Booksquawk

FULL DARK, NO STARS

2012-02-17T20:52:00.001-08:00

by Stephen King
352 pages, Hodder and Stoughton

Review by Pat Black

Here we go, then – Stephen King unleaded, super-nasty, no messing about. Does he cut the mustard?

Kind of. I’d say he cuts the chutney rather than the mustard in Full Dark, No Stars – a weird four-novella collection of the type only he seems to be able to get away with. It’s the same sort of format as Different Seasons, the book that gave the world The Shawshank Redemption, Apt Pupil and Stand By Me. It’s also the same sort of format as Four Past Midnight, but that’s by-the-by.

There’s strong meat in here. Marinaded in something sticky and sweet, though – maple syrup, maybe. You know, something a bit sickly. I know a guy who had a great recipe for pork using Dr Pepper, in fact. No, wait – chutney was the last metaphor I used. That’s sweet enough. Let’s go with that.

But it’s a bloody good Sunday roast. Like most of Stephen King’s writing, no matter how much you have, it’ll never be enough. You’ll head back to that fridge with its crinkly tinfoil platter again and again… maybe even in the dead of night. Perhaps you even lick your fingers in the ghastly light of the fridge as your family sleeps, unaware.

You craven god-damned meat picker! Fridge vulture!

This is rubbish isn’t it? Review 100, too. Let’s start again.

It’s nice to see Stephen King finally getting his dues for knocking-on 40 years in the writing business. You’ll read very few reviews these days having a pop at him, and that includes this one. Even the snootiest broadsheet sweetie-rustlers are prepared to acknowledge that whatever you make of his subject matter, there are few writers with such a finely tuned ear for human speech, behaviour and patterns of thought.

He’s primarily known as a writer of scary stories, and certainly his early books are some of the finest ever written in that genre. Gareth Marenghi owes King all he ever achieved during that strange, psychotic “horror boom” in the 1980s. Was it a coincidence that this ghoulish literary phenomenon reached its height during the era of Thatcher and Reagan? What were we frightened of? But that’s for another Squawk.

But although fear was his thing, King wrote in just about every genre you could ask for. In this respect, he’s very close to one of his idols and the other main contender for the title of “Greatest Living American Writer”, Ray Bradbury. Uncle Ray had a similar knack of turning his hand readily to frightening stories as quickly as he did to parables about Martians or dinosaurs or robots.

I’m pretty sure King would graciously concede the title to Bradbury, one of his idols. But if King’s career were to end tomorrow, his sales and influence bow to no-one aside from Agatha Christie and Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

It’s curious that, despite almost being turned into the world’s first personalised Stephen King bumper sticker in 1999, as well as the years beginning to creep up on him (and he’s not alone there, jeez-o), he continues to be so productive. And so effective.

He’s like a serial killer – one who somehow keeps getting away with it for years on end. He’s not going to stop willingly. And his latest effort could be just as good as his first. There aren’t many writers you can say that about.

Serial killer, oooh. Now that’s a much better metaphor than marinades or, indeed, mustard, because Full Dark, No Stars, has dark business on its mind.

The three long stories are chiefly concerned with murder. The first, “1922”, is the first-person confession of an Oregon farmer who decides to bump off his wife when she looks to sell their farm out from underneath him in the process of their separation. Two truly appalling things about this – first, he enlists his son in the task, “cozening” him and turning him against his mother, and second, the murder itself. There’s no poison in the tea or convenient accident in store for Wilfred the farmer’s slatternly missus. She’s butchered like a hog, and then thrown down a well for the rats.

What follows is a tale of guilt and spiralling disaster, as the authorities and then the consequences begin to creep up on our narrator and his haunted son. There are one or two more otherworldly things which threaten to break out in the background here, but thankfully King reins these things in before they become that detestable horror cliché: the unreliable narrator who suffers delusions of ghosts and spirits. What I liked best about “1922” was the grit and grue, the literally gory details of dumping a body and covering one’s tracks, while in the background the authorities become suspicious.

A Wikipedia check reveals all sorts of interconnectedness in this story’s farm setting within the King milieu – the kind of ret-conning he’s been doing for years. You know, like maybe a character in the Stand once lived there, or Pennywise the Clown once disguised himself as a tin of beans on a shelf in the kitchen to frighten some kids in the 1950s, or Roland the Gunslinger went for a crap in the outhouse when it briefly appeared in the fifth f*ckin’ dimension, etc.

I hate all that wank, but I was struck by the reappearance of waving cornfields as something to be scared of in King’s work. I always wonder what it is that makes certain things recur in some artists’ work. What’s so scary about those fields, Steve?

More familiar King territory, now, in “Big Driver”. This echoed a suspense story he wrote in his last short story collection, where a woman is captured by a lunatic and has to try and escape before he can return to do some awful things to her. In that story, the day is saved – but in this one, it isn’t. Well, not quite.

This one echoed Misery in its mixture of rank bad luck and malice carried out by an apparent rescuer. A seemingly benign trucker captures and violates an author of “Knitting Circle” detective stories after she takes a short cut on her way home from a personal appearance at a library, and finds herself in Shitsville. King can sometimes err on the crass side, blending hideous violence with a zany, Warner Brothers cartoon sensibility, but to his credit he steers clear of these patterns in his brief descriptions of the violence. His heroine is left for dead in an effluent pipe, alongside the remains of what we presume to be the trucker’s previous victims.

The true horror comes in the aftermath, where Tess the author begins to see attackers everywhere. This wasn’t based on a Sixth Sense-style delusion, swapping dead people for violators, but based on the very real fear that the trucker is still out there on the Interstate as she tries to get home. She begins to fear every man she comes across on her nightmare journey.

Even worse, there is the suggestion that she is marked with the shame of sexual assault, something that was not and could not ever be her fault. She feels she cannot go to the police or even a doctor, because she is a moderately famous author and it will get out, and she can’t deal with that idea – being the naked victim. And there is a suggestion of what I felt was the real, prosaic horror of this story: the idea that there are thousands of women out there who did not make any complaint about what happened to them, who felt ashamed of raising the alarm, and who now have to live with the fear that any man they ever meet might harbour a similar smiling, seemingly benign monster.

It builds up to a satisfying tale of revenge, and in this “Big Driver” mimics any number of appalling exploitation films like I Spit On Your Grave. But ignoring the framing, and looking at his depiction of the victim, this is a powerful feminist piece.

“A Good Marriage” is the most gripping story. King admits that he based this on a real-life serial killer case, where a wife was completely unaware (so she says) that her husband was Denis Rader, the infamous multiple murderer known as BTK, who was finally snared after a 30-year career in murders and executions.

“Hi darlin’, eh…. I’ve been arrested.”

“Jesus Christ! What for?”

“Well…”

It’s an old, old tale – a wife or child or relative finds evidence that the person they are living with isn’t quite who they seemed to be. I know I’ve come up with similar ideas for scary stories before, and I’m sure you have, too. In fact, one idea I was going through a while back concerned a wife who was worried about why her husband is withdrawn and exhausted all the time, staying out late and being “away on business” for days on end, and so forth. She suspects an affair, BUT…

So yeah, we meet Darcy, a typical middle class King heroine. She’s left alone in the house one night, with her husband Bob away on business and her children long since flown the nest. She heads down into the basement to dig out some batteries for the TV remote. She’s expecting a call from Bob, whom she has spent 30 years with. A nice man who’s never given her a big problem, a loving father to their two children.

Another King favourite – the fateful stumble - is all it takes to knock Darcy’s perceptions of married life askew. This recalled Bobbi in The Tommyknockers, where a woman literally trips over a little bit of metal in the forest which actually turns out to be the tip of a giant alien spaceship, pulling all sorts of psychic shizzle.

So anyway, Darcy nearly trips over a box filled with old catalogues. Through sheer curiosity, she flicks through the pile of magazines, and finds… Oh…

And then, mildly shocked but rationalising what she’s seen, she stumbles across something else, a hidden hatch set into the basement floor. So then she opens that, and… Oh!

It turns out that dear old Bob isn’t really Bob. At least, not all the time. He is in fact a serial lust murderer, responsible for doing some nasty things to women (and a child, in one case) and then taunting the police about it in a series of gruesomely upbeat handwritten notes - all signed, “Beadie!”

The mental processes the woman goes through were absolutely compelling. It boils down to a simple question: what would you do? Well, I guess the answer’s simple, too – call the police, let them handle it. But would you? After thirty years, and you still loved him? And more importantly, a few weeks before your daughter gets married, and while your son is negotiating the big contract that could set him on the road to being a millionaire?

I’d like to think that yes, well, that’s all too bad, but my husband is a nutter. And I’d call the cops. But I suspect some of you reading this might not. You might lie to yourself… You might try to forget you’d seen it… You might try to convince yourself that you’d gotten it all wrong… Or more realistically, you might worry that your husband will decide to make you his latest leisure project, if he suspects that you’ve rumbled him.

Or you might have an even more selfish fear – that if it all came out, you’d be blamed, even made complicit in some subtle way.

These parts of the story, where Darcy deals with the horror of discovery and puzzles over just what she wants to do, were wonderful. And there’s tension, too. She takes a phone call from her man during which he uses… and King’s phrasing is beautiful… supernatural slyness, to deduce that not only is Darcy upset, but is lying about why she is upset, which is probably something to do with Beadie’s special hidey hole. Hunter’s vision, all the way.

So is he going to stay away for another night, as planned? Or will Darcy - still in bed, confused, nauseous, frightened, wondering what to do – get an unexpected personal alarm call a few hours later from Bob?

Or if not Bob, maybe… Beadie?

It’s a Stephen King book. What do you think?

Full Dark, No Stars sometimes makes a mockery of King’s own pulpitty pronouncements in his (now customary and occasionally pompous) afterword. King says that for authenticity, his fiction always seeks to trace how a person would realistically act. Anything which fails to replicate this authenticity, no matter what the subject matter, isn’t worth the bothering, King asserts.

He sets himself a high bar, there. And he fails to clear it more than once. Would a dutiful, well-adjusted son actually conspire to slaughter his mother? No he would not. Would a mousey novelist left for dead after a horrifying assault turn the tables on her rapist in a cold, clinical manner, in order to exact a satisfying revenge? No she would not. Would a retired detective, who’s spent years of his life tracing a f*cking maniac, allow the families of the victims to go their graves without finding out who the killer was? Out of some sense of nobility or deference towards the guy’s wife? No he would not.

That’s not what would really happen, Stevie. And this was what you said you were aiming for. Sorry mate.

Oddly enough, the only part where I thought: Oh aye... I could see how that would go, comes in the only supernatural story here, “Fair Extension”. Again, not a new plotline – a bloke suffering from cancer goes to a roadside amusement, where the owner offers him a chance of fifteen years of healthy life. The snag is that in return, the guy must pick someone whose life should be ruined while his thrives.

So who does the guy choose to ruin – his boss? A former partner? A childhood bully? An adulthood one? Or, let’s get darker… a relative?

Nope, this guy picks his more talented, better-looking and far more successful best friend.

I know some people who are like that, and I’ll bet you do, too. Hey, maybe it’s you – or at least, the Shadow You that grins in the mirror. The snarks. They just can’t help it, can they? They have to be picking at stuff – like you, foul Sunday roast leftover carrion feeder! They can do nothing else.

This is the area that King explores so well, that heart of darkness that exists in all of us. Like watching Norman Bates mop up in the bathroom and push the car into the swamp, King makes us queasily complicit in all manner of horrors.

And yet, for the nicest of reasons, King lets us down. Even though the book’s title hints at something brutal and nasty – stygian, joy-free horror without hint of hope or redemption – King never really follows through. He can’t quite stop himself from injecting some moment of hope, catharsis, revenge or redemption in these stories. The unjust are punished in Full Dark, No Stars, as surely as they got theirs in the EC Comics of the 1950s. The wickedness is not allowed to win, and put to a stop.

The only tale which is infused with wickedness without punishment is “Fair Exchange” – but even that has a certain fatalistic acceptance to it. We look to blame circumstances and individuals for the bad things which happen to us, King seems to be suggesting. But sometimes your luck just isn’t in. You get dealt a bad hand, and you have to make the best of it. God help us, “Fair Exchange” actually has a happy ending. And not a little glee.

Full Dark, No Stars is not quite what I was expecting, but like everything else the man wrote, it’s worth your time and money.

Mostly Dark, Wee Bit of Light might be better way of putting it.

KRONOS

2012-02-12T22:57:00.000-08:00

by Guy Adams
288 pages, Hammer

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

Hammer horror films are back! That simple statement fills me with a frankly quite ridiculous amount of joy. Since being (most aptly) resurrected from the grave in 2007, the legendary British studio has been behind 2010's “Let Me In” and 2011's somewhat iffy “Wake Wood”. I'm frothing with excitement at the prospect of seeing their take on Susan Hill's “The Woman in Black” and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the film will see a return to the creepy gothic thrills of older productions. The revitalised studio is not just putting out new movies, they are also digitally remastering a significant number of films from their extensive back-catalogue and releasing a range of horror novels. The novels range from original works by well-established authors (such as Helen Dunmore's recently released ghost story, “The Greatcoat”) to adaptations of classic Hammer films. I hope to get round to reading many more of these books in the near future as I can categorically state that I had more fun with Guy Adams' “Kronos” than I have had with any other book for a very long time.

Based on the relatively obscure 1974 film “Captain Kronos: Vampire Hunter”, “Kronos” is an action-packed period romp. The novel follows the adventures of ex-soldier and professional vampire slayer Kronos and his hunchbacked assistant Professor Grost. Summoned by an old army colleague to investigate a series of mysterious deaths in a sleepy English village, Kronos soon uncovers evidence that the deaths can be attributed to the nefarious work of a particularly unpleasant type of life-sucking vampire. Accompanied by a sexy gypsy girl (who contributes little to the plot other than looking pretty), Kronos and Grost struggle to uncover the identity of the fiend before it strikes again. Things don't go smoothly, as the narrow-minded villagers quickly begin to suspect the enigmatic swordsman as being the root of their problems. Will the heroes prevail against the combined forces of evil and pig-ignorance?

Of course they will. Although the plot might keep readers (who haven't seen the movie) guessing as to the true identity of the vampire, the ultimate outcome is never in doubt. Naturally, Kronos and Grost save the day and kick a lot of living and undead ass whilst doing so. However, this sort of story is rarely hamstrung by its predictability. A novel based on a cheesy, low-budget 70s horror movie is never going to be a great work of literature but in the capable hands of Guy Adams, the story becomes a wildly entertaining jaunt with lashings of gore, violence and humour. Indeed, “Kronos” differs from its source material by being significantly more amusing than the original film. Die-hard fans of the film (I'm sure there aren't many of them) might find the jokes detract from the creepy atmosphere but I personally felt that the humour added to the proceedings. Kronos remains a bit of a stiff character but the comic banter between Grost and Carla the sexy gypsy girl help to lighten the tone and provide more than a few chuckles.

Each chapter in the story is told from a different character's point of view and some may find the use of multiple narrators a bit tiresome. A few of the chapters are little more than a couple of pages long and no sooner has the reader gotten accustomed to one narrative voice does Adams switch to another. However, a good deal of the humour comes from reading different characters' interpretations of the strange goings on in the village. A straightforward omniscient narrator would be unlikely to capture the quirkiness of the different personalities in the book. This minor quibble aside, Adams' novel is fast-paced, highly entertaining and doesn't overstay its welcome.

The extent to which people will enjoy this novel largely depends upon what they are expecting from it. Those expecting a complex narrative or a genuinely dark and brooding atmosphere are likely to be utterly dismayed by the novel's jaunty, often silly take on the genre. Those who have fond memories of the high-camp, low-budget Hammer horror films with gushing bright red blood and heaving bosoms in tight corsets are likely to feel right at home. “Kronos” might seem an odd choice for Hammer studios to release in their new range of books but it shows me that whilst the studio has lain dormant for a long time, it has not lost its sense of humour. I don't think this is the last novelization of a classic Hammer movie we'll see... I'm hoping we'll be treated to paperback adaptations of “The Plague of the Zombies”, “Frankenstein Created Woman” or “The Reptile”. Of course, what would make me truly geek-out would be for Hammer Books to commission someone (me, perhaps?) to write a novelization of the classic Kung-Fu / Horror crossover “The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires”. I'm waiting for your call, chaps.

Hereward L.M. Proops

PUNCHLINE

2012-02-09T19:51:00.000-08:00

by Paul Fenton
Kindle Edition

Review by Bill Kirton

It seems I’m forever making disclaimers about books written by friends but it’s important to establish that I NEVER let that sort of subjectivity influence what I write. No, the only subjectivity involved is ‘Did I enjoy the book and, if I did, why?’ If I don’t like a book, I don’t read beyond the first few pages. Life’s too short. So my comments here are just a record of my reactions as I read this book and my critical reflections after I’d finished it.

First then, the general points. It’s a crime/mystery novel but, as well as ticking the boxes the genre requires, the author also manages to parody it and sometimes offer a wry commentary on its conventions. It’s intriguing, funny, clever and has that essential page-turning impetus.

I hesitate to say much about the circumstances in which the protagonist finds himself and how he reacts to them because, with such a layered construction, the slightest lapse on my part could be seen as a spoiler. The first person narrator is a writer who discovers that his books are on the shelves of bookshops but each credited to a different author and none of them to him. His feelings when he finds the first of these plagiarised novels are sensitively observed and beautifully described – except that words such as ‘sensitive’ and ‘beautiful’ don’t convey the baseness of some of his responses. This is the sort of spare writing advocated by Elmore Leonard.

Sometimes, though, when the pace is hurtling along and we want to know how a particular situation will be resolved, the narrator’s reflections, associations and digressions tend to slow progress. They’re always very entertaining but Fenton has piqued our curiosity and that needs to be satisfied, so we’re eager for the old ‘what happened next?’. On the other hand, one of the many revelations which form the book’s dénouement suggests that this digressive tendency might perhaps be indicative of … no, that might be a spoiler.

The plotting is careful and the characters’ actions, while sometimes extreme, are always plausible and played out in very real settings, conveyed by witty observations of telling details, and the wise-cracking narrator sees the humour in every situation. In fact, Fenton places him in several scenarios which might be seen as typical set-pieces in the crime genre. The difference here is that, while definitely a master of the one-liner, he’s not your run of the mill, hard-nosed Private Eye, but a ‘normal’ person walking the ‘ordinary’ streets of Clapham.

I’m forcing myself to resist quoting some of the situations he finds himself in and how he reacts to them. They’re very funny, but conveyed in terms which show that Fenton’s choice of title was deliberate. He sets up some gags, yes, but he invariably takes them an extra step or adds a twist which intensifies them. And they’re all very carefully written. Look, for example, at the writer’s dismissive attitude to wannabes:

“Yeah, right. Everyone has a novel in them. Almost everyone is capable of sexual intercourse too, more or less, but no one likes to watch ugly people f*ck.”

And, while it’s funny that he’s nearly knocked out by a dominatrix brandishing a latex dildo, it’s even better when she says “And do you want to know where it was just a few minutes ago?”

If you don’t like rude words or a high body count, skip over some bits, but if you like to be drawn into a book, intrigued by questions of who and why, entertained and made to laugh, Punchline is for you. It’s great writing. Why it wasn’t snapped up by a mainstream publisher is a mystery.

THE BLACK TATTOO

2012-02-07T21:23:00.000-08:00

by Sam Enthoven
528 pages, Razorbill

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

Slugs and snails and puppy dogs' tails. That's what little boys are made of according to the old rhyme. Advances in medical science have proven this to be utter bollocks but those of us with any experience with young lads will know exactly what the rhyme is getting at. Little boys are pretty revolting creatures. Whether they are running around with their fingers up their noses, farting on their siblings' heads, pulling wings off insects or drawing grisly pictures of flaming orphanages, little boys can be comfortably relied upon to turn a perfectly innocent game into a full on imaginary bloodbath. Teenage boys are even worse. When not locked in their room, sweatily engaged in pleasures of the palm these acne-ridden youths can be found aimlessly hanging around street corners, showering the pavements with spit and found mumbling charmless compliments to passing females. Their primary interests tend to be violent video games, violent films and internet pornography (most likely the violent kind).

Appealing to these socially awkward, greasy adolescents has been a matter of consternation for countless writers for hundreds of years. Robert Louis Stevenson's “Treasure Island” is a great example of a book aimed at this bloodthirsty young market. The adventurous tale of pirates and buried treasure also included scenes of brutality and violence which remains pretty shocking today (Don't believe me? Go and read the prolonged gunfight in part four of the book – it is staggeringly violent). Unfortunately, when faced with the choice between reading a book and playing “Call of Duty 3” on Xbox Live most teenage boys would grunt unintelligibly, scratch themselves and reach for the joypad.

Sam Enthoven's debut novel, “The Black Tattoo” is unashamedly aimed at teenage boys. It's got magic, kung-fu fighting, samurai swords, hideous demons, vomiting bats and enough action to satisfy even the shortest of attention-spans. What the novel lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in sheer inventiveness. Just when you think that you've figured out the direction the novel is taking, Enthoven throws yet another curveball and the storyline veers off in yet another bizarre direction.

The story follows Jack and Charlie, two teenage boys with typical teenage problems and anxieties. Hot-headed Charlie is struggling to come to terms with the separation of his parents. The quieter, more introspective Jack feels as though he exists in the shadow of his better-looking, more charming best friend. This gnawing jealousy doesn't get any better when his friend finds himself inheriting supernatural powers. All of a sudden, Charlie can pull off a phenomenal range of martial arts moves, he can shoot fireballs out of his hands... hell, he can even fly. To top it all, his new powers have also left him marked with an awesome tattoo that flows like some kind of liquid across his back and arms. As Charlie flexes his new-found muscles, Jack can't help but feel like their friendship is under threat. The boys find themselves drawn into a cabal of secretive warriors who have devoted their lives to battling a fearsome demon known as the Scourge. When Charlie finds himself under the demon's control, Jack is forced to journey to the depths of hell in order to save his friend and stop the Scourge from destroying the universe. I could go on and reveal just how utterly bonkers Enthoven's story gets but I don't want to spoil any of the increasingly outlandish surprises that lie in store for the reader.

Enthoven's style is straightforward and uncomplicated. There's plenty of vivid descriptions when they are needed (a great example being the sense of awe and wonderment that Enthoven creates when his characters first glimpse the epic vastness of hell) and he writes the action (of which there is plenty) in suitably crisp, clipped prose. In fact, Enthoven's control of language during the pulse-pounding sequences of gladiatorial combat in hell is worthy of special mention. As many writers will tell you, emotion is easy to get down on paper but accurately capturing fast-paced and convincing action is no mean feat. Enthoven's book is so full of fist fights. swordplay, shattered bones and gushing demon blood that it reminds me of some bizarre literary adaptation of the videogame “Mortal Kombat”. “The Black Tattoo” is unlikely to win any accolades but if there was a prize for “best written scene where a teenager drinks bat-vomit”, this would definitely be a contender.

Of course, being aimed at teenage boys, the novel is unlikely to attract much praise from older readers. This is a bit of a shame because, whilst totally over the top and wholly ridiculous, “The Black Tattoo” is also fantastically good fun and a perfect antidote to the winter blues. The insane plot moves at a frenetic pace and whilst it could be criticised for being a little on the immature side, it never fails to be entertaining. If you're looking for sickly sweet romance or a thought-provoking exploration of the human psyche, you're in for a big disappointment. However, if your horrible inner child is hungry for a ludicrously silly romp through the bowels of hell, don't hesitate to pick this one up.

Hereward L.M. Proops

JUDGE DREDD:

2012-02-05T21:00:00.000-08:00

The Cursed Earth
by Mills, Wagner, McMahon, Bolland
160 pages, Titan Books

Review by Pat Black

The police! What to say about them? They keep us safe in our beds, they sort out really rotten people, and yet they’ll bust you in a heartbeat if you’ve got bald tyres. They are the law!

Well actually, they’re not the law. Not all of it, at least. But Judge Dredd… now he is the law. The future lawman was created by 2000AD, as I’ve banged on about in several reviews now, as a science fiction equivalent to Dirty Harry from the second issue (or “prog”, to the duemillescenti).

An enormous success, Dredd survives to this day, and is arguably one of the few comic book characters to successfully cross the Atlantic from the UK to the States, with his helmeted head instantly recognisable.

Much like Harry Callaghan, Dredd was something of a fascist with a quick trigger finger. What made this especially appalling was that Dredd wasn’t a maverick like the Hollywood character he was modelled on. Instead of a lone figure operating in the margins, Dredd is in fact the ultimate authority figure in Mega-City One, one of the few surviving cities on Earth following nuclear war in the 22^nd century. The east coast megapolis is a police state, and the Judges also take on the role of jury and executioner, delivering on-the-spot, harsh justice to miscreants in the city after corrupt politicians fall out of favour following the war.

In The CursedEarth, written by Dredd co-creators Pat Mills and John Wagner, a different Dredd emerged from the brutal lawbringer 2000AD had nurtured in its first year. Tasked with crossing the nuclear desert that divides Mega-Cities One and Two in order to deliver a vaccine that prevents a zombie apocalypse, a more noble, heroic character emerges. He still has the rather arch attitude which many of us will know and love in the police, but Dredd is also scrupulously fair. The law is his religion, and he will never deviate from it.

Dredd takes some “redshirt” Judges as well as state-of-the-art war droids to help in his quest, all packed into The Killdozer, a futuristic battle tank. But the zero on the wheel comes in the form of Spikes Harvey Rotten, a punk rocker with a grenade for an earring, a crook who Dredd brings on board for his skills on a flying motorcycle. The Cursed Earth first appeared in 1978, so punks were all the rage in the UK. In the flawed but ultimately heroic Spikes, we can see echoes of other Judge Dredd supporting characters and anti-heroes such as the skysurfer, Chopper – the perfect foil for the Judge, who, though tough, does have something of a stick up his arse.

When the adventure gets going, it’s breathtaking. I remember the Victor comic reprinting long-running adventure serials that first appeared in the early 1960s, but surely no-one in Britain had encountered a serial quite like this. Part road movie, part classic western, Dredd’s team brings justice to the lawless places in the desert, facing off against marauding man-eating rats, deformed mutants, roaming bandits, bloodbank robots turned into vampires by faulty programming and alien-owning slave drivers who put extraterrestrials to work in mines. In this latter adventure, the Killdozer sees a new arrival, the anteater type creature, Tweak. Dredd senses that Tweak is intelligent, and he helps the alien defeat the evil slave regime while offering him sanctuary. This is one of several areas where Dredd is moved by nobler sentiments quite apart from his usual brutal, by-the-book stance.

The centrepiece of the book, though, is the Pat Mills-helmed Repentance sequence, where Dredd falls foul of an atavistic dinosaur-worshipping town which leaves him tied to a stake as a meaty tidbit for the genetically-engineered tyrannosaur, Satanus. Satanus turns out to be the son of Old One-Eye, the tyrannosaur queen of Flesh, an older, much more violent 2000AD strip also penned by Mills. The king tyrannosaur gets a lot of page-time and you sense Mills relished revisiting the world he crafted in Flesh. The captions get pulpier along with the chapter titles (“THE DEVIL BEAST TRIUMPHS!”) and the carnage factor goes through the roof.

And – get this – Satanus was cloned, with his DNA implanted into an alligator egg – an idea that Michael Crichton would make popular in Jurassic Park 15 years later. Interesting.

As well as shootouts, dino-carnage (Satanus eats the inmates of an entire jail at one point) and brutal action, there’s satire. Dredd fights a group of mutants in Mount Rushmore, and ends up knocking the teeth out of that mountain’s latest addition…. Then-US president Jimmy Carter. Given Pat Mills’ left-leaning tendencies, I’m not sure what to make of this hilarious image – perhaps it’s just a spot of anarchy, something 2000AD employed very well over the years.

Dredd also goes to Las Vegas, where the Judge system has been completely corrupted by some very dodgy Italian Mafioso stereotypes. The comic would later find itself in big trouble with another two-issue strand, which quite openly lampooned some very famous fast food trademarks, which at the time were only just starting to appear in British high streets. All surviving issues were pulped when McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken got wind of what was happening. They cannot be reprinted – even today - although the introduction to this edition does tease us with some inoffensive panels of the banned strips, the Holy Grail for 2000AD collectors.

A satire too far then; the moment where Dredd finally met his match. Not so in The Cursed Earth, though. After a final battle with a demented squadron of war droids left to bake in the desert, Dredd faces one last ordeal in order to deliver the vaccine to Mega-City Two on the west coast. It’s still a thrilling read. The majority of the art is by Mike McMahon, the man who first drew Dredd, and his punk rock, chaotic style contrasts with the cleaner lines and inking of Brian Bolland. It’s the best of Dredd, and a great place to start the Judge’s considerable back catalogue.

THE WORLD THAT NEVER WAS

2012-02-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

A True Story of Dreamers, Schemers, Anarchists and Secret Agents
by Alex Butterworth
416 pages, Vintage

Review by Marc Nash

I'd booked a ticket to a panel discussion on the roots of anarchism, but by the time the event came round, it was shunted over into a discussion on the Occupy protest. Three of the quartet of panellists were able to slide over easily enough to address the new slant. The fourth, a writer rooted more in history than journalistic contemporary culture, proved to be more reticent. He was Alex Butterworth and so I bought his book.

The book certainly demonstrates its depth of research, profiting from a relatively new resource of the Okhrana's (Tsarist Secret police) files which turned up in suitcases in Paris when they had been assumed to be lost forever. Being a tome on anarchism, on covert cells who didn't tend to document their extra-legal activities, the corroborating evidence does tend to emanate from the forces of government. This lends the book an inclination to greater detail and authenticity when considering those combating anarchism, than those fomenting it. The involvement of the authorities in many anarchist acts might appear mind boggling, supplying depleted dynamite sticks or acting as paymasters, had I not years ago read the wonderful novel by GK Chesterton, "The Man Who Was Thursday," which satirises this tendency with great humour.

But the anarchists were not a standing joke. They assassinated a US President, a Tsar and an Italian king amongst other acts, but nowhere in Butterworth's book are we really given an idea of why. Other than laying out the notion of "propaganda by deed", an anticipation of spreading the anarchist message through the audaciousness or multiplicity of anarchist terror acts, but we are not informed of what that message was. The book opens with the theorist exemplar Peter Kropotkin, who along with veteran of the Paris Commune Louise Michel (whose own highly moral propaganda by exemplary deed eschewed violence) stride throughout the whole period covered by the book, but nowhere are Kropotkin's ideas given anything but cursory consideration.

For me The World That Never Was reads like a Who's Who of anarchism, but one reduced to the lives of 'celebrity' anarchists. It's personal rather than political in its study of individuals, as perhaps is suggested by the book's subtitle "A true story of dreamers, schemers, anarchists and secret agents". And yet as comprehensive a dragnet as the book appears to offer, Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, the most significant of US anarchists, are given scant treatment. Moreover, perhaps collective anarchism's greatest expression, that of the Ukraine's Nestor Makhno in the wake of the chaos in revolutionary Russia, is given no treatment whatsoever. Even if Butterworth felt that Ukrainian anarchism's actual flowering fell outside his period, it must have been developing its ideas and structures throughout his chosen period, since it didn't spring into the fully anarchist Free Territory fully formed. Just as criminal an oversight was the devoting of a mere two single line references to anarcho-syndicalism, the arranging of anarchist structures along the lines of industry-wide trade unionism. Any sort of collective anarchism is strangely overlooked in this book, which again returns me to the sense that the interest is with the personalities rather what lay beneath.

There are good sections of the book, particularly the opening setting of the Paris Commune in which Butterworth demonstrates a keen historian's ability to bring a past event alive. The Commune is a period well documented and covered by many historians, so I feel he fares less well when he delves into the murky and poorly illuminated world of individual activists. His small picture is very small indeed. Never did I get a sense of just how widespread, influential and current anarchism was throughout Europe in the last decades of the nineteenth and the early years of the twentieth centuries. I can't help feeling that this book is a great opportunity missed, especially in the current climate as we reconsider just how we protest and oppose our governments.

11/22/63:

2012-01-30T21:39:00.000-08:00

A Novel

by Stephen King

752 pages, Hodder & Stoughton

Review by Paul Fenton

I keep putting off reviewing this book, and it has nothing to do with the story, or the characters, or the author ... it’s just that when I start a review, I usually like to lead in with the book’s title, and this one I keep forgetting.

11.22.63 by Stephen King. There, now I have a handy reference point. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? I’m sure to American readers it is immediately recognisable as a date, and a historic one at that; but when I read those numbers, two possibilities spring to mind:

1. Bust, waist and hip measurements for a human pear

2. NFL offensive play-calls

The second possibility makes very little sense, because I’m obviously not American and I know nothing about the NFL. But still, there it is: 11.22.63, hup hup!

As recent Stephen King books go, it’s good, it’s different, I liked it. At 752 pages, it’s also looooong – but we expect that when we pick up a new King book, so it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

The protagonist in the story is Jake Epping, a high school English teacher who travels back in time through the portal in his local diner’s storeroom to prevent the Kennedy assassination.

Yeah, it sounds really silly when you blurt it all out like that. It sounds like it might have been written as a follow-up to “Zombie Shape-Shifters from Jupiter Attack!” When I first read the story’s synopsis I thought: really? You sure about this one, Steve? I suppose he was sure, because he’s got 752 pages of Jake Epping to argue in his favour. All those pages go a long way to building the characters, setting the scene, making us perhaps not quite believe in the “rabbit hole” as he calls it, but at least helping us accept it for the duration. Putting the time travel concept to one side, and all the paradoxes and butterfly effects it entails, 11.22.63 is more about the ethics and consequences of meddling with the past than it is about “WTF? How did I end up in 1959?” Jake, now known as George Amberson, sets himself up as a teacher in a town outside of Dallas, gets a girlfriend, becomes entwined in the lives and loves and losses in the little town of Jody.

At some stage during the vast middle part of the story, I fell out of touch. Sure, there are the trips into Dallas where George Amberson rents a house across the street from Lee Harvey Oswald and all the associated tension and exciting historical detail, but still…it felt like there were two distinct stories in the book. The first is the story of Jake Epping, sent back to 1959 to gather enough intelligence to convince himself that Lee Harvey Oswald was indeed a lone gunman, and then stop him from killing Kennedy; the second is the story of George Amberson, high school English teacher and director of the school play and love interest of Sadie the librarian. As a reader, the success of the book is judged by how much you fall in love with George Amberson and Sadie Dunhill – Jake Epping’s quest to save JFK seems at times almost secondary. Still a good read for all that, and a good strong finish, provided you make it through that dry middle bit.

THE TOURIST

2012-01-28T19:57:00.000-08:00

by Olen Steinhauer

Minotaur Books, Kindle Edition

Review by J. S. Colley

If you came here hoping for a review of the book based on the movie starring Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp, you’ll be disappointed. (Was there a book based on that move? I don’t know.) The only similarity between that movie and this book is they are both thrillers. Having said that, I think George Clooney has rights to make this book into a movie. What he’s going to title it, I don’t know, since some other movie producer already beat him to “The Tourist.”

I picked up The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer on the recommendation of a friend. (Okay, I admit, I thought it was a book based on That Movie, but my friend soon set me straight.) I used to be a fan of spy novels, but ever since Reagan challenged Russia to “tear down this wall,” I’ve stopped reading them. Oh, wait; wasn’t it called the Soviet Union back then? I think so. Now I’m getting really confused.

In any case, I’m glad my friend pointed me toward this book because it is one of the better spy novels that I’ve read.

So, here’s the gist of it: Charles Alexander is an operative known as Milo Weaver to a US intelligence agency that nicknames their operatives “tourists,” for obvious reasons. The book starts with Charles contemplating suicide, but stuff happens and it never gets done. The Dexedrine addicted ex-tourist is pulled back into a life he thought he’d left behind.

Yeah, yeah, I know. There are lots of clichés — the failed marriage and the kid he never has time to see. Maybe because I haven’t read a spy novel in such a long time, this didn’t bother me one bit. The characterizations are great and the novel is well-written.

In fact, I liked it so much, I read the next book in Steinhauer’s series, called The Nearest Exit. I recommend them both.

HABIBI

2012-01-25T20:06:00.000-08:00

by Craig Thompson
665 pages, Faber & Faber

Review by Marc Nash

This is a brilliant book, but an impossible one to recommend. Dealing with the negatives first, its subject matter includes rape, forced prostitution, castration, slavery and racism, which straight away mean it's not going to be everyone's cup of tea. And yet the book also has so much praise.

Set in the desert kingdom of Wannatolia, a curious blend of medieval Muslim Sultanate and modern cityscape (with an environmentalist subtheme), a young girl is given into early forced marriage. But her husband is murdered and she is sold into slavery, eventually ending up in the Sultan's harem. However while caged in the slave market, she protects an abandoned dark skinned child. Their tentative relationship is well detailed, as these two people with no status forge an existence on the margins of society. They are two children having to function as adults, and their vulnerability in the face of their tough environment and to each other is rather touching. When they are split asunder as the girl is snatched and taken to the harem, we follow both their stories, through various tragedies and smaller triumphs, until they are reunited as very different beings indeed for their experiences.

I'm unsure as to whether this story, swooping between brutality and minor reassertions of the goodness of the human spirit as it does, works. The lurches from one emotional pole to the other leaves the reader concussed and bruised. I'm also curious as to how a Muslim reader would find the text, freely quoting the Qu'ran and the Hadiths, while demonstrating an unpalatable moral world of harems, slavery and abuse, ineluctably tied to a State run along Islamic lines.

But for me the beauty of the book, and there really is great creative and aesthetic beauty contained within all the narrative ugliness, is in the graphic art itself. It is here that the Islamic setting really comes to the fore, since one of the book's main themes is that of Arabic calligraphy. Thompson uses the fluid form of the Arabic script to blend with other fluid images, that of water, blood, potions, tree foliage, the venous system, animals and djinn. The graphic representation throws up some wonderful images throughout, harnessing the non-realistic style of the book.

So, undoubtedly a work of huge merit. But can I commend it to you unreservedly? No, I'm afraid I can't. Think of this review as representing a content warning and make your own judgment.

SEXTON BLAKE

2012-01-21T21:11:00.000-08:00

(BBC audio)
by Donald Stuart

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

Is a radio dramatisation suitable fodder for a Booksquawk review? Probably not, but I've been so busy recently that I've been hard pushed to get any book reviews written lately and really enjoyed listening to these recently rediscovered recordings of a BBC radio adaptation of my favourite fictional crimefighter. First broadcast in August 1967, the series only ran for 17 episodes before coming to an end in December of the same year. The recordings, thought lost for many decades have recently turned up (probably in someone's shed). This isn't the first radio series of Blake's adventures and his stories had been thrilling generations of readers by the late sixties. Indeed, devoted fans of the detective will point out that the 1950s and 1960s could hardly be called Sexton Blake's golden years. The outlandish villains and often-fantastical adventures of the 1920s and 1930s had been replaced with grittier, more realistic scenarios. However, whilst Donald Stuart's radio dramas may lack zany felons such as Zenith the Albino or Waldo the Wonderman, they make up for it by being tight, satisfying little thrillers.

The late William Franklyn stars as Blake, giving the detective a laconic yet confident manner. Blake's natural reserve and stiff upper lip contrasts wonderfully with the energy and wit of his youthful assistant Tinker, played with great Cockney charm by David Gregory. Other well-established characters such as the dull-witted Detective Inspector Coutts and Blake's long-suffering secretary Paula Dane make regular appearances and give the two lead characters the opportunity to exchange some fast-paced and pleasingly chirpy banter. Considering their age, the recordings are of a pretty good quality. There are a couple of moments where one gets the impression that a spot of remastering would have been of use but generally everything is crisp and clear.

There are actually three double-CD collections currently available, so here's a quick rundown of them.

“Liliesfor the Ladies and Other Stories” contains the first three episodes from the series. The titular “Lilies for the Ladies” sees Blake investigating the suspicious deaths of a number of wealthy high society women. “The Sin-Eater” is a complex tale where Blake is faced with a baffling series of cryptic messages written on playing cards whilst “Bluebeard's Key” sees the detective on the trail of a serial killer.

The second collection, “The Vampire Moon and Other Stories” offers up some slightly faster-paced tales than the first and is my personal favourite of the three. “The Vampire Moon” sees Blake investigating the mysterious death of a secret agent in a Chinese restaurant whose last words hint at a terrifying conspiracy that threatens the world. “The Fifth Dimension” has the detective scratching his head over a truly bizarre case of a disappearing man and “First Class Ticket to Nowhere” sees Blake and his team of intrepid crime-busters squaring up to an international ring of drug smugglers.

The third collection, “The Eight Swords and Other Stories” offers the best value for money with four entertaining stories. “The Eight Swords” has Blake investigate the poisoning of a rather unpleasant actress at a hair salon. “A Murder of Crows” revolves around the pursuit of a serial killer who only targets men called George Crow. “Double and Quit” is a cracking Cold War tale of espionage where Blake is recruited as a special agent and forced to go undercover in a prison. Finally, “You Must Be Joking” sees Blake on the trail of a killer who taunts his victims with chilling limericks informing them of their fate.

All three collections come with a bonus recording of a very early Sexton Blake drama from 1930. Being one of the earliest surviving examples of a radio drama, one shouldn't expect too much from “Murder on the Portsmouth Road”. The sound quality of this bonus story is so poor that it's a struggle to understand exactly what is going on. Even if you do finally get to grips with the scratchy recording, the paper-thin plot doesn't really stand up to the more sophisticated narratives of the other stories on the CDs. As a period piece, it's a pleasant little distraction but is unlikely to be listened to more than once.

The BBC and AudioGo should be commended for these releases. Whilst the somewhat dated radio dramatisations of a forgotten Sherlock Holmes clone are undoubtedly aimed at a (very) niche market, they are undeniably enjoyable and well worth tracking down if you're looking for something a little bit different.

Hereward L.M. Proops

BOX OF MUSTACHES

2012-01-18T21:35:00.000-08:00

by Stan Evans
161 pages, iUniverse

Review by Melissa Conway

I saw the movie Captain America a few months ago and noticed the name of the actor who played the main character was Chris Evans. His name brought to mind a boy I had in my high school Speech class, Jim Evans. I didn’t know Jim well, but he had a biting wit and a propensity for drawing graphic cartoons that reminded me of my older brother. Jim (and everyone else in class) was witness to one of my Most Embarrassing life moments – the time I got up in front of class to give a speech I was totally unprepared for. I had decided to wing it because the assignment was to give a humorous speech and I was SO funny, wasn’t I? Jim could have pulled it off, I’m certain, but me…well, I blanked out and ended up stuttering and spluttering and staring out at the class in horror before ducking behind the podium. There may have been a few public tears of shame shed. The stank from that experience forever soured me to public speaking. But I digress.

On this particular evening (after I saw Captain America and thought of Jim), I was mostly looking for an excuse to avoid my latest manuscript, but whatever my motivation, I ended up Googling around to see if Jim had an Internet presence. I knew he had a twin brother, so I typed in something like, “jim evans twin stan” and Bingo! I stumbled upon the book I’m reviewing tonight.

I probably would have glanced at the book’s description, said, “That’s cool,” and moved on to some other manuscript-evading tactic, if it weren’t for a couple of odd coincidences that eventually compelled me to buy the book.

The first coincidence was that Jim’s twin, author Stan Evans, self-published in the early 2000’s with iUniverse; same as me. The second and more compelling coincidence was that the story is about Stan and Jim’s childhood, which sounded (at first) eerily similar to my own. The cover says, “The darkly funny, true story of how twin brothers survived their mother’s madness.” Since I have often considered writing a book about my own ‘offbeat’ childhood, I was curious if the initial appearance of similarity between us played out.

In some ways, Box of Mustaches had me in a déjà vu grip as I read, especially the spot-on evocations of being a kid in the seventies. In other ways, the story had me thanking my lucky stars that my mother’s brand of eccentricity was mild in comparison to what Stan and Jim endured. I never would have guessed Jim’s life was so tragically dysfunctional; he seemed so confident – a defense mechanism, I suppose. To a troubled teen struggling to fit in with his peers when his life is anything but normal, the appearance of normalcy would have to be the next best thing.

The author’s writing style is very readable. In itself, the story is not amusing in the slightest, but seen through Stan’s eyes, the tragedy is quite funny. My sense of humor is similar to the author’s, that “laugh at everything” attitude that helped me survive the worst of the incomprehensible things my mother did and said over the years.

The chapters jump around in time and one is written like a script, but it’s not jarring. We read about the twin’s grandmother Centa, who was raped by a Russian soldier in a concentration camp in Poland and gave birth to their mother, Heidi. 16-year-old Heidi’s obsessive ambition to become an actress leads her to leave Germany for America. There, she marries, has the twins, and begins a slow spiral into insanity.

The author does a fine job characterizing the players in his life, and does an equally fine job communicating the raw emotion the events that shaped him inspired. By the end of the story, when he summed up his feelings for his mother, I was teary-eyed because on many levels I could relate to his powerful, conflicting love-hate.

It was interesting reading about Coeur d’Alene, Idaho from Stan’s perspective, as well. Like me, he and his brother moved to town in the middle of their high school careers. Also like me, they came from California and found that there was a pervasive anti-outsider bent at Coeur d’Alene High (no one cared that my ancestors were pioneers in the area). Unlike me, they arrived after their mother shot their step-father, turning him into a paraplegic and getting herself committed in the process.

Would I recommend this book to someone with no connection (however vague) to the author? Definitely. It’s a fine indie example. I was somewhat astonished at how brutally honest the author was about people who are (or were at the time of publication) still alive, but he puts forth a hopeful message for those who find themselves on the receiving end of someone else’s crazy: you can survive and you can succeed in life despite the hardship you’ve undergone.

Stan Evans went on to become an award-winning producer. I have no idea why he was unable to secure a ‘real’ publisher with his undoubted connections in the biz, but I’m glad I stumbled upon this hidden treasure.

THE ISTANBUL PUZZLE

2012-01-15T22:04:00.000-08:00

by Laurence O’Bryan
432 pages, Avon

Review by J. S. Colley

I entered a contest on HarperCollins’ website authonomy.com to receive a proof copy of The Istanbul Puzzle—and I won! Yeah, me! It was doubly nice as I love puzzles and my guilty pleasure has always been religious conspiracy-theory thrillers. This one certainly didn’t disappoint. The book is due to be released the middle of this month, so this is a pre-publication review.

Just as riots break out in London after a minor incident at a local mosque, Sean Ryan learns his partner and co-founder of The Institute of Applied Research, Alex Zegliwski, has been brutally murdered while on assignment in Istanbul. Alex has no next of kin and so the police ask Sean to come to Turkey to identify the body. Once there, Sean meets Isabel Sharp, Alex’s liaison officer at the British Consulate, when she saves Sean from meeting the same fate as his partner. Isabel is not only investigating Alex’s beheading, but also recent chatter on the Internet that threatens to “bring Armageddon to London.”

Is Alex’s death, the riots, and the chatter all connected? The only clue to the mystery surrounding Alex’s death is an envelope containing a USB memory stick and some blown-up photos of mosaics. Who is the enemy and who is the ally? The reader is left guessing. This book does what a thriller is supposed to do—keep the reader on edge with every turn of the page. The Istanbul Puzzle weaves elements together in a plot that is very believable in the current political/religious climate.

What makes this book even more enjoyable is Laurence O’Bryan’s knowledge of Istanbul, which is obvious in his descriptive passages of the city. O’Bryan evokes all the senses, and makes the reader feel as if he/she is right there. I like to learn something when reading a novel—even a thriller—and this book did not disappoint. I feel as if I’ve visited the city and the beautiful Hagia Sophia, the church that had “once been the Islamic world’s St. Peter’s.”

I’m eagerly anticipating O’Bryan’s next novel in the series titled, The Jerusalem Puzzle. He also has a website where he posts puzzles related to the book. What fun!

HOW I ESCAPED MY CERTAIN FATE:

2012-01-13T21:45:00.000-08:00

The Life and Deaths of a Stand-up Comedian
by Stewart Lee
304 pages, Faber & Faber

Review by Bill Kirton

Stewart Lee is either hilarious or mind-numbingly boring. I’ve heard both assessments of him by people who’ve been to his shows. I’ve only ever seen him on TV (but will be at one of his live shows in February) and, for me, he’s very funny and one of the most daring stand-ups around. He’s a highly articulate (and literate) man of strongly-held political and artistic ideals and he treats the business of comedy with intelligence and respect.

How I Escaped My Certain Fate consists of the scripts of three complete shows performed in 2005, 2006, 2008. But the scripts are interspersed with Lee’s own background in the business, his reflections on their genesis and development, and long explanatory footnotes, some of which are mini-essays in themselves, on various aspects of humour, audience manipulation, good and bad taste and anything else which might arise from the bizarre tradition of stand-up. The whole thing is a fascinating tour through the history of the medium (primarily in the

), Lee’s own attraction to it, and the values, meanings, limits and liberating effects of laughter. He investigates topics, techniques, styles, intentions and is totally honest about the choices he makes in terms of material and presentational method.

For him, an audience is an organic whole which needs shaping, leading by the hand, dividing then reuniting. His relationship with it is a constant source of fascination for him. He sets out to stretch and test the limits of its tolerance, learning about others but also about himself in the process. From Bergson and beyond, theorists have recognised that laughter is an intellectual rather than an emotional reaction and Lee uses his onstage experiences and the reactions he provokes to analyse its components, study the uses which other comedians have made of it, and ‘explain’ his own challenging material. He suggests, in fact, that “Within a few years, these ‘jokes’ as we comedians call them, will have been entirely purged from my work in favour, exclusively, of grinding repetition, embarrassing silences, and passive-aggressive monotony”. He’s joking, of course, but, paradoxically, there are already signs of such a progression in his act. He’s joking – but he means it.

In one show, his theme led him to a particularly explicit situation which combined elements that, on the surface, couldn’t possibly be part of a comedy routine. He knew this was coming and so he had to prepare the audience for it and keep them laughing rather than stamping out of the theatre from anger or disgust. This is part of how he did it:

“I was trying everything I could to isolate individuals in the audience, or pockets of people in the audience, and make them think about their responses. By dividing the audience into those who ‘get it’ and those who don’t, eventually, usually, the ‘don't gets’ wanted to be part of the ‘do gets’, and gradually a strong enough coalition of the willing was formed to support the unacceptable stylistic and narrative thrust of the last half of the show.” (Interesting that he used the word ‘unacceptable’ – showing how aware he was of the transgressions he was about to make.)

His words are those of someone for whom stand-up is a way of exploring things beyond ‘jokes’ and cheap laughs. They’re written by someone with a facility for language, a sharp, perceptive intelligence, and a real interest in people. The book asks many questions, gives stand-up a new perspective and, yes, is still very, very funny. Anyone interested in laughter and where it comes from will find this a provocative but rewarding, enjoyable read. It’s much, much more than a celebrity memoir.

THE COMPLETE BAD COMPANY

2012-01-11T21:58:00.000-08:00

368 pages, 2000AD
Milligan, Ewins, McCarthy, Dillon

Review by Pat Black

We’ve Squawked about comics before. We’ve even Squawked about 2000AD before. But now we finally arrive at the best of the best – Peter Milligan’s evergreen Bad Company.

2000AD is a lonely old soul out there in the firmament; a single blaze of colour travelling on across British newsstands, a battered survivor from the days when the racks were once filled with comics. In the quarter-century since 1987, when I began seriously getting into 2000AD, the home-grown comics market has become all but extinct. The Beano and Dandy are still clinging on, desperately hoping that all sorts of gimmicks and commercial tie-ins will drag them back from the brink. But I fear that it’s the dads and granddads who continue to buy these funny pages, not the children. The same is true for Commando, which continues in its own unique way, having lasted nearly ten times longer than the Second World War it depicts.

But the sci-fi themed 2000AD has never quite been for children. It was always too violent, too outré, and too unusual for my palate when I was a primary school child. But as I got older, everything clicked into place. Suddenly I saw the appeal: 2000AD was cool. Its heroes were cynical, not morally uptight like good old Dan Dare or Roy Race. They didn’t play fair or follow clean lines - and sometimes they even lost out to their enemies. And it was staggeringly violent; I’ve got an ABC Warriors review brewing, pending a belated delivery from Santa, but suffice to say I’ve never seen such carnage in a product ostensibly for children.

I recognised that the comic also had something to say about our world, even while depicting alien ones. I could appreciate Halo Jones’ boredom as she traipsed around shopping malls with her alien friends on other planets, and you didn’t have to be a genius to work out that super-cop Judge Dredd was taking a massive sideswipe at American culture, even while paying homage to its crime fiction.

It even had its own version of swearing – and by crud, I can’t have been the only boy whose raging hormones were thankful for the sight of women on its pages; lovingly-penned tips of the hat to the Marvel and DC heroines and villainesses whose curves entranced many a young man across the decades. You certainly didn’t get that in the Beezer. And even if supervixens like Judge Anderson or Durham Red weren’t quite real women, they were a welcome break from the lumpy, authoritarian irritants in polka-dot dresses and pearls that you saw in every other boys’ comic.

All of which leads us to Bad Company. This strip came about during that period of the eighties when Vietnam war movies were becoming major award winners as well as big box office – the era of Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, Hamburger Hill and Casualties of War. Following 2000AD’s well-established history of reflecting popular culture as well as creating it, Bad Company took the conventions of these contemporary military dramas – raw recruits; harsh jungle; strange, unknowable enemies – and put them into outer space, on the planet Ararat.

The story is told through the eyes of Danny Franks, who fills in his diary while he takes his first tour against the vicious alien enemy, the Krool. These bug-eyed monsters are as fond of torture and cruelty as they are of military conquest, making them a particularly fearful foe. Young Danny’s unit soon comes under attack, but they are saved by the legendary Bad Company. Led by the Frankenstein-esque Kano, a victim of the Krool’s hellish torments who managed to escape their prison camp, they are a rag-tag bunch of psychopaths operating off the grid who only exist to put an end to their enemy – and sometimes, each other. The survivors from Danny’s unit band together with the Company in a grim battle against the Krool, the feral human tribes who scavenge the battlefields and even their own dead colleagues, reanimated as “war zombies”.

There was some unpleasant violence on these pages, delivered in a peculiar tone of dread and horror with grim scenes of decay and filthiness which conjured the atmosphere of the trenches in World War One. It also had the outright nihilism which makes 2000AD so unique even today; one panel depicting Kano executing a Krool prisoner was, frankly, a bit much, even if it was only a bug-eyed monster biting the bullets.

We had weirdness, too – with references beyond the reach of most 10-year-olds, you would hope. In one section, the soldiers encounter hallucinogenic headwinds while crossing one of Ararat’s plains, which make them face their own worst fears. In an almost too-cute nod to human recreational drug-taking, the soldiers suffer flashbacks to this experience in later episodes.

All the while, brooding Kano leads the gang on his own personal mission of revenge, the key to which resides in a black box he carries about with him.

This story was superlative – and disturbing. The moment when Danny comes face-to-face with a fallen comrade who gets reanimated as a zombie is unforgettable. But the first part of the saga is nothing like as chilling or effective as its barnstorming sequel, Bad Company II.

Here, we follow Danny – now the leader of Bad Company – as he follows Kano’s mission statement to rid Ararat of the foul Krool. But there’s trouble brewing among the ghetto planets nearby, with stories of a Frankenstein-esque creature who hunts both humans and Krool alike. Separate from this familiar-sounding menace, Danny enlists a new crew on a mission to take down the godhead of the alien empire - the Krool heart, a monstrous entity with near-omnipotence - as it nears the end of its life cycle and prepares to spawn a successor. But, this being Bad Company, it seems that the comrades-in-arms hate each other almost as much as they hate their target.

Bad Company II is... well, I want to say it’s The Empire Strikes Back to the first part’s Star Wars, but that doesn’t quite cover it; perhaps Lord of the Rings-to-The-Hobbit is a better comparison to make. It’s a sequel that not only improves on the original but also has much bigger themes on its mind, and a more pronounced psychedelic tone which might be a distraction were it not for the personal dramas that keep our attention from wavering.

As Kano returns, tormented (and sometimes taken over) by the Krool warrior his consciousness is fused with, so Danny begins to wonder about the relationship between human and Krool, between life and the universe, between pain and redemption, between the one and the many... and lots of other things which probably have no business hiding between the covers of a comic read by a boy aged 11.

That said, there are still thrilling moments of combat as well as intriguing personal animosities among the new members of the Company itself – the best of which is the relationship between De Racine, decadent member of Earth’s ruling Elite, and Protoid, the bizarre shape-shifting alien whose ship the Company uses to reach the Krool Heart.

The artwork by Brett Ewins, Steve Dillon and Jim McCarthy is also first-rate – an occasionally psychedelic journey beyond the grime, gunshots and gore that must have had all three licking their lips at the prospect of creating such bizarre worlds, both internal and external.

I was thrilled with this strip when I first read it as a laddie, but I was astonished when I re-read it in this book many years later. It is mind-blowing, epic stuff that dares to be cerebral. As a boy, reading this strip was a little like that fugitive feeling you got if you stayed up late to watch TV and stumbled upon a movie like Blade Runner; you didn’t quite get what it was all about, but you knew it was cool and stylish, you never forgot it, and you wanted to experience it again.

This book contains stories which appeared in annuals and later episodes of Bad Company – but the first and second stories are where it’s at; some of the very best in British comics.

This saga is hardly alone in the history of 2000AD. Away from the tired old superheroes and their over-familiar costumes, backstories, villains, sidekicks and girlfriends, 2000AD dares to be different, even today. Nothing lasts forever, of course, and god knows it’s done well to last so long with all its UK peers long consigned to history. But I hope 2000AD can carry on far into the future, even with the once-futuristic sounding dateline of its title far behind us.

AUTHOR INTERVIEW:

2012-01-09T21:27:00.000-08:00

Sue Eckstein, Interpreters

Interview by Pat Black

Interpreters by Sue Eckstein looks at the history of one family from before the Second World War to the present day, in Germany and Britain. Here, Booksquawk talks to the author about her inspiration and some of the themes of the book.

Booksquawk: Your book has war as a background theme. Although we don’t see much combat until the end, it’s quite clear that the experience of war has had a huge effect on Julia’s family. Was this intended to be a comment on conflicts which are currently going on around the world?

Sue Eckstein: War and its effect on those who were involved and those who were affected by their “inheritance” is very definitely a major theme in Interpreters. I never intended it as a comment on conflicts which are currently going on around the world and I’ve always thought of it as a novel that relates very particularly to the Second World War and to Germany and Britain in particular. But, now you’ve asked the question, I can see that to some extent the same kind of issues could possibly arise in other times, places and conflicts.

B: I found the family dynamic relating to Julia, her daughter and Max fascinating. Was this a comment on the death of the traditional family unit, or was it more of a reflection on Julia herself?

SE: I think that Julia feels that much of her family’s dysfunction is a result of its structure (though the reader knows better) and so she very consciously sets out to create a family of just her and Susanna where she feels more in control. Max, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have a plan of how to create a perfect, functional family but just does it. Susanna is attracted to Max’s family’s fluidity and the space it gives her to be herself. It’s interesting that in real life, I’ve opted for some kind of hybrid – a nuclear family but almost always with other people visiting or staying… And I strongly believe it is good for children to have many significant adults in their lives as support and role models – rather than just their parents, however good and loving they may be.

B: Interpreters is striking in the way it outlines how history affects individual families, and not just populations en masse or political movements. Do you think the individual is supreme when it comes to affecting the course of families and lives, or is there part of Tolstoy’s thinking regarding War and Peace in there – that we’re all merely players on a pre-planned stage?

SE: Crikey! That’s a tricky question! I’m not so sure about the pre-planned stage thing but I do believe that whatever people do or plan, they are very much dependent on outside circumstances and events. Individuals can only plan so far – we never really know what is round the corner. I think that comes out in the novel – Julia’s mother clearly did not want to create the edgy childhood that Max and Julia experience, or the unhappy marriage – but the experiences of her past didn’t allow the happiness she imagined and hoped she could bring to her husband and future children. Likewise, Julia could only do so much to create the childhood she thought would make Susanna happy.

B: The psychoanalytical sections were by far the hardest-hitting. Did Julia understand what her mother had gone through before hearing the tapes, and were they intended to be a help in forming closer ties with her daughter?

SE: No, Julia very definitely had no idea what her mother had gone through before hearing the tapes. As far as Julia was concerned, her mother was a very ordinary but often very unhappy and secretive English mother. My feeling is that hearing the tapes in the car, and hopefully talking about them with Max, would give her a much better understanding of her mother and I think the relationship would change as the result of hearing them. Many, though not all, of the secrets and mysteries of her childhood would begin to make more sense. I imagine that (after the novel ends) Julia and her mother may well never speak about the tapes but there would be a silent, unspoken closeness…Julia would appreciate what her mother had tried to do in spite of her upbringing and experiences and also the courage it would have taken her mother to allow the tapes to be listened to in her lifetime.

B: Interpreters spans generations in one family’s lifetime. But in looking at bigger pictures, the book concentrated on very small things – relating mainly to Julia’s recollections connected with the house, and some of the objects in it. Could you talk more about the juxtaposition of big memories and small objects in Interpreters?

SE: I hadn’t consciously set out to write a novel that juxtaposes big memories and small objects but now you point it out, I think that’s exactly what I was doing! I think it takes very little to evoke a great deal. The smouldering cigarette in an onyx ashtray, the fringes on the Turkish carpet, the wooden ark made by Julia’s grandfather – all these have much greater significance beyond the things themselves. I like to leave it to the reader to make the connections and I hope that I have succeeded.

Interpreters is available now.

THE YEAR GOD’S DAUGHTER

2012-01-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

Child of the Erinyes
by Rebecca Lochlann
348 pages, Erinye Press

Review by Melissa Conway

I am acquainted with the author via social networking, which should in no way be construed as an admission that the following review is biased. If I don’t like a book, I won’t finish reading it no matter who wrote it.

The Year God’s Daughter is the first in author Rebecca Lochlann’s Child of the Erinyes series. Even without reading the bio on her website, it’s obvious from the first few pages that this is an author who did her research. She spent fifteen years acquainting herself with ancient Greece, and it shows. Authenticity is steeped into each chapter.

If you are not a fan of historical fiction, don’t let that stop you from reading this excellent book. The finely-honed characterization is such that even with a host of unfamiliar names, you will never lose track of who’s who. The narrative never gets boring – the author has produced a fine balance between description and action.

The story opens with the child Aridela, beloved princess on the island of Crete, recklessly attempting to fulfill her dream of becoming a bull dancer – she believes the goddess Athene has made it her destiny to accomplish the daring and difficult feat. Menoetius is a young foreigner, bastard son of the High King of Mycenae, tasked with finding any weakness in Crete’s defenses. They meet under dire circumstances, and thus begins “Glory, passion, treachery and conspiracy on the grandest scale.”

Divine destiny is a deep-seated theme throughout. Constant regional earthquakes are interpreted by the ruling priestesses as omens, and most everything is imbued with celestial meaning. The reader is immersed in a vivid culture of devoted spirituality. Athene must be appeased with violent sacrifice and every year that sacrifice is the queen’s latest consort – a man who bested all other competitors for the honor of living large for a year and then allowing his blood to consecrate Crete’s soil. Crete is a matrilineal society, but male-dominated kingdoms surround them, and contempt for Athene is spreading on the mainland. If the encroaching changes reach as far as Aridela’s peaceful, prosperous island, a long-prophesied catastrophe will befall them all. From the start, we know this story is headed for a spectacular, world-changing ending. I can’t wait for the rest of the series to see how it all plays out…

Rebecca Lochlann has produced a book of uncommon quality. Highly recommended.

BULLDOG DRUMMOND

2012-01-05T22:00:00.000-08:00

by Sapper
320 pages, Wordsworth Editions Ltd

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

What ho, chaps! Fed up with modern thrillers with their labyrinthine plots, gritty action and humourless, navel-gazing anti-heroes? If you're bored of Jason Bourne or Jack Reacher makes you retch, then perhaps you should turn to Sapper's “Bulldog Drummond”. First published in 1920, the novel was quickly followed by a number of sequels, as well as enjoying successful adaptations on the radio, cinema and television.

The novel follows the adventures of Captain Hugh Drummond. Returning to London after World War I, Drummond finds civvy street a little bit dull compared to the excitement of life in the trenches. In order to satisfy his desire for adventure, he places an advert in The Times offering his services to those who require them. Whilst Drummond is not a handsome man (his brief career as an amateur boxer has left him with a broken nose), his indefatigable “can do” attitude and his boundless optimism make him an immediately endearing character.

When Drummond is contacted by the inconveniently beautiful Phyllis Benton, he can't bring himself to turn down her request to aid her father who she fears has fallen victim to a gang of unscrupulous blackmailers. In no time at all, Drummond finds himself up against the villainous Carl Peterson and his cronies who seek to organise a Socialist uprising in Britain for their own financial gain. Drummond takes great pleasure in upsetting Peterson's dastardly schemes whilst always sticking to his strongly-held belief in the importance of sportsmanship and fair-play. He's not the sort to mercilessly pick off Peterson's henchmen with a sniper rifle. For an ex-soldier, Drummond seems remarkably averse to firearms and is far more likely to go toe-to-toe with his opponents in a good old-fashioned fist fight. However, Drummond's such a gentleman he'd most likely help them back to their feet and dust them off after knocking them down with a devastating right hook. It is this reluctance to killing his opponents that prolongs Drummond's adventure. One gets the impression things would be a lot more simple if he were to toss a grenade in through an open window of Peterson's headquarters and be done with it. Instead, Drummond and Peterson toy with one another, taunting and verbally sparring until it becomes abundantly clear that they're both enjoying their strange, confrontational relationship.

Aiding Drummond on his jolly japes are a group of his chums from the trenches. A gang of ex-soldiers from both high and low society, Drummond's pals are as inexplicably upbeat and fearless as the man himself and the banter between them as they sip beer and puff away on their pipes whilst plotting their next move epitomises the great British stiff upper lip. Whether providing Drummond with a bit of muscle, piloting aeroplanes for a quick jaunt across the channel or disguising themselves as waiters so that they can drop the antagonist's dinner into his lap, Hugh's friends add a welcome bit of comic relief to the story.

There's no escaping the fact that “Bulldog Drummond” is a period piece. The dialogue is peppered with hilariously dated slang and the author's attitude to women renders them little more than pretty bits of decoration to beautify an otherwise dull room. The character of Phyllis is as one-dimensional as they come and only serves the purpose of looking nice, being in need of rescue and wilting in our hero's arms. The most interesting female character is the chain-smoking, seductive Irma. Peterson's “daughter”, Irma is the novel's proto-femme fatale but her promising character is never exploited fully. By the time we reach the closing chapters, Irma has taken a back-seat in the proceedings and her ultimate fate barely gets a mention (though I am reliably informed she returns in the sequels).

The most glaringly dated aspect of the novel is Drummond's politics. Unlike modern heroes who work outside the bounds of society, Drummond is a staunch supporter of the status quo. The prospect of a Socialist uprising in Britain would undermine the rigid class system that he so fervently admires (after all, he is at the top of it). The reader is kept in the dark when it comes to the finer details of Peterson's plot and this is probably due to the fact that Sapper had not fully figured their plan out himself. The message he wanted to put across was very simple: Socialism is unworkable and dangerous. Its supporters (the trade unions) are deluded and naïve. Of course, one must always look at the context in which a book is written. Drummond's sportsmanlike attitude when taking on his opponents seems a logical reaction to the indiscriminate horrors of the First World War with the advent of mechanised warfare. British society was shaken by the war and many were concerned that the Bolshevik uprising in Russia would spread to our shores. Sapper's uncomplicated politics and straight-talking hero were aimed to remind the reader of what it means to be British, the Bulldog breed.

For all its faults, “Bulldog Drummond” is a great read. With a likeable hero, fast-paced action and a sense of fun that is lacking from many modern thrillers, it is easy to see why Sapper's square-jawed gentleman adventurer enjoyed such popular success. Paving the way for pulp heroes such as Doc Savage and cited by Ian Fleming as a major influence on James Bond, Bulldog Drummond is indeed a great British hero.

Hereward L.M. Proops

MAKE LOVE! THE BRUCE CAMPBELL WAY

2012-01-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

by Bruce Campbell
368 pages, St. Martin's Griffin

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

There are two types of people in this world: those who don't know who Bruce Campbell is and those who worship him. B-movie regular, star of Sam Raimi's “The Evil Dead” trilogy and Don Coscarelli's “Bubba Ho-Tep”, Campbell might not have enjoyed A-list success but his colourful acting CV has made him a genre icon and a staple on the convention circuit. He has also made quite a profitable career of mocking himself, from playing a washed-up version of himself in “My Name is Bruce” to his hilarious autobiography “If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B-Movie Actor”.

Like the bastard offspring of his autobiography and “My Name is Bruce”, “Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way” is a self-effacing comic novel which follows the misadventures of Campbell's fictional self after he is cast in an A-list Hollywood romantic comedy. The fictional movie in which the fictional Campbell is cast is titled “Let's Make Love”. Directed by Mike “The Graduate” Nicholls and starring Richard Gere and Renee Zellweger, the movie seems a guaranteed box-office success. However, when Campbell is cast as Foyl the Doorman, his very presence on-set seems to taint the production with his B-movie sensibilities. Subjected to numerous re-writes, the film's heartfelt dialogue is replaced with slapstick fight scenes and expensive camera-work is replaced with shaky hand-held shots.

Campbell's attempts to get a better grasp of the character of relationship expert Foyl lead him into a series of adventures. Campbell finds himself an unwilling participant in an adult movie, fights a duel at a Southern Gentlemen's Club, locates John Dillinger's preserved penis in the Smithsonian Museum and helps organise a NASCAR-themed wedding. His repeated run-ins with the authorities during this time leads to him becoming public enemy number one, culminating in a ridiculous gun-fight at the novel's climax.

Consistently amusing and occasionally hilarious, “Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way” is a highly enjoyable read. The novel is full of humorous photographs and graphics to illustrate the action of the story and Campbell's ability to sustain the paper-thin plot over 300 pages pays testament to his skill as a writer. The plot moves along at a fair pace and Campbell is more than generous with his celebrity cameos (Jack Nicholson's pitch for a “Chinatown” sequel is guaranteed to raise a chuckle). Being a work of fiction, readers shouldn't expect any great insight into Hollywood or expect to learn much about the “real” Bruce Campbell. On the cover copy of the book, Campbell points out that “everything in the book actually happened – except for the stuff that didn't.”

Ultimately, the amount of enjoyment a reader gets out of this book will depend upon how much they like Bruce Campbell. If you haven't heard of Bruce Campbell (shame on you!), this book probably isn't the best place to start. To the uninitiated, I'd recommend they grab a DVD of “The Evil Dead II” or “Bubba Ho-Tep” and prepare to enter B-movie heaven. Fans of Campbell's movies will doubtless get a kick out of this goofy adventure and it is thoroughly refreshing to see an actor try something different rather than opting for yet another cookie-cutter ghost-written memoir. He's not the best writer on earth (if the truth be told, neither is he the best actor) but the book's energy, charisma and wit explain why Bruce Campbell's popularity endures.

Hereward L.M. Proops

SQUAWK OF THE YEAR

2011-12-31T19:26:00.000-08:00

Wherein we squawk about our favorite books from 2011.

Bill Kirton:

I won a couple of awards for my own books this year and, even though I jumped at the chance to exploit that, I acknowledged that I was uneasy about the whole business of ‘competitive literature’. Nonetheless, that’s what I’m forced to apply here. So I flicked back through the books I’ve read in 2011 which I thought worth reviewing and came up with a short list, every one of which could have ‘won’. There was The Sense of an Ending (Julian Barnes), Empty Chairs (Stacey Danson) and Absolute Zero Cool (Declan Burke) – all very different but each one totally absorbing, moving and/or entertaining. In the end, though, I had to go for Philip Pullman’s The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ. The title’s provocative and, predictably, has the religious right fulminating and wanting it burned without even opening it. And that’s a huge pity because, in a way, it emphasises the rightness and absolute values of the teachings of Jesus as wonderful social(ist) insights into how people can live together in harmony and mutual respect. (And I write that as an atheist.) On the other hand, it exposes how organised religion has deliberately subverted and distorted those values in the interests of a ruling elite. All of which makes it sound heavy going. But it’s not. It’s funny, immensely readable, and creates powerful, credible characters - good and less good - in familiar set pieces such as the Sermon on the Mount, Gethsemane, the money-lenders in the temple and the several miracles. It makes the New Testament make sense.

Marc Nash:

"Free Fall" by Nicolai Lilin - Non-Fiction. Throw your old hat Vietnam memoir books out, this is dirty guerilla war 21st Century style. A Russian sniper in a plain clothers "Sabotage" brigade gives you the experience of war like no other, from the effects of temporary blast deafness, through to the precise nature of destruction wrought upon the human body by the latest infantry armaments. The outrages committed on both sides in a war most people know nothing about are written about matter of factly. Demanding you the reader to come to the same conclusion about their inevitability. Vertiginous reading.

Melissa Conway:

2011 was one of those years where I was forced to schedule in down time, which tends to make relaxing just another chore. I didn’t read nearly as much as I normally do, but even if I had, my choice for best book would have very likely been the same because it was simply an outstanding read. What’s more, the work in question, Jane Borodale’s The Book of Fires, is not my normal fare. I tend to stick to genre fiction, but this is a literary novel of exceptional quality. I devoured it back in January, but when it came time to pick my favorite, it immediately came to mind. For the full rave, click on the title above to see my Booksquawk review (be warned, there are spoilers).

Pat Black:

My Squawk of the Year goes out to Ed Siegle's Invisibles - an offbeat hero's journey that takes us from Brighton to the favelas of Rio de Janeiro as a man seeks out his father. This book manages the difficult trick of creating magic without resorting to the mystical.

Hereward L.M. Proops:

It's really hard to pick a single book to crown as my read of the year. I could go for Fred Limberg's superlative thriller "Ferris' Bluff" or Glen Duncan's literary horror "The Last Werewolf". However, I'm going to have to opt for Axel Taiari's jaw-droppingly good vampire novellette "A Light to Starve By". A haunting story, beautifully written and brutally violent, Taiari manages to accomplish more in 30 pages than many novelists do in 30 years of writing. Now available for free on Amazon's Kindle store, "A Light to Starve By" is so good that it almost makes one forget the terrible crimes against vampires committed by Stephenie Meyer and her cronies. Taiari puts vampires back in the shadows where they belong. I can't wait to read more by him.

Paul Fenton:

It's been a light squawk year for me. I have been lax, and heavily distracted by tedious life matters, but Horns by Joe Hill has managed to poke a hole through my brick-like procrastination barrier. Ignatius Perrish wakes one morning with a set of devilish horns protruding from his temple, and the story which follows is as much about who he is and how he arrived at such an awkward state of horniness (not the fun kind), as it is about what he does next. His family and friends all think he murdered his girlfriend, and his new head gear makes people want to divulge their deepest, ugliest secrets; and that's where the true horror of the story sits. Well, most of it.

S.P. Miskowski:

Engines of Desire: Tales of Love & Other Horrors by Livia Llewellyn, 214 pages, Lethe Press.

Batten down the hatches. At least two of the stories in this collection will scare the hell out of you. A few will hurt your feelings. I was inconsolable after reading “Horses.” Then I read the rest of the book, and my only question is: Why do I have to write the way I do, instead of the way Llewellyn does? Muscular, precise, violent, and agonizingly truthful, her fiction takes no prisoners and makes you wonder why you bothered reading all those other writers, the ones who ramble and whine about life while she delivers it, bloody and screaming, into your arms.

J.S. Colley:

I’ve been given the task of picking my favorite book of the year. I say “task” because this is a difficult choice. While I’ve read many great novels this year, the three that jump out at me are: The Road by Cormac McCarthy, Being Dead by Jim Crace, and Florence and Giles by John Harding.

Just at this moment, I’ve chosen The Road as my Squawk of the Year, only because the main characters in Being Dead were not that likeable. I would have to give you a spoiler alert if I explained why I didn’t choose Florence and Giles. The writing in both, however, was superb.

The Road did not disappoint on any level. The writing was original and marvelously executed, the characters and plot compelling. There was not one point in the book where I questioned why a character acted or reacted the way they did. And the ending, while not unexpected, was satisfying. It wins my unputdownable book of the year. I hope to have more them in 2012.

Happy New Year to all.

INTERPRETERS

2011-12-29T22:21:00.000-08:00

by Sue Eckstein
214 pages, Myriad

Review by Pat Black

It’s weird going back to your hometown; weirder still to go back to the house you used to live in when there’s another family in there. This is what happens to Julia Rosenthal, the narrator of Interpreters, Sue Eckstein’s second novel, when she takes a trip back to the place she grew up in with her brother Max.

There’s family history to be examined in this story. As Julia looks in each room she sees them as they once looked in the time when she grew up while her mother and father’s marriage foundered. It’s a book concerned with the past as well as the future, and the intricate structures and relationships that make up a life – so we also get a flavour of what happens with Julia’s free-spirited daughter Susanna, and her odd decision to grow up under the care of her Uncle Max, a Steiner teacher.

As well as the recollections of family life – from one beautiful moment where Mrs Rosenthal almost begins an affair with a music teacher, through to the moment where the father changes from a bumbling drunk to a loving father in the reader’s eyes – there are transcripts of psychoanalytical conversations in the text. These turn out to be from the grandmother of the Rosenthal clan, covering her time growing up in Germany before, during and after the war. Her ordeals serve to put our modern day tensions and problems in their proper context.

For me, the great beauty of this short, but complex book was that odd sensation you sometimes get at family gatherings where you spot little correlations between family members often generations apart, whether they’ve met each other before or not. And it’ll make you think of the strange forces, characteristics and attractions that led you to be exactly where you are right now.

HOW LATE IT WAS, HOW LATE

2011-12-27T22:07:00.000-08:00

by James Kelman
374 pages, 1998, Vintage

Review by Pat Black

One of life’s little ironies: the morning after this book won the Booker Prize, I was taking part in an undergraduate tutorial looking at ways of deconstructing poetry. I had to report our group’s progress back to the whole class, but owing to a bit of stage fright and a thick accent, the lecturer didn’t understand a word I was saying. No amount of enunciation could get through to this person, and it required prompts from the other class members in order to get our points across, accompanied by no small amount of sniggering. That incident remains a big embarrassment to me, like something out of a nightmare.

James Kelman might have written this scene himself, glottal stops and all. After 20 years of successfully employing the Glaswegian accent in his short stories and novels, in the mid-90s he produced How Late It Was, How Late. It’s one of the most controversial Booker winners – an accolade which prompted one of the judges to threaten to quit, for reasons only they can know. Perhaps they were the type of person who would tut, frown and make a diffident public speaker stutter and repeat himself in front of a class of his peers. Perhaps they “didn’t quite catch the accent”.

Ah, it’s just one of those things. You’ve got to get on with it, I suppose, and learn your lessons. And that’s the tenor of the entire novel in a nutshell as it follows Sammy, a 38-year-old Glaswegian who wakes up in a whirlwind after a lost weekend of hard drinking and god knows what else in his home city. Sammy attracts the attention of the police – or “sodjers”, as he calls them – and after an unfortunate incident Sammy ends up in a jail cell, not only blind drunk but just plain blind after being given a beating.

From then on we follow Sammy’s internal world as he feels his way through his predicament, sightless. We piece together his family life and his past, his time spent inside prison, his relationship with his teenage son and also life with new partner Helen – who has gone missing, incidentally. He meets a variety of people along the way, some who help him – like Boab, his kindly neighbour – and others who might be of a less charitable disposition.

The Glaswegian dialect didn’t seem that difficult to follow; certainly it’s less broken, apostrophised and glottal than Irvine Welsh’s representations of east coast/Edinburgh speech. But the working class cadences are spot on, as is the swearing and slang talk. It’s almost as if a somewhat shrill, gallus little guy was narrating in your own mind.

Sammy is a chancer, and as we find out a little bit more about his life we see hints here and there of what he was up to when the drink took hold of him. As Sammy adjusts to his new, dark world, he has to learn to interact with his surroundings afresh. Next-door neighbours and passers-by seem kind enough – but are they all they seem? He’s desperate to get to Glancy’s, his local pub – but will the patrons take kindly to his presence once he gets there? Why are the police so keen to find out what he was doing that weekend, and just what is the “political” stuff they keep mentioning?

Classic Kelman traits are on show. First of all, the common man’s struggle against any form of authority. Sammy is faced with doctors, secretaries and form-fillers of every description as he attempts to gain medical attention for his blindness, and he is driven to rage by their bureaucratic natures and middle-class diction. Then there’s Kelman’s cute touch with snobbery regarding the use of language, particularly Scottish dialects. Sammy hears a story about a former prisoner who writes into a broadsheet newspaper, and makes a spelling error. The newspaper chooses to reproduce the error, with “sic” printed alongside it, a wink and a nudge on the part of the editor telling readers of a certain background all they might wish to know about their correspondent. Given the negative attention Kelman received for this novel based on its central character, subject matter and use of the English language, this proved beautifully prophetic.

I’m fascinated by a current theory called “the Glasgow effect”. Studies have been carried out into why that city in particular has such an atrocious record with early death, poor health standards, drink and drug abuse and violence compared with other UK cities which share its deprivation indicators and also geographical location, temperature and weather. The answer is... nobody knows. This theory argues that it’s purely psychological – that there’s a peculiar fear and anxiety which stalks Glasgow’s streets, a cycle of grief and oblivion that spans generations and snuffs out lives too soon.

Kelman’s book addressed “the Glasgow effect” nearly 20 years before it came into being. Sammy is subjected to an odd psychoanalysis by several characters, including his persistent lawyer Ally and a doctor who examines him. It looks into Sammy’s problems with anxiety and panic, and his responses to this in life. You wonder where all that came from; you wonder if the author is trying to analyse an entire city. Prophetic words, in any case.

The storyline is simple, and yet I wondered whether or not it was possible to read more into what goes on. Ally the lawyer, who offers to pursue Sammy’s compensation case, had something of the divine about him. There seemed to be a number of Homeric references, too – a man trying to get home; his missing partner is called Helen; he’s trying to reach his son... and blindness? Polyphemus? Again, perhaps I’m reading too much into it. Blame that bloody English lit class.

And there was something that disturbed me about Sammy. He wasn’t quite Kelman’s stock-in-trade – cheeky but loveable chancers, trying to put one over the authorities - but something altogether darker. I’m not sure I liked him. I can’t decide if this was because he partly reminded me of someone I knew, the person I used to be, or the person I might still become. The answer to how Sammy ends up on the tiles isn’t perhaps one we’d like to hear.

But How Late It Was, How Late, is still an odyssey worth taking, a great Glasgow novel by one of the great Glasgow writers. Ultimately, it’s about having hope, in spite of your circumstances and sometimes in spite of yourself.

A B & E

2011-12-24T21:49:00.000-08:00

by Marc Nash
184 pages, New Generation Publishing

Review by Paul Fenton

Words. I thought I knew a lot of them, but it seems I was wrong. After reading A B & E by Marc Nash, I feel like a chimp who’s been taught to screech out a few word-like sounds, or maybe a defrosted caveman educated by Katie Price. Not sure which is worse.

I’m not just talking about volume of vocabulary employed, but the arrangement. The associations, the twists of meaning against itself and back again, as a reader you can’t help but admire the artistry in the design. A B & E, though only a short novel (184 pages in paperback), took me a rather long time to read, because it’s dense. Rich. Every word demands your focus, every play on words requires your comprehension ... and thank Jebus for the built-in dictionary function in the Kindle, because without that I’d still be scratching my head at irruption, lordotic and modegreened (though to honest, even the Kindle dictionary struggled with mondegreened, and I had to hit up Wikipedia). The pressure to review such a bold, skilled experimental novel, it’s kind of daunting.
Me like book. Book good.

The protagonist is Karen Dash (an alias), a gangster’s moll hiding out in Corfu away from the vengeful eye of her criminal husband. She’d cheated on Damon with his chauffeur, and for her the penalty is Grecian exile.
Karen tells her story to listener or listeners unseen (though that becomes clearer later on) in a first-person monologue. The storytelling seems to take place almost exclusively in bars, with trays of cocktails always at hand to help out – between the chapters are cocktail recipes, perhaps put there to aid the person wanting a more empathetic reading experience.

Me like booze. Book like booze. Me like book.

My incipient low culture-itis reared its virulent head early on in the book, and I found myself picturing Karen as more perverse and intellectual Samantha Jones from Sex and the City, a forty-something cougar with a cosmopolitan in one hand and a young man’s pride and joy in the other. Her tale moves between past and present, from how she met Damon and came to cheat on him, to her nights of drinking and seduction, a short cycle which seems to repeat itself almost endlessly.

There’s a subplot with a secondary protagonist running alongside Karen’s tale of decadent woe, a hospital nurse in the UK. The connection between the two isn’t obvious, but there is a pleasing twist which makes having followed her progress worthwhile.

I found the early chapters more challenging than the latter. I’m not sure if that’s because of the sometimes obscure Greek mythology references in the first half (though I do like my Greek mythology), or if I was simply getting into the groove of Nash’s style. Here is a writer who seems to have no fear of ignoring literary conventions and the predictable requirements of mainstream fiction. Nash writes with an emphasis on the writing. If you’re after a James Patterson style page-turner, you might want to look elsewhere. If you’re after the latest addition to the Twilight saga, why are you even here? If, however, you appreciate exquisite writing which demonstrates with great flexibility just what this English language of ours is capable of, then I would have no hesitation in recommending A B & E to you.

Here. Read Book. Book Good.

UN LUN DUN

2011-12-22T21:37:00.000-08:00

by China Miéville
520 pages, Macmillan

Review by Marc Nash

Un Lun Dun is an abcity. A sort of inverse of our own cities. Made up of all the detritus and refuse rejected by us in the course of our daily living. So Un Lun Dun is constructed from broken umbrellas and unwanted goldfish flushed down our toilets. And Miéville does construct a wondrously imaginative world. But herein lies my first problem with how it's offered up. The phantasmagoric creations come so thick and fast, the reader is not permitted a mental pause to contemplate and bask in them (a few do have sketched cartoons dotted throughout the book to aid our teeming minds).

So in many places the book doesn't breathe and yet in other places, where the characters themselves take a break from the action, the book sags under its improbable and poorly drawn characterisation. The main character schoolgirl Deeba is engaged on a quest within Un Lun Dun and forms deep, emotional friendships incredibly quickly which determine her loyalties and decisions in an incredulous way. And as Miéville ramps up the phantasmagoric powers of the baddies who seem to hold all the aces, somehow Deeba takes an intuitive and unfounded decisive act that sweeps them away. Author ex machina as she guesses right every time, within this upside down and inside out world that supposedly operates counter-intuitively. I've found this in all three Miéville books I've read now. A certain carelessness or actual indifference towards both characterisation and plot resolutions. Maybe because for Miéville, all the fun lies in ushering forward the next set of fantastical creations from his fertile mind.

There are some redeeming setpieces. There's an excellent riff on words taking physical form and the author has great fun at the expense of prophecy and myth that turn out to be wide of the mark. In fact I would employ the word 'riff' for his writing throughout this book. The novel is a piece of virtuoso work, a constant guitar solo with riffs off the main theme. But ultimately it strikes me as self-indulgent because the rest of the arrangement doesn't seem to be in place. The rhythm section as it were. Throughout the book, the writer part of me kept wondering whether most of the words came out all of a piece and no further work on them undertaken. Unutterably pointing to the strength of Miéville's creative imagination for this wonderful array of original and unique beings and yet also containing an inbuilt smugness that their creation was sufficient, that their phantasmagoric nature didn't require a correlative logic to be developed alongside them. For a world of alternative realities, so much of the plot tramps along in the most mundane of human fashion.

Yes, this book is mainly for young adults, so that maybe their demands on credible character and plot devices might not be so rigorous as mine, but for the third time I feel a little cheated at a half-baked execution. I keep reading him to try and get under the skin of Miéville's cult status. But each time I am left outside, failing to become a convert. And yet I persist, because I know the ideas present are inherently fascinating, if only he could embed them in a fully crafted work of literature.

NIGHTINGALE SONGS

2011-12-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

by Simon Strantzas
210 pages, Dark Regions Press

Review by S.P. Miskowski

Everybody’s talking about Simon Strantzas. Okay, not everybody, but plenty of writers and editors are talking about Nightingale Songs, released in November. After years of publication in fine magazines and anthologies–earning that rare reputation among his peers as a writer’s writer, an artist whose desire for popularity has not tainted his aesthetic principles–Strantzas has suddenly hit the ground running with his third collection of short fiction.

Delightfully somber and full of doomed characters making dreadful decisions (in other words, painfully true to human experience) Nightingale Songs does not overshadow the author’s subtle and quietly disruptive previous collections, Beneath the Surface and Cold to the Touch. Instead it represents a natural evolution in the voice and preoccupations of a unique talent in modern fiction.

Beneath the Surface suffered from the unexpected demise of its first publisher, but was recently republished by Dark Regions. The second collection, beautiful in every respect, is now out of print and difficult to find. I hope Tartarus Press makes Cold to the Touch available as an ebook in the near future.

I want more readers to get their hands on Strantzas, but he’s one of those writers you can’t sell with a tag line, or even a review. You have to read his prose and allow yourself to be swept away by the obsessions of his characters, to appreciate his art. The devil is in the details, in the nuances, in the perfect choice of words and the illuminating juxtaposition of images. Like Nabokov, he doesn’t give you a theme and a cookie and a pat on the head. You have to read and think for yourself, and then you get it or you don’t. These days, how many writers have the nerve to send their work out into the world without explaining it to death?

In that spirit, I will not attempt to explicate these stories. It’s enough to know that they range in setting from a universally recognizable suburbia to the remote and ruined beaches of an oil disaster site to some strangely malevolent back roads at night. These landscapes are a projection of the characters’ state of mind but also a catalyst, provoking irrational and often desperate acts.

Sometimes the action of a Strantzas story is inaction, or a character’s inability to move from condition to action. The results range from a dreamy or hallucinatory tone to a sense of impermanence that all but overwhelms the reader. Nothing is certain, and nature is not on our side. Our most important plans are feeble against the vast, mysterious cosmos. Our purpose, if we serve one, is either unknowable or constantly changing. The message may be bleak, but the writing is thrilling.

Influenced by H.P. Lovecraft, Robert Aickman, and Ramsey Campbell, the author has been moving for some time toward a thoroughly independent worldview. With Nightingale Songs he offers that view without apology. Yes, it is dark, but it is recognizable too, containing the black-edged beauty of life as well as unavoidable horrors and intimations of mortality. If you love good writing that challenges, enthralls, and offers no easy escape, read Simon Strantzas.

THE GIFT OF HORROR: Happy Holidays!

2011-12-18T22:04:00.000-08:00

Reviews by S.P. Miskowski

Brand New Cherry Flavor: A Novel of the Occult

by Todd Grimson
352 pages, Schaffner Press

The revenge story is my favorite kind, revealing as much about the nature of the perpetrator as it does about the targets of her wrath. And boy oh boy, do we get to know protagonist Lisa Nova! James Ellroy has called Todd Grimson “the hippest writer in America today.” If Ellroy wrote that about me, I’d be tempted to read the blurb every night before bedtime. Yet hipness can be a burden if you don’t have the talent to match it. Fortunately Grimson shows plenty of talent in this hard-as-rock-candy novel about an aspiring actress/director seeking revenge against the producer who messed with her personal American Dream. If you like some crazy with your Los Angeles cuisine, and a bit of magic realism with your outright horror, this is your flavor, right here.

Come Closer

by Sara Gran
168 pages, Soho Press

Amanda is under pressure. Her job at a successful architectural firm is exciting but stressful. The loft she is converting with her husband needs more work, and it isn’t as accessible as she would like. Still, things could be worse. Those weird noises she keeps hearing could signal the arrival of something supernatural, or the start of her own psychological unraveling, or maybe the emergence of Amanda’s true self. The one she doesn’t share with anyone, even her beloved husband. Because how could he understand the petty, dirty, mean things she sometimes feels an overwhelming urge to do? That’s all I’m going to say about this book. No. Here’s another thing. I love it. And here’s one more. Buy it. You’re already online. Buy it now.

Engines of Desire: Tales of Love & Other Horrors

by Livia Llewellyn
214 pages, Lethe Press

Dark Fiction

by David Kempf
356 pages, RealTime Publishing

An ambitious novel that centers on a Faustian bargain between a college student, the horror writing professor he admires, and some powerful supernatural beings who feed on human dread, Dark Fiction may be rough going for readers who are not in on the joke: Much of the text is provided by our undergraduate protagonist, who is not the prose stylist he believes himself to be. His sophomoric attempts at bloodcurdling fiction are author Kempf’s satirical take on student writing, especially genre writing. By the time the young wannabe has run through every cliche in the moldy how-to manual of horror, he is well on his way to becoming the next free ride for those supernatural thugs. His stories may lack style and coherence, but they are bursting with the manic energy that only a credulous and over-confident student can offer.

The Loving Dead

by Amelia Beamer
272 pages, Night Shade Books

Amelia Beamer’s refreshing and always surprising take on the undead uprising poses the question most of us didn’t know we were afraid to ask: What if the zombie plague was equal parts STD and MDMA? Set in and around San Francisco, The Loving Dead follows a small group of housemates as they try to stay alive–and, if possible, hook up–during the end of the world. It’s equal parts quasi-romantic sex comedy and dark horror; well worth picking up if you’re not afraid of risky storytelling, sexy dirigibles, and zombified Trader Joe’s employees. (Review by Cory J. Herndon.)

The Red Tree

by Caitlin R. Kiernan
400 pages, Roc Trade

Thanks to Lynda E. Rucker for recommending this novel at her blog. I love a good story about a writer and few novels present as fascinating a writer-protagonist as Sarah Crowe in The Red Tree. Self-exiled to a remote rental house in Rhode Island following a tragic personal loss, Sarah discovers a manuscript by the house’s former tenant. The manuscript covers the known history of an unusual and apparently ancient oak tree on the property. It also chronicles the strange events that occurred while the former tenant was doing his research. Soon Sarah is drawn into the history of her temporary home, where past and present overlap, and the natural world may collapse into something less natural but terrifyingly real.

Tooth and Nail

by Craig Dilouie
258 pages, Schmidt Haus Books

Two things make this zombie apocalypse novel stand out from all the other zombie apocalypse novels. One is its immediacy, and this is achieved through a formal convention; author Dilouie gains momentum by telling his story entirely in present tense. Second, the story focuses on the challenges faced by American soldiers who have been recalled from combat posts around the world to try and contain a rabid outbreak in New York. Now the soldiers must overcome existential angst to do battle with the fellow citizens they have spent their lives protecting. This novel has earned high praise from author David Moody (Hater, Dog Blood), and he knows the undead like nobody’s business.

ROY OF THE ROVERS:

2011-12-14T21:15:00.000-08:00

The 1980s
by Tom Tully, David Sque
208 pages, Titan Books

Review by Pat Black

“Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of” – Narrator, Conan the Barbarian (1982)

Nostalgia is a ropey business. Sometimes we re-examine the things we enjoyed as children and we find them lacking. I’m pleased to tell you that Roy of the Rovers is not in this bracket.

Roy Race is a comic book hero known and loved in the UK, but probably nowhere else. He was the title character of the 1950s British comic strip, Roy of the Rovers, a six-foot-plus, blond-haired, blue-eyed centre forward who played for Melchester Rovers in English football’s then-First Division.

Roy first appeared in the pages of the Tiger comic, before a transfer to his own weekly boys’ paper which ran for almost 20 years. My older brother got Roy’s adventures every week, a colourful addition to our mum’s weekly load of shopping, and I caught the bug from there until the late 1980s. I still have the final edition of the comic from 1993, when a helicopter crash appeared to have killed off the great striker in the face of changing tastes and terminally depressed sales.

How sad that children don’t read British comics any more. Roy of the Rovers, the Eagle, the Victor, Whizzer and Chips, Bunty, Tammy, Champ, Scream!, the Topper, Action!, Spike... barring the Dandy and the Beano (and aside from the loveable oddity that is Commando), they’re all long gone, and I’ll be surprised if DC Thompson’s two pantomime war-horses are still going in 10 years’ time. Only 2000AD has survived intact and free of nauseating commercial tie-ins; in the end, its cult appeal is the very thing that sustains it in the mass marketplace among its better-known US peers.

I am just about old enough to remember some of the front covers of the selection of Roy ofthe Rovers strips here – covering two football seasons, from 1980-81. One of these is very famous indeed – the dripping-blood framed moment Roy gets shot. More on that later.

The first thing to notice about the strips in this collection is that they’re full colour – and the artwork from David Sque is still probably the best ever seen when it comes to sport in British comics. There’s humour in Sque’s figures, not just heroic poses and thundering shots at goal – and his depiction of Roy’s crinkle-eyed smile from this period remains iconic.

The other thing to notice is the quality of Tom Tully’s scripts. Ostensibly for children, I was drawn in by the plots of these stories which are set in a recognisably adult world. For one thing, we see Roy having domestic problems with his wife, Penny. Roy’s devotion to football drives Penny away, along with his children Melissa and Roy Jnr. Despite this troubling development, I giggled at the moment where Penny’s mother interferes to the point of driving a wedge between the couple, hinting that Penny may never return. Meanwhile, Roy, left to his own devices, enjoys his freedom – there’s one delightful panel with Racey enjoying a bottle of wine with his dinner, a big smile on his face.

And yet, his game suffers. Can Penny save the day by coming back home to Roy?

That’s not quite what you’d expect from a football comic strip for schoolboys in those morally straitened times. And there’s more: later on, there’s also probably the most famous plot in the whole of the Roy of the Rovers canon – “Who Shot Racey?” A direct lift from the “Who shot JR?” storyline from Dallas which ran around the same time, Tully’s script arguably crafted a better whodunnit mystery than its better-known TV cousin. A plethora of suspects are carefully laid out in the weeks leading up to the shooting – fanatical fans, disgruntled players, crooked TV executives and even Roy’s black-sheep cousin are all in the frame, with red herrings galore before the culprit is revealed.

And it’s as well that we have this soap opera element; otherwise, the strip would just be a series of panels showing football games. Much as I would probably have preferred this as a boy, coming back to them as a man I can see how cleverly orchestrated they are over the course of the football season, mixing on-the-field drama with events off it. You also get a flavour of Roy running a football club, and not just pounding the turf and crashing home rasping goals – the politics, the press, the fans, his players, training and signings, you name it.

Indeed, anyone who remembers Roy of the Rovers as a series of improbable victories, last-minute goals and trophies galore may be surprised to learn that Roy – who manages the team as well as plays up front for them – never gets his hands on any silverware in these pages. In fact, Rovers find themselves battling relegation, as internal strife threatens to tear the team apart. Later, Rovers find themselves adjusting to life without their most famous player and manager, as he recovers from the shooting incident, while England football legend Sir Alf Ramsey guides the team in his absence.

There are tantalising signs of the times, too. One of the many front covers of Roy of the Rovers included here show Roy and Penny at Buckingham Palace, guests for the Royal Wedding of 1981 – with Prince Charles marrying Lady Diana Spencer.

Speaking of things which don’t turn out well, we also get glimpses of English football as it was, with supporters’ lives lived close to those of the players, a world away from the millionaire lifestyles the top stars enjoy now. There are signs of this monstrous world yet-to-be, too, right on the cusp of when serious cash flooded into the game through satellite TV. Here, Roy has his own helicopter and sports car, and isn’t shy about being seen in them; he’s more of an eighties man than we might like to remember.

We also have a record signing at Rovers, the Spanish superstar Paco Diaz, whose exotic skills lighten up the grittier talents of British players like Blackie Gray, Duncan MacKay, Kenny Logan and “superbrat” Vic Guthrie. You wonder how many home-grown players the Melchester Rovers of 2011/2012 would field. It’s a dilemma that has plagued football for around 20 years, now. There is the obvious attraction of importing talent from overseas, and these superstars continue to light up our game; but there’s a downside to this, the lack of UK-based talent appearing in the top leagues. Roy, you feel, wouldn’t totally approve.

Not to say Roy of the Rovers was all about gritty realism. You’ll see Roy score a farcical amount of goals, many of which are despatched with his trusty left foot in the form of “Racey’s Rocket”, his trademark cannonball shot. And no matter what happens to him, Roy’s the complete goody two-shoes. He runs into the crowd to tackle hooligans; he steers fans, players and the media towards morally good habits; he even gets one of his own players sent off, when the ref asks him what happened during an off-the-ball incident. There’s no dirt in Roy’s engine; but I found these clean lines wholesome, not boring. I feel that we’ve got to the stage now where anti-heroes are dull. Or perhaps it’s just my age. Where have you gone, Joe Di Maggio?

No-one’s quite sure what happened to Roy Race. Originally feared killed in 1993 in a helicopter crash, it turned out that he had in fact recovered – albeit, without his famous left foot. His career on the pitch was over, but he stayed on as manager, with Roy “Rocky” Jnr, his son, stepping up to take his place in the number 9 shirt at Melchester.

I understand Roy of the Rovers was resurrected a couple of times, neither of which lasted the pace. There were solo strips in other magazines, as well as one ill-advised “reboot”, in which Roy’s past was put into a more realistic, revisionist timeline, split into three generations of the Race family from the 1950s to the present day rather than the sprawling story of one man. Clumsily meeting the challenge of just how someone can play top-class football for almost 40 years - and thereby ruining the magic of the series.

Those midichlorians, they get into everything.

This book is not just a window into your childhood, it’s a snapshot of how football used to be, as well as a harbinger of the monster that it would become. And it looks good. Whether you buy this as a nostalgia trip – it’s the same size as the old Roy of the Rovers football annuals, and will put a smile on your football-loving partner’s face if it’s under the tree this Christmas – or as something to entertain your children, or just for the joy of a genuinely great British product which no longer exists, you will not be disappointed.

What English football wouldn’t do now for a Roy of the Rovers in its midst. Pity the generation which needs heroes.

THE TERROR

2011-12-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

by Dan Simmons
992 pages, Heyne Verlag

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

Regular visitors of the 'squawk might have wondered what happened to me in the past month. I've not been on holiday. I've not been in a coma. I've not been kidnapped, chained to a radiator and spoon-fed gruel for four weeks. No, dear readers... I've been to the North Pole.

Not literally, of course. I'd sooner pull out all my fingernails with a pair of pliers than go there. I've spent the past month in the North Pole courtesy of Dan Simmons' 2007 novel “The Terror”.

Clocking in just shy of 800 pages, “The Terror” is a mammoth read. I've never been overwhelmed by a long novel before, but Simmons' fictional account of the ill-fated Franklin expedition of 1845 came pretty close on several occasions to breaking me.

Before I go on, I'd like to make one thing clear... This isn't going to be a negative review. Whilst I struggled with it, “The Terror” is a hugely impressive novel. I can't think of another writer who would be capable of melding history, horror and mythology together so effectively. Those who have read Simmons' debut novel, “The Song of Kali,” will know that he is a writer who doesn't pull any punches. “The Terror” is so relentlessly bleak and brutal that I fear many readers won't be able to bring themselves to finish it.

The story follows Captain Sir John Franklin's doomed expedition to force the Northwest passage. Using the established historical facts as a springboard, Simmons follows the misfortunes of the HMS Erebus and HMS The Terror. Trapped in the merciless winter ice with an ever dwindling supply of food, the crew of both ships face scurvy and starvation in an inhospitable climate. Aside from the threat of mutiny from the increasingly discontent crew, the captains of the two ships also have to contend with a monstrous creature who stalks the ice and has developed a taste for sailors.

With a huge cast of characters, all based on actual members of the expedition, Simmons is able to explore the story from multiple perspectives. Switching between first-person diary entries and a third-person narrative, present tense to past tense, Simmons writes with the kind of effortless skill many novelists can only dream of. Not once in the novel does he allow the reader to become comfortable. Other than some brilliantly colourful dialogue, there is no comic relief in the whole book. Right from the outset, we know the explorers are doomed but by unravelling the story at such a slow, thoughtful pace the author is able to ensure that it is always engaging and never predictable.

Much of the novel takes place in the cramped confines of the trapped ships. Simmons vividly captures the claustrophobic conditions of life on board. Above decks, the ship is whipped by the sub-zero Arctic winds and snow. Beneath decks, the air is heavy with the stench of unwashed men. In the summer months the sun barely sets. In the winter it never rises. The frustration of the crew and the hopelessness of their situation pervades every page in the novel. Every attempt made to improve their situation is thwarted and tends to result in the unpleasant death of one or more of the crew. After two years trapped in the ice, the ships begin to break up and the surviving members of the expedition abandon the vessels in a desperate attempt to find salvation. Although freed from their self-imposed prisons, life is no better for the explorers on the ice. Obliged to drag heavy sleds laden with sailing boats and supplies, the starving and scurvy-stricken men soon find themselves considering cannibalism in order to stay alive.

The novel focuses on a handful of main characters. Sir John Franklin, the expedition leader, is an obstinate, teetotal prig. His desire to redeem himself after a previous failed Arctic expedition dooms the crew to their cold fate. He's not portrayed as a villain, nor is he a fool. Rather, he is a man all too aware of his own shortcomings and plagued with self-doubt. Francis Crozier, the captain of The Terror, is Franklin's polar opposite. A hard-drinking, tough-talking Irishman, Crozier is by no means a gentleman, but his personal journey is the closest thing to redemption and a happy ending one can hope to find in this hugely pessimistic tome. When Franklin is killed by the monster on the ice, the misanthropic Crozier is forced to take command of the expedition. To add to his problems, much of the tinned food they brought with them has spoiled and is poisoning the crew, the ice that traps the ships shows no sign of thawing and his personal supply of whisky is running low.

By far the most sympathetic character in the novel is Doctor Harry Goodsir, an anatomist and assistant surgeon. His diary entries provide the novel with warmth and compassion, as well as confronting the reader with the stark realities of the crude medical treatments of the day. Like Crozier, Goodsir is put in an unenviable position when he becomes the expedition's sole surviving doctor. Although relatively inexperienced and faced with countless amputations, cases of scurvy and frostbite, Goodsir acquits himself admirably and never once backs down from his responsibilities.

Joining the British men in the Arctic landscape is the enigmatic Lady Silence. A young Eskimo woman without a tongue, she is a silent, unsettling presence on board the ship. As the story progresses, we learn that she has a mysterious link to the creature on the ice and this leads many to suspect her of being a witch. Her ability to survive in the frozen wilderness gives her the edge over the hapless men who tolerate her strangeness in the hope that they will learn something from her. In the last quarter of the novel we learn more about her and the mythology of her tribe. Some readers may find the shift from historical fact into mythological fantasy a little bit jarring but Simmons has clearly done his research and manages to knit the two worlds together in a satisfying, if somewhat strange conclusion.

With a great cast of characters and a literally chilling setting, it is all too easy to get deeply involved in this novel. And that's the problem. As readers faced with this enormous book we are expected to invest both a significant amount of time and emotion to get through it. Just as the crew are faced with the prospect of a long, slow death on the ice, so too does the reader face a similarly excruciating ordeal as they find themselves slogging through page after page of unrelenting misery. Simmons is such an able writer he has no difficulty grabbing our attention and once he's got us, he doesn't let us go. For hundreds of pages we are put through an emotional meat-grinder only to be spat out at the end. “The Terror” is a brilliantly executed novel but one that doesn't cosset or pander to the reader. It's a long, lonely trek but well worth the journey.

Hereward L.M. Proops

FROZEN PLANET:

2011-12-10T21:39:00.000-08:00

A World Beyond Imagination
by Alastair Fothergill and Vanessa Berlowitz
320 pages, BBC Books

Review by Pat Black

It’s hard to review this one – well-written as it is, the great beauty is in the prints.

Frozen Planet is a companion piece to the BBC series of the same name currently wowing British TV viewers. It looks at the life and landscape of the Arctic and Antarctic regions of the Earth and the climactic changes that affect them all. Sadly, there’s no David Attenborough narration on these pages, beyond a foreword, but the photographs of these icy kingdoms more than make up for it.

So we are treated to the best of the images which have staggered us on the television over the past few weeks; polar bears snarling at the camera, Arctic foxes tearing across the snow, columns of musk oxen pursued by wolves, narwhals slaloming through channels in the ice, emperor penguins framed by twinkling stars, the great grey owl swooping over the snows, baby seals staring up from frigid waters, their bigger cousins bludgeoning each other during mating rites and crafty killer whales eyeing up their prey through holes in the ice.

Say “killer whales” in the style of David Attenborough, go on. Killer whales!

But more staggering still are the shots of the environment; the skies, the snow and the ice. There are shifting glaciers and icebergs, cool blue and pure white, sometimes backlit by the aurora borealis or australis, even snowflakes in extreme close-up. These shots almost don’t seem real, like a prog rock album cover. You would quite happily have most of these images hanging on your wall.

Part of the thrust of the book is that our frozen zones are under threat; that the ice is, unquestionably, starting to retreat with each passing year. Whether we believe that’s a natural phenomenon or a result of human activity, we must learn to protect what we have on this planet now, or lament it for all time.

MONSTERS IN THE MOVIES:

2011-12-08T21:34:00.000-08:00

100 Years of Cinematic Nightmares
by John Landis
320 pages, DK

Review by Pat Black

Oh, what a cover. It’s the American Werewolf in London, in extreme close-up. Possibly the last thing you ever see, should you stay off the road, and stray onto the moors. I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.

That movie’s director, John Landis, has produced Monsters In The Movies, a labour of love celebrating 100 years of vampires, werewolves, robots, mummies, giant apes, zombies dinosaurs and every other kind of fearsome beastie to bother the big screen.

It’s mostly a picture book, with still images and publicity shots. An American Werewolf in London was a masterclass in blending laughs with scares, so as you can imagine Landis decorates the pictures with some terrific one-liners. The book also boasts sections on “Scary Older Women” and “Comedy Gorillas”.

No jokes are made about the real-time picture of Michael Jackson from Landis’ iconic “Thriller” video on the inside cover, thankfully, though you can crack that one yourself.

For me, the true beauty of this book is in the curiosities – the ancient billboard posters and behind-the-scenes photos of creatures being constructed, or make-up being applied. Tributes are also paid to special effects wizards such as Ray Harryhausen, Tom Savini, Stan Winston, Rick Baker and Rob Bottin.

The chapters are enhanced by interviews Landis carries out with the living masters of horror. John Carpenter, Sir Christopher Lee, David Cronenberg, Rick Baker, Joe Dante and several other directors, actors or monster-makers are featured in conversation with Landis, reminiscing about their favourite monsters as well as their own creations.

This may seem like a silly thing to say about a book which features things designed simply to frighten and terrorise, but there are a few images which you might not find appropriate for your little monsters, should you wish to buy this for them. There’s blood and boobs, though never a surfeit of both. All three. You see what I mean. But it’s a geek treasury, a perfect Christmas present for the monster lover in your life which also looks very handsome on a shelf.

You get extra points if you leave the “Scary Older Women” section open when Auntie Scylla comes to visit. Happy monster-hunting.

UNDER THE DOME

2011-12-04T21:14:00.000-08:00

by Stephen King

1088 pages, Pocket Books

Review by Bill Kirton

Suddenly, one beautiful, normal day, a giant impenetrable dome is clamped over the typical little Maine town of Chester’s Mill. It just appears out of nowhere and seals the residents inside, cutting through anything or anyone who happens to be standing where the edge comes down. It’s made of a transparent material that resists all attempts to breach it. Nothing can get in or out of town.

That’s the situation in Under the Dome but the way in which it’s introduced by Stephen King is, as you’d expect, far more graphic, intense, and chilling. It’s an unseen phenomenon and its presence is conveyed through the experiences of individuals who literally fly or drive into it at speed or have limbs cut through when it’s dropped over the town.

The result is a long, gripping story but one which for me (deep breath) dragged at times. In fact, I wanted to get to the end of it, both to find out what happened and to get it over with. Result? I skipped chunks of text. Let me quickly add that I know that Stephen King genuinely IS a master storyteller, carries out immaculate research and structures his books deliberately to keep readers turning those pages. I’ve read many of his in the past and been totally absorbed by them. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Or maybe this time it was the huge cast. He actually has a roll call of them before the story starts, naming 65 specific individuals as well as a few groups and 3 ‘dogs of note’. Another note at the end tells us that he had the idea as a young man but it was a project that was ‘just too big’ for him. In fact it took him ‘over 25 years to write’. There’s no doubt that it’s a terrific achievement but, with so many people to keep in focus, one of the standard narrative ploys to create suspense is weakened. No one does cliff hangers like Stephen King so, when he’s led us to a breathless ‘How the hell will they get out of this?’ quandary, it’s frustrating that he switches to another group of people going about their daily business. I know that’s exactly what he intends, but here the necessity of keeping all the protagonists in the frame, with all their cliff hangers and the multiple switches back and forth which result, tends to stress the artifice (or even artificiality) of the technique.

But even though the cast is huge, its principal characters are well drawn and distinct. OK, the baddies are really bad and the goodies equally good, but the way their goodness and badness manifest themselves is idiosyncratic and entertaining (although that’s not the word to use for some of the evils perpetrated by the baddies). The main villain, a God-fearing man whose actions are as far from Christian as it’s possible to get, deplores cursing and so, to satisfy the swearing impulse, has to resort to the quaint adjectival construction ‘cotton picking’ and labels women he doesn’t like ‘rhymes with witch’.

I’m being very careful to avoid spoilers, so I need to refrain from commenting in any detail on the supernatural aspect of the story, which is ingenious, interesting but, for me, unconvincing. It’s cleverly handled and the parallels between it and the ‘natural’ world into which it intrudes are telling. I suppose the familiarity I felt with the inhabitants of the town made me want a more ‘realistic’ resolution. The bulk of the story, after all, is about small town politics, power struggles and the havoc that can be wreaked in the name of the electorate when its elected representatives are corrupt. I wanted the resolution to be part of that dynamic without outside interference.

Having said all of which, I still wanted to know what happened next. Perhaps the text-skipping was precisely because I knew that some of these people were there to provide grisly exits, small Stephen King set-piece horror moments. And they were, and they worked. But, as the atmosphere inside the dome worsened and the homicidal actions of the community’s leaders distorted more truths and piled up more corpses, the need was to understand where the dome had come from, who was responsible and how, if at all, it could be removed.

And, despite my reservations, as I recall the experience of reading this book, I have to acknowledge that its grip on me as I did so was real. But the grip was exerted by the warring forces in the community and, even though it was the catalyst for all the book’s events, the supernatural aspect seemed grafted on and separate from their struggles.

Except, of course, that it’s possible to draw a parallel between the actions of the supernatural entities and those of the reader. On which (feeble) cliff hanger and despite some of my remarks seeming negative, I still think this is a very good read.

THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH SHORT STORIES

2011-12-02T21:31:00.000-08:00

Edited by AS Byatt
439 pages, Oxford

Review by Pat Black

I’m dreadful when it comes to buying books. It’s an occupational hazard for anyone who likes to have a wee browse in bookshops. Sometimes there’s a title you simply have to own.

I can appreciate the impulses of the compulsive shoe shopper...kind of. Though I guess books aren’t very much use as footwear (unless, in my case, it’s two size ten editions of Anna Karenina).

For me, the hook could be as crude as a lovely cover (which this book has) or a name you’ve not seen in a while. Or perhaps it’s a title that you’d always meant to pick up, something that nagged you for years until you caved in and bought it.

Or maybe it’s to do with the venue itself. I saw this volume for sale in a bookshop in Ambleside in the Lake District, and that certainly helped. It was lying alongside the Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories – both books with reverent spaces around them, like polite sunbathers - which I also bought on impulse. I’ve finally gotten round to reading this one, about a month or so after I moved to England from Scotland. The time seemed right.

AS Byatt’s exhaustive opening essay is a fine introduction to the works, and acknowledges the difficulty of underpinning what is, definitively, “English”.

You could point to some clichéd descriptions of what it’s like to be Scottish – the good, the bad and the ugly – and grudgingly accept that there is a grain of truth to them. But how does one describe the English, short of resorting to red telephone boxes, Buckingham Palace bearskins and BBC accents? There are class issues and the aristocracy and Oxbridge and all that, sure. But there are also ancient traditions, Celtic influences, a love of the land as well as the metropolis, the industrial heritage, the language itself... I’ve got a headache in considering that paragraph alone.

Byatt seems to settle on an idea of “the thingyness of things” as a keen marker of Englishness. It’s a curious phrase, one that I am at a loss to elaborate on but that I understand perfectly.

Let’s look at the stories themselves, and let the authors worry about what being English means.

William Gilbert’s “The Sacristan of St Botolph” is up first, a 16^th century short story detailing a pious vicar being tested by a demon after he likens himself to St Anthony. Part of this scourging of the cleric involves a pig with a bell attached, which he must keep with him at all times. I liked not only the unflattering look at the clergy, a longstanding staple of English fiction, but also the subversive ways in which the preacher dupes the demon.

We get Dickens out of the way early with “The Haunted House”, a whimsical piece in which the narrator is at pains to discover the truth behind a supposedly cursed house in rational terms before discovering that ghosts quite often take on the forms of things we can’t let go of from the past.

Anthony Trollope’s “The Relics of General Chasse: A Tale of Antwerp” has the appurtenances of a Carry On movie in its layers of farce, comedy and dropped trousers. After an English tourist tries on the clothes of the famous general in the title, his temporarily discarded britches are torn to pieces by a gaggle of women eager to obtain material for their own diabolical needlework. This tale respected no-one, but the wicked players are given a comeuppance, nonetheless.

“A Mere Interlude” by Thomas Hardy looked at a merry-go-round of events surrounding a young woman who misses a boat while on her way to get married to a much older man. While stuck at the port, she meets a lad her own age whose suit she once rejected; incredible moments of chance and irony follow, and the reader is left to wonder whether fate has anything to do with what happens to her, or blind luck.

“Little Brother” by Mary Mann could be regarded as a horror story, a piece of social realism where a parish official visits the home of a working family which turns out children on a production line basis. It’s followed by a true work of horror, MR James’s “Two Doctors”, which details a typically nasty tale of diabolism and curses in the master ghost story teller’s inimitably dry tone.

Arthur Morrison’s “Behind The Shade” has more earthly concerns. Here, a strange mother and daughter living in a fancy house are subjected to the gimlet-eyed spite of their neighbours. But they’re blind to what is actually going on inside the house until it is too late.

Kipling’s “Wireless” seeks to balance advances in human endeavour – in the era depicted here, medicines and telecommunications - with a more divine sense of what inspires us, and the mystery of what generates artistic creation.

HG Wells’ “Under The Knife” strikes a similar note, looking at the thought processes of a man who undergoes a then-very risky surgical procedure involving rudimentary anaesthetic. He doesn’t know if he’ll come out the other side of the operation, and while he’s under he appears to undergo a near-death experience. Again, this was an attempt by someone at the juncture of the 19^th and 20^th centuries to marry the staggering progress made in science with a more romantic sense of a human’s place in the physical world, and indeed the universe.

Charlotte Mew’s “A White Night” could have been penned by Poe, or the younger Lovecraft. Here, some English travellers in rural Spain find themselves accidentally locked into a church overnight, where they witness an arcane rite which leads to an apparent atrocity. But the whole incident feels like it was a dream, and the witnesses shrug it off. I could imagine this bunch having spotted a wicker man burn on the horizon in passing, and then instantly dismissing it as a mere phantom of the mind. A very odd tale – and I’m not sure about what it had to say regarding English attitudes to foreign places, people and customs.

The gloriously spiteful Saki appears next with “The Toys of Peace”, in which a well-meaning uncle attempts to fill his nephews’ minds with purer thoughts than those of bloody battles by furnishing them with toys – not the lead soldiers, castles and forts they love, but town officials and miniature municipal buildings. The boys’ reaction to this, and their utilisation of the new figures in their collection, is typical Saki.

GK Chesterton appears next with a kind of mystery story, “The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown”. This sees a detective and his bookish brother seeking to solve the problem of the major in the title, who, in a “wrong man” scenario worthy of Hitchcock, is plunged into a world of intrigue, mystery and danger. I loved the denouement to this, and the playful suggestion of what we really want when we read or write stories of excitement and peril. Fans of film director David Fincher’s work will be most struck by the similarity to the plot of one of his movies, which I won’t spoil by naming here.

“Some Talk of Alexander” by AE Coppard deals with one of the blackest things in human experience – suicide – in the lightest tone, as a young man decides to do a Reggie Perrin in the sea after being rejected by his sweetheart. The current seems determined to thwart his best efforts, though; and even at the end, after his strange epiphany in the pitch black water, the narrative still has time to undermine Alexander’s plight.

That story is in the same key as PG Wodehouse’s “The Reverent Wooing of Archibald”. It’s pretty much the same as his Jeeves and Wooster stories, with an amiable but dim toff who enjoys a good drink attempting to construct a marriage proposal for the radiant Aurelia Cammerleigh. The problem is that he might have to ingratiate himself with Aurelia’s fastidious aunt, first, before he can make a move. But in pretending to be someone he isn’t, does this pyjama-clad buffoon with a neat line in chicken impersonations risk losing the woman he loves? This being Wodehouse, you’ll know which way to bet.

A masterpiece next: Virginia Woolf’s “Solid Objects”. Central to AS Byatt’s “thingyness of things” treatise, this tale has neither plot nor purpose, following a prospective parliamentarian, John, who appears to have lost his ambition. Instead of engaging the public, this man prefers to collect odd or unusual objects which have either been discarded or pushed into his path by time and fate. Prime among these items are a piece of green glass buffed smooth by sand on a beach, a star-shaped shard of broken china and a dense totem of iron. The how or the why in what John does is never really explored, and doesn’t matter. But in describing his treasures and speculating on how they came to be, Woolf is at her freewheeling best; it’s a piece of literary alchemy that conjures the size, shape and texture of the objects right there in the palm of your hand. Pure poetry, a pleasure to read.

Dark, brooding and bearded DH Lawrence slips into bed beside dear old Ginny next, with “The Man Who Loved Islands”. Rather unfortunately, Lawrence is “the sex guy”, the way Adam Sandler is “the funny guy” or Bruce Willis is “the action guy”. I’m not sure he’d have liked this epithet, all joking aside. His work is synonymous with literary rutting thanks to Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but that’s a book riddled with paradoxes – and there is a similar lack of congruence here.

In de-mystifying and de-romanticising the act of love, Lawrence was looking to create something beautiful in its own right. He was not the first person to write about sex, but he may well have been the first person to write about two-bob, workaday and sometimes disappointing sex, and the ennui, disillusionment and existential horror that can derive from that. Even when Mellors and the Lady finally get it on, their first couplings aren’t the kind of literary ignition you might be expecting. Like real love affairs, it can sometimes take time to light the fuse. This was part of Lawrence’s genius as a writer, but was also the curse of his storytelling.

For a guy whose legacy rests on a perceived notion of bliss and lovemaking as the ultimate act of expression, his tales seem to be filled with bad sex carried out by bitter, preoccupied people. Lawrence’s shaggers always seem to hate themselves for what they do or to beat themselves up about it – quite separate from guilt. They’re never dissolute or shamelessly libertine, but they’re very quick to disconnect themselves from the idea of love and good lovemaking. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, but I have to wonder if Lawrence ever had blazingly, bed-breakingly good sex with someone who matched and complemented him. Indeed, there is a long-standing suspicion that Lawrence might have been better suited going to bed with blokes, not girls. His fictions’ sense of frustration and disappointment are more understandable with this in mind.

So, he is not Jilly Cooper. But if you were forced to pick a theme out of these two writers for Naughty Fridays with your significant other – or someone else’s, har de har – I’m pretty sure you’d have the jodhpurs, silly hat and big boots on in a flash. Whereas taking a Lawrentian direction might result in one of you sitting on the end of a bed, morose, sighing with regret and despair before sullenly pulling on your corduroy trousers.

Where was I? Yeah, there’s a suggestion of that sort of sex in the middle section of “The Man Who Loved Islands”. Which is a terrible shame, because up to that point the story is brilliant. It follows a man who, well, loves islands, as he chases a dream, setting up a house on a wind-blasted place cradled in a swollen Celtic sea.

He hires a whole load of staff and spends a fortune on renovating the property and cultivating the land. It seems idyllic, but the place drains the guy’s cash. There’s always another bill or misfortune just around the corner – and having just moved house, I can appreciate the problem in nature, if not in scale. Soon, the pressure begins to tell on his staff, who hate him with the spite a barrack room will reserve for a sergeant major. Considerations of class haunt him, in particular; he is the Master, but he is not loved. So, with his finances dwindling, he moves to another island, and meets a lass. Cue hand-wringing and damp squibs.

As I say, it’s a shame we had to go back to a suggestion of that awful, mind-numbing metronomic sex in the middle chapter, when he moves to a second island. I want to grab Lawrence by the braces and scream: don’t think it, man – do it!

But the prose itself was blinding up till then, as the man gets to grips with his far horizons and the wild place where he dares to assert order and authority. This story shares a sense of wonderment about its setting in keeping with how Woolf felt about her precious “things”; an examination of the past of a place or an object, how it came to be, and in Lawrence’s case, who interacted with the land before the main character came along.

In the final segment, the narrator is back on yet another island, this time completely alone barring the odd sheep and a treacherous cat. It is here that Lawrence’s descriptive powers go into overdrive, and his true talent – painting pictures of the land, the elements and the animals – is revealed. It’s another masterpiece of prose, and looks at what people who desire peace and solitude above all other things can really look forward to in life.

Ronald Firbank’s “A Tragedy In Green” could have been an English stage farce – the tone is mixed in a black comedy lampooning a whimsical upper-middle class decadent lifestyle. I even detect a hint of Monty Python yet-to-be; Terry Gilliam would have enjoyed animating the catastrophe central to the tale, in which a bored high society lady of leisure chances upon a book of magic spells. The worst of these is visited upon her husband’s place of work at the Foreign Office under an enchanted cloud “the colour of gold and peacock green”.

The supreme irony is the moment that this doom chooses to strike; just as the husband, whom we are told is a dullard, abandons himself to an over-riding passion to complete a sensuous episode of his memoirs. I once used to joke about writers falling asleep on the Z key at their computers, or perhaps even dying with their noses pressed on one last full stop. The final wickedness in this story echoes that.

“A Widow’s Quilt” by Sylvia Townsend Warner has a subtler black magic in store – a far more disturbing prospect than some tinselly djinn uprooting the Foreign Office into St James’s Park. Here, we follow Charlotte, who is also bored rigid by her husband and his habits and longs for escape. After seeing a widow’s quilt in a museum – a grim traditional gift for the bereaved, only big enough for one – she decides to sew one for herself, while her amusingly-named spouse Everard bumbles around in the background. They don’t have any children, which is probably significant.

I liked this story’s faint, imprecise but – yes! – very English sense of malice. However, it did give me a flavour I didn’t like, one which poisoned almost every single page of the Penguin anthology of Modern British Short Stories: this colossally depressing notion of loveless, childless marriages, cauldrons of simmering spite and unhappiness doled out to the long-suffering and the indifferent in equal measure until they die. There’s a lot of it about, but thankfully, whatever her motivations in selecting each story for Oxford, AS Byatt seems to have realised that too much of this shit turns people off.

No, what we need is a bit more cackling, so thank heavens for Aldous Huxley’s “Nuns at Luncheon”. It’s a clever tale of an author having afternoon tea with a vicious gossip. She tells him the story of a nun brought low by the oldest and most basic mistake of all, and in it there’s sympathy, irreverence, malice and sadness in equal portions. The tale also deconstructs the art of spinning a narrative in a sly (one wishes to say, post-modern) fashion. The narrator is being told this story on the understanding that he should write about it (and of course, he has), but along the way the mechanics of storytelling are examined. The pair wonder which figures to use, and how the tale should look on a physical page. You can’t help but feel that a joke has been made at your expense, and you’ll only realise this much later when it’s too late to say anything back. But the whole thing is carried out with such brio that you won’t mind.

Malachi Whitaker is a girl – her first name was actually Marjorie, and she was known as the “Bradford Chekhov”. Her “Landlord of the Crystal Fountain” is a strange exercise in wish-fulfilment and whimsy as a teacher shares a train carriage with four big men, on their way back from a pub landlords’ conference. It’s not as dirty as it sounds. But right up until the final paragraph, I was expecting this to turn into a horror story, or at least something sinister, a la Roald Dahl. What are these landlords up to? I wondered. Maybe it’s just me.

VS Pritchett’s “On the Edge of the Cliff” looks at the strange, end-of-the-line world of an old man who has a girlfriend nearly 50 years younger than himself. It’s a non-pervy, and in fact curiously sexless coupling as the old boy follows his girl to a seaside fair, and in the process bumps into the widow of one of his long-dead friends. The old man doesn’t like this woman. For one thing she reminds him of the past, when he and his friends used to defrock and go for a nude swim at the cove. For another, there was some sort of incident, for which the old man brands this woman a “liar” to his ingenuous young lady. But there are a lot of signs that the old man’s memory is not what it was. We can only take these two friends reunited as we find them in a spellbinding drama, rich in setting and characterisation.

“A Dream of Winter” by Rosamund Lehmann sees a woman in bed with the flu while a man deals with a bees’ nest which has been causing a great deal of irritation in her country house. Her two children cause a ruckus in the meantime, one of many rude, if perfectly natural interruptions on the entire process. Although the story is set on a very cold winter’s day, there is a promise of summer in the recovery of the precious honey – although not all of nature’s gifts are ones we’d appreciate.

Evelyn Waugh, next, with “An Englishman’s Home”. This was quaint, English and proper, with bluff generals, hawkish spinsters and calculating bankers getting their bloomers in a twist over a proposed property deal which threatens their rural toff lifestyle. Classic Waugh – and, along with Wodehouse, classic comic writing.

I first knew of Graham Greene’s “The Destructors” through a reference to it in the movie Donnie Darko. This examination of innate evil through the eyes of young boys is just as remarkable as William Golding’s in Lord of the Flies. Here, a teenage gang in post-war London torment an old man living in the last house standing in a street bombed by the Germans years before. Their nihilism and pack behaviour is chilling, as is their almost insectoid swarming over the man’s home when he has the misfortune to go away for a bank holiday weekend. But the final cruelty doesn’t come from the boys.

This was a snapshot of a world which no longer exists, but will be well remembered by a great many people; the parts of England’s capital which were left in rubble and ruin years after the final siren sounded in the Blitz, as sure a symbol of the end of empire as any other.

Two things I knew about HE Bates, coming into the next tale: an off-hand reference to his writings in Withnail & I, and The Darling Buds of May. And he was probably called Master Bates at school. That’s three things.

Anyway, as Byatt points out, it’s a shame that he’s mostly known for bucolic farce, as Bates was a fine documentarian of things that grow. “The Waterfall” begins during a hard winter as a clergyman’s daughter asks a favour of a distant neighbour, as her father falls ill and dies. Not long afterwards, the ice begins to melt, and the daughter and the neighbour begin a courtship which becomes a marriage.

We then have a wonderful evocation of spring and summertime as this lonely, buttoned-up woman is flooded with life; and then something else, as a florid jester of a man is contracted to mend a waterway which has been causing trouble on her husband’s land. Her husband takes to this man and his silly jokes very well, and she in turn learns to laugh along with them. There’s never a hint of there being something forbidden or sinister in the wife’s blossoming feelings, but they are perfectly natural, just like everything else in the tale. And if there is another hard winter on the way for the clergyman’s daughter - if the waterfall should freeze up once more - Bates chooses to ignore it.

“The Troll” by TE White puts an Englishman in a gothic horror story in Sweden as he spies the creature in the title eating a woman in the hotel room next to his. The hideous, ethereal monster with his blue-flamed tongue is content to hide in the form of a man during normal times, and lets the Englishman know that he’s next on the menu. This tale had a fantastical element but was told with great conviction, and if there was irony, it was deeply buried – the two key elements required for fantasy stories to work their magic on the reader.

Wipes brow, takes drink of sharp lemonade. Nearly there.

Now, this is embarrassing: I had to check that Elizabeth Taylor wasn’t, you know, Elizabeth Taylor. That has to be a straight fail. It’s not out of the question, is it? I mean Dirk Bogarde wrote. Robert Shaw wrote.

Harrumph. Anyway. Taylor’s “The Blush” involves a misunderstanding, class issues and discomfort, though it is in no way a comedy. Here, a childless, affluent woman interacts with her cleaning lady, who, despite being apparently “too old” for children, gets pregnant. We get a rounded picture of the cleaning lady and a very keen sense of the social differences between these two similarly-aged women, before that image is completely shattered by a visit from an angry husband.

“At Hiruharama” is set in New Zealand and looks at a family history as a man and his pregnant wife move into a remote area at the turn of the century, surrounded by what some may term rural types. The central drama, as the isolated man seeks to contact the only doctor in the vicinity while his wife goes into labour, is completely undercut by an eccentric neighbour who arrives exactly on time for his six-monthly dinner engagement, and is not to be dissuaded.

Leonora Carrington’s “My Flannel Knickers” is a work of surrealism in which a man gets stuck on an island – a traffic island, to be precise – and goes through a face-swapping competition of some kind which put me in mind of Rene Magritte’s work. But it’s difficult to know what’s going on in this tale. It’s not wilfully obtuse or badly written, but there are several interpretations and we simply don’t have time at the moment.

I’ve read two stories by Alan Sillitoe and they have both been brilliant, if very sad. The one we get here is “Enoch’s Two Letters”, in which a young boy is left home alone thanks to a horrible coincidence. As night falls, the strange fears of childhood are reproduced very strongly, and I was moved by the young lad’s predicament, as well as the idea of poor old grandma being left to pick up the pieces.

Another sad thing – this edition would have you believe JG Ballard is still alive. “Dream Cargoes” is a fever dream in which a young man finds himself as captain of a freight ship filled with toxic waste which causes an environmental marvel on a deserted island. The young lad then becomes as much of a target of scientists’ curiosity as the thickening vegetation and ever-evolving animal life which swarms over the land. But evolution can be metaphysical as well as physical in Ballard’s world.

John Fuller weighs in with two quick tales, next. “Telephone” manages to give us a complete picture of a lazy freeloader who makes merry with a friend’s flat, drinking his booze and reading his letters, while a telephone rings in the background. “My Story” looks at everyone’s story, from the Epic of Gilgamesh onwards, and in so doing reveals an extraordinary truth; that you can only get a true picture of a life once it’s over. Both remarkable achievements in that each story is about a quarter of the length of this review.

Angela Carter’s “The Kiss” starts off with vivid splashes of colour as she describes the women in a Central Asian marketplace, the colours, their clothes, the make-up and hair. Then she turns it into a Scheherazade-style fable with a strong feminist slant – sensuous, provocative and shocking by turns.

Rose Tremain’s “The Beauty of the Dawn Shift” takes us to other unfamiliar, if far less exotic pastures, following the progress of a formerly East German soldier as he attempts to flee to Russia following the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. It may be the uniform, it may be the incest, it may be the kindness mixed with contempt of the Polish couple who help him when he falls sick, but Tremain wants us to understand there’s something very wrong with this guy. For the work of an Englishwoman who may never have seen the former East Germany, this is a fine evocation of time and place.

Ian McEwan pops up in these anthologies more often than not, and “Solid Geometry” is a bit of a classic. It follows a writer who edits the diaries of his crank great-great grandfather, and discovers a strange scientific discovery he stumbled upon relating to Euclidian purity and, perhaps, Plato’s Forms. In the background, the narrator’s relationship with his partner is fading away. These two separate strands collide in a spectacular way and, god forgive me, I was almost cheering at the end.

The end. Sigh. Here it is, with Philip Hensher’s “Dead Languages”, an appropriately moribund look at the English through the eyes of a school pupil in one of the colonies. This boy has chats with the wife of the schoolmaster, the enigmatic “mister”, and generally fails to understand this odd couple and their preoccupations throughout the length of the tale. And in the end, he still doesn’t get them. AS Byatt saw this as the perfect way to end the collection, so let’s take her cue.

SHADOW SELVES

2011-11-30T21:36:00.000-08:00

The Jack Carston Mysteries
by Bill Kirton
Kindle Edition, Pfoxmoor Publishing, PfoxChase

Review by Melissa Conway

I am acquainted with the author and received this ebook free, which should in no way be construed as an admission that the following review is biased. If I don’t like a book, I won’t finish reading it no matter who wrote it.

Shadow Selves is the fourth installment in award-winning author Bill Kirton’s Scotland-based Jack Carston Mysteries. I haven’t read the first three, but had no difficulty whatsoever immersing myself in this cracking good story.

Someone wanted to make very sure that Professor Hayne of the University of Grampian never recovered from his surgery. Not only did his supposedly infallible sutures rupture and cause him to hemorrhage internally, but a lethal dose of pain killer had also been administered by his killer or killers. It’s this very ‘overkill’ that brings his death to the attention of Detective Chief Inspector Jack Carston.

Carston soon discovers that Hayne, head of the department of European Culture at the university, wasn’t well liked. In fact, among his peers “…no blood was let, but hatreds and antagonisms simmered.” Hayne had enemies to spare and not just at his workplace. As his health declined, he’d been a frequent patient at Bartholomew Memorial Hospital – a cantankerous, unpopular patient. Add to that a wife who can’t even pretend she’s sad he’s gone, and Carston and his team have no shortage of suspects.

Chief among them are the professors angling for Hayne’s job now that he’s gone. There’s the wretchedly malodorous Prof. Leith, with his connection to the surgeon who performed Hayne’s surgery; there’s Prof. Carlyle, whose very department was in jeopardy due to the machinations of an ambitious Hayne; and there’s Prof. Christie, a lecherous wannabe-dandy accused of sexual harassment.

The constipated and sometimes quite amusing posturing of the professors as they scheme to advance themselves and their interests, often at the expense of their colleagues, is mirrored in Carston’s own department, as he struggles to assimilate a new detective with ulterior motives.

Sandra Scott is the attractive student dealing not only with Christie’s unwanted advances, but with a persistent stalker. She’s aided by Carston’s newly-promoted Sargent Julie McNeil, whose misguided attempt to frighten the stalker off has unintended consequences…

The author, a former university lecturer, imbues his narrative with an almost palpable intelligence, and I have no doubt he tapped into his real-life background to accurately depict not only the academic and hospital settings for Shadow Selves, but the psychosocial motivations between its colorful characters. We also get a creepy look into the mind of the stalker as his offenses escalate.

Like all the best mysteries, the author created a multitude of plausible suspects that kept me guessing throughout, but then pulled off an uncontrived resolution to the ‘whodunnit’ that managed to surprise me. Another good, solid read from Bill Kirton.

PUNCHLINE

2011-11-28T22:03:00.000-08:00

by Paul Fenton
Kindle Edition

Review by Maria Bustillos

Let's begin with the obvious: Paul Fenton's Punchline has got a marvelous one. And though I'd had it in the back of my mind that a revelation of some kind must eventually be forthcoming, the nature of it caught me completely by surprise, and added a great deal of depth and richness to what had already been a very entertaining ride. This is a really fun, good novel, though fairly harrowing in bits. Relax! It's just a (moderately horrifying and unnerving) story.

Luca Pope is an aspiring novelist, as yet unpublished, with maybe a little more self-loathing than even that bleak description usually entails. The hilariously effective black comedy here rescues Luca from what might have been too bitter a cocktail of despair. Most of the book consists of Luca's interior monologue, and in the hands of a less skilled writer, the nearly uniform point of view might have grown rather claustrophobic for the reader. But Fenton's prose is elegant and compact, he has superb comic timing and delivery, and in general he handles the whacked-out inner world of Luca Pope really beautifully. There is a multilayered noir plot and a cast of truly bizarre characters, a tumultuous love (or at least sex) story, some wonderful set pieces and a pleasurable amount of murder, drunkenness and mayhem. Beneath all that, though, there are hints of a deeper message – about the torments suffered by would-be artists and the soul-crushing nature of modern life, and office life in particular; these big-picture moments are where the book really shone, for me, and I am hoping to see Fenton take this kind of writing farther still next time. It's a very good question, really: what exactly is this mysterious urge that drives a person to write, or even just to want to "become a writer"? A person who could otherwise spend those limitless hours of study and scribbling and revising and hand-wringing doing anything else, such as rollerskating, lovemaking, playing with the cats, or baking cookies?? I ought to know, since I am a fellow-sufferer, but even after all these years I'm not really any closer to understanding that weird compulsion.

Punchline is at bottom the familiar story of one man against the world. Fenton creates in Luca Pope an anti-Everyman who calls forth by turns sympathy, revulsion, laughter, and, I daresay, a certain degree of identification, particularly for anyone who has ever fancied himself a writer. It's a novel of alienation rather than a straight-up crime novel, following in the footsteps of Kesey, Vonnegut, Kafka and Orwell more than in those of Elmore Leonard. As in this passage, where Luca's self-reflection takes a turn, either toward the darkness or the light – we're always kept guessing.

“I have not completely lost touch with reality. It's like when you have a toothache which comes and goes, sometimes bad and sometimes not so bad, and you know there's a cavity in there getting worse with every day you don't see a dentist, but you convince yourself you shouldn't worry about it until you actually do see a dentist, and so you carry on under that subtlest of delusions.

“Not a psychotic break. More of a psychotic sprain.”

Punchline is a no-holds-barred investigation of the darker recesses of the creative mind, written in a funny, fresh, original voice. It would make a really splendid movie too. I'd go on, but I daren't, for fear of spoiling the joke.

INTELLIGENCE:

2011-11-26T19:31:00.001-08:00

A Novel of the CIA

by Susan Hasler
320 pages, St. Martin’s Press

Review by Anthony Barker

‘Normal’ is a relative term. Heterocephalus glaber (the naked mole-rat) is a species almost too repulsive to contemplate. Hairless and misshapen, they spend their lives groping through deep tunnels, eating whatever tidbits they happen upon and having sex with any of their kind who do not bite back. They survive without much oxygen, and having evolved underground they may actually require the pressure of the surrounding earth to keep themselves from coming apart.

Susan Hasler’s book, Intelligence, brought them to mind.

Writing about intelligence agencies has evolved over the decades. The masterful James Bond was a figment the fifties and sixties. The dusty, professorial George Smiley, sifting through old records to detect past treachery, evokes the cynicism of the seventies and eighties. Hasler, a retired CIA analyst, shows us the dedication (and the frustration) of analysts searching for needles in haystacks of miscellaneous reports, trying to detect a terrorist plot.

Hasler calls her fictional agency ‘the Mines’, but the building they work in is surprisingly similar to that structure in Langley, Virginia which bears the ironic inscription, ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ We can safely presume that the windowless cubicles, the miles of subterranean corridors, cramped conference rooms, claustrophobic security, and especially the irritable, paranoid and depressive personalities of the analysts, are a faithful representation of place and personnel.

No wonder. They are under immense pressure—pressure unrelieved since 9/11.

It need hardly be said that most of them are women—for whenever a tedious, low prestige job requires care and diligent attention to detail, most of the workers will be women. Nor need we add that their obtuse, hypocritical, manipulative bosses are mostly male.

And yet, while holding the moral high ground, the analysts feel guilty. They were implicitly blamed for the 9/11 debacle (‘massive intelligence failure’) and are certain to be blamed for the next one, no matter that they are working 15 hour days on the impossible task of predicting the future. They are neurotic, overstressed, sleepless. Their dreams are splattered with bodies. Unable to attend to their broken marriages and impaired children, they substitute co-dependent relationships with pet rabbits, possums and stray cats. It is not a pretty sight, and yet it seems plausible, and (sometimes) kind of funny.

I will not reveal the plot except to say that the author follows a developing terrorist attack through the viewpoints of team leader Madeleine James, PhD., and other members of her search team. Hasler also grants us an occasional glimpse into the brain of the jihadist. This makes for tense, fast moving chapters and keeps various sub-plots separate from the main story. The method works well given that the search involves different skills and personalities.

I did not find Ms. Hasler’s writing about love or sex particularly persuasive. Only the most geriatric, inhibited, hypocritical, or otherwise unlikely characters seem to attempt it. But what do I know about love in Fairfax County? I’m going to give her a ‘pass’ on that as she writes so well about the procedures and problems of the intelligence community. And let’s be fair—no matter how much women boast about multi-tasking, it’s probably hard to pursue orgasms and mass murderers at the same time.

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

2011-11-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

by Agatha Christie
224 pages, HarperCollins

Review by Pat Black

Welcome to the original slasher movie.

Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None is the most popular murder mystery of all time, having sold a reputed 100 million copies. To put that in perspective, The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album has shifted about 32 million.

It’s not a Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot book, which is a foreboding prospect straight away. There’s no-one to root for, no quirky sleuth gathering clues - simply a cast list of suspects. And more chillingly still, they’re all guilty in their own right, people with murky pasts and weighty consciences.

Sometimes Christie’s novels can be jolly hockeysticks affairs, even when they’re concerned with bloody murder. But this one has an especially dark side.

Ten people are gathered at the remote Soldier Island at the invitation of “Mr and Mrs UN Owen” – and seriously, folks, if you ever fall for that one, you probably deserve all you get. After following some instructions they play a gramophone record in which a scary voice accuses them all of murder. They are then confronted by the sight of ten mocked-up toy figurines corresponding to the nursery rhyme in the title (revised, redacted or otherwise). Worse still, they’re all stuck where they are, after the ferry doesn’t show up.

Everyone does have a secret. In some cases the characters have been responsible for outright murder. In others, they’re guilty due to negligence, professional or otherwise. There seems to be no connection between them, and nothing connecting their guilt to the island.

Soon, they begin to die. There are poisonings, shootings, bludgeoning, drownings, and fire-axings, each death a gruesome re-enactment of the lines in the nursery rhyme. The idea of a creepy killer, UN Owen, roaming the island, unseen, bumping them off, is scary enough. But added to that is the even more frightening idea of the killer being one of the guests on the island.

With each death, the paranoia, suspicion and fear intensifies. What is the secret of Soldier Island? Who could be behind the murders? With little to go on and no-one to trust, the remaining islanders attempt to piece it together, before the killer wipes them all out.

Is it General Macarthur, the war hero, guilty of despatching his wife’s lover on a suicide mission? Or maybe it’s Vera the governess, tortured by guilt after a little boy in her care drowned? Or how about the mercenary Philip Lombard, whose actions led to an entire tribe dying in more tropical climes?

Retired copper William Blore had a man falsely sent to prison after being bribed – a man who later died. And then there’s hanging judge Mr Justice Wargrave, a man with a fondness for liberally applying the death penalty.

Mr and Mrs Rodgers, the housekeepers, have a deadly secret of their own, having helped a former employer into an early grave. The dashing Tony Marston has innocent blood on his hands, having run over two children while drunk. Alcohol also plays a part in the past of the Harley Street doctor Armstrong, who operated on a client while drunk, with fatal consequences. And then there’s ultra-moral, ultra-uptight Emily Brent, whose convictions led to a luckless young lass taking her own life.

All guilty after a fashion.

If the conventions of the story seem familiar, it’s because they have been replicated in every single slasher/giallo film you’ve ever seen. UN Owen spills blood, leaves bodies behind and spreads terror. You can see his or her influence in the Friday the 13^th, Halloween and Scream films - especially in the latter, where there’s a strong whodunnit element. And the claustrophobia and sense of isolation in sci-fi thrillers Alien and The Thing have their dripping, tentacley roots in Agatha Christie’s masterpiece. Even if you’ve never read a single murder mystery before, you should seek this one out.

ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL

2011-11-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

by Declan Burke
224 pages, Liberties Press

Review by Bill Kirton

In a previous review (of a Paul Auster novel), I wrote ‘Writing fiction about writing and writers is a precarious endeavour; making one of your characters yourself – giving him your name, location and profession – is provocative’. And the review went on to list the reasons why I won’t be reading any more of his work. So it’s strange that I found Absolute Zero Cool so compelling because it, too, features the writer himself, the work in progress (which is the novel we’re reading), one of its characters who ‘helps’ him to write it and works by blurring the dividing lines between fiction and reality.

But here that blurring is useful because it allows Burke to juxtapose, explore and exploit the elements of the creative process. When we write, we live with our characters, whether they’re contemporaries, historical, fantastical, aliens, anthropomorphised animals or whatever else our imaginations have conjured up. They exist for us, they’re real. So there’s no reason we shouldn’t enter into dialogues with them or suggest that they’re at least as legitimate (in terms of reality) as we ourselves are. And if that sounds pretentious or egocentric, consider this quote from the book ‘Writing and masturbation have in common temporary relief and the illusion of achievement’.

But I don’t want to stress the analytical aspects of the book or get tangled in the complexities of having two narrators, both fictional and yet one of them also the author himself, because this is also a bloody good thriller. It’s also funny, thought-provoking and very satisfying. Some reviews refer to it as possibly becoming a cult classic; I think it deserves to be more. It’s consciously set in a literary and philosophical tradition of which the writer is constantly aware and on which he draws. He’s an intelligent, sensitive novelist who’s comfortable with the form, willing to explore its wider possibilities and simultaneously a creator of great characters and an assured story-teller.

The two main threads – each having a male-female relationship and a child at its centre – develop in parallel and are linked by the identities of the 2 males, who are also the narrators. It’s only in the final action-packed pages that they’re brought thrillingly together and resolved in a fusion that made me at least want to start reading all over again. Throughout the book there’s a tension between the two central male characters, an unease about what one of them is planning, a series of choices about actions, any one of which could send the narrative in a different direction. It ticks all the boxes of a classic thriller.

And, at the same time, it’s just as thrilling in the way that it examines the process of writing itself. In the course of the story, Burke refers to ‘how writers are demented by their own egos’ and how their fictions are an ‘impossible pursuit’ which they convey through metaphors such as the whale in Moby Dick and, in this case, the destruction of a hospital. ‘A good novel and the terrorist bomb,’ writes Burke, ‘have this much in common: they are about questions, not answers’.

I wont go on. Read it. It gives you all this and more and, unlike the Paul Auster book, it’s immediate and entertaining. I’ll end with just one of the many examples of how good a writer Burke is which I noted as I read and which still keep me held by the book:

‘Democracy is a blizzard of options so thick it obscures the fact that there is no choice.’

Now That. Is. Good.

PUNCHLINE

2011-11-17T21:27:00.000-08:00

by Paul Fenton
Kindle Edition

Review by Marc Nash

"Punchline" is hip, flip and an enjoyable comedic thriller. Luca Pope loses his job, but after the initial prospect of blowing his severance pay on getting drunk, there is the distinct advantage on offer of devoting himself to his ambition to become a published novelist. Until the jolt of seeing his book on the shelves of a bookshop, with another man's name on the spine. Now Luca being more the kind of guy who would spend his severance pay on a blowout rather than ensuring it saw him through until landing a job, fails to form a plan of attack to marshal and strategise his response and thus is set in motion an uproarious meandering set of events.

Luca is engaging company. He has a waspish tongue, a healthy cynicism and an opinion on any and everything. Though engaged on a sort of noirish thriller quest, he is absolutely British and modern in his worldview and a lousy layman detective. He fizzles and crackles with understandable indignation at most things in the world, seeing what has befallen him and a couple of sustained setpieces are really, fall off the sofa funny (maybe don't read this in the bath? But then it's an e-book so you probably wouldn't be anyway). The first is a scene that takes place in a dominatrix's workplace, when he'd unwittingly turned up to conduct a discussion on provenance and ownership of literature. The second is a phone conversation conducted in public with a hit man on the other end of the line and having to speak in improvised code which really shows off Fenton's skills as a comic writer.

I did have a couple of small reservations about the book as it hurtled towards its denouement. The first concerned the plot itself which I felt just ran out of steam as we approached the final showdown. The tying up of plot threads left me a tad unsatisfied, with the twist being radical and yet not being afforded any undue emphasis from the throughline it had overthrown. This is in part I think to my second reservation, that of the story centering around a writer. This may be personal to me as an author myself, but I do wonder whether readers are as concerned with literary and publishing crimes and misdemeanours as we writers certainly are. In the end this was about a guy who had his manuscript plagiarised and permitted the playing out of writerly revenge fantasies (Dan Brown fans may not warm to this book). The satire concerning submitting manuscripts, rejections, wannabe author judgements about other authors, while eminently recognisable to me, were not remarkable enough to be any different from any writer's forum or blog you may care to scour. I think if you're going to make this the main thrust of your novel, then you really have to go so much further out there with it.

Having said that, the less frenetic reflexive meditations on writing and the writer did remind me of Paul Auster's "New York Trilogy". This together with the great narrative voice (which reminded me of Christopher Brookmyre) and the rich vein of comedy running throughout, absolutely still makes "Punchline" a very enjoyable and recommended read.

(This ebook was provided free to the reviewer and he is acquainted with the author.)

SCOTLAND'S BLOODY BALLADS

2011-11-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

edited by Charles Sinclair
96 pages, Goblinshead

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

When most people think of British folk music the images that form in their minds are those of twee songs about flowers, bearded men in sandals with acoustic guitars, and Scarborough bloody Fair. Even with the rise of nu-folk artists such as Mumford and Sons or Laura Marling, telling someone that you like folk music can still provoke a response akin to telling someone you collect roadkill which you then stuff and mount on your wall. Sure, people will nod and smile politely, but nine times out of ten they'll be thinking, “What a weirdo.”

However, those who are willing to look a little bit harder and listen a bit more attentively will notice that there are more than a few British folk songs that are incredibly, unbelievably dark. Murder, incest, rape, betrayal, vengeance, infanticide, torture, bloodshed... some old folk songs make the “Saw” movies seem like a trip to the nursery.

“Scotland's Bloody Ballads” is a small book published by independent press Goblinshead. The book collects twenty one of the grisliest, nastiest ballads originating from Scotland. Opening with the charming “The Twa Corbies” (which tells the story of two crows discussing which parts of a dead knight they will feast on), the book then plunges on through tales of child murderers, jilted lovers, suicides, mutilations, drownings, disease and rotting corpses. My personal favourite in the collection is “The Daemon Lover”, a delightful song detailing the horrid fate of a woman who leaves her husband and children for another man who just happens to be the devil.

Each song is accompanied with detailed notes explaining the historical background as more than a few of the ballads are based on true stories. The text is also accompanied with a handy glossary for those who aren't so familiar with the more archaic terms or whose understanding of the Scots dialect is somewhat shaky. There's also a very readable introduction written by the editor, Charles Sinclair. The introduction provides a little more detail about the origins of the ballads and the shared themes of many of them.

All of the songs in this collection have been taken from Francis James Child's comprehensive collection “The English and Scottish Popular Ballads” (essential reading for those with an interest in folk music but copies of it are increasingly hard to come by). Looking at Sinclair's selection, it is clear why he chose the ballads he did. They are all short, accessible, rhythmic and universally unpleasant.

Those with a taste for the macabre will find this short collection an absolute delight. Those who are already acquainted with Child's original collection of Ballads might not discover anything new but this remains a great little book which throws some light on the darker side of folk music.

Hereward L.M. Proops

Xenofreak Nation

2011-11-13T21:14:00.000-08:00

by Melissa Conway
Kindle Edition

Review by J.S. Colley

Note: I am acquainted with the author. I purchased this novel without the author’s knowledge.

Xenofreak Nation utilizes a thought-provoking and disquieting future possibility as a catalyst for great storytelling. The novel is set in the not-so-distant future where scientists have perfected the process of bioengineering animals in order to donate their organs for human transplant. A side result of this technology allows grafting animal parts onto the human body. Animal grafts have taken the place of tattoos as a means of self-expression. A group of society -- given the derogatory label of xenofreaks -- has taken this practice to a higher level and graft more than just tiny patches of animal skin; they also graft larger animal parts, like ears or claws. This new trend has usurped the original purpose for bioengineering animals. According to Henry Vega, a member of The Pure Human Society, humans are still on long waiting lists for organs because "the xenoengineers make more money producing animals for the perverted lifestyles of the xenofreaks! They make millions upon millions of dollars enabling these atrocities!"

The main story centers around two characters, Bryn Vega and Scott Harding, whose stories unfold in alternating chapters. Events bring them together and pull them along as Bryn tries to adjust to the unalterable changes made to her life and Scott tries to do his job. We learn that Bryn's father became involved with The Pure Human Society because his wife, and Bryn's mother, died after receiving a pig heart. The heart was bio-engineered to be compatible with humans, but at the time, the process couldn't account for the difference in the tissue aging process, and Bryn's mother died prematurely. Now he works obsessively against xenografts in general, and xenofreaks in particular. He believes that legalizing human tissue cloning will eliminate the unethical and disturbing behavior of this fringe group of society.

As a result of the narcissistic actions of her father, Bryn is thrown into a world very different than the sheltered life she has been living. This is where she meets Scott, a xenofreak and member of the infamous and dangerous XBestia gang. He is ordered by the gang's leader to guard Bryn. Soon, they are both equally confused by their feelings for one another. As the story moves forward, the two characters learn the truth about each other and, while their more immediate problems are resolved, their futures and the future of xenofreaks everywhere are still uncertain, which leaves room for their journey to continue in a sequel to the novel.

In real life, answers to questions regarding serious medical ethical issues are fuzzy, and so it is in this novel. At one point, Harry Vega says: "We're in an era capable of great medical advances but crippled by ethical debate." Yet the "bad" guys in the novel are people who have ignored ethics and misused technology. As a society, what are we to do? Should we allow anything simply because it can be done? Could human tissue cloning eventually lead to the same kind of abuse, some unintended consequence we never even thought of? What about the cloned animals? Whether their body parts are used for human recreational enhancement or as life-saving organ donations, is it ethical to use them in this way? In the story, a member of a radical animal rights agency is portrayed as both a good and bad guy; this is the way life really is. Nothing is ever black and white. This novel doesn't preach. The reader is left to decide on which side of the fence they fall, or if they sit squarely on it.

I would compare this book favorably to The Hunger Games. Both novels present a dystopian society and have young protagonist, but I find Xenofreak Nation has a more believable -- a more feasible -- future. And, while I have minor issues with a few of the premises in both novels, I was able to suspend my disbelief and enjoy the stories.

Xenofreak Nation suggests a possible future I never considered. I found the premise very clever and the human story surrounding the ethical questions satisfying. A great read that also provides thoughtful content.

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN:

2011-11-11T21:58:00.000-08:00

Black Dossier
by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

For British comic book fans, “The Leagueof Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier” is not an easy book to come by. Published in the United States back in 2007, the graphic novel has never been released in the United Kingdom due to numerous copyright issues thrown up by the eclectic content. British readers are forced to import their copies and whilst not hard to come by on the internet, the sellers frequently charge extortionate prices and because of this, I never took the plunge. Imagine my surprise when I found a near-mint copy for sale in my local charity shop for a mere four pounds. The dust-jacket was unmarked, the pages appeared untouched and even the 3D glasses were still in the unopened plastic envelope at the back of the book. I'm not a particularly religious man, but the gods of geekery were smiling down on me that day.

“The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier” differs from other instalments in the series. Alan Moore has stated in interviews that he intended the self-contained graphic novel to be a “sourcebook” for the series, providing an insight into the history of the League that was only hinted at in the first two series. Chronologically, the book fits in between the “Century: 1910” and the recently published “Century: 1969”. Set in 1958, the book sees Allan Quatermain and Mina Harker (the surviving members from the Victorian League who starred in the original two series) on a quest to recover the legendary Black Dossier containing the secret history of the many different incarnations of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Our heroes (who are now both immortal having bathed in the fire of youth from Rider Haggard's “She”) are pursued by Hugo “Bulldog” Drummond, Emma Knight (who will, of course, become Emma Peel of “The Avengers”) and a sleazy, staggeringly inept secret agent known as Jimmy. Ian Fleming is spinning in his grave right now.

Allan and Mina's comic-book adventure is interspersed with numerous extracts from the Black Dossier. The dossier is essentially a scrapbook charting the League from its creation in Elizabethan England by Prospero (the wizard from Shakespeare's “The Tempest”) and Virginia Wolfe's immortal transsexual Orlando. We learn of the various Leagues through a variety of prose stories, letters, guidebooks and magazine cuttings. The history of the League is charted up to its dissolution in the 1940s as the country is brutalised under the reign of Big Brother. What makes the contents of the dossier so remarkable is that each section is written in the style of its inspiration. There's a lost Shakespeare folio detailing Prospero's meeting with the faerie queen Gloriana written in near-perfect iambic pentameter. Later on we are treated to a sequel to John Cleland's “Fanny Hill” complete with illustrations. There's a fantastic genre mash-up of a Jeeves and Wooster story where they encounter H.P. Lovecraft's Great Old Ones. The only misstep in these wildly ambitious asides is “The Crazy Wide Forever”, a story written in free-flowing prose which is trying so hard to emulate Jack Kerouac's style that it is rendered virtually unreadable.

Kevin O'Neill's artwork is, as always, truly fantastic. Whether he is capturing the drab austerity of the 1950s or emulating the pastel-coloured children's comic strips of the era, O'Neill's work is consistently eye-catching and complex. Artistically, the highlight of the book has to be the 3D section where our heroes reach the magical psychedelic Blazing World. Unlike anything I've seen in a comic book, I can guarantee that jaws will drop. However, I can't guarantee that readers will actually understand what the hell is going on.

Part of the charm of the original series of “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” was the way in which Moore's encyclopaedic knowledge of Victorian literature enabled him to populate the comic with the period's greatest fictional creations. “Black Dossier” ups the ante by taking its inspirations from numerous periods of literature. Readers are literally bombarded with references to both well-known works (such as George Orwell's “1984”) and more obscure pieces. I know of many comic-book fans who avoid reading “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” for this reason. Part of the joy of comics is their accessibility, but this volume is so densely-packed with allusions to other literary works that one gets the feeling that a degree in English literature is required to fully enjoy the book.

Perhaps this is Moore's way of retaliating against the dumbing down of his creation in the 2003 cinema adaptation. Maybe he wanted to make something that would be impossible for Hollywood to mess up. Whatever his motivations were, Moore has created something that will infuriate his readers as much as it will entertain them. “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier” is clearly not intended for those unfamiliar with the League's previous adventures. It is so complex and its scope is so broad that it might well alienate even the most ardent fan of the original series. Patient, attentive readers will be rewarded for their efforts but many will feel that the book is a little too self-indulgent for its own good.

Hereward L.M. Proops

BOOKSQUAWK'S MOST TREASURED:

2011-11-09T21:26:00.000-08:00

The books we simply can’t allow you to borrow.

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl

762 pages, Penguin

Cackling miser: Pat Black

I’ve cheated on this one a little bit. It’s been loaned out once or twice.

You can bet I made sure I got it back, though, and today it sits rather uneasily between the spines of the other works in this series. For a Most Treasured book, it’s very well-thumbed. The spine has a few cracks in it and the whole thing looks a little... well, grubby.

This is appropriate, as many of Roald Dahl’s collected short stories have a distinctly nasty, penny dreadful atmosphere to them. They’re like a shameful yellowed paperback you might find hiding its face in a charity shop, or a rude postcard pinned to a garage wall that takes its joke a little too far.

And yet, they’re beautifully written; although many of these stories were originally published in the United States and feature American characters, they are distinctly British in tone, penned in the main in the grey years between the end of the war and the swinging sixties. They have a febrile, buttoned-up sexuality to them that must have seemed shocking at the time. Many of the stories were dramatised in Tales of the Unexpected, a fondly-regarded TV anthology series which Dahl himself presented (although most viewers will be quicker to recall the theme tune and the flame-grilled nuddy dancer in the title sequence).

These stories came long before Dahl created the children’s books for which he is best remembered. But – and here’s the real sting in the tale – they share a very similar tone to novels such as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and the BFG; a closely-related sense of malice and glee, of sinister things lurking behind pleasant facades.

But what truly sets these tales apart are the twist endings, short sharp shocks that sometimes punished the wicked, but just as often bestowed unjust cruelties on the innocent.

This book collects five volumes of Dahl’s short story collections – Kiss Kiss, Over To You, Switch Bitch, Someone Like You and Eight Further Tales of the Unexpected. Although Over To You features Dahl’s fiction set in the Second World War, just about everything else sees the writer in nasty mode. And you know what? That’s the way I like him.

There are too many stories here to review in any great detail, but the best of them are classics. First of all, there are fine “shock” stories that would become Dahl’s stock-in-trade before he began writing for young ‘uns – thrill machines with nothing more on their mind than to cause goosepimples. “William and Mary” sees an apparently doting wife having her husband’s brain installed in an experimental tank full of liquid after he contracts a fatal illness, with one single eye allowing him to see how the lady’s life flourishes without him. Irvine Welsh lifted this entire idea lock, stock and barrel for a far less subtle tale in The Acid House, but I liked the implicit cruelty in this one a little better.

Then there’s “Royal Jelly”, probably the one most people remember from the TV series, in which a beekeeper decides to feed his newborn child some of the stuff in the title - with interezzzzzting results.

“Mrs Bixby And The Colonel’s Coat” puts us in one of Dahl’s favourite arenas – that of cheating spouses, and revenges gained or scores settled thereafter. The twist in that one is priceless. But in “The Great Switcheroo”, a tale of bed-trickery involving two randy husbands who agree to swap wives in the night – supposedly without their partners’ knowledge - the turnaround is a lot more subtle than you might suspect.

“The Visitor” is one of the “Uncle Oswald” stories, picaresque tales involving the bequeathed diaries of a famous philanderer. It features another belting climax when our priapic hero is driven almost insane with lust by the veiled daughter of a kindly Egyptian man who puts him up after his car breaks down in the desert. When it arrives, the twist feels like a mixture of one of the dirtier urban myths and one of the tales of Sheherazade.

But perhaps the best of these foetid tales of cheating and seduction is “Nunc Dimitis”, where a jealous husband discovers a dirty secret about the composition of a portrait of his wife – and springs a nasty surprise at a dinner party.

Another favourite topic of Dahl’s is stingy, socially fastidious, greedy middle class men given a royal come-uppance. “Parson’s Pleasure” is a fine example, in which a vicar collecting for a jumble sale is astonished to discover an original Chippendale piece of furniture, hiding in the house of some oblivious country bumpkins. He tries his best to weasel the near-priceless piece away from the owners, and his deception goes well. Until....

And finally, there’s “Dip In The Pool”, where a crafty passenger on a cruise liner seems to hit upon a foolproof plan to cheat his way into scooping a huge lottery prize. Not completely foolproof, as it turns out.

Many people are blissfully unaware that dear old Uncle Roald flew a Hurricane for the RAF during the Second World War in Greece and Syria. He lost a lot of friends, almost certainly killed several Germans in aerial dogfights and finally sustained horrible injuries in the crash that ended his involvement in the theatre. Dahl’s wartime experiences, both on and off the ground, are distilled into the tales of Over To You. The best of these, “Death of an Old Man”, takes on the tones of a nightmare once the initial exhilaration of taking on an enemy fighter plane in an air duel wears off.

In a similar vein, many of the stories spiral into outright horror. “The Landlady” is a subtle exercise in menace, and in its strange guest-house owner with an unusual hobby we might discern something of Norman Bates yet-to-be. “Pig” is a gruesome look at animal rights and battery farm production, and in its demented faux-American delivery there’s the tone of a Warner Brothers cartoon gone wrong.

These and other echoes of Dahl’s children’s stories are very strong – most notably in “The Champion of the World”, a story about some poachers attempting to bag as many pheasants as they can using a unique method. Of course, this story – and its title – would be completely retooled as a much more famous novel for children.

In “The Wish”, there’s a story of a child’s harmless game going extremely wrong, a scene which could have appeared in Matilda. And in the “Claud’s Dog” suite - several stories about a grubby bloke going about his grubby business in the countryside (maggot farming and all) - I hope I’m not stretching things by saying I detected a hint of The Twits.

Though it hardly seems an appropriate description for work which celebrates the malicious, the unfair and the downright sadistic, this is a wonderful book that you’ll dip into again and again. And although my copy has seen better days, and it bears the greasy fingerprints of other lovers of mischief, in future it is staying on my shelf... And, on the odd nasty night, beside my bed.

BATMAN: THE KILLING JOKE

2011-11-07T21:49:00.000-08:00

Deluxe Edition
by Alan Moore and Brian Bolland

Review by Hereward L.M. Proops

I've already professed my love for the caped crusader in a previous review and I know that some of my contemporaries on this site feel the same way about him. Part of Batman's charm is that a whole host of different writers, artists and film directors have tackled the character and lent their own particular style to the Dark Knight whilst remaining (relatively) faithful to his origins.

With the possible exception of Frank Miller's awesome “The Dark Knight Returns”, “The Killing Joke” is the most celebrated and highly acclaimed graphic novel featuring Batman. Penned by legendary scribe Alan Moore (a man who has achieved more in the medium of comic books than any other writer in history) and drawn by 2000AD stalwart Brian Bolland, “The Killing Joke” is a fine example of how superhero comics should be done. The 1980s was a good decade for comic books. It was during this time that they received a much needed shake-up and took a big step closer to being recognised as works of art. It was during this period that Moore seemed on fire. “V for Vendetta”, “The Ballad of Halo Jones”, “Watchmen”... everything he wrote was unquestionably a work of genius. He could have blown his nose on a piece of paper and it would have become a cult classic.

Unlike other graphic novels, “The Killing Joke” was not originally published as a series of individual comics. Rather, it was a 46 page one-shot. A bold statement in itself. Too long to be a single comic but too short to be considered a proper graphic novel – it is a perfect example of a writer and artist joining forces to create a work that is both uncompromising and startlingly accessible.

It is a fairly traditional Batman story – no bleak near-future setting as in Miller's masterwork or the time-bending antics seen in “The Return of Bruce Wayne”. This is just plain ordinary Batman doing what he does best - kicking ass in Gotham City. Of course, being written by Alan Moore, it is far from being quite that simple. Whilst adept at handing out two-fisted justice to wrongdoers, Moore's Batman is also a marvellously introspective and thoughtful character. We first meet him as he pays the Joker a visit in Arkham Asylum. He's aware of the cycle of violence that marks their relationship and seeks to put an end to it before one of them kills the other. In contrast, the Joker is truly and utterly barking mad. The Joker's playful malevolence and obsession with chaos and disorder seems to prefigure Jack Nicholson and Heath Ledger's performances on the silver screen. Indeed, it comes as no surprise to learn that the graphic novel was Tim Burton's favourite whilst he worked on the 1989 cinema adaptation. The sequence in the graphic novel where the Joker is “created” by Batman in a shadowy chemicals factory became one of the iconic set-pieces of the blockbuster film and Bolland's artwork appears to have had a significant influence on the film's rain-slicked neo-gothic design.

What elevates “The Killing Joke” above other superhero comics is the sinister tone and the relatively adult content. The plot sees the Joker breaking out of Arkham asylum and kidnapping Commissioner Gordon in an attempt to lure Batman into a trap. He repeatedly asserts that all separating a sane man from a mad man is “one bad day”. The Joker's kidnap of Gordon is not motivated from a desire to harm him but rather as a means to prove this point. You see, when he kidnapped Gordon he also shot the Commissioner's daughter, Barbara. As she lay in a pool of her own blood, the Joker undressed her and took a series of (ahem) compromising photographs. Once secure in the Joker's lair, Gordon is stripped naked, tortured by a pair of psychotic S & M dwarves and subjected to a stroboscopic slideshow presentation of these photographs. Dark? You betcha!

This sinister storyline is interspersed with a series of flashbacks to the aforementioned “birth” of the Joker. This origin tale is frequently highlighted as the misstep in an otherwise flawless graphic novel. Fanboys grumbled that the Joker's origins ought to have remained a mystery but others pointed out that the Joker is so batshit crazy that it is unlikely even he would be able to recall the event correctly.

Batman's final confrontation with the Joker puts his own strict moral code to the test. He has the opportunity to kill his enemy and put a stop to the cycle of violence once and for all. However, he chooses to let the Joker live and the story ends as the two foes share a joke in the rain as they wait for the police to arrive and cart the Joker back to Arkham. This beautifully open-ended conclusion is Moore's own bittersweet punchline to the tale and has baffled, charmed and infuriated readers in equal measure for over twenty years.

The edition I have reviewed is 2008's “Deluxe Edition” which features all-new colouring by Brian Bolland. My memory of the original colouring (by John Higgins) is hazy so I'm in no position to compare the two different versions. Bolland himself claims that the colours in this edition are closer to his original vision and that he considers this to be the definitive version.

Although shorter than many graphic novels, “The Killing Joke” is a truly magnificent work and should be essential reading for all fans of the superhero genre. Interestingly, in recent years Alan Moore has been somewhat critical of the book. In an interview with Blather.net, Moore said “I don't think it's a very good book. It's not saying anything very interesting.” I'm going to disagree with the big bearded one here. As much as I enjoy his recent works, it is great to be able to pick up and enjoy something by Alan Moore without feeling like he's actively trying to confuse or alienate his audience. In fact, it is when a read a graphic novel as straightforward and unashamedly enjoyable as this that I am reminded why I rate him so highly as a storyteller.

Hereward L.M. Proops

TO DIE A DRY DEATH

2011-11-05T19:44:00.000-07:00

by Greta van der Rol
Kindle Edition
Pfoxmoor Publishing, PfoxChase

Review by Bill Kirton

Utterly brilliant in every way.

Yet again, I find myself starting a review with a disclaimer. This book was written by someone who is now a friend, but I read and made notes on it long before I got to know her. Now that it’s appeared in a new edition with a fascinating addendum describing its genesis, it’s time to turn the notes into a proper review. I’ve explained before that friendship is never an issue in my appreciation (or otherwise) of books and, in this case, it’s completely irrelevant. Which is very convenient because I’m about to enthuse about it.

It’s a fictionalisation of an actual event – a mutiny far more dramatic than that of the Bounty. An online search will give you plenty of articles on the story of the Dutch East India Company’s ship the Batavia, which, on her maiden voyage in 1629 ran aground on a reef in the uncharted ocean off Western Australia. The survivors, including women and children, found themselves on islands where food and water were scarce. The ship’s captain, the company’s representative and some of the crew set sail in a longboat for the port which gave the ship its name (today known as Jakarta). Their intention was to alert the company to the event and return to rescue those left behind and retrieve the valuable cargo. What happened on the islands is the stuff of nightmares.

And it’s these nightmares – with the imaginative reconstruction of the whole episode, its characters, their motives and the outcomes – which are chronicled in the pages of this tremendous page-turner of a book. So thorough is the author’s research and so sensitive and skilful her handling of it all that it really does read as a chronicle rather than as fiction. The characters are given individual life, their conversations carry the immediacy of the events through which they’re living, and the extremes they endure and inflict on one another are conveyed in balanced, modulated prose which remains clear and restrained even when describing unspeakable cruelties and barbarism.

As well as fighting thirst, hunger and the elements, those left on the islands are subjected to internal strife between soldiers and sailors, men and women, Dutch, French and Germans, all pawns in a power struggle which is a microcosm of the 17^th century’s mores. If the sea has been cruel, those who lust for power and control surpass it many times over. The ingredients for an action-packed adventure are already there but it’s the confidence with which they’re handled, interpreted and realised that lets us share the intensity of all its horrors. We’re dealing with a specific culture and its sensibilities but the rawness of its humanity transcends them to give the whole an authenticity and a visceral realism which we live with the victims. For the reader, this is time travel.

The evocation of the main characters gives the story its urgency, its insistence; the shipwreck itself is high drama and conveyed with extraordinarily detailed realism. The debate about whether priority should be given to salvaging the company’s property or the people on board is not an abstraction but an aspect of the writer’s characterisation of those at the centre of the narrative. And, at the same time, the author deftly uses narrative ‘tricks’, such as when she conveys the horrific crimes being perpetrated in a hospital tent not by direct observation but through half-perceived shadows and stifled noises.

The journey on the long boat is intercut with the progressive barbarities being enacted among the survivors to sustain the novel’s pace and the different factions within those two separate strands add to the narrative’s density. In fact, it’s legitimate to talk not of the book’s narrative but of its narratives.

To Die a Dry Death ends with a very clever twist. (At first, I used a different adjective there but it might have been a spoiler so I changed it.) Before that, though, we experience the basest expressions of the worst in human nature. There is honour, courage, love, compassion but there’s also an increasingly intense experience of horror. This is Lord of the Flies multiplied several times and in its adult manifestation. It betrays the uneasy coexistence of civilisation and savagery, the corrosive contagion of violence. In fact, horror becomes a pastime.

This, of course, is a novel, a fictional account of a historical incident and, in a note at the end, the author suggests further reading. But it’s hard to believe any book could come closer to conveying the essence of this astonishing series of events. If ever there was a five star read, this is it.

THE SISTERS BROTHERS

2011-11-03T21:34:00.000-07:00

by Patrick deWitt
336 Pages, HarperCollins Publisher

Review by J.S. Colley

The Sisters Brothers is a genre-bending western that was short-listed for this year’s Man Booker Prize. It didn’t win. I can’t say if this is just or not, as I haven’t read any of the other books on the list, but this book was certainly worthy.

I’ll warn you there will be spoilers later on in this review. So, I’ll pause here to tell you that I thoroughly enjoyed this book. My one problem was a mild dissatisfaction with the ending or, rather, the events leading up to the ending. It is a minor problem, and something I can’t quite articulate. Perhaps the answer will come to me while writing this review. I recommend the book. It is a noir western that contains some wickedly deadpan humor. I think it was a reviewer from the Los Angeles Times that said this would be the outcome if Cormac McCarthy had a sense of humor.

Set in the American west in 1851, the novel is about the notorious assassin brothers, Eli and Charlie Sisters. They are hired guns for the mysterious Commodore, and their current assignment is to kill Hermann Kermit Warm because the Commodore claims he has stolen something that belongs to him.

I found a vague similarity to Of Mice and Men – two brothers, one a simpleton, the other his protector – but, in this novel, it is the simple-minded brother who is the narrator. Little else about this book reminds me of the classic, but I wonder if the author didn’t take a kernel of his idea from that book.

The novel starts out with Eli Sisters, the narrator, contemplating horses, or his lack of an adequate one. No good western should be without horses, and this book is chocked full of them. But, unlike other westerns, this book doesn’t treat them with gratuitous reverence.

At one point, Eli’s poor horse has his eye scooped out with a spoon because of infection. It seems gruesome – and it is – but it is made less so because Eli does it out of dedication to the animal. Or as much dedication as he’s capable of.

The story is Eli’s inner journey. It’s about the contradictions of life, where the dumb can sometimes be smart; how even the most simple-minded person can have something worthwhile to say, or can have an original idea; and that sometimes the protected becomes the protector – that roles change. We are not always just one thing.

The Sisters Brothers is written with plainness and humor. The subtle humor can be seen in the following exchange between the brothers. When an opportunity comes along to trade in Eli’s old horse for a better one, Charlie says:

“You’ve had a tough time with Tub, I’ll not deny it. A happy coincidence, this horse just walking up to meet you. What will you call him? What about, Son of Tub?”

Most of the book is made up of the brothers’ trek to meet up with Henry Morris, the front man who is to find Hermann Kermit Warm so the brothers can do their ill deed. Along the way, they meet many interesting and bewildering characters: a dentist who has failed at everything else and introduces Eli to the wonders of tooth powder and brush; a distraught, crying man that they meet more than once; an abandoned hapless boy with another ill-fated horse; and a gypsy that may or may not have put a curse on the Eli.

Along the way there is also much killing, for a variety of reasons. After going into town to get help for a spider bite that Eli has received, Charlie summarizes the randomness, or providence, of it all, as if there is no control over the killings: “…it is a spider to blame for the early demise of your group. A woolly, fat-bottomed spider in search of warmth – here is the cause of your deaths.”

The crux of the novel is that Eli is tired of the killing life. He has started to contemplate the moral question. This puts a drag, a tug, on the brothers’ relationship and provides the dramatic tension.

The brothers finally make it to San Francisco, where they are to meet Morris, but he’s nowhere to be found. During their search, they meet a man walking down the road petting a chicken and strike up a conversation. The man goes on to say: “My feelings about San Francisco rise and fall with my moods. Or is it that the town alters my moods, thus informing my opinions? Either way, one day it is my true friend, a few days after, my bitterest enemy.”

The brief description of San Francisco during the gold rush makes me wonder if the influx of people during that frenzied time didn’t leave an indelible mark on the city, and California in general. Here are Eli’s thoughts:

“Men desiring a feeling of fortune; the unlucky masses hoping to skin or borrow the luck of others, or the luck of a destination. A seductive notion, and one I thought to be wary of. To me, luck was something you either earned or invented though strength of character. You had to come by it honestly; you could not trick or bluff your way into it.”

Nothing is ever easy for the brothers, and so, when they go to the hotel to ask about Morris, the proprietress is loath to hand over the diary he unwittingly left behind. They resort to their usual methods of persuasion to garner the diary. It provides them with a clue to where they might find Warm and Morris, and to the Commodore’s real motivations for having Warm killed.

Here is where the spoiler comes in, so stop reading now if you haven’t read the book yet. I don’t give everything away, but enough to give you warning.

Once they finally find the other pair, the story takes a twist. The brothers realize the Commodore lied to them. Warm didn’t steal anything. In fact, it is the Commodore who wants to steal from Warm. Morris has already learned this and has turned his back on the Commodore to take up with Warm. But what are the brothers to do? They do what they generally do; let it play out and deal with things as they come.

The Commodore is after Warm’s secret chemical formula for a solution that promises to reveal gold hidden in the bottom of streams. The brothers decide against killing Warm and become partners with the two men. They will help cull the gold from the river in exchange for a share of what they find.

The chemical solution works. They do find gold, but things go terribly wrong. And here is the point of my discontent. Charlie makes a critical error during the process. The mistake seems out of character. Although Charlie appears reckless at times, his action seems utterly thoughtless and without proper motivation. It is an action the author does not explain to my satisfaction.

The reader could take this error as Charlie’s subconscious desire to get out of the business. Even with all the gold in the world, he’ll never be free of the killing life, unless he rids himself of the one thing that makes him who he is: his gun hand. But the reader is not given enough insight into the motivations behind Charlie’s careless action to come to this conclusion, and I believe this is the reason the ending seemed flat to me.

While I find some of the brothers’ behavior abhorrent, the author made me care about them. There was always humor to temper the morbidity and gruesomeness, and Eli’s voice was delightful. The elements of magical realism sprinkled throughout add to the intrigue and poetry of the story.

Even with the one minor criticism, I found The Sisters Brothers to be an excellent bit of writing and a delight to read.

THE SENSE OF AN ENDING

2011-11-01T16:56:00.001-07:00

by Julian Barnes
176 pages, Knopf

Review by Bill Kirton

Yes, The Sense of an Ending is this year’s winner of the Man Booker prize. And yes, usually the books on the short list rarely even make the bottom of my to-be-read list (thanks to some prolonged hours of tedium spent trying to care about the people in the pages of past winners). But this is by Julian Barnes. So far he’s never let me down, and this is as thought-provoking, entertaining, absorbing and admirable as the rest of his output.

The judges this year suggested that they’d chosen books for their readability, which rather implies a spurious conflict between ‘readable’ and ‘literary’. This novella is certainly readable but it also leaves you with a feeling of satisfaction that you’ve witnessed the solving of a mystery which we all confront – how to make sense of and give meaning to who we are and what we do and have done. Or rather, it shows you the process at work in its narrator and the immense difficulty (impossibility?) of achieving such a solution.

Its basics are simple enough. The narrator describes some key incidents, friendships and relationships in his younger days then quickly jumps over his middle years to a present in which he recalls those incidents and tries to make sense of them. I won’t go into details for fear of spoiling the story, but they involve some very clever parallels and mirrorings of events which conspire to cloud his interpretations of what happened.

Barnes writes that ‘Our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life’ and, as we know and he knows, narrators are often unreliable. In a way, memories are fictions and yet we use them to compile our lives. In fact, he actually says that he’s not sure whether, in the present, he’s ascribing motives and understanding to past events and actions, or remembering the motives and understanding he ascribed to them at the time.

And I’m aware that my efforts to condense his words are clumsy and give the wrong impression of the reading experience. We care about the narrator, his awkwardnesses, his flaws, his honesty, his flashes of humour. We’re drawn by him into the enigmas of what became of his ex girl friend and best friend, he shares his changing awareness with us, and he delays until the last pages the revelation that alters everything he’s previously believed. And it’s all written in an easy, accessible style, using the common little everyday details that give a narrative its individual authenticity. In a quote Barnes (but not his narrator) remembers from Madame Bovary, it’s ‘the littleness of life that art exaggerates’.

He deals in huge concepts but presents them in ways that leave us room to open them for ourselves. ‘Life’ he writes, ‘isn’t just addition and subtraction. There’s also the accumulation, the multiplication, of loss, of failure.’ And as the narrator tries to construct his story, understand and interpret his memories, give them all the necessary retrospective meanings, those meanings elude him, shift and change. An important theme/image is that of the Severn Bore – a wave that, in certain tidal conditions, rushes up the Severn river the wrong way, i.e. upstream. We assume our lives flow meaningfully along a timeline, shaped by who we are, where we live, the prevailing culture and customs, but it just needs one false assumption to undermine those assumptions with catastrophic consequences.

And the other main theme is much more directly connected to the story’s events, that of the Freudian linking of Eros and Thanatos – sexual love and death. It’s a familiar theme, especially in Romantic literature, but Barnes’ treatment of it is very subtle. It would also be a spoiler if I expanded on it, so I’ll just say that it’s at the centre of the whole narrative.

So does the ‘Ending’ of the title refer to the ending of life, an affair, a friendship, a passage of time? And which meaning of ‘Sense’ is the relevant one? The possible enigmas it offers sum up the style and the pleasure of the book. It’s an account of one person’s attempt to make sense of things that have happened as he moves through thoughts and memories that keep both changing shape and slipping out of reach. But it’s written with clarity, humour, compassion and a real understanding of how we ‘accumulate’ our lives.

HALLOWEEN SPOOFTACULAR

2011-10-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

Bill Kirton interviews Vladimir Poignard

We’re fortunate to have been granted exclusive access to the normally reclusive Vladimir Poignard, writer of some of the most chilling horror stories to have appeared this century. Poignard is consciously part of a tradition which stretches back to Poe, Wilkie Collins and even encompasses the excrescences penned by the Divine Marquis himself. When I went to meet him, I was surprised to be shown into the parlour of a small terraced house in Wigan by a woman in her seventies. She sat me down, brought through two cups of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits, settled herself opposite me and said ‘Well, shall we get started?’.

In the course of the interview which followed, nothing compared with this revelation that the purveyor of some of the most explicit violence and psyche-shattering episodes in the whole of western literature was, in fact, Ethel Gringe, 78. Her three husbands had all died in mysterious circumstances but left her with a comfortable inheritance and all the free time she needed to write. When the shock of this discovery had subsided, I switched on my recorder and began.

BK: Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Mrs Gringe, but I must confess that you don’t fit the image I had of Vladimir Poignard.

EG: I know, dear, and that’s why I decided to come clean at last. I’m getting rather tired of all these emails from young women who want to marry me, or at least spend some time in the dank cellar they think I have here. Goodness knows where they get such ideas.

BK: Well, that’s surely a tribute to the authenticity you achieve with your novels – the gory cellar sequence in Unbridled Chastity, for example. When Letitia vomited up the spectral essence and made it eat her sister’s eyeballs – that was pretty explicit.

EG: Explicit, yes, but also absurd. And deliberately so.

BK: In what way?

EG: Well, what would you say that book’s about?

BK: Evil, primarily. I mean, Letitia’s elimination of the members of her family in progressively more chilling ways – the scalding, the epidermal peeling, the induced prolapses. It’s a chronicle of undiluted savagery.

EG: Nonsense, I was just poking a bit of gentle fun at the point of view brigade.

BK: Hmm, I’m not sure I got that from it.

EG: Not even when the eyeball sees the saliva on the essence’s tongue? Or we take that journey down the oesophagus with it? I mean, the optic nerve’s been severed, after all, and the sister’s in no condition to be a passive observer anyway. She’s only got sockets, for goodness’ sake. I thought it was just an amusing way of debunking one of those persistent creative writing myths.

BK: Yes, I suppose that’s what I should have started with – your decision to become a writer. Your first book, Wolf Baby, wasn’t published until 2002. Surely you’d written lots before then.

EG: Yes, mainly romance. Remember Nurse Gossamer? It was adapted for TV. That was one of mine.

BK: Really? So why the change of genre?

EG: I suppose it started when I was watching my grandson, Charlie, eviscerate a cat.

BK: A real cat?

EG: Of course. What’s the point of dragging the entrails from an imaginary cat? Charlie’s always been curious about things. In the end, his parents had to stop buying him pets. It’s a pity. I got some of my best ideas watching him play with various defenceless little animals. And that time with the cat … well, when you’ve spent years writing about lips and fingers caressing the soft flesh of whichever part of the body that particular publisher was comfortable with, the idea of penetrating that flesh, folding back layers of it to find the real people beneath it, serving it to lovers with cauliflower cheese before they unleash their demons … well, it’s very attractive.

BK: You mention demons. Can I ask about your beliefs? It’s sometimes difficult to pinpoint the morality operating in the worlds you create.

EG: Oh, come, Mr Kirton. Morality and moron – they’re obviously from the same root.

BK: Well, no actually. I think morality comes from Latin and moron from Greek. But are you saying your writing has no moral dimension?

EG: Let me ask you a question. How moral is Halloween?

BK: I don’t understand.

EG: Parents dress their little darlings as witches, vampires, blood-spattered zombies and the rest, then send them out to beg for ‘treats’ from neighbours who just want to relax and watch TV. If the neighbours refuse to open the door, smile at the blackmailers on the step and hand over candies which they’ve been forced to buy, their house gets pelted with eggs. Is that moral?

BK: It’s rather different from your own story Halloween Ooze, where two child witches are actually burned at the stake and seven other children drown while bobbing for apples.

EG: Yes, it is, isn’t it? In my story, they dress as witches and suffer the consequences, or their greed for apples causes them to duck their heads into water and they drown – logical, crime and punishment, natural justice.

BK: But it was your hero, Igor, who burned and drowned them. No one punished him.

EG: Why should they? He was a zombie. That’s his destiny.

(At this point, I heard a series of knocks and other muffled noises and, indeed, they’re faintly discernible on the recording. They seemed to come from beneath the floorboards but Mrs Gringe showed no reaction to them.)

BK: Can we get back to your working methods? You’ll admit, I think, that you’ve invented some fairly extreme scenarios and some of them have had unfortunate consequences.

EG: I suppose you mean that one with the baby and the fan belt.

BK: Er, no. Actually, I was thinking of Plague Village. Your descriptions of the symptoms and physical effects of the disease caused outbreaks of projectile vomiting across Europe.

EG: Yes, that was fun.

BK: Yes, it seems to me that we’re getting close to what’s troubling about your success – this marrying of the extremes. On the one hand, there’s psychological, spiritual and physiological mayhem on an industrial scale; on the other it’s marketed as entertainment.

EG: Oh dear, Mr Kirton. Have you never felt road rage, anger at queue-jumpers, a desire for revenge or retribution?

BK: Yes, but—

EG: But you’ve suppressed it, toed the line, felt smug in your moral superiority to those who’ve wronged you. It’s a cancer. My characters always redress the balance, remind us that we’re all carrying dark forces, savage impulses, and they unleash them. The priest who stirs real blood into the communion wine, the gravedigger with his necklace of teeth and their constant whispering, the presence hovering near the naked girl on the altar and her agony as it slices slivers from her soul – these are the honesties I deal in. My people don’t pretend. Now, would you like another cup of tea?

I paused the tape and waited as she refreshed our cups. There were more muffled sounds from beneath us but, when I asked Mrs Gringe about them, she shook her head dismissively and said they were just part of her research for her current project.

And, unfortunately, that was where the interview was abandoned. A phone call from the local psychiatric hospital urged her to come over immediately. It seems that Charlie, her grandson, had escaped from his secure unit and was holding seventeen patients and two doctors hostage in the chapel. He’d already crucified a doctor and two patients and was prising the lid off the entrance to the catacombs to find spaces for them. As she replaced the receiver, Mrs Gringe smiled at me and said, ‘he’s such a rascal’.

BOOKSQUAWK'S MOST TREASURED:

2011-10-27T08:27:00.000-07:00

The books we simply cannot allow you to borrow.

The Chronicles of Narnia

by CS Lewis

800 pages, HarperCollins

Retentive reader: Pat Black

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was partly responsible for ruining some poor kid’s Christmas.

It was 1988, and the BBC was screening a six-part live action adaptation of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Previously, I’d only come across CS Lewis’ Narnia Chronicles in a cheap n’ cheerful animated feature-length version as a video rental when I was laid low with a stomach bug. Sadly, I will forever associate that cartoon with shuddering at the thought of trying to manage one single slice of buttered toast. But this new adaptation was super, it flared my imagination, the festive period is still magical when you’re a young ‘un, and I had asked for the books for Christmas.

Ma Black was having no luck finding the box set I’d asked for, though. She’d left it a little bit late in getting them, and every shop was sold out owing to the series’ renewed popularity. In desperation she went into a second-hand book stall in a market somewhere on December 23rd. The proprietress said that she did have one copy of the treasured box set... but it had been ordered by some other mother for her child a few weeks beforehand, and had been laid aside especially for her. The lady was due in that very day to pick it up...

I’ll never know how my old dear managed to persuade this lady to sell her the box set instead of holding it for the person who ordered it. Bribery? Threats of violence? Theft? A massive sob story? Did she invent a disability for the young Black? Perhaps we should draw a veil over the matter. Suffice to say that she worked some kind of magic, and I was delighted come Christmas morning.

But the other kid, the one whose mother was canny enough to order the books well in advance from a small retailer... who was perhaps detained by some pressing duties on that late, late Christmas shopping day all those years ago... looking after dying waifs in a hospice, perhaps... not so delighted, I imagine.

The books themselves are a real mixed bag. (I realise this will not come as any comfort to the Narnia-deprived child who may be reading this now – still bitter, all these years later, and perhaps thirsty for revenge.) The Chronicles of Narnia are the seven-book saga of Aslan, the Lion – or God, as we might imagine him - who creates the land of Narnia and gives all the animals and magical creatures the gift of speech. It’s a very Christian good-versus-evil allegory, with lots of plucky British stiff-upper-lippery, cute creatures and the odd bit of Celtic mythology. It is hard to imagine any fantasy series for children which does not owe CS Lewis some kind of debt – you wouldn’t have Harry Potter or His Dark Materials, there’s no doubt about that.

Although the series is anchored by the Pevensie children - Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy - they don’t appear in every episode. The first book, The Magician’s Nephew, follows the children Digory and Polly as they enter the world of Narnia through the sorcery of Digory’s Uncle Andrew. The story is a queer fish indeed – although it plays with the idea of universes running parallel to dear old post-war England, it’s really the Creation myth re-imagined, as Aslan the Lion literally breathes life into the land of Narnia.

But aside from the biblical references, it also features Jadis, aka the White Witch from the most famous book in the series – and as an adult, I’m most struck by the relationship between the villainess and Uncle Andrew. She’s wicked, but, ah, Uncle Andrew is most taken by the woman, that’s for sure. This ties in with another big theme of the book – that of our heart’s desires not quite turning out the way we wanted them to once we achieve them. It’s all to do with eating forbidden magic apples (can you spot a biblical parallel, kids?) – and Aslan has a special curse for those who defy him and help themselves. This was actually one of the last Narnia books to be written – a prequel, in its time - and it is pregnant with references to a disappointing, distinctly unmagical adult world.

Next we’ve got The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Easily the best in the series, and I’m sure you all know it. We follow the four Pevensie children through the magic wardrobe into a snow-bound Narnia, in the icy grip of Jadis, the White Witch. Aslan’s on hand to turn things around for the poor creatures of the forest, including the memorable fawn Mr Tumnus, but he must suffer a terrible fall from grace in order for things to be put right. Christ-like? You betcha. But he does turn it around in a massive climactic brawl between the goodies and baddies, which I don’t think was part of Jesus’s plan.

The Horse and His Boy comes next, introducing the people of Arabesque Calormen who are largely viewed with fear and suspicion in Lewis’ ultra-white, ultra-christian fantasy world. There’s a Booksquawk article in full lurking in this one, but we’ll keep it brief, restricting it to the tale of twin brothers separated at birth, rightful heirs, and a droll talking horse called Bree.

The series is ordered in the chronology Lewis envisaged, but they are not ordered in the same sequence Lewis wrote them. That’s why in this box set, the next book is Prince Caspian – technically book number four, but in fact the second to be written after The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Thus, the Pevensie children are back – only a year after their adventures in the previous book, but after a span of many centuries in the parallel world of Narnia. The land has been invaded by the Telmarines, and the rightful ruler of the land, Prince Caspian, is in exile while the talking animals have been driven out or enslaved. Cue some derring-do as justice and order is returned to Narnia, with the help of some terrific side-characters and battles which very much echo the scale, if not the detail, of Tolkien – a friend of Lewis’s and a fellow member of Oxford’s Inklings group.

It’s the second-best book in the series, just edging out the Voyage of the Dawn Treader. In this one, we drop the brave but dull Peter and Susan (who, it is mysteriously hinted, are too old to come to Narnia any more), retaining the more sprightly and obnoxious Lucy and Edmund, and adding the annoying Eustace Scrubb. They cross universes through a picture of a ship at sea, and find themselves swashing their buckles aboard the Dawn Treader with Caspian and Reepicheep, the plucky, sword-fighting mouse, as they bid to find the seven Lost Lords of Narnia. Eustace becomes a dragon in this one, and there are more exotic lands and dangerous quests for the children to negotiate.

In the penultimate book, Eustace hooks up with the bullied Jill Pole at the mismanaged Experiment School – Lewis was not a progressive when it came to education, you might guess – and the pair are soon whisked away to Narnia on a quest to find the son of King Caspian, Prince Rillian. On the way they encounter giants, gnomes, enchantresses and spells in perhaps the series’ most mystical entry.

And then we come to the one that almost ruined it. The Last Battle, as you might suppose, sees the end to the saga. It won the Carnegie Medal – but, like an actor who is rewarded with an Oscar for a role on the strength of past work, I can only assume it wasn’t for the book on its own. It has an apocalyptic feel to it, as the talking animals – including Shift the ape and Puzzle the donkey, perhaps the most unappealing double act since Burke and Hare – band together to battle those wicked Calormenes as time itself seems to come to an end in Narnia.

The Pevensie children appear one last time to help out their furry friends, but... but... but...

I won’t spoil what happens. But I will say that the conclusion and CS Lewis’ search for what Narnia actually means, as opposed to what it stands for, is utterly appalling for me. It ruins the magic and mystery of the series – Narnia’s midichlorians moment. If you’re already scarred by Anthony Hopkins trying and failing to be all stoic in the face of Debra Winger’s cancery death in Shadowlands, this book will not help remove the image of CS Lewis as a very strange, tragic person with unusual ideas. A moral person, for sure, and an ardent supporter of ecumenical Christianity (he was from Northern Ireland), but there’s a fatalism and a conservative stuffiness in what he writes, and I can’t bring myself to admire that. A product of the times and a lifetime of negative experiences, perhaps – not least of these, the Trenches in World War One, where he endured similar horrors to the ones that scarred Tolkien.

The end to this book, and to the Narnia universe itself, might be uplifting and heartening for some, but to me it was a dreadful cheat. I wanted more than that, and I demanded answers of the text and the author.

And thus, we question what we read, and we grow up.

I will take this opportunity to apologise to that poor child who Went Without nearly 23 years ago. What can I say to you? Another harsh lesson we learn early in life is that some of us Have, and some of us Have Not. That Christmas, it was your turn for the shitty end of the stick. For what it’s worth, I do feel bad about it.

But there’s a lot of sentimentality locked up in that handsome box set for me, and under no circumstances can anyone else borrow it. Not even you.

CITY OF GLASS

2011-10-21T21:25:00.000-07:00

by Cassandra Clare
541 pages, McElderry Books

Review by Melissa Conway

The third and final installment of The Mortal Instruments series, City of Glass didn’t disappoint.

It’s hard to write about the third book in a series when I’ve already reviewed the first two books, because it’s really just a continuation of the same story. The plot threads left dangling in the second book are neatly woven together into a satisfying ending. There were no real surprises, although I did guess wrong at the true identity of a newly-introduced character. It was fairly obvious that the love existing between the two main characters, Clary and Jace, would be resolved, and the big, fat Obstacle that has prevented them from uniting would be, in fact, a misunderstanding. Although there’s nothing particularly mind-blowing about the plot, author Clare’s characterizations and world-building are exactly what I look for in a series. Once you’ve read the first book, like an addictive drug, you’ll be back for more.

The same minor issues I had with the first two books are still in force here. Once again, I flipped past pages where the wahngst got too thick or the battle scenes too long. I get impatient when scene after scene is laid out describing the countryside as a character is slowly making his/her way to a confrontation. Stop dawdling! Just get there already! And it *almost* ruins it for me when the denouement drags on and on. But as I mentioned in my previous reviews on Clare’s books, I’m not the target audience, and younger readers may enjoy what I consider to be too much padding in the narrative. It in no way deterred me from needing to read the next book.

The world Clare has created, where fairies, vampires, werewolves and nephilim mingle unseen among humans, is inspired. So much so that I hear a movie is in the works. I can’t wait.

THE NEXT STOP IS CROY

2011-10-19T20:59:00.000-07:00

and Other Stories
by Andrew McCallum Crawford

Review by Bill Kirton

This is a short collection of six easy to read stories which recount various incidents in the life of a young Scot. We see their surfaces, their separateness, but we're also made aware of the echoes between and the depths beneath them.

In a foreword, the author prepares us for the collection by reminding us that they’re stand-alone pieces which ‘in no way’ constitute ‘a novella or a novelette’. Equally, though, he acknowledges that strong links and themes run through them and the resultant grouping conveys very strongly their potential as a ‘continuous narrative’. The tantalising effect of the sequence is to make us want to know more of what happened between the episodes and events he chooses. As it is, we can enjoy each passage as a self-contained story but, simultaneously, we create our own version of how the relationships shifted and developed in the ‘gaps’.

They’re all told from the perspective of a single narrator, Alan, observing and experiencing the separation between his own lifestyle, choices and opportunities and those of his father. The language often seems to suggest confrontation and yet there’s no mistaking the tenderness, nostalgia and love that informs it. There’s an artlessness, a deceptive simplicity about many of the exchanges between Alan and his father when we hear the abruptness of the delivery, the seeming carelessness of the remarks and hidden accusations, and we know that both parties want to say other things, want to express the love that connects them. It’s a love that never gets articulated and yet it suffuses nearly all their contacts.

The writing is clever. There are no great tragic outpourings; tragedy is a very personal experience, marked by memories of seemingly trivial things – finding lost golf balls, sharpening a saw, cutting through a counter, sensing yet never penetrating a secret shared by two girls. But, when recollected, they have the resonance of major life events, signifying much more than their surface suggests. The stories convey the fragmentation of life, its refusal to cohere into a constant flow, the power of memories and the helplessness we feel before them.

The feeling which remains is that Alan is somehow lost in his own life. It’s failed to settle into the meanings he seeks for it, remaining instead as a collection of disconnected fragments, each consisting of elements which should draw them together. So in the end, we come to realise the artfulness of those claims in the foreword. Our lives consist of fragments – we can group and structure them to imply a significance but, in the end, the idea of a ‘continuous narrative’ is a myth. We need to live in and understand the moment. Above all, we need to be prepared to see the value of the trivial and tell the emotional truths which are the real driving force of our being.

The Next Stop is Croy and Other Stories.