Review: Into the Volcano

I've not kept up with this 'blog nearly so well as I had hoped, but I've been busy, so what can I say? Anyway, I just finished Into the Volcano by "Forrest DeVoe, Jr." (the rather florid non de plum of Max Phillips, co-founder of Hard Case Crime). The blurbs on the back promise a mix of James Bond, The Avengers, and (oddly enough) Graham Greene. All this, and heaven, too. The result isn't quite so slam-bang as one could wish, but it works well enough as an homage to the great spies of the 1960s.

The protagonists are Jack Mallory--a macho Texan who knows his way around a whiskey bottle and a woman's heart--and Laura Morse--cool to the point of cold, expert in obscure Martial Arts. They're set up a bit like an American counterpart to John Steed and Emma Peel, except that this pair works for a shadowy secret organization whose motives are more pecuniary than patriotic.

The novel is divided into two halves, "Istanbul" and "He' Konau," and the plot is naturally divided into two phases as well: the initial salvo of action and reaction in Turkey and the final showdown on an obscure South Pacific island. I will not give much of the plot away; there's a somewhat interesting villain named Rauth who has a plan that may or may not involve Turkey's gold supply. Of course, there's more on the line, as he reveals in the (again, Bond-inspired) monologue and (I kid you not)guided tour he delivers to the protagonists once they reach his hideout. But plot's not the point--as with any good 1960s spy thriller (and this one is not alone modeled on, but set in the '60s), the real interest is in the frisson of sex and sadistic violence. Oh--and espionage. But mostly the first two.

For an affectionate mash-up of the great spies of the '60s, Into the Volcano is a curiously joyless affair. It's not that it's poorly written (the prose, as far as it goes, is fine--including a foray into stream-of-consciousness), or that the characters are ill developed. But the whole thing seems to be following the Bond formula so slavishly that it forgets that even Bond, in his heyday, knew how to wink at himself.

One aspect of '60's Bond that the book does convey well (and I know it's not Bond, but the pattern is so obvious that the comparison is inevitable) is in the misogyny. Sure, we've got Laura Morse, Boston Brahman and super-warrior, the American Emma Peel, and she's fairly competent (although the fact that she has a hopeless crush on her partner does a bit to lower her profile). But every other woman in the book, from Mallory's steady lover (a Chinese stewardess who cooks omelets for him in the nude and delivers exposition on Turkey while the two of them are in bed) to the random girl murdered by the villain late in the book, serves simply as a sex-object for the male characters. I daresay this is period detail, but the book isn't light-hearted enough to acknowledge it. In short, it may be the proper tone for a book actually written in 1963; a book published(as this one was) in 2004 needs to be a little more self-aware.

There's another book in the series out--Eye of the Archangel--and the NY Times gives it about the same diagnosis I give this one. Still, I liked Into the Volcano well enough that I'll probably check out its sequel. I just wish I could have liked it more than "well enough."

Links to Peruse

What Reading Crisis? Perhaps reports of the book's death have been greatly exaggerated. Please note that crime and mystery fiction are the top sellers. Why? Perhaps the very factors that draw P.D. James to write it also draw readers.

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Sherlock Holmes? Meet Arsene Lupin. I've only played The Mystery of the Mummy, and that only desultorily, but I certainly find this more interesting than that Lovecraft crossover.

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Stay tuned; in the next couple of days I should have reviews up for The Spy Who Came in from the Cold and Queen and Country: Operation Saddlebags.

Review: "Remote"

It's been a while since I've been able to post anything here--primarily because my education gets in the way of my thriller-related reading. I should have a review of John le Carre's The Spy Who Came in from the Cold at some point in the next week. In the mean time, here's a review that might be of interest:

Remote: 05: Story by Seimaru Amagi; Art by Tetsuya Koshiba.

My favorite used book store--Deb's Bookstore in Cullman, Alabama--has a little room in the back where they have a sale going on, including a token bit of Manga--discounted from $5 to $1. Since I've been interested in trying out Manga, I picked up this book. Since I'm not conversant with the genre, this review will be very much an outsider's perspective on an insider's artform, and so will focus on those elements I am familiar with--detective plots.

Since Remotestarts in the middle of an ongoing story, I had to do a little research. The basic premise is intriguing--a genius detective, Inspector Kozaburo cut off from human emotions and unable to leave his headquarters, works with a young woman, Detective Kurumi Ayaki--via cell 'phone--to solve crimes. That's the premise, and that's really all one needs to know to enjoy this volume.

Volume 5 contains two stories--or, rather, one and a half, since the first three chapters are the conclusion of a case presumably begun in the first volume. The first is pretty standard detective stuff--Detective Kurumi Ayaki investigates a closed circle of suspects in order to prove that her fiance is innocent of murder. The trick, too, is pure Agatha Christie, though only having half the story--and being unfamiliar with conventions of the genre--made it difficult to guess.

The second story in the volume is "Assassin Bob." Again, Kurumi Ayaki is trying to clear a friend of suspicion--this time, that he is an assassin known as the Coyote. This story is much more in the thriller line than the previous, with a couple of really nail-biting sequences--especially the climax. However, the central trick is fairly easy to spot, even if you miss the specific clue that leads Kozaburo Himuro to the real villain.

I liked this book. In general, I find the artwork in Manga more exciting and generally interesting to look at than standard comic books. In addition, the stories are well-done--especially "Assassin Bob," which works well even if the reader has no idea who Bob actually is in the context of the series.

There are a couple of problems: Kurumi Ayaki is meant to be sweet and innocent--she's an ex-meter maid--but she comes across as simply dumb too much of the time. I know, it's a trope that's as old as detective fiction--even if Watson wasn't particularly dumb himself--but it gets tiresome. Then, too, it may be part of my unfamiliarity with Manga--overwrought, even hilarious, emotion in a purportedly dark thriller series may be par for the course. I'm just not used to it.

I might check out more in this series. It's all pretty disposable, but it has some promise, and being able to read from the first volume would probably make this volume more comprehensible to me.

Am I Right, Sir? A Real-Life Mr. Memory

I was looking around on CNN and found this story about the "Amazing memory man [who] never forgets."

To Williams and his family, his ability to recall events -- and especially dates -- is a regular source of amusement. But according to one expert, Williams' skill might rank his memory among the best in the world. Doctors are now studying him, and a woman with similar talents, hoping to achieve a deeper understanding of memory.

Of course, I immediately thought of Mr. Memory in The 39 Steps by Alfred Hitchcock. In that film, Wylie Watson plays a music-hall performer who is able to recall, on request, the most trivial bits of information. Of course, his memory is portrayed as perfect, while the subjects discussed at CNN seem to be limited by their interests--for instance, if one doesn't like sports, he cannot recall sports facts as well.

Being a in thriller, Hitchcock's Mr. Memory of course became central to the problem of the 39 steps. I wonder if any other thrillers have made use of super-accurate memory in this way.

"Intruding" on the Screen

Hmm. I really liked Intruder in the Dust back when I read it last year. Now Coming Soon reports that it's going to be filmed.

The book's fairly minor as Faulkner goes--a mystery story revolving around a black man wrongly accused of killing a white man--and I found it interesting primarily because of its stream-of-consciousness prose. But it's got some very striking images--such as the young protagonist, his African-American friend and an old woman digging up a grave and finding--

Well.

This might prove interesting.

Darkman

I've been going through a "Shadow" phase, looking up everything I could about the mysterious crimefighter with the laugh that chills the hearts of criminals everywhere. In the process of that, I've come across Darkman--the brainchild of Sam Raimi, of more recent Spider-Man fame. Apparently, Raimi wanted to create a movie version of The Shadow, but couldn't get the rights, so he created his own version, adding bits and pieces of The Phantom of the Opera and other horror elements. Since Wal-Mart had the "Franchise Collection" edition of the movies--the initial theatrical cut and the two direct-to-video sequels--I decided to pick them up and give them a look.

The first film features Liam Neeson as Peyton Westlake, a scientist whose face is disfigured in an explosion triggered by the finger-collecting gangster Robert Durant. Westlake survives, and is rescued by a hospital doing experimental surgery on homeless men. The nerves delivering messages of pain to his brain are severed, which keeps him from suffering, but has the unfortunate side-effect of causing feelings of alienation and super-human strength.

It's easy to see why Raimi was selected for Spider-Man. Indeed, several visual tricks will crop up in the later movies--such as a dissolve from Francis McDormand (who plays Westlake's lover)as she stands looking at her destroyed apartment to the graveyard on the day of Westlake's funeral, as well as animations of Darkman's brain chemistry when he goes into a rage.

It's also interesting that this movie ends--as Spider-Man does--with the hero making a fateful decision between personal happiness and the "greater good." Of course, with Darkman it's more a matter of choice between love and his demons.

In many ways, however, Darkman is more successful than the webslinger's exploits. Neeson is an excellent actor and is able to bring out the desperation in the character's situation, as well as the insane thirst for revenge, even under the layers of makeup required for the role. And in his own face, he is hollow-eyed and haunted, conveying desperation and horror at what he has become. The villain--played by Larry Drake--is acted with cool understatement (quite a feat for a man with a finger-fetish). The only weak link is Colin Friels as the man pulling the strings; he is almost too bland about his crookedness, admits it up front to the first person to confront him with it, as if there is nothing unusual about it. In the right hands, he could have been even more chilling than Durant; as it is, he strikes the wrong note consistently.

Darkman wears its influences on its sleeve. In addition to "The Shadow" and The Phantom of the Opera, there is a definite unreality to the gang of crooks--including one with a machine-gun in his artificial leg--that calls Dick Tracy to mind (I'm thinking of the old black and white B-pictures like Dick Tracy Meets Gruesome, though I get the feeling the comics are pretty close). Larry Drake even looks like a Dick Tracy villain.

In all, Darkman is an excellent entry for anyone's library of crimefighters, and is highly recommended. From what I've seen of the sequels, they don't nearly live up to the theatrical film, but I'll cover them in due time.

The Hardy Boys in India

I grew up buying the Hardy Boys novels in packs of five at "Sam's Club" and inhaling them in short order. They were the bread and butter of my reading life until I discovered Agatha Christie at about the age of thirteen--after that, they fell into disfavor. But I still have a soft spot for the two teen sleuths and their chums, and it's nice to see they're still going strong:

For 80 years, The Hardy Boys has been an essential part of every detective-fiction lover’s childhood. Now the Hardy bros appear in graphic novels — in candy colours, toting mobile phones and guns. Nancy Drew too is keeping up with the times, in a similar series.

Candy colours?!

At any rate, the comics will be updates of novelized adventures, with the boys being "tech savvy." Huh. When I was a child, a personal boat was tech-savvy enough for me, but there you go. Apparently this series is only being released in India--where they also seem to be issuing comic-books of Agatha Christie's novels.

Hmm. This is the second story I've linked to that has to do with India. I'm beginning to wonder if there is a sociological reason that "classical" detective fiction seems to be--at least, until recently--going so strong over there while it labors in obscurity in America.

It's Official---Only Halfwit Authors Write Mysteries.

...or so the British legal system has decided:

This week, Joan Brady - a talented American novelist living in Devon, who won the Whitbread prize in 1993 - received £115,000 in an out-of-court settlement from a cobbler close to her Totnes home. The novelist alleged that fumes from solvents used at the plant had caused her physical distress and mental distraction.

One example given of her problems [...]was that she had become so confused by the fumes that she was forced to abandon a serious novel, Cool Wind from the Future, and turn instead to mystery fiction, with Bleedout.

More at the link. This kind of stuff maddens me; there is no reason why a well-written mystery novel should be considered inferior to a well-written "serious" novel. Indeed, one could argue that the pretensions of "serious" fiction are inferior-making properties in themselves. "Plot-driven fiction" is, at any rate, directed outward, to the reader--it invites the reader into a mutual experience. In that way, it's essentially democratic and egalitarian.

Furthermore, we should note--as this commentator does--that many authors of "serious" fiction are now using tropes from mystery novels. In fact, they're using tropes from all kinds of genre fiction. The classes are melting together--just a bit--and a decision like this only shows how out-of-touch many "highbrow" people are.

Bond 22 is "Quantum of Solace"

Commander Bond has the story--with plot details. I must say, Bond 22 is shaping up quite promisingly. (FWIW--Quantum of Solace is the title of a Fleming story--and though we've been assured that the plot of the film is original to it, still the story might be worth checking out).

It's an odd choice. Risico or Property of a Lady might have made more sense; what's more (unlike other Fleming titles,) this is a remarkable un-exotic title.

On the other hand, it sounds literate (unlike Die Another Day), and I trust this latest direction for the films, so we'll have to wait and see.

"The Man Who was Clever"

I'm working my way through The First Saint Omnibus--a collection of thirteen novellas featuring Leslie Charteris' Simon Templar. They're arranged chronologically, from a story from the Saint's earliest appearance (Enter the Saint) through the later years.

The first story in the set is "The Man Who was Clever." It is a straightforward caper, with few elements of mystery or espionage. The plot revolves around Templar's efforts to bring down a criminal who uses a beauty-supply store as a front for drug dealing (sound familiar?). Simon Templar, also known as the Saint, does not seem as well-established as he will later become. Heis in the process of establishing his position as the "Robin Hood of modern crime," the man criminals fear. His character, therefore, is much more opaque than I expect it to be in future stories--he's building a mystery, creating a persona (hey! I wonder if this could tie in with my discussion of personhood over at General Thinker).

Still, this lack of insight into thought-processes of the Saint make him into a bit too much of a superman--he can, obviously, do anything and get out of anything. Not that that's a problem, as a rule; however, a humanizing touch here and there would go a long way toward making Templar more believable (remember how ubermensch Ellery Queen is humanized by the author's tongue-in-cheek tone? Something along these lines would be in order here).

The pace is sound and the plot enjoyable, and though everything is not quite in place, I look forward to see the development of the Saintly formula in future stories and novels.

What's in a Name?

The California Literary Review has a brief-but-interesting discussion by Jem Bloomfeld of the names of various detectives in the history of the genre. Interesting; I had never considered the tension between the over-the-top names of detectives and the "realistic" emphasis in the stories themselves.

The Death of the Indian Detective Novel?

Interesting article about the slow death of detective fiction in India. I find it interesting that it's been sixteen years since the last super-detective hung up his magnifying glass--while in America it's been more like thirty.

The interesting experiments with the adventurer-detective figure —- from the intent Byomkesh, the suave Feluda, to the spirited quartet Gondalu (Nalini Das’ adolescent girl-gang with names ending with -lu), Samaresh Basu’s streetsmart Gogol, and the maverick old butterfly lover Colonel Niladrishekhar (Syed Mustafa Siraj’s nature lover who ends up trailing no-gooders) —— arguably had shown the way. Critics, writers and fiction lovers thus find no reason why few tread the path. Though not quite expected, there seems to be a socio-economic jinx to the Bengali detective. Aveek Majumder, lecturer at the department of comparative literature, Jadavpur University, finds the changing tastes of the Bengali middle class a possible culprit. “In their better days, the Bengali sleuth and his exploits found readers in Bengali children from the middle class. The same middle class which can now afford an English-medium school for its children, a school which reprimands a child found speaking in Bengali.”

A major theme in the article is the slow phasing-out of the Bengali language--so I wonder if it would be impertinent to wonder if any of these are available in translation?

....

Reuters has an article about how the internet assists authors of crime fiction in their work; an interesting contrast to this piece, which claims that technology kills suspense, in movies particularly. So is what's good for the author bad for the art itself? One wonders.

R.I.P. Edward Hoch

I just saw on Mystery*File that Edward Hoch has died. He was one of the few remaining practitioners of the classic detective short story, and has had a story in every issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine since the seventies.

He will be greatly missed.

Lucky at Cards--Lawrence Block

Lately I have discovered the wonderful world of Hard Case Crime. It's an outfit that publishes out-of-print pulp novels, as well as new works by authors such as Stephen King. As you can see here--and at the website--the books also boast impressive cover art and design very reminiscent of the golden age of the pulp novel.

Lucky at Cards is a novel by Lawrence Block published pseudonymously almost forty years ago. Its plot is fairly conventional;unlucky cardsharp meets bad-hearted broad and they plot to get rid of her husband. The twist here is that they can't actually kill him, so the cardsharp applies his intelligence to concocting an elaborate frame-up.

This novel is well-written, with a kind of noirspeak that communicates simply but eloquently. Characters are well-realized and fairly memorable, even if they are somewhat stock (the sultry dame, the good-hearted local girl, the sympathetic cardsharp). The plot moves along at a brisk clip--it's a fairly easy read, and someone with time on their hands could probably knock it out in a few hours.

The most interesting thing to me was the tension of self-identity present in the protagonist. He is a man who has lived his life just outside the bounds of normal society. Suddenly, as he begins to live his life among the townspeople, he realizes that he actually likes the honest life. Of course, fate conspires against him, but it is this tension that drives him, and therefore drives the plot, to its conclusion. (This is, I think, a fairly common convention of the genre, but I'm not familiar enough with it to be certain).

In all, Lucky at Cards is an exciting and well-written book; I look forward to delving into Block's other work.

New 'Blog

This is where I intend to shunt all my ramblings on detective/spy/crime fiction/television. Updates expected soon.