George Pelecanos’ The Cut reviewed by Conor Tannam

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May 162012

George Pelecanos has previously worked as a line cook, bartender, dishwasher, and shoe salesman. He has also achieved considerable critical success since the publication of his debut novel in 1992, and especially since his involvement as a writer on HBO’s seminal show The Wire. His books are known for their snappy dialogue and social commentary, which may be why Esquire magazine refers to him as the ‘poet laureate of the D.C. crime world’. On such an esteemed background the launch of a new detective series based in Washington ought to be cause for considerable excitement. Unfortunately, The Cut does not quite attain the high standard of Pelecanos’ best.

Spero Lucas is an Iraq war veteran who has carved out a living as an investigator for a defence lawyer. He’s 29, athletic, and, like so many of the author’s characters, has a penchant for soul music, which allows his author to smoothly segue into the story’s soundtrack, a chorus in counterpoint to his Greek descent and family relationships. When an incarcerated crime boss hires him to investigate a case of theft, Spero is soon embroiled in a world of guns, violence, and drugs. His interactions with two young drug dealers point to the futility of the war on drugs, an idea that Pelecanos has expounded at length throughout his career.

There is much to be admired in The Cut. Sections of the dialogue show Pelecanos at his best. Spero’s elder brother Leo, is a teacher and their conversations are familiar to anyone who has ever quarrelled with a sibling: “’He’s already grown Ma,’ said Spero, passing the orzo to Leo. He’s not gonna get taller if he eats more, he’s just gonna get fat’ … ‘That’s all muscle back there,’ said Leo. ‘That’s why I can’t wear those skinny Levis like you do. I got a man’s build.’” Such moments of domesticity are a trusted staple of Pelecanos’ character development, and once again they provide welcome relief from the genre’s tired and wired stereotypes in their cycles of gratuitous violence. When he even offers up a few choice reading references, Pelecanos is in his element, never more so than when Spero’s brother gets to read Elmore Leonard as a homework assignment.

In short, The Cut has much to celebrate, but several factors cloud if not collapse the central story arc. For instance, sections of the book read like an advertisement for Apple’s Iphone, and since Spero is so conspicuous in his overuse of the phone, the Hollywood product placement eventually eclipses his surveillance work. What is worse, while the novel’s main villain is suitably despicable, we never get the sense that he or his nefarious underlings might pose a viable threat to the war veteran. This comes as the actual surprise, since most of Pelecanos’ previous novels threatened their far from invincible protagonists with a violent dénouement. The absence of such ambiguity finally leads to another absence – that of his trademark tense atmosphere. Here’s hoping that the sequel drops the dross and picks up the pace.

Posted by Len Wanner at 7:47 pm Tagged with: , ,

Declan Burke’s ‘Absolute Zero Cool’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Sep 282011

In 2011, Declan Burke edited Down These Green Streets: Irish Crime Writing in the Twenty-First Century, an anthology of the very best of Irish crime fiction. In the years prior to this testament to talent, his blog (Crime Always Pays) had established itself as a comprehensive guide to quality Irish and international crime writing. But with this new novel – a personal best that’s been a long time coming – Declan Burke has gold-plated the genre with what The Irish Times termed ‘screwball noir’.

Declan Burke’s Absolute Zero Cool challenges the perceived limitations of the crime fiction genre as much as the perceived limitations of Ireland’s current financial woes. Dreamlike and invigorating, it combines surrealism with the best of noir fiction in an enthralling reminiscence of Flann O’ Brien’s At Swim-two-birds.

There are three narratives featured in this novel as one Declan Burke (a crime writer and blogger) attempts to complete his long promised book. Intertwining these separate strands are excerpts from an unpublished novel with strong philosophical overtones. The fictional Burke is offered advice by Billy, a man claiming to be a character of his from a previous novel who may have murdered hospitalised seniors as well as his own girlfriend. Disillusioned not only with the hospital, but all that the building represents as an institution, Billy is determined to coolly blow the loathsome edifice to an absolute zero. As if this were not enough criminal existentialism, Billy waxes lyrical about his metaphysical desire to rid Ireland of what he sees as a useless and ineffectual medical establishment.

Burke’s writing is sharp, funny, and excruciatingly honest, as when he observes that “writing and masturbation have in common temporary relief and the illusion of achievement,” never more so than when one struggles with pressures from one’s wife, one’s publisher, and one’s inescapable Billy, that delightful muse and devastating critic. So any guarded praise heaped upon the excellent novel is quantified by, well, less guarded criticism, and any indulgence of low language or aspirations of high art are candidly edited by Billy as he attempts to persuade Burke to finally write the novel that would do him some form of justice, the novel Jane Austen would have written for him.

Yet what is most noteworthy is that the real Burke can let his reader off the leash inside the fictional Burke’s head without losing creative control of either. Absolute Zero Cool is far more than a post-modern exemplar of a noir thriller. The valid criticisms of mass waste within the Irish healthcare system, and within Irish society at large, strike at the right target. They should also strike the right chord with a post-party – yet not so post-terror – Ireland, if only because particular vitriol is reserved for the country’s trinity of disgrace: bankers, republican terrorists, and former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern. Thus as we scale the height – or perhaps the depth – of this political satire, it makes a hilarious kind of nonsense that a desert island is suggested as a suitable retirement home for this threesome; a desert island on which tourists play piggy in the middle with them and a few rockets.

Absolute Zero Cool is a genuinely original and inventive novel, and its brevity leaves the reader wanting more, more Declan Burke. After all, the man has crafted a clever, personal, and charming story, a testament to the prize worthy best of Irish crime fiction.

Posted by Len Wanner at 10:37 am Tagged with: , ,

Richard Price’s ‘The Wanderers’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Aug 042011

Richard Price’s The Wanderers is an open-eyed vision of the dark night of the American dream. Set in the Bronx during the 1960’s, the book focuses on a teenage gang and its various experiences of sex, violence, racism, and domestic abuse. The language is direct and steers clear of grandiose statements. Price writes about these adolescents like he knows where they’ve been, like he’s just stepped out of the places and potholes of their childhood. And although his primary focus is on ‘The Wanderers’, the eponymous youth gang, his peripheral vision is so sharp it allows him to cast a critical eye over the greater American urban landscape.

There is immediate violence. We are drawn into the fierce territorial disputes that govern gang life, even as the tone borders on a parody of that infamous musical West Side Story. Again and again, Price is quick to remind us that the stuff this novel is made of is violence, not irritating sing-alongs. A local football match soon descends into anarchy when the protagonists rise to the challenge of the Ducky Boys, an Irish gang whose members wouldn’t reach five feet if they stood on their razors. But long before these boys have reached manhood, physical confrontation is the means by which masculinity is measured. Price is as unafraid as his cast when it comes to making this point: to be a man is to fight for the glory of the tribalistic gangs. Hence, even though the novel avoids the current trend towards the visceral, it leaves no room for ambiguity about life in the projects.

Yet Price anchors his novel in a ground so common we’ve all been to it. As the Wanderers’ awkward sexual encounters capture the insecurity and self-consciousness of adolescence, Price’s writing is reminiscent of Ed McBain, not least his blend of humorous levity and human drama. Price weaves the burgeoning sexuality of youth into the city’s amorphous community of apartment blocks, and so the panicked bravado of these fumbling encounters not only throws the brutal violence of their childish inexperience into sharp relief. It also shows how precariously we all straddle that gap between Innocence and Fall.

The Wanderers is yet another example of crime writing that refuses to exhaust its potential and our patience with stereotypes. The main protagonists may be unashamedly violent, but they are also full of shame and fear. Written in 1974, the novel paints an image of a city that is not quite sure how to negotiate the various ethnic groups along the self-destructive path that often leads through contemporary America. While not as strong as in his later work, notably Clockers and Lush Life, Price demonstrates with considerable grace his understanding of the society he lives in and his passion for its people.

Posted by Len Wanner at 3:37 pm Tagged with: , ,

Lee Child’s ’61 Hours’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 232011

At a time when bad crime novels tend to dominate the market – much to the distress of a discerning reader – it is comforting to know that Lee Child remains as engrossing as ever. While there is no question of his latest offering being comparable to his truly great novels (namely Killing Floor and Tripwire) 61 Hours continues what has become an annual celebration for the millions of devout Reacher fans worldwide.

Jack Reacher is very much the modern knight. He travels across America and unerringly finds a damsel in distress. He adheres to a strict code. He carries nothing more than his wallet and replaces his plain, functional clothing only when absolutely necessary. Property, material wealth and the notion of settling down to a routine life hold no appeal to the retired military policeman. His dabbling with a house in a previous novel ended badly and merely served to reinforce his desire for a nomadic existence. It is of little surprise to his readership that he encounters an elderly woman in danger when the Greyhound bus he is traveling on breaks down in the small town of Bolton, North Dakota.

This nondescript town could have featured in numerous Stephen King books; it is rural American life. Whatever the criticisms of Child’s minimalist use of language may be, here the author captures the life of the town in a manner more ‘literary’ authors would be incapable of. Bolton is located beside a maximum security prison and it has generated much needed income for the impoverished community. The local police are protecting a key witness and, of course, require the services of Jack Reacher to aid them in their efforts against arctic adversity and weather conditions. Reacher steps up, once again, to protect an innocent victim of circumstance and cruelty.

Speaking of which, the villain in 61 Hours seems to have been influenced by such 1980’s cinema classics as Commando. Whatever fear he may instill in his fictional foibles, in this reviewer he instilled the lingering expectation of a cameo from a muscle bound Austrian with an even less developed sense of humour. This villain, ‘Plato’, is a South American of vague origins who is feared in his homeland. He has built a reputation on brutality that stands in contrast to his diminutive stature and name. As in the majority of Reacher novels, the villain is of subsidiary importance. We want Reacher to be challenged. We want to fear for his wellbeing. While we may delight in his violence and ability to inspire fear simply by entering a room, we also want extended fight scenes with at least a possibility of Jack not surviving, let alone winning hands down. In Plato we have a seemingly weak threat. The inescapable physical confrontation is typically one sided. Reacher is a mountain. Plato cannot possibly be seen as a viable danger to our beloved hero, which is perhaps why the novel, unlike most of Lee Child offerings, has relatively few fights. Yet when the inevitable showdown does arrive it is well worth the wait. Reacher is at his best when confronted with a target that he can quash.

The ending of 61 Hours is left unresolved, the reader is unsure as to the fate of Jack Reacher. It has become, inevitably, a bestseller and the winner of the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year award. The character retains his mass appeal. His charms are not yet diminished on an audience that awaits the arrival of the latest episode like a child awaiting Christmas. He offers the purest form of escapism, the notion of being answerable to no one and riding out of town the hero on a horse (or Greyhound bus) with another dastardly individual vanquished. He stands at 6.5 and weighs between 220-250 lbs, allowing us all to be that bit bigger than life as we eagerly await his return in a matter of weeks.

Posted by Len Wanner at 7:37 am Tagged with: , ,

Peter James’ ‘Dead Like You’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 182011

In Peter James’ novel, Dead Like You, Brighton is confronted with a rapist who may have disappeared over twelve years ago. A series of horrific rapes have taken place which bear a significantly similar modus operandi to attacks that occurred in late 1997. Is it the same attacker resurfacing or is it a copycat who has been inspired by the man the press dubbed ‘The Shoe Man’? A hugely entertaining and fast paced thriller ensues in which the reader is introduced to suspect and victim alike.

This is a genuinely creepy crime story where detailed descriptions of sexual assault are presented to the audience in an uncompromising fashion. The author’s strength lies in his ability to make the sudden violence that rape entails seem plausible. An attack by the pier seems all too easy for the assailant when it occurs at a packed seaside attraction. Likewise the villain uses social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter in order to gather information about his victims. Peter James brings the open nature of these websites and the information we choose to share into sharp focus.

In his sixth outing Detective Roy Grace remains haunted by the disappearance of his wife despite being in a happy relationship. The nature of these horrific crimes against women ensures that there is little motivation needed to chase the attacker. Intense media pressure and a new boss mean that Grace must put aside his life at home in order to focus on what is fast becoming a widespread panic.

Jumping as it does between the initial attacks and the present day, the novel moves at a rapid pace, while the dialogue and occasional moments of humour help to alleviate the considerable tension throughout. As is so often the case in James’ work, this novel provides an insight into police procedures and the difficulties that often stall police investigations. A particularly grisly exhumation lingers in the memory long after the book is finished, and the streets of Brighton come alive as the police attempt to catch the attacker before he strikes again.

Dead Like You is a well-paced and captivating read. Despite its relatively lengthy nature, the plot and details about the various suspects and victims ensure this is a thriller that is difficult to put down. What sets this excellent book apart is the level of research that the author has clearly conducted into police work and the levels of information we all too often share with the world via the Internet. In short, this is a book that should grace the bookshelf of every fan of the modern thriller.

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:27 am Tagged with: ,

Ken Bruen’s ‘Blitz’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 162011

Blitz is a novel that grabs your attention from the outset and refuses to relinquish control until the final page. The seedy and violent world of South London that Brant calls home is brought to life in a frantic and unrelenting plot. Whether it can be classed as noir or not is immaterial. It is the quality of Bruen’s writing that sets him apart. It possesses a definite lyrical quality. Terse and sharp prose keeps the reader engrossed from the very first line and this momentum is maintained throughout. Blitz is written in a clipped style and the characters are immensely believable. An intelligent and vicious villain makes for a well above average game of cat and mouse between killer and cop. The bizarre nature of the relationship between a member of the British National Party and a black WPC adds an extra dimension to what is already a multi-layered text.

The continuation of The White Trilogy sees the police squad suffering from an almost collective burnout. Relationships are strained within the department and Brant has been sent to a psychiatrist due to his erratic and unconventional behaviour. When a sociopath targets police officers the pressure mounts even further. The killer is determined to slaughter as many officers as is possible and his contact with a tabloid journalist ensures that the media are swarming over what is fast becoming a notorious case.

Sexism, racism, and misogyny all feature heavily as individual prejudices come to the fore. There is no shirking from any controversial subject and much of the black humour is derived from this attitude. To those who feel rather precious about their politically correctness, this book may appear a tad controversial. But as usual, that is the safest road to missing the point entirely. The often vile statements that characters routinely produce merely reflect the opinion that a lot of people hold dear. Bruen is neither condoning nor promoting these rather unpleasant views, merely recording them, and the intensity of the experience is a further testimony to the Galway man’s outstanding talent.

Blitz is a novel you could happily devour in a lunch break. But be warned, you might not get anything else done that day.

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:03 am Tagged with: , ,

Adrian Magson’s ‘Death on the Marais’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 152011

Adrian Magson’s Death on the Marais is a stunning introduction to his latest detective Lucas Rocco. The author has already been firmly established within the genre with his Harry Tate series and is looking to begin a new and equally captivating series with Lucas Rocco. Set in France in 1963, a time of great administrative change, Death on the Marais is a thriller that is exceptionally difficult to put down. It sees the hardened detective removed from his Paris base to rural France. Due to a new police initiative Rocco is now based in the small village of Poissons-Les-Marais, Picardie. It is far removed from the bustling metropolitan life that he was used to in the nation’s capital. Thus it is with a sense of dread that he begins his new life as a countryside police officer. On his first day in the job, Rocco discovers the corpse of a murdered woman dressed in a Gestapo uniform. Given the historical proximity to WW2, this makes for a shocking find. The detective is faced with a veil of silence as he attempts to uncover the mystery surrounding the untimely death of the young woman. Connections between her death and that of a powerful industrialist quickly emerge and our hero is forced to confront the upper echelons of Parisian society.

What is so striking about this novel is that it refuses to be put down. The writing is beautiful; it evokes life within a small town in France. News travels amongst locals at an almost instantaneous pace despite the lack of a communications infrastructure. For much of the book Rocco is very much the outsider who must prove his credentials to a skeptical local populace. He must also contend with the urban authorities who are most unwilling to help a presumed rogue and dangerous officer, yet Lucas Rocco remains scarred from his military service in the Indochina conflict. Throughout the novel, Rocco suffers various flashbacks and is unsure as to what his time in the jungle actually accomplished. He is a cynic, jaded by warfare and yet determined to maintain what has been an excellent record within the police force. As with most genre protagonists, he is motivated by a strong sense of justice and a determination to seek out the truth.

Death on the Marais is a slick and memorable thriller in which rural France and the discrepancies between official bureaucracy and real police work are laid bare. Terse writing, a very credible plot and fascinating characterisation make for a most entertaining reading experience. If you are looking for an intelligent and fast-paced read then this book marks the beginning of what will no doubt be an excellent series.

Posted by Len Wanner at 6:32 pm Tagged with: , ,
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