Martha Grimes. I Am the Only Running Footman (1986)

     Martha Grimes. I Am the Only Running Footman (1986) Grimes has a very high reputation, but if this book is a fair sample of her work, I think it’s undeserved. The plotting is muzzy, with a lot of necessary information withheld until near the end, the characterisation is superficial and derivative, and the resolution is unsatisfactory. I suppose a good team could make a decent movie out of this book --  certainly a lot of the writing seems based on some inner screen vision of the scene -- but as it stands I was disappointed. Richard Jury is the cop, two girls are the victims, a dysfunctional but fiercely loyal family is the link (and one of the family is the murderer). The writing is cute, and in place self-consciously funny. Grimes is American, and critics have acclaimed her skill at doing the British atmosphere. Not at all. It’s all very Masterpiece Theatre, and really doesn’t work. Perhaps the fact that this book comes well along in the series is at fault; we are supposed to know why Melrose Plant appears, for example. But other characters, such as the St Clairs and the Warboys, have no function other than lugubrious, oh so veddy British comic relief. I won’t be reading another of these books. * (2003)

Spider Robinson. The Callahan Touch (1993)

     Spider Robinson. The Callahan Touch (1993) I didn't finish this. The first book in this series had some point, ie a plot and characters that one could care about. This excursion into fantasy is just that, fantasy, and rather infantile at that. The bar is now the location of a permanent party, and there’s a lot of sentimental claptrap about absent friends, and such. I suppose some sort of problem turns up and the denizens have to solve it to make the universe safe for beer drinkers. But at the halfway point there was not much indication of what the plot point might be. Browsing the last few pages confirms that everything turned out all right, but I really didn’t care enough to find out what and why. The writing is amusing enough, if you’re half cut and your critical faculties are dissolved in a haze of alcohol, or whatever drug you use, but otherwise this is a tedious example of what happens when a writer tries to be cute. (2003)

Lewis Lapham. Money and Class in America. (1988) (re-read)

     Lewis Lapham. Money and Class in America. (1988) A long and mostly witty rant, combined with semi-autobiographical anecdote, and social history and analysis. Like all good observers of the social comedy, Lapham is good at seeing the significant moment or comment, and having been born into the “equestrian classes”, he can see the rulers of America close up. His testimony rings true , truer than a library full of sociological analysis and statistics. Lapham has the ability of a good novelist to show the general in the particular. He knows when the mask slips, and the primitive animal within peers out, aware and frightened of death.
     The net effect is a portrait of a sad, confused, self-absorbed, and somnambulent bunch of fools. Only the fact that they wield so much influence, and that they can directly intervene in government, prevents one from giving in to the dual impulse to laugh and to pity.
     Lapham claims that the general wealth of the United States has infected the whole culture with the pathologies of the rich. He makes a good case. In particular, he notes the ability (if that’s the word) of the rich to persuade themselves that their view of the world is the only one, and that the rest of the universe is mere stage set for the drama of their lives. When I look at the current stumbling towards war with Iraq, Lapham’s perspective helps one understand the inexplicable. Only a nation or ruling class caught up in the fantasies of power could plan such a stupid venture. Bush and company talk as if they are playing a game on a large table in a dimly lit “library” while sipping bourbon and chatting languidly about next year’s golf or their neighbours’ indiscretions with their neighbours’ wives. One can almost see them pushing little metal figures around on the map spread over the pool table, occasionally congratulating each other on a particularly witty move.
     Lapham’s chapter on the corrosive effects of the love (and fear) of money, of the worship of Mammon, is worth the price of the book, which in my case wasn’t much (I bought this copy at Value Village). I suspect that Lapham based this book on his Harpers essays; there is some repetition, the kind that a person who repeatedly writes essays on the same themes is liable to produce. That’s really the only flaw of any consequence. **** (2003)

William Weintraub Why Rock the Boat? (1961)

     William Weintraub Why Rock the Boat? (1961) Harry Barnes, 19, learns the journalism trade at the Witness, a Montreal newspaper that exists to please the advertisers and puff the gentry. He falls for Julia Martin, a female colleague working at another paper, escapes being fired for having written scurrilous practice pieces that feature the tyrannical managing editor of his paper, does a stint as a PR hack, and so on. The city editor, a Milquetoast type whose wife seduced Harry at the yearly journalists’ excursion into ski country, has placed the scurrilous pieces in the paper. And so on. A loosely picaresque novel that never quite comes together, it’s written in a workmanlike style that makes its satirical points with varying subtlety, and occasionally veers off into semi-sentimental suburban yearnings. The characters are rather thin; Barnes is the only one with any depth, and even he’s often too naive to be entirely credible. Or maybe not: the sort of single-minded dorkiness he exhibits in his quest to learn all that there is to learn about newspapering does have the ring of truth.
     Entertaining, and possibly a roman a clef, since Weintraub worked as a reporter in his younger days, and this tale has the whiff of auto-biography about it. According to the cover blurb, the book caused controversy when it was first published, but it seems rather tame now. Canada was still easily shocked in 1961.
     Weintraub loosely adapted his book into a movie in 1974. I saw it many years ago. It has tighter plotting than the book, focussing on Julia’s attempts to form a union (which didn’t figure in the book). See IMDB’s page, and the Canadian Film Encyclopedia here. It was my vague memories of the movie that prompted me to buy this 2nd-hand copy of the book. It's worth than the 25 cents I paid for it.
     Book: ** Movie: **-½

Eric Wright. Death in the Old Country (1985)

     Eric Wright. Death in the Old Country (1985) Charlie Salter and Annie are on holiday in the UK, in an attempt to mend their relationship (they succeed). Charlie is sidetracked by both racing (he gets good tips from the local police sergeant), and by the murder of the hotel’s proprietor. Unable to desist, he does some sleuthing on his own. In the end he unearths one crucial fact, but the case has already been solved by Insp. Hamilton, who can’t resist rubbing it in.
     Charlie Salter is an unlikely hero. Like Maigret, he’s sloppy, self-indulgent, and given to relying on hunches and intuition. This makes for a rambling plot, and allows for digression. The result is an uneven but pleasant read. **-½ (2002)

Frances Awdry and Eda Green. By Lake and Forest. (Nd, but probably 1905/06)

     Frances Awdry and Eda Green. By Lake and Forest. (Nd, but probably 1905/06) An account of the Diocese of Algoma in Ontario, which at the time of writing was still a mission diocese, supported by the church at large and by a society dedicated to providing money and other things as needed. The style is a curious cross between the romantic and the practical, with occasional forays into the devotional mode. The authors include interesting stories of early priests’ hardships, and a number of photographs decorate the book, but there is no attempt to link pictures and text. The authors have definite opinions on the evil of idleness, and feel this is the only serious impediment to native peoples’ advancement; they express their cultural biases strongly, but have no racial bias whatever. A list of clergy in 1905, and a list of Society members, provide data for people who might want to confirm some facts. I’ve both photocopied and scanned the picture of Blind River’s church (whose name is not given.) I would like to know if Frances Awdry is related to the author of the Thomas books. **-½ (2002)

M. C. Beaton. Death of a Charming Man (1994)

     M. C. Beaton. Death of a Charming Man (1994) Hamish Macbeth feels constricted by Priscilla’s plans for him, plans she wants to implement before they are even married. Meanwhile, a beautiful man is upsetting the women in Drim, a bleak village over the ridge on the shores of a dark loch. When this man disappears, Macbeth believes he’s murdered; and eventually, by his usual unorthodox methods, he proves his point and discovers the murderer. A pleasant entertainment, but not at all like the TV series, which does not reproduce these stories. I’ll probably read a few more, when I feel in need of some simple pastime. ** (2002)