Boxing Day...
Dec. 26th, 2012 09:17 pmI'm reading The Twenty-Year Death, a debut crime/mystery novel by Ariel S. Winter, published as part of the Hard Case Crime series. Just about the first thing you learn about the book if care to pay an attention to it at all is that the work is actually three linked novels, each written in the style of a genre master (Simenon, Chandler, and Thompson).
In my opinion, that kind of publicity certainly sets the book apart from the crowd, but by doing so it sets some pretty high standards that risks undermining your reaction to Winter's work because your attention has been split between immersing yourself in the stories and comparing their respective styles to those of Simenon, etc.
Here, I am in relatively good shape—risk-wise—as it's been a long time since I've read anything by Simenon, and I'm not sure I've ever actually read anything that I link to Jim Thompson's name, so I have nothing to which to compare Winter's effort. On the other hand, Raymond Chandler and I go wa-a-ay back, to my college days, in a relationship that was reinforced by the late Robert B. Parker's interest in Chandler, both as an academic and as a writer (including the task of finishing one of Chandler's stories, which was published as Poodle Springs, under both Parker's and Chandler's names).
Here, I do have a reference point, and in my opinion, Winter's imitation of Chandler's style falls short of the mark. Heck, I thought Fred Reed did a better (and funnier) Chandler in his novel Triple Tap, and I came to that conclusion on my own, without having my nose tweaked by a publisher's marketing slime. And the fact that, in the end, Reed is no Chandler is reduced to the status of a passing thought.
I am, however, a forgiving sort. I've enjoyably finished two of the three stories in The Twenty-Year Death, and I look forward to the third—when I can steal away some time.
Apropos of marketing, I think this is a variant of the marketing error committed some years ago with a country music band called Bering Strait. Those kids were good enough, in terms of their music, to make me—a die-hard fan of symphonies, concertos, and operas—buy their album. Heck, the group was nominated for a Grammy! And yet, when I watched a documentary about the group, it seemed to me that the only message anyone ever seemed interested in getting out about the band was that its members were all from Russia! The band was, in effect, being sold as a novelty act! Ah, well...
Galina and I spent the afternoon shopping. The crowds were manageable.
In my opinion, that kind of publicity certainly sets the book apart from the crowd, but by doing so it sets some pretty high standards that risks undermining your reaction to Winter's work because your attention has been split between immersing yourself in the stories and comparing their respective styles to those of Simenon, etc.
Here, I am in relatively good shape—risk-wise—as it's been a long time since I've read anything by Simenon, and I'm not sure I've ever actually read anything that I link to Jim Thompson's name, so I have nothing to which to compare Winter's effort. On the other hand, Raymond Chandler and I go wa-a-ay back, to my college days, in a relationship that was reinforced by the late Robert B. Parker's interest in Chandler, both as an academic and as a writer (including the task of finishing one of Chandler's stories, which was published as Poodle Springs, under both Parker's and Chandler's names).
Here, I do have a reference point, and in my opinion, Winter's imitation of Chandler's style falls short of the mark. Heck, I thought Fred Reed did a better (and funnier) Chandler in his novel Triple Tap, and I came to that conclusion on my own, without having my nose tweaked by a publisher's marketing slime. And the fact that, in the end, Reed is no Chandler is reduced to the status of a passing thought.
I am, however, a forgiving sort. I've enjoyably finished two of the three stories in The Twenty-Year Death, and I look forward to the third—when I can steal away some time.
Apropos of marketing, I think this is a variant of the marketing error committed some years ago with a country music band called Bering Strait. Those kids were good enough, in terms of their music, to make me—a die-hard fan of symphonies, concertos, and operas—buy their album. Heck, the group was nominated for a Grammy! And yet, when I watched a documentary about the group, it seemed to me that the only message anyone ever seemed interested in getting out about the band was that its members were all from Russia! The band was, in effect, being sold as a novelty act! Ah, well...
Galina and I spent the afternoon shopping. The crowds were manageable.