Lawrence Block. The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian (1983)

      Lawrence Block. The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian (1983) Bernie Rhodenbarr, an antique dealer, moonlights as a thief of fine art and artefacts. I tried reading this book twice, and got about 20 pages both times. Block has tried to create the witty thief, the crook with whom we empathise, and twenty-odd years ago this ploy worked. But now it seems dated, and Bernie just isn’t an interesting enough character. He’s just a container for adolescent fantasies. (2007)

Elizabeth Peters. The Last Camel Died at Noon (1991)

     Elizabeth Peters. The Last Camel Died at Noon (1991) I gave up about half way through this interminable Victorian pastiche of sex, sand, and stars. Amelia Peabody and her husband go on a dig, and various kinds of skulduggery ensue. The arch references to their sex life grate after a while; Amelia seems to keeping score. Their parenting is far too modern. And so on. Altogether too clever by half, but not clever enough: Peters wants to write in the Victorian manner, but too many modernisms creep in and spoil the effect. It’s damn hard to maintain a century-old style. * (2007)

Ian Rankin. Beggars Banquet (2002)

     Ian Rankin. Beggars Banquet (2002) Rankin’s short stories are clever but not engaging. He knows how to tell the story, how to present a character through speech (both internal and external), and can set a mood or sketch a locale in a few phrases. But these stories all have the same pattern: they are designed to surprise and shock, and most of them depend on the twist in the plot for their effect. They were written for magazines and themed anthologies (the modern version of the pulps). The title should have an apostrophe, too. ** (2007)

Alison Gordon. The Dead Pull Hitter (1989)

     Alison Gordon. The Dead Pull Hitter (1989) Gordon was the first woman sportswriter allowed into the locker rooms. She loves baseball. Setting a murder story in Toronto, with the “Titans” as the team to watch, must have seemed like a good idea at the time, and she certainly knows how to plot the puzzle, and describe ball games. But her characterisation is thin. Despite nicely done sketches of the players, I had a hard time keeping track of who was who. Gordon hasn’t the knack of differentiating characters’ speech. Not a keeper. *½ (2007)

Ngaio Marsh. Final Curtain (1947)

 

    Ngaio Marsh. Final Curtain (1947) Troy is asked to paint the portrait of a Grand Old Man of the theatre, a vain family tyrant. She accepts the commission to help pass the time waiting for Rory to return from his stint in the antipodes. The old man dies, and an anonymous letter hints at murder. Alleyn, just returned, must do the honours, with Troy as one of his chief witnesses. It was murder, the motive was money, for the Old Man has altered his will in favour of his mistress and soon-to-be wife, a bimbo several decades younger than himself. His daughter-in-law killed him not realising he had done so, and trying to preserve some of the inheritance for her son, a ghastly number. The characters are a nice collection of nasties, normals, and sturdy retainers. This was Marsh’s first post-war book, and she apparently decided to treat the Alleyns’ relationship more seriously. Their marriage demonstrates Marsh’s ideals, and in some ways rebukes Sayers’ impossibly perfect picture of the Wimsey’s marriage. Nicely done, as always. Marsh’s world is one I like to enter. **½ (2007)

Ngaio Marsh. Died in the Wool (1944)

 

      Ngaio Marsh. Died in the Wool (1945) Another spy story, I guess every mystery writer at the time tried their hand at this genre. But this is just another domestic murder with a spy as the perpetrator. Alleyn is called in because of the spy angle, and he works by listening to the family discuss the dead woman, who was by all accounts a bundle of energy and ambition, and not nearly as pleasant as she no doubt fancied herself to be. She sussed out who the spy was, a lethal discovery. Alleyn works out the puzzle from the smattering of facts scattered among the piles of personal reminiscences and assessments. This technique gives Marsh another opportunity to do what she does best, create character. A pleasant entertainment, with no pretense at police procedural (which Marsh never completely describes anyhow, no doubt as bored with mind-numbing detail as her readers would have been.) **½ (2007)

Simon Schama. Scribble, Scribble. Scribble (2010)

     Simon Schama. Scribble, Scribble. Scribble (2010) Schama‘s TV series impressed me hugely, so I couldn’t resist buying this book. He’s passionate and personal about his subjects, supporting his insights and judgments with thorough scholarship. These occasional pieces for the most part deal with non-scholarly subjects such as cooking, travel, politics, and ice cream. He’s one of those foodies who makes you believe you can cook, at least while reading the essay. Even his most casual investigations entail historical and cultural research. He’s a scholar no matter what, especially when he’s discussing art, which changes the way you look at pictures. He tells us enough about his life and family that we believe his more focussed responses to what he’s talking about.
     And “talk” is the word. Even if you hadn’t heard him on TV, I think you’d hear a voice here. The voice of a man who’s found what he likes, what he wants, what matters to him, and can share his intellectual and emotional engagement. The essay from the beginning was personal. The charm of Montaigne is our sense that we are in his company when we read him. This goes for Schama, too, and exhilarating company it is. ****