Martin Edwards's Blog, page 216
September 21, 2013
Robert Barnard R.I.P.
I am very sorry to break the news that Robert Barnard, one of the most notable British detective novelists of the past forty years, has died at the age of 76. He was a winner of numerous awards, most notably the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger, in recognition of the sustained excellence of his crime writing. He was a distinguished academic, a former worker for the Fabian Society, an expert on the Bronte family and their writings, a passionate opera fan, and the author of a definitive study of Agatha Christie's crime writing, A Talent to Deceive.
Bob Barnard was also one of the first friends I made in the crime writing world. When I attended the inaugural meeting of the northern chapter of the Crime Writers' Association, I was an unknown, whereas people like Bob, Reg Hill and Peter Walker were very well established authors. But from our very first lunch together, those three men (and their lovely wives, Louise, Pat and Rhoda) made me feel welcome and part of the crime writing fraternity. They became good friends, and I owe them a great deal.
I've written about Bob's work on a number of occasions (for instance, I wrote an article about him for that fine American magazine Mystery Scene - his books were enormously popular in the US), but in this short post I'd like to focus on Bob the man - and above all his sharp and mischievous sense of humour. His wit was as evident in his writing as in his conversation, and he was unfailingly entertaining company. A good many years ago (in the mid-nineties, as I recall) someone suggested he had died, a story which he found highly amusing, as he was in perfectly good health. How this bizarre mistake arose, I simply don't know.
I also found Bob personally very generous. It was typical of him that he took me as his guest to a Detection Club dinner at the Savoy nearly twenty years ago, a memorable occasion at a time when I never dreamed that one day I'd become a member of the same Club. He did me this kindness simply because he knew how much I would love the occasion. I will never forget it.
In fact, one of the last times I saw him was at the Detection Club's annual dinner in the Temple. By this time, he was becoming troubled by memory problems. For an intellectual whose memory had always been fantastic, this was a dreadful blow,and he felt unable to continue with his public speaking, something in which he excelled. I went to visit him and Louise at their home in Leeds last year, and we had a pleasant time together, but his health began to deteriorate, and this year the decline had been steep. For Louise, who has coped with great courage during the past difficult months, the loss is profound.
As I write these words, I feel very sad indeed that he and I will not be teasing each other again -our views diverged on a handful of issues (not least pop music!), but this never mattered a bit, as it never should in any genuine friendship; in fact, I tend to think that friendships are often all the stronger when they are between people with contrasting outlooks and personalities. Mind you, amongst many other things, we shared a great admiration for Christie, and I heard him speak with considerable insight about her work at crime conferences on a couple of occasions. I also recall a fascinating tour of the Bronte House in Haworth, led by Bob during a CWA annual conference. Above all, it was a great privilege as well as a pleasure to have known Bob, and to have been lucky enough to enjoy his company on countless occasions. He has left me many memories to treasure, and I'm sure the same is true of his many other friends.
I thought I'd illustrate this blog post with a photo that reminds me of a happy occasion we shared. It was taken at the 20th anniversary lunch of the Northern Chapter. It shows Bob in conversation with Meg Elizabeth Atkins, another friend who attended that inaugual lunch, and who also died recently, and Kate Ellis's husband Roger. Both Meg and Bob were in great form that Sunday. In fact,whenever I met either of them over the past quarter of a century, they seemed to be in great form. Bob, like Meg, will be very much missed.
Bob Barnard was also one of the first friends I made in the crime writing world. When I attended the inaugural meeting of the northern chapter of the Crime Writers' Association, I was an unknown, whereas people like Bob, Reg Hill and Peter Walker were very well established authors. But from our very first lunch together, those three men (and their lovely wives, Louise, Pat and Rhoda) made me feel welcome and part of the crime writing fraternity. They became good friends, and I owe them a great deal.
I've written about Bob's work on a number of occasions (for instance, I wrote an article about him for that fine American magazine Mystery Scene - his books were enormously popular in the US), but in this short post I'd like to focus on Bob the man - and above all his sharp and mischievous sense of humour. His wit was as evident in his writing as in his conversation, and he was unfailingly entertaining company. A good many years ago (in the mid-nineties, as I recall) someone suggested he had died, a story which he found highly amusing, as he was in perfectly good health. How this bizarre mistake arose, I simply don't know.
I also found Bob personally very generous. It was typical of him that he took me as his guest to a Detection Club dinner at the Savoy nearly twenty years ago, a memorable occasion at a time when I never dreamed that one day I'd become a member of the same Club. He did me this kindness simply because he knew how much I would love the occasion. I will never forget it.
In fact, one of the last times I saw him was at the Detection Club's annual dinner in the Temple. By this time, he was becoming troubled by memory problems. For an intellectual whose memory had always been fantastic, this was a dreadful blow,and he felt unable to continue with his public speaking, something in which he excelled. I went to visit him and Louise at their home in Leeds last year, and we had a pleasant time together, but his health began to deteriorate, and this year the decline had been steep. For Louise, who has coped with great courage during the past difficult months, the loss is profound.
As I write these words, I feel very sad indeed that he and I will not be teasing each other again -our views diverged on a handful of issues (not least pop music!), but this never mattered a bit, as it never should in any genuine friendship; in fact, I tend to think that friendships are often all the stronger when they are between people with contrasting outlooks and personalities. Mind you, amongst many other things, we shared a great admiration for Christie, and I heard him speak with considerable insight about her work at crime conferences on a couple of occasions. I also recall a fascinating tour of the Bronte House in Haworth, led by Bob during a CWA annual conference. Above all, it was a great privilege as well as a pleasure to have known Bob, and to have been lucky enough to enjoy his company on countless occasions. He has left me many memories to treasure, and I'm sure the same is true of his many other friends.
I thought I'd illustrate this blog post with a photo that reminds me of a happy occasion we shared. It was taken at the 20th anniversary lunch of the Northern Chapter. It shows Bob in conversation with Meg Elizabeth Atkins, another friend who attended that inaugual lunch, and who also died recently, and Kate Ellis's husband Roger. Both Meg and Bob were in great form that Sunday. In fact,whenever I met either of them over the past quarter of a century, they seemed to be in great form. Bob, like Meg, will be very much missed.
September 20, 2013
Forgotten Book - Death Comes to Cambers
I've started to warm to the writing of E.R. Punshon, one of those Golden Age writers who enjoyed plenty of success and critical acclaim in his day, but has subsequently vanished from sight. He is rarely discussed in reference books about the genre, yet Dorothy L. Sayers was a big fan of his work.. My Forgotten Book for today is one of the early entries in his long series about Bobby Owen (the well-born Bobby is still a youthful sergeant in this book), Death Comes to Cambers.
This is a country house mystery which opens with the mysterious disappearance from her home of Lady Cambers. One of her guests at the time was - surprise, surprise! - Bobby himself. His grandmother, Lady Hirlpool, had introduced him to Lady Cambers, who was afraid of burglars. Her ladyship is soon found dead, and her jewellery is missing.
There is no shortage of suspects. In fact, the book does rather become bogged down in a seemingly endless series of interviews with the suspicious characters abounding in the vicinity - they include a fanatical cleric, an arrogant archaeologist, a sexy housemaid, a dodgy butler, and the victim's estranged husband, plus quite a few others. There are some amusing and well-written scenes. Punshon did have a sharp sense of humour and a taste for satire. But his verbosity does become a drag before the end of the book.
There are two newspaper ciphers, an ingenious alibi and plenty of opportunities for Bobby to show his sleuthing prowess. On the whole, though, I felt this a competent piece of work, but nothing more. A comparison with the light and breezy novels Agatha Christie was writing at the same time is instructive. Punshon's ideas about society and his prose style were probably quite impressive in their day, but they haven't stood the test of time as well as Christie's crisp brush strokes. She was a much more economical writer than Punshon, and in Golden Age fiction, economy of style is almost always a Good Thing..
This is a country house mystery which opens with the mysterious disappearance from her home of Lady Cambers. One of her guests at the time was - surprise, surprise! - Bobby himself. His grandmother, Lady Hirlpool, had introduced him to Lady Cambers, who was afraid of burglars. Her ladyship is soon found dead, and her jewellery is missing.
There is no shortage of suspects. In fact, the book does rather become bogged down in a seemingly endless series of interviews with the suspicious characters abounding in the vicinity - they include a fanatical cleric, an arrogant archaeologist, a sexy housemaid, a dodgy butler, and the victim's estranged husband, plus quite a few others. There are some amusing and well-written scenes. Punshon did have a sharp sense of humour and a taste for satire. But his verbosity does become a drag before the end of the book.
There are two newspaper ciphers, an ingenious alibi and plenty of opportunities for Bobby to show his sleuthing prowess. On the whole, though, I felt this a competent piece of work, but nothing more. A comparison with the light and breezy novels Agatha Christie was writing at the same time is instructive. Punshon's ideas about society and his prose style were probably quite impressive in their day, but they haven't stood the test of time as well as Christie's crisp brush strokes. She was a much more economical writer than Punshon, and in Golden Age fiction, economy of style is almost always a Good Thing..
September 18, 2013
The Strangler's Honeymoon by Hakan Nesser - review
The Strangler's Honeymoon is another instalment in Hakan Nesser's fascinating series of books featuring the now recently retired chief inspector, Van Veeteren. It was first published in 2001, but the Pan Macmillan edition that has just been published marks its first appearance. The translation by Laurie Thompson reads smoothly and well.
I came to this book just after finishing a best-selling example of Eurocrime, a book that seemed to me to tick the 'best-seller' boxes efficiently, but nevertheless had a formulaic feel. I'm clearly in a minority about that book, but suffice to say that I much prefer Nesser's writing. His novels have a quirkiness and unpredictability that makes them seem somehow more lifelike and more meaningful than some other acclaimed European crime fiction.
This story is absolutely first class and had me gripped throughout. The eponymous killer is an intriguing, deeply disturbed man. There are (mainly at the end of the book) one or two examples of the gruesomeness that seems obligatory, and sometimes rather tedious, in many best-sellers about serial killers, but here there is nothiing gratuitous. Nesser makes his characters, and the strange things that many of them do, seem very believable and real. For that reason, the darker scenes in his books don't seem contrived and exploitative in the way that is sometimes the case elsewhere.
I enjoyed the twists and turns of the storyline,the dabs of humour, and also the interplay of the characters - Nesser brings them all to life. There was a very nice clue, involving an imaginary Golden Age novel, that I enjoyed and felt more could have been made of, but this was only one of countless appealing touches. I've enjoyed all the Nesser books I've read, and this one might just be the most entertaining of all.
I came to this book just after finishing a best-selling example of Eurocrime, a book that seemed to me to tick the 'best-seller' boxes efficiently, but nevertheless had a formulaic feel. I'm clearly in a minority about that book, but suffice to say that I much prefer Nesser's writing. His novels have a quirkiness and unpredictability that makes them seem somehow more lifelike and more meaningful than some other acclaimed European crime fiction.
This story is absolutely first class and had me gripped throughout. The eponymous killer is an intriguing, deeply disturbed man. There are (mainly at the end of the book) one or two examples of the gruesomeness that seems obligatory, and sometimes rather tedious, in many best-sellers about serial killers, but here there is nothiing gratuitous. Nesser makes his characters, and the strange things that many of them do, seem very believable and real. For that reason, the darker scenes in his books don't seem contrived and exploitative in the way that is sometimes the case elsewhere.
I enjoyed the twists and turns of the storyline,the dabs of humour, and also the interplay of the characters - Nesser brings them all to life. There was a very nice clue, involving an imaginary Golden Age novel, that I enjoyed and felt more could have been made of, but this was only one of countless appealing touches. I've enjoyed all the Nesser books I've read, and this one might just be the most entertaining of all.
The Sixth Sense - film review
The Sixth Sense is the psychological thriller movie that made the name of M. Night Shyamalan, both as writer and director, when it first appeared in 1999. It earned six Oscar nominations, including one for Best Picture, and is much admired for its clever plot twist. So why has it taken me so long to get round to watching it? It's a mystery in itself!
The story is set in Philadelphia (a city I liked very much when I visited it some years ago for Bouchercon) and centres around a child psychologist, Malcolm Crowe (played by Bruce Willis) who is shot early on in the film by a young man and former patient called Vincent who feels let down by him. Some months later, Crowe takes on a new case, that of young Cole Sear, whose problems are similar to Vincent's.
Cole's mother, played by Toni Collette, is an attractive but anxious single mother whose devotion to her son is occasionally tested by his strange behaviour. Crowe does his best to help, but meanwhile his marriage seems to be heading for trouble, as his wife (played by the excellent Olivia Williams) is behaving distantly and taking an interest in another man. To say too much more might risk giving away the finale.
One of the interesting features of the film is that Shyamalan plants clues to the twist with a fairness that Christie would have approved. Even though I'm not a great fan of Bruce Willis, he does a competent job in an unusual role, though I think he's better suited to all-out action. It's a well-made movie, although I'm not sure that its quite the all-time classic that some people seem to believe it to be. I'm glad I've taken the opportunity, even if belatedly, to see what all the fuss was about. Overall, I'd rate this as a decent piece of entertainment, no more, no less..
The story is set in Philadelphia (a city I liked very much when I visited it some years ago for Bouchercon) and centres around a child psychologist, Malcolm Crowe (played by Bruce Willis) who is shot early on in the film by a young man and former patient called Vincent who feels let down by him. Some months later, Crowe takes on a new case, that of young Cole Sear, whose problems are similar to Vincent's.
Cole's mother, played by Toni Collette, is an attractive but anxious single mother whose devotion to her son is occasionally tested by his strange behaviour. Crowe does his best to help, but meanwhile his marriage seems to be heading for trouble, as his wife (played by the excellent Olivia Williams) is behaving distantly and taking an interest in another man. To say too much more might risk giving away the finale.
One of the interesting features of the film is that Shyamalan plants clues to the twist with a fairness that Christie would have approved. Even though I'm not a great fan of Bruce Willis, he does a competent job in an unusual role, though I think he's better suited to all-out action. It's a well-made movie, although I'm not sure that its quite the all-time classic that some people seem to believe it to be. I'm glad I've taken the opportunity, even if belatedly, to see what all the fuss was about. Overall, I'd rate this as a decent piece of entertainment, no more, no less..
What Remains and the modern whodunit
What Remains maintained to its fourth and final part the appeal that I wrote about in my review of
The claustrophobic shared house setting was brilliantl captured, and although the last ten minutes or so were pretty melodramatic in comparison to the subtle tension-building that had gone before, overall I very much enjoyed the story. While watching it, I was prompted to reflect on the strength of the whodunit as a narrative form, because despite its highly contemporary mood and subject matter, What Remains was a genuine whodunit, with added value in terms of characterisation and, above all, the compelling portrayal of how desperately lonely life can be in the heart of bustling metropolitan London.
Stripped of the moody and dark photography, the storyline was reminiscent of the Golden Age. Almost all the occupants of the shared house nursed dark secrets. Possible motives were lightly sketched (a slight plotting weakness, perhaps?) but almost everyone seemed capable of having murdered the luckless young woman whose body had been found in the attic two years after she was last seen - a disappearance to which hardly anyone paid attention. There was even a "least likely culprit" in the Christie tradition.
If analysed carefully, I'm not sure that - despite its superficially very "realistic" take on modern life - What Remains was much more plausible than many a Golden Age mystery. But on the whole,that didn't matter. It was good entertainment, and offered a story that will linger in my mind for quite a while. This is something that a good whodunit can do -whether it's a modern TV drama, such as Lewis or Vera or Broadchurch, or an older story,such as the better 'forgotten books' that I cover on Fridays. The combination of a mystery to solve, coupled with interesting people and a well-evoked setting has just as much appeal today as it did eighty years ago..
The claustrophobic shared house setting was brilliantl captured, and although the last ten minutes or so were pretty melodramatic in comparison to the subtle tension-building that had gone before, overall I very much enjoyed the story. While watching it, I was prompted to reflect on the strength of the whodunit as a narrative form, because despite its highly contemporary mood and subject matter, What Remains was a genuine whodunit, with added value in terms of characterisation and, above all, the compelling portrayal of how desperately lonely life can be in the heart of bustling metropolitan London.
Stripped of the moody and dark photography, the storyline was reminiscent of the Golden Age. Almost all the occupants of the shared house nursed dark secrets. Possible motives were lightly sketched (a slight plotting weakness, perhaps?) but almost everyone seemed capable of having murdered the luckless young woman whose body had been found in the attic two years after she was last seen - a disappearance to which hardly anyone paid attention. There was even a "least likely culprit" in the Christie tradition.
If analysed carefully, I'm not sure that - despite its superficially very "realistic" take on modern life - What Remains was much more plausible than many a Golden Age mystery. But on the whole,that didn't matter. It was good entertainment, and offered a story that will linger in my mind for quite a while. This is something that a good whodunit can do -whether it's a modern TV drama, such as Lewis or Vera or Broadchurch, or an older story,such as the better 'forgotten books' that I cover on Fridays. The combination of a mystery to solve, coupled with interesting people and a well-evoked setting has just as much appeal today as it did eighty years ago..
September 17, 2013
Frances Brody - Murder on a Summer's Day - guest blog
Frances Brody is one of the more successful crime writers to have emerged in the North of England in the past few years. Her historical mysteries have earned a large following, and I suggested to her a while back that when her new book came out, she might like to write a guest post for this blog. And now here it is.
"The idea for Murder on a Summer’s Day struck me with the force of a falling tree, a family tree to be precise. A good friend told me about researching her ancestors: generations of Yorkshire folk. One day someone new cropped up, a third cousin twice removed: Stella Mudge. Granddaughter of Ilkley farmers, daughter of a circus performer, Stella was brought up in the Earl of Ellesmere, Bethnal Green. Having studied French, painting, music and ballet, she joined Jack Hulbert and Cecily Courtneidge’s chorus line. When the company travelled to Paris, Stella did too, even though she was under age. From there it was a crisp Chassé to the Folies Bergere. A young Indian maharajah spotted her, and that was that.
I have changed the names. As far as I know, no dancer called Lydia and no Prince Narayan really did visit Bolton Abbey in August, 1924 and stay at the Cavendish Arms. But if you read the story I hope you will believe every word, as I do. Narayan goes deer stalking, and fails to return. Kate Shackleton takes a telephone call from her cousin James, a civil servant in the India Office. Within a couple of hours, Kate is on the scene, investigating first a disappearance and then a murder.
While real life doesn’t have to make sense, fiction does and there is always a moment when what needs to be looked into becomes dauntingly clear. Writing about Bolton Abbey involved learning something about the estate’s owner.
The Ninth Duke of Devonshire, Victor Cavendish, did not spend an awful lot of time at his Bolton Abbey estate, except during the grouse shooting season. Why would he when family property included Chatsworth House, Hardwick Hall, Holker Hall, Londesborough Hall, LismoreCastle in CountyWaterford, Chiswick House and 2 Carlton House Gardens. He was Colonial Secretary at the time Narayan went missing. It would be his duty to take a personal interest when an Indian prince disappeared from his patch. Consequently, he has a walk on part.
The Cavendish family made their money from the dissolution of the monasteries, from timely deaths and propitious marriages. Bolton Abbey is the name of the village and the area surrounding the ruined priory that, for me, is the dominant image of the place.
This is an area, a beauty spot, which teems with stories and legends. Now here is one more, that of the prince and the dancer who drove a white Rolls Royce along narrow country lanes, blissfully ignorant of what fate held in store."
For an excerpt from Murder on a Summer’s Day, go to Frances' blog
September 13, 2013
Forgotten Book - The Body in the Beck
I decided to read today's Forgotten Book, The Body in the Beck, for two good reasons. First, the author, Joanna Cannan, was a good writer, as her excellent early novel No Walls of Jasper shows. Second, as the title of the book suggests, this is an early Lake District mystery story The book was first published in 1952, more than half a century before Hannah Scarlett was a gleam in my eye.
The story begins with a well-known Oxford don and mountaineer, Francis Worthington, discovering the eponymous corpse. However, he carries on fell-climbing, and only alerts the police when he returns from his ascent. This is rather typical of Francis, who is just surfacing from an unsatisfactory affair with a married woman. He really doesn't behave as well or as sensibly as he should do.
The body turns out to belong to a nasty piece of work called Hawkins, and Inspector Price from Scotland Yard is summoned to investigate. Price is a memorable character, verbose, puritanical and left-wing. It's plan that Cannan's sympathies were very different from his. Yet Francis really isn't much more likeable and it's small wonder that he becomes the wreteched Price's main suspect. This is rather tedious, since we know he is innocent.
I found Price entertaining and rather different. I also felt Cannan captured the Lakeland atmosphere well. But there is a snag. The detective puzzle itself is hopeless. There are no interesting suspects, the victim is a cipher, and the solution is unpleasant and unsatisfactory. I find it odd that a genuinely gifted writer should have produced a book that is quite so flawed. You guessed it - I was deeply disappointed. I remain an admirer of No Walls of Jasper and I don't rule out reading more of Cannan. But one good character and a great setting are not enough to make a good novel.
The story begins with a well-known Oxford don and mountaineer, Francis Worthington, discovering the eponymous corpse. However, he carries on fell-climbing, and only alerts the police when he returns from his ascent. This is rather typical of Francis, who is just surfacing from an unsatisfactory affair with a married woman. He really doesn't behave as well or as sensibly as he should do.
The body turns out to belong to a nasty piece of work called Hawkins, and Inspector Price from Scotland Yard is summoned to investigate. Price is a memorable character, verbose, puritanical and left-wing. It's plan that Cannan's sympathies were very different from his. Yet Francis really isn't much more likeable and it's small wonder that he becomes the wreteched Price's main suspect. This is rather tedious, since we know he is innocent.
I found Price entertaining and rather different. I also felt Cannan captured the Lakeland atmosphere well. But there is a snag. The detective puzzle itself is hopeless. There are no interesting suspects, the victim is a cipher, and the solution is unpleasant and unsatisfactory. I find it odd that a genuinely gifted writer should have produced a book that is quite so flawed. You guessed it - I was deeply disappointed. I remain an admirer of No Walls of Jasper and I don't rule out reading more of Cannan. But one good character and a great setting are not enough to make a good novel.
September 12, 2013
The Guilty - ITV review
The Guilty started on ITV last week, and a few days late, and on the recommendation of a friend, I've caught up with the first episode. As other reviews have noted, there are distinct similarities to that other ITV crime series Broadchurch, which ended its eight-week run not so long ago. One of the differences is that The Guilty is divided into just three parts.
The setting is suburbia, rather than a coastal resort, and the rather less striking backdrop is a limitation compared to Broadchurch, which made such atmospheric use of the seaside locale. Overall, though, I was struck by the thought that we are right in the middle of a rich vein of TV crime series. Broadchurch was terrific, and What Remains is keeping me really gripped, with its assortment of odd characters living cheek by jowl in a spooky shared house. The Guilty is not quite in the same league, but very watchable.
Again, the central storyline involves a missing child, and the effect his disappearance (and, it turns out, murder) has on his family and his community. We see events from five years ago, when the boy went missing, alongside events in the present day, when his body is discovered. He comes from a seemingly happy family, but it becomes increasingly evident that all is not quite as it appears at first sight.
Tamsin Greig is the likeable cop leading the investigation, and already a few potential suspects have emerged. Like What Remains, though (and this is another difference from Broadchurch) there isn't so much focus on motives. It would be good to think that there's something more on offer than a study of a paedophiel, but we'll see. I'll definitely be watching episode two this evening.
The setting is suburbia, rather than a coastal resort, and the rather less striking backdrop is a limitation compared to Broadchurch, which made such atmospheric use of the seaside locale. Overall, though, I was struck by the thought that we are right in the middle of a rich vein of TV crime series. Broadchurch was terrific, and What Remains is keeping me really gripped, with its assortment of odd characters living cheek by jowl in a spooky shared house. The Guilty is not quite in the same league, but very watchable.
Again, the central storyline involves a missing child, and the effect his disappearance (and, it turns out, murder) has on his family and his community. We see events from five years ago, when the boy went missing, alongside events in the present day, when his body is discovered. He comes from a seemingly happy family, but it becomes increasingly evident that all is not quite as it appears at first sight.
Tamsin Greig is the likeable cop leading the investigation, and already a few potential suspects have emerged. Like What Remains, though (and this is another difference from Broadchurch) there isn't so much focus on motives. It would be good to think that there's something more on offer than a study of a paedophiel, but we'll see. I'll definitely be watching episode two this evening.
September 9, 2013
Identity - film review
Identity is a film made in 2003, a psychological thriller that owes something (just like Jack Reacher!) to a plot associated with Agatha Christie. Yet, again like Jack Reacher, it stands on its own two feet - and very well, actually. I must admit that I saw it some years ago and was not overly impressed, but I think I saw it on a bad day. A second viewing made it clear that it's a very clever movie.
It opens with that excellent actor Alfred Molina as a shrink talking to a patient who is accused of being a serial killer. New evidence has come to light, and there's a last minute hearing to see if the chap can escape the death penalty. Is he mad rather than bad? Before we can begin to answer the question, the action switches to a remote motel in a ferocious downpour.
Ten people come to the motel - and one by one, they start to be killed (does this sound familiar, Christie fans?) A motel room key is found by each corpse. What on earth is going on? The group is a mixed bunch - a prostitute, a police officer, the dodgy motel keeper, a young boy and his parents, and so on. But can anyone be trusted? Are they all what they seem? Twist follows twist, in a very satisfying way.
The excellent cast includes Ray Liotta, John Cusack and Rebecca de Mornay. I really can't think why I didn't care for this one first time round - I now think it's one of the most entertaining American thrillers of the present century. Not at all easy to guess what's going on, and all the more satisfying because of it. Recommended - and certainly not just for Christie fans.
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It opens with that excellent actor Alfred Molina as a shrink talking to a patient who is accused of being a serial killer. New evidence has come to light, and there's a last minute hearing to see if the chap can escape the death penalty. Is he mad rather than bad? Before we can begin to answer the question, the action switches to a remote motel in a ferocious downpour.
Ten people come to the motel - and one by one, they start to be killed (does this sound familiar, Christie fans?) A motel room key is found by each corpse. What on earth is going on? The group is a mixed bunch - a prostitute, a police officer, the dodgy motel keeper, a young boy and his parents, and so on. But can anyone be trusted? Are they all what they seem? Twist follows twist, in a very satisfying way.
The excellent cast includes Ray Liotta, John Cusack and Rebecca de Mornay. I really can't think why I didn't care for this one first time round - I now think it's one of the most entertaining American thrillers of the present century. Not at all easy to guess what's going on, and all the more satisfying because of it. Recommended - and certainly not just for Christie fans.
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Gladfest 2013
Gladfest 2013 is the first literary festival to be staged at Gladstone's Library, and it was so enjoyable that I'm hoping it will become a fixture in the calendar from now on. I was only present for part of the week-end, but it was clear from talking to the delegates that everyone was having a good time. And why wouldn't they, in such an atmospheric and historic setting?
When I was first invited to take part, I was delighted to accept. This was so even though I'm well aware that inaugurating a literary festival can be fraught with difficulties. A great deal of hard work on the part of a lot of people is required, and even then, things may not go to plan. The now legendary Kidwelly ebook festival last year (not an event repeated in 2014) was an example of how things can take an unexpected and unfortunate turn, and although on a personal level I had a very good time there, that was due to the chance to bond with fellow authors, rather than readers, since the latter were conspicuous by their absence. It was all rather a shame. No such problems at Gladfest.
I staged my Victorian murder mystery on Saturday evening, and the audience participated with tremendous enthusiasm. I loved the gasps when the solution was revealed! Those present included a couple of fellow crime writers, Stella Duffy and Martine Bailey; Stella took the photo from the gallery on the first floor of the library room, while Martine and her husband Martin were dinner companions recently at St Hilda's. The volunteers who acted the parts of the suspects did a fnatastic job, and all in all it was a great occasion. The programme for the week-end as a whole was eclectic, and as well as Stella and her partner Shelley Silas, the roster of writers who took part included the acclaimed poet Wendy Cope and a number of those who have been writers in residence at the Library. Stella told me about her month as a writer in residence there, and it sounded like a marvellous experience.
There's a feelgood factor about Gladstone's Library which isn't solely due to the history and the presence of so many old, rare and wonderful books (Jamie, one of the interns, made my day on Sunday by showing me an original edition of The Strand featuring the first appearance of "A Scandal in Bohemia" and the other early Holmes short stories). The commitment and enthusiasm of the staff, including the Festival Director, Louisa Yates, really is a joy to behold. Some people at Gladstone's have had a very long and happy association with it, but I was impressed too by the very obvious love of the place on the part of the group of young people who are learning librarianship and other skills there.
The way the Library is contributing to the development of their careers came over very clearly when I talked to them, and equally I felt (as I often do) that those who argue that young people generally do not have the same passion for books and tradition as previous generations obviously don't meet the same young people that I do. I wouldn't mind betting that the staff felt like collapsing in a heap once the festival came to an end, but they must be hugely cheered by the fact that all their efforts had such a successful outcome.
