As someone who had never read any James Patterson, but had read about James Patterson and his sausage factory of creative pursuits, I had to see what all the fuss was about, and so I made the fateful decision to start here. An odd choice, you might think, given it's the seventh book in a series, but there were two compelling reasons for my particular selection:
1. It was three dollars at my local Vinnies; and
2. It's set in Sydney, and I live in Sydney, so I figured it would be fun to read how my home city is written by the number one selling thriller author in the world.
Spoiler Alert on Point 2: BAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDLLLLLYYYYY.
The factual errors here are freaking legion, people. From the fact that people refer to temperature using the Fahrenheit scale (we use Celsius here in good old Oz), to the references to miles and yards as measures of distance (Aussies use the metric system), to the bastardisation of geography (the Western Suburbs does not possess any ghettos, I'm afraid), to straight making up suburbs (there's no such place as Sandsville!). But by far the most egregious offence comes when our lead character goes into a bar and orders a Fosters. A FOSTERS! Why not throw another shrimp on the barbie whilst you're at it??
For the unaware, Fosters is a beer marketed to Americans, as a beer that Australians drink. We most emphatically do not drink that putrid golden anus water. Yes, you can find it in some parts of Australia, for the cashed up tourists and the cash poor locals, but where you will not find it, is in any pub in my beloved Sydney. As someone who has sampled a vast number of Sydney's drinking establishments, and who is friends with people who've sampled the remainder, I can state that with some authority.
At first, I let these issues slide. I figured that Patterson was pitching this at an American audience, and that informed his (and his co-writer's) choices. (His co-writer is British, by the way, and lives in Australia, though you'd never know it from the issues listed above.) I let the making up of suburbs go, as well, along with the flourishes of adding ghettos to the West. James Patterson has made very clear in interviews I've seen from him that he doesn't "write reality". So on I pushed, accepting the man's creative choices, whilst not particularly enjoying them.
But then there was the Fosters incident. Unforgivable! If the character had a condition that destroyed all his taste buds and obliterated his gag reflex, then MAYBE.
(One last note on this: To me, James Patterson and Michael White are like the kids who didn't study for a test and bullshitted their way through it. Which wouldn't be a problem, except that they got someone to publish said test for a sizable advance and fee, then foisted it upon an unsuspecting populace who trust the Patterson brand, and who want to see what the fuss is about.)
Moving on now, to another dimension. The first dimension. I'll call it the "ONE DIMENSION". It's important, because it's where every single character in this book lives.
The characters in this book are so paper thin, when they turn sideways, they disappear. Here are a few choice passages to describe main characters and supporting players:
"She was a cool contrast ... beautiful and brilliant. The only nerd who could grace the centrefold of Playboy."
"Lower North Shore Yummy Mummy, maybe Eastern Suburbs, but a little too cool."
"She had a narrow waist, flat tummy, firm boobs." Following this description, where the character is "considering" her own naked body, she says to no one: "Gotta be some benefits to eating nothing and having no bambini, I guess."
I'll spare you further examples.
How's the prose? About what you'd expect. Short, to the point, expressed in a manner that's designed to appeal to people who don't read a lot. Nothing wrong with that--not everyone wants dense or elegant prose. That said, the whole thing felt rushed, like they published the second draft. Formatting errors abounded ... my wife picked up the book and within one minute she had found three errors. Without trying.
But the story? That was at least something, right? No. Just ... no. This, more than any other factor, is what earned Private Oz a single star from me.
The execution was horrendous. Finding out the killer's motive after it's all said and done, with an exposition dump of "Oh, by the way, here's why she did it?" Several story-lines which share nothing in common, come together in no satisfying manner, and resolve in ways that were as anticlimactic as finding out that the cool jumping castle you were promised for your birthday has arrived, but it's got a hole in it so big that you'll never get to pump it up and jump, jump, jump for joy like you had been looking forward to doing for weeks? Look no further, friend. This book has got all those disappointments and more besides.
In a word? Rubbish. The entire book, from start to end. Rubbish.
In conclusion, I want to be clear that I'm not a Patterson hater ... I wish him all the very best with what he does. I know his creative method is offensive to some, but not to me. People are free to create art in whatever way makes them happy, suits their purpose, or that they think will sell. I'm in no position to look down on anyone else's method for creating the product or art. I am, however, in a position to look down on this lazy, dull, poorly executed, poorly plotted, badly written piece of junk that reads like the first effort from a particularly earnest crime writer trying their hand at the genre, with typos and all.
Don't read this. Ever. For any reason.
I'm going to go and have a Fosters now to calm my jangled nerves. But oh wait, I can't. Know why? BECAUSE I LIVE IN SYDNEY!