Review: The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty

There can't be a person alive who doesn't know about The Exorcist.

Even if they have never seen the film or read the book, anybody's grandmother could reel off some of the iconic images featured in both - spinning heads, projectile vomit, hellish bellowing voices and that scene with the crucifix going somewhere it shouldn't.

I saw the film several years ago and I don't remember that much about it, but I do recall not feeling particularly scared. Not that it wasn't scary, just that I think The Exorcist as an entity had already been so indelibly burned into my consciousness by a steady drip-drip of references for years beforehand - I'd seen the clips, heard the music, endured certain film critics discussing it at length - that by the time I came to see it, it was already familiar to me.

I already knew that it was brash, hard, in yer face and incredibly graphic, so there was very little shock value to it when I eventually saw the film for myself. And the same goes for the book. I expected to see those horrific scenes written down and that's what I got.

Which, in a strange way, had an anaesthetising effect on me as a reader. I knew the possessed 12-year-old girl at the heart of it would swear like a docker, would do revolting things, would suggest what priests could do with the Devil's private member. I knew it was all coming and so, combined with the rather casual way in which the story is told, it all rather rolled over me.

And that's bizarre, because The Exorcist is an incredibly disturbing story. Having reminded myself in detail of what Regan got up to, I am freshly astonished that a child was ever cast in the movie. Yet it is written as pulpy entertainment and in that sense, it scores, despite subject matter that should be shocking readers out of their armchairs and into the letters page of the Daily Mail.

Blatty does write well and manages to draw some colourful characters, from the insufferable detective investigating a bizarre murder below Regan's bedroom window, to the careworn and desperate Father Karras, who is reluctantly drawn into a battle with the demon. There are pretentious touches to his writing which seem incongruous in such a balls-out horror story, and these little touches of literary flair do fall on stony ground I'm afraid. Enough of the 'thin as a whispered hope' nonsense, get to the bit where she twists that bloke's head off!

And that pretty much sums up this experience. I wasn't alive when this book was first published in 1971, so I can't testify as to its reception, but I'd be surprised if certain sections of society weren't practically bursting in the street with outrage. It's certainly not something I'd allow any child of mine to read until they were old enough to not be titillated by the copious cursing and graphic sexual references.

But you know what? It didn't move me. And I hope to God that just says something about how 21st century consumers are being desensitised by the images of horror, both real and fictional, that they see every day, and not about me as a person.

Review: Dissolution by CJ Sansom

Not a huge fan of crime fiction in general, I do like mysteries that have an extra element of interest to them.

Present me with some troubled modern day cop, who spends his days investigating grotty sex-related murders perpetrated with various grades of hot poker, while simultaneously battling a crack habit and wondering whether to shag his much younger and impossibly attractive assistant, and I'll probably pass in favour of Katie Price's latest autobiography.

So for me, a detective story or murder mystery needs to have something extra, something that puts all the gore in a more intriguing context.

I didn't buy Dissolution for myself, I got it for a friend as a Christmas present, a decision based entirely on superficial factors - mainly because it appeared to be about monks (she is a devout Christian) and partly because I was captivated by the olde worlde, parchment-style cover but couldn't afford to buy it for myself. I'd also kind of assumed that she liked historical fiction, though why, I really couldn't say. So I was a bit embarrassed when she popped round with the book a couple of weeks ago and revealed that she'd been surprised to enjoy it, bearing in mind the fact that she really couldn't stand historical fiction.

Still, the situation was saved by the fact that she'd enjoyed it so much, she wanted to recommend I take a look. As I'm currently too skint to buy new books, I was really pleased and couldn't wait to get stuck in, particularly as she had been so impressed by the story that she overcame her dislike of novels set pre-1960.

Personal recommendations from friends can be the bane of your life if their tastes in literature are wildly different from your own, because you really have no choice but to read it in case they ask difficult questions later. Over the years I've gnawed my painful way through countless Maeve Binchy novels, tedious romances and comedy books about funny things cats think, thanks to well-meaning but unsolicited loans from friends. But if they are on your wavelength, word of mouth can be the best way to discover new joys in reading.

Dissolution is the first in a very popular series of mysteries concerning Matthew Shardlake, a medieval hunchback who goes around doing the bidding of the deeply unpleasant Lord Thomas Cromwell. The world of Henry VIII and his ill-fated henchman is one in which I have recently become saturated - having read Wolf Hall, visited Hampton Court Palace, watched The Six Wives of Henry VIII and started getting addicted to The Tudors on BBC2 (in which old Chubba Chops is still surprisingly slim, good-looking and not ginger, despite now being in the twilight of his life) all in the last few months, I'm familiar with this geezer and his doings.

Following his break from Rome so that he could finally get down and dirty with Anne Boleyn, Henry is now enthusiastically dismantling the old church and Shardlake, a London lawyer with a huge chip on his shoulder (not to mention the hump), is dispatched to a Sussex monastery to investigate the grisly murder of one of Lord Cromwell's commissioners. Here, Shardlake encounters a house of God gone rotten, where the monks enjoy rather more good food, home comforts and hot bum action than St Benedict originally prescribed.

Dissolution was good. I don't think it was any more than good, simply because I spotted the culprit from the moment they appeared on the page, but read on in happy anticipation of them turning out to be a red herring, of course . But they weren't a red herring. It was them.

This was disappointing and left me feeling a bit annoyed, as usually I'm terrible at spotting murderers and was possibly the only person in the world who didn't spot the twist in The Sixth Sense a mile off. (As a digression, what the hell has happened to M Night Shamalayan? I mean, did you see The Village?? Did you??!!??)

The mystery is entertaining enough, but the lead character is an enigma, simply because he is rather unsympathetic. I don't know if Sansom deliberately made him self-righteous, rude and envious in order to play with the reader's sympathies, or if it was accidental, but I didn't warm to Shardlake very much. You know you are not a fan of the so-called hero when, during the inevitable dramatic showdown during which one of the protagonists faces certain death, you find yourself rooting for the bad guy.

Shardlake takes his good-looking young assistant to the monastery with him and his conflicting feelings of affection and jealousy towards the buck are interesting. I won't spoil the storyline by revealing why, but disagreements arise between the pair and again, my sympathies lay entirely with the youngster.

I will read more of the series, to see if Shardlake's appeal improves and it was an entertaining enough read. But the medieval setting and political backdrop were what really kept my interest and had this been a contemporary story, it would probably have been put back on the shelf.