jowled, pockmark-faced Mikael Blomqvist, I was disabused of my idea of Swedes as healthy looking, shiny-haired blondes twinkling in the sun. The great thing about this movie is that it's so devoid of Hollywood gloss. The Swedish film industry dares to hire actors for their abilities over their looks, and they certainly don't pull the punches when depicting the violent and often sexual episodes which are key to the story, but not dwelt on in the book. It makes for a gripping movie but not necessarily an aesthetic one. I mean, I really could have lived without watching the scene of Lisbeth forced to give head to her 'guardian', and the image of his naked 60 year old body (minus the rudie bits) is now forever burned into my retina. Yuck.

The movie was bound to be violent because the story is so very gritty, but  bringing these scenes to the screen is far more in-your-face than reading them on the page. It's a well made movie for its genre (the music was only jarring in one scene for me) and generally well-casted, but I couldn't help but be disappointed by Noomi Rapace's depiction of the enigmatic Lisbeth Salander. The essence of Lisbeth, and her very strangeness, is in the fact that she doesn't react to situations like normal people. She's not emotional and seems to border on the edges of autism. Rapace's Salander is more sullen and volatile – more human, so to speak. This is a shame because ironically, the magic of Larsson's creation is in her very inhumanness. They kept the gothic look and tattoos, but lost a vital part of her core. Rapace is a fine actor and I'm certain it was more a directorial decision than her own, but personally I think they missed out on something key here.

Watching the story play out on screen, I was aware of some holes in the novel that I hadn't noticed while reading it. SPOILER ALERT: For example, when Harriet Vanger is restored, I couldn't help but wonder why the hell she didn't tell someone – anyone – about the abuse her brother put her through, instead allowing him to continue playing out his homicidal fantasies on dozens of other victims. Reading the book, you're so caught up in the action you don't really question the story. Well I didn't anyway. You might.

Book vs Movie: the verdict

The book. It's always the book, isn't it? Except for Mansfield Park, with Frances O'Connor's charming depiction of a much more feisty Fanny that Austen's wimpy creation. Books always give you more than a movie can squeeze into the usual two hours, and allow your imagination to dwell or flit from scene to scene at will, and not remain captive to another person's vision of the story. In my imagination, Mikael Blomqvist was a bit better looking (perhaps this is borne from years of Hollywood leading men, also the fact that he's sex on legs in the book version) and Lisbeth is more in control. The only one who really fit the bill is her hacker friend Plague, who is meant to be as fat and ugly as portrayed (my apologies to the actor). I loved the scene where he's trying to get her attention while sitting on the toilet.

Word has it that George Clooney is being considered for the role of the American Blomqvist. He fits the right age group and certainly fits the sex on legs bit, but I'm not sold on that idea. Do you have an opinion?

Read the book review

Comfort to the Enemy, Elmore Leonard

Comfort to the Enemy is not your usual Elmore Leonard novel. Sure there are gangsters and good guys, but this slim volume takes you back to the 40s, the days of shoot-outs between gangs and sheriffs in the American mid-west.

The hero is US Marshall Carl Webster, whom we first meet as a hot shot youngster with a cool hand and precision barrel-sight. The first few chapters are disjointed stories from differing viewpoints, threaded by the appearance of Carl in his official capacity. The second half of the book becomes a novella set during the holocaust of World War II, when Carl is a little older and wiser, and by this point is married to Louly - a character from an earlier chapter. We don't really get to hear how this relationship developed, but one senses it may be the plot of another book. It probably already is, but I just haven't read it yet.

As a book, the structure of Comfort to the Enemy is somewhat confusing, especially for those who aren't aware that Carl has featured in Elmore Leonard's books before, and that this is actually patched up bits of fiction extracted from his preious works. However, it still manages to be a good read because of Leonard's ability to get the reader right into the world of his characters. His dialogue is always cracking and his narrative never heavy-handed. It's as though the action takes you straight through to the end - you never see the puppet strings.

Verdict: Great for a cold winter's day when you just want to rug up and lose yourself in another world, but not quite as fun as his other works.

Murder on the Orient Express, Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie is a classic (and classy) crime writer. Murder on the Orient Express stars one of her most famous characters, Hercule Poirot, a small Belgian detective who solves mysteries the old-fashioned way - using his brain and very little else (no forensic science, as we're used to in these CSI days).

While travelling on the Orient Express, Poirot finds himself in the middle of a seemingly unsolvable mystery. The train has been snowbound overnight, and the following morning, a passenger is found dead in his berth. Someone inside the carriage must have committed the murder, yet a less unlikely group of suspects would be hard to assemble - a Count and Countess, an English colonel, an Italian businessman and a middle-aged American lady, amongst others - all of whom have airtight alibis.

Much of the enjoyment of Murder on the Orient Express is that Agatha Christie keeps things simple. She doesn't over-complicate the plot with clever distractions or obvious clues, and although the scene never changes (the whole book takes place in the confines of the train carriage within perhaps 24 hours), she never loses command of her reader's attention. She reveals things slowly, methodically, much like Poirot himself, and then astounds us with the conclusion. This book reveals more about Poirot than perhaps some others, as he proves that he not only has a fierce intellect, but a lot of heart too.

Maximum Bob, Elmore Leonard

There's a judge who considers himself a bit of a ladies' man and likes to sentence criminals to the full capacity of the law - hence his nickname Maximum Bob. And there's a cute parole officer, Kathy Diaz Baker, that he's got his eye on, who in turn has her eye on this cop, Gary Hammond, who's trying to find out who's trying to kill the judge. The number one suspect is Elvin Crowe, a hard-core, drop-kick criminal fresh out of jail whose case file lands with the cute parole officer. Add to that the judge's wife, a flaky spiritualist who channels the spirit of a 12 year old black girl at the most inconvenient times and a crack-addict-dermatologist who likes to walk around nude, showing his darker-than-the-rest-of-him man-tackle. And there you have the plot of Maximum Bob.

Nobody writes likes Elmore Leonard. His plots crackle faster than that snapping candy you ate in childhood and his character descriptions are flawless. The plot is windy and fun, and the writing is light-hearted but never facetious. He manages to capture the nuances and accents of his characters perfectly, and they're always as cool as ice. A good read.

Pronto, Elmore Leonard

Elmore Leonard, prolific author of crime comedies such as Get Shorty, Out of Sight and Be Cool, does what he does best in Pronto. His stories are slick, the plots fast-paced and characters cool - misfits in the above-board world, they're right at home in the criminal underworld, and so, it would seem, is Elmore Leonard.

In Pronto, Harry Arno is part of the Miami underbelly - a crooked bookie who skims from his mafia boss, Jimmy Cap, and then gets set up by the FBI as a fall guy in order to get Jimmy. Enter US Marshall Raylan Givens, a Stetson-wearing niceguy who, despite having been given the slip twice to the jeopardy of his career, still likes Harry and tracks him down in Italy in order to capture, as well as protect, him from his old boss and the FBI.

Pronto is a good read - quick, interesting and funny. The plot isn't overly convoluted, and although there are a number of big and small characters involved, Leonard fleshes them out nicely. The only criticism is that the protagonist switches halfway through from Harry to Raylan, which requires a mental adjustment that jars an otherwise smooth plot. But on the plus side, he teaches Italian swear words along the way, like testa di cazzo -'dickhead'. A crime caper that's also educational? Couldn't ask for more.

The Snack Thief, by Andrea Camilleri

Book 3 of the Inspector Montalbano series, The Snack Thief is a mystery set in an Italian town where people ride an elevator with a dead body to save themselves from using the stairs, retired men hire a beautiful young Tunisian cleaning woman for her ‘extra services’ rather than her cleaning expertise, and a young boy steals food in order to survive after his mother (the aforementioned cleaning woman) mysteriously disappears.

The main protagonist, Inspector Montalbano, is great at his job. He loves solving crimes and isn’t averse to using tough (and sometimes unethical) means to find out what he wants. Professionally, he’s totally switched on - a man whose hunches always hit target and has a nose for digging out the truth. However, personally he’s stereotypically shut down and finds it difficult coming to terms with (or even just admitting) his own emotional needs.

Camilleri shows his weaknesses with as much transparency as his strengths, and as a result, Montalbano is a character you grudgingly respect rather than enthusiastically like.

It’s the first book of the series that I’ve read, and I thoroughly enjoyed most of it – especially the Inspector’s digressions into and obvious keen enjoyment of food. It was only towards the end that I felt it lost its zing.

Where did it go wrong? The pace was good, the plot kept me hooked and the writing was precise and brisk.

However, it takes a turn at the end after the mystery is solved. Montalbano takes a break to the seaside and gets in touch with his emotions. It’s ironic that this is the bit that turned me off, because I imagine that for avid followers of this series, this is the moment they’d been waiting for - when he’s finally able to commit to his long-term girlfriend, visit his sick father and show some emotional maturity.

Perhaps it’s partly because I haven’t read the previous novels, but I really think it’s because after the remarkable lack of character development throughout the book, his sudden emotional growth was not very believable. After the smooth ride of the rest of the book, this bit was jarring and seemed out of character.

Having said that, though, I would gladly go back and read the first two books. It was a surprisingly good find in my local library and I’m pleased to add another good author to my list.