I went into a fair bit of detail about Kerr's anti-hero, Bernhard Gunther, in my review of a previous book so I won't go crazy on this one, but here is a brief recap.
Gunther is a gumshoe in 1930s and 40s Berlin, an ex-policeman who was forced to play his part in the war but didn't enjoy it and holds no sympathy for Nazi ideals. These experiences have scarred him to a degree and he has a refreshingly honest approach to some of his clients, but it is clear that he is pretty much still a good guy.
This novel spans two time periods and settings - the pre-war tension of 30s Germany, where Gunther falls in love with a beautiful American guest while working as a hotel detective, and 50s Argentina, to which Gunther has been forced to flee under the guise of a Nazi war criminal in order to escape a trumped-up murder charge. Here he bumps into his former lover again and falls headlong back into her problems.
His escape to Argentina was set up in a previous book and the way in which Kerr's stories dovetail together show a really nice commitment to the character, while still making a great stand-alone read. Sure, there is some pretty cliched wish fulfilment going on here, such as the way in which gorgeous women fall helplessly into Gunther's bed the moment they meet him, and one twist regarding his former lover's daughter can be seen coming a mile off.
But Kerr's stories are gripping enough to keep things feeling fresh and just on the right side of cheesy, for Gunther gets involved in some pretty dark doings and confesses to feeling scared at the right moments.
In short, a brilliantly entertaining novel for fans of hardboiled detective fiction or indeed, anyone just looking for a bit of well-researched and well-written fun.
Showing posts with label germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label germany. Show all posts
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Eng-er-bloody-bollocks-land...
Most of the time, I'm happy to be English.
Some toff once said that to be born English, was to win first prize in the lottery of life. Not sure I'd go that far. I'd prefer a more interesting climate and a more flamboyant national temperament. Christ, show me what second prize was and, if it's a speed boat or a fortnight in Cancun, I might even be tempted to swap. I don't mind being Slovakian in exchange for a villa in Tuscany, just as long as I'm allowed to wax the mono-brow.
But generally, I think being born in this country isn't a bad hand to be dealt when you sit in on the game of Life. Our days of empire-building might be behind us, but we enjoy a standard of living, a freedom and a general level of sanity which is frankly lacking in other parts of the globe. And one mention of the Battle of Britain has me choked faster than a goldfish trying to eat a Big Mac.
However, every four years, I find myself wishing I'd been born on top of a slurry heap in the hoariest slums of Rio de Janeiro. I find myself wishing we had a touch of fascism in our glorious history or that a bit of Italian blood flowed in these slovenly veins.
Because every four years, we absolutely suck. Whilst thousands of people per annum might literally bust a gut trying to get here, none of them wants to support our football team. And today, we went out of the World Cup yet again. At the hands of the old enemy.
I know we're not supposed to say that. Not because it's factually incorrect (I think blowing each other's heads off at 100 paces pretty much encapsulates the idea of hostile behaviour) but because it doesn't fit into a spirit of unity, of forward-thinking, of forgetting the past. But that's silly. Because I'm not talking about the two World Wars. I'm talking about the last God knows how many World Cups and European Cups. I'm talking about 1990. And about every other bastard time we've come across the Germans for any match that mattered.
Because there was just no way England was ever going to beat Germany, not today. And I blame Winston Churchill. Because while the law of karma states that what goes around, comes around, the brave and morally correct deeds perpetrated by our countrymen in the past have somehow been lost in translation. Somewhere in the karma machine, the actions of our forebears to protect the world from Nazism have got mangled - sausages have come out as mince. And we've been cursed with, not a crap football team, but a terminally ill-fated one.
Germany, on the other hand, still to this day carries a terrible burden. The knowledge that their ancestors were behind some pretty rum deeds in the past (and probably, in the vast majority of cases, unwillingly) must be an awful bucket to hoist. I totally condemn the idea of holding the Germany of today to ransom over the wars; of clinging onto the past and preventing an entire nation from taking its rightful place in the world, because of events that transpired in a completely different world, 70 years ago.
Yet I don't think they've got the completely mucky end of the stick. Somewhere, it seems they have done a deal with God. He's said to them, as a nation, "okay, so for the foreseeable future, you're going to get a bunch of dickheads making Hitler salutes at you and shouting 'Achtung!' after they've had a couple at the Hamburg Festival. You will be unable to be blonde and German and NOT be accused of being a Nazi by some uneducated no-mark from Daventry every time you are unfortunate enough to host a stag party from the British shores. This is irrefutable fact. So, to ease your burden and redress the balance a little, you are ALWAYS going to kick their pasty arses at football."
I gave up watching football more than 10 years ago when, after allowing myself to get well and truly dragged into it, the full horror and grind of being an England fan was finally revealed to me. Every four years, I allow myself to be tugged back in, just a little, and every time I remember why I walked away. It's just not worth the heart attacks.
Some toff once said that to be born English, was to win first prize in the lottery of life. Not sure I'd go that far. I'd prefer a more interesting climate and a more flamboyant national temperament. Christ, show me what second prize was and, if it's a speed boat or a fortnight in Cancun, I might even be tempted to swap. I don't mind being Slovakian in exchange for a villa in Tuscany, just as long as I'm allowed to wax the mono-brow.
But generally, I think being born in this country isn't a bad hand to be dealt when you sit in on the game of Life. Our days of empire-building might be behind us, but we enjoy a standard of living, a freedom and a general level of sanity which is frankly lacking in other parts of the globe. And one mention of the Battle of Britain has me choked faster than a goldfish trying to eat a Big Mac.
However, every four years, I find myself wishing I'd been born on top of a slurry heap in the hoariest slums of Rio de Janeiro. I find myself wishing we had a touch of fascism in our glorious history or that a bit of Italian blood flowed in these slovenly veins.
Because every four years, we absolutely suck. Whilst thousands of people per annum might literally bust a gut trying to get here, none of them wants to support our football team. And today, we went out of the World Cup yet again. At the hands of the old enemy.
I know we're not supposed to say that. Not because it's factually incorrect (I think blowing each other's heads off at 100 paces pretty much encapsulates the idea of hostile behaviour) but because it doesn't fit into a spirit of unity, of forward-thinking, of forgetting the past. But that's silly. Because I'm not talking about the two World Wars. I'm talking about the last God knows how many World Cups and European Cups. I'm talking about 1990. And about every other bastard time we've come across the Germans for any match that mattered.
Because there was just no way England was ever going to beat Germany, not today. And I blame Winston Churchill. Because while the law of karma states that what goes around, comes around, the brave and morally correct deeds perpetrated by our countrymen in the past have somehow been lost in translation. Somewhere in the karma machine, the actions of our forebears to protect the world from Nazism have got mangled - sausages have come out as mince. And we've been cursed with, not a crap football team, but a terminally ill-fated one.
Germany, on the other hand, still to this day carries a terrible burden. The knowledge that their ancestors were behind some pretty rum deeds in the past (and probably, in the vast majority of cases, unwillingly) must be an awful bucket to hoist. I totally condemn the idea of holding the Germany of today to ransom over the wars; of clinging onto the past and preventing an entire nation from taking its rightful place in the world, because of events that transpired in a completely different world, 70 years ago.
Yet I don't think they've got the completely mucky end of the stick. Somewhere, it seems they have done a deal with God. He's said to them, as a nation, "okay, so for the foreseeable future, you're going to get a bunch of dickheads making Hitler salutes at you and shouting 'Achtung!' after they've had a couple at the Hamburg Festival. You will be unable to be blonde and German and NOT be accused of being a Nazi by some uneducated no-mark from Daventry every time you are unfortunate enough to host a stag party from the British shores. This is irrefutable fact. So, to ease your burden and redress the balance a little, you are ALWAYS going to kick their pasty arses at football."
I gave up watching football more than 10 years ago when, after allowing myself to get well and truly dragged into it, the full horror and grind of being an England fan was finally revealed to me. Every four years, I allow myself to be tugged back in, just a little, and every time I remember why I walked away. It's just not worth the heart attacks.
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