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.
Showing posts with label crime fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crime fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Review: The Art Thief By Noah Charney
The great thing about literature is that sometimes it really adds to your life in more ways than simply entertaining you.
Sometimes, a great book can kickstart a new interest or hobby; it can make you aware of ideas, people or places you had never considered before and can leave a lasting impression on your thoughts, behaviour or even lifestyle.
Now, I'm not saying that Noah Charney's tale of people nicking stupidly priced daubs is a masterpiece, far from it. But it came along at just the right time for me. Recently I've found a new interest springing up in my soul. People who know me well will say, 'oh yeah?' and try to cover their mouth as they yawn, because I tend to develop a new fascination with something obsessive every other week. But I think this one might be a keeper, simply because it's so unexpected.
I never thought I'd say this, but recently I've developed a fledgling interest in art history. Not the nonsense that art school twats turn out these days, I've never had time for that and I've always tended to think of art in general as highly over-rated and a place for dickheads to hide their lack of talent. Last week I bought 1001 Paintings You Must See Before You Die and the 20th and 21st century chapters were almost entirely filled with primary school rejects; good canvases ruined by someone drawing three lines and a dot and calling it 'a reflection on the futility of life' or some such rhubarb - needless to say, those chapters were pretty much skipped.
But real art, the stuff turned out when people had less tolerance for arty-farty-ism and you were likely to get your head lopped off if you dared portray the king's nose in a way he didn't like, is actually very interesting indeed. Because proper art does actually speak a language which is concealed from the viewer unless you research it a bit and, you know what, it's kinda fascinating.
It started years ago with my first visit to Rome, a city absolutely stuffed to the gills with beautiful and breathtaking works of art, from paintings to buildings. When I went a second time, I'm afraid my art knowledge came from Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, rather than any higher minded source. But, say what you like about that novel, it did at least introduce art and sculpture to the masses and following his false trail around the Eternal City was both fun and educational.
A few weeks ago I watched a couple of documentaries about the Baroque movement, purely because the first episode looked at Rome, and to my surprise, I found it mesmerising. The codes and iconography to be found in great paintings, not as part of some conspiracy but simply because good painters are genuinely trying to say something, is captivating and left me keen to know more. So I bought the art book and it really did open my eyes even further.
Then I remembered that a couple of Christmases ago, a relative kindly gave me a bumper pack of cheaply produced paperbacks which I had kind of forgotten about, one of which was The Art Thief. So I thought I'd give it a whirl. Written by a genuine art crime expert, it gave some fascinating insights into that world and even mentioned some of the paintings in my new non-fiction book, leading to the cross-referencing between fact and fiction that can make this sort of reading such a joy.
Now, don't get me wrong, The Art Thief isn't going to win the Orange Prize any time soon. But it was entertaining enough, even if it was a bit top heavy on facts sometimes - Charney's central character, Gabriel Coffin, is a charismatic art crime expert (wonder where he got that idea) and the snippets from his lectures are a thinly disguised device for the author to show off his own knowledge. By the end, I'd had enough, particularly as I lost track of the twisty-turny plot about halfway through. Paintings are stolen, fakes turn up in their place, which have in turn been painted over originals, which turn out to be fakes anyway.....uh???
While some of the supporting characters, such as the droopy London detective and his entertainingly quirky French counterparts, are nicely done and add a bit more depth to proceedings, Coffin is too two-dimensional - handsome, rich, smooth, a smartypants - to really hold much interest. And the twist barely merits a brief shrug of the shoulders, let alone a shocked intake of breath. But it gave me a bit more of a steer on how to read paintings so in my world, it has done its job.
Sometimes, a great book can kickstart a new interest or hobby; it can make you aware of ideas, people or places you had never considered before and can leave a lasting impression on your thoughts, behaviour or even lifestyle.
Now, I'm not saying that Noah Charney's tale of people nicking stupidly priced daubs is a masterpiece, far from it. But it came along at just the right time for me. Recently I've found a new interest springing up in my soul. People who know me well will say, 'oh yeah?' and try to cover their mouth as they yawn, because I tend to develop a new fascination with something obsessive every other week. But I think this one might be a keeper, simply because it's so unexpected.
I never thought I'd say this, but recently I've developed a fledgling interest in art history. Not the nonsense that art school twats turn out these days, I've never had time for that and I've always tended to think of art in general as highly over-rated and a place for dickheads to hide their lack of talent. Last week I bought 1001 Paintings You Must See Before You Die and the 20th and 21st century chapters were almost entirely filled with primary school rejects; good canvases ruined by someone drawing three lines and a dot and calling it 'a reflection on the futility of life' or some such rhubarb - needless to say, those chapters were pretty much skipped.
But real art, the stuff turned out when people had less tolerance for arty-farty-ism and you were likely to get your head lopped off if you dared portray the king's nose in a way he didn't like, is actually very interesting indeed. Because proper art does actually speak a language which is concealed from the viewer unless you research it a bit and, you know what, it's kinda fascinating.
It started years ago with my first visit to Rome, a city absolutely stuffed to the gills with beautiful and breathtaking works of art, from paintings to buildings. When I went a second time, I'm afraid my art knowledge came from Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, rather than any higher minded source. But, say what you like about that novel, it did at least introduce art and sculpture to the masses and following his false trail around the Eternal City was both fun and educational.
A few weeks ago I watched a couple of documentaries about the Baroque movement, purely because the first episode looked at Rome, and to my surprise, I found it mesmerising. The codes and iconography to be found in great paintings, not as part of some conspiracy but simply because good painters are genuinely trying to say something, is captivating and left me keen to know more. So I bought the art book and it really did open my eyes even further.
Then I remembered that a couple of Christmases ago, a relative kindly gave me a bumper pack of cheaply produced paperbacks which I had kind of forgotten about, one of which was The Art Thief. So I thought I'd give it a whirl. Written by a genuine art crime expert, it gave some fascinating insights into that world and even mentioned some of the paintings in my new non-fiction book, leading to the cross-referencing between fact and fiction that can make this sort of reading such a joy.
Now, don't get me wrong, The Art Thief isn't going to win the Orange Prize any time soon. But it was entertaining enough, even if it was a bit top heavy on facts sometimes - Charney's central character, Gabriel Coffin, is a charismatic art crime expert (wonder where he got that idea) and the snippets from his lectures are a thinly disguised device for the author to show off his own knowledge. By the end, I'd had enough, particularly as I lost track of the twisty-turny plot about halfway through. Paintings are stolen, fakes turn up in their place, which have in turn been painted over originals, which turn out to be fakes anyway.....uh???
While some of the supporting characters, such as the droopy London detective and his entertainingly quirky French counterparts, are nicely done and add a bit more depth to proceedings, Coffin is too two-dimensional - handsome, rich, smooth, a smartypants - to really hold much interest. And the twist barely merits a brief shrug of the shoulders, let alone a shocked intake of breath. But it gave me a bit more of a steer on how to read paintings so in my world, it has done its job.
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