1. The Shining Girls

By Lauren Beukes       

A man with violent psychopathic tendencies is drawn to a House of Dimensions in Depression-era Chicago.  He becomes a serial killer who can jump back and forth in time to hunt gifted girls while eluding the authorities. 

Sounds like a cool concept, which makes it such a tragedy that Beukes stinks as a writer.  I’m writing more than I should in expressing how disappointed I was in wasting my time with such mediocrity.  

First, the heroine, Kirby.  Unlikable and annoying. But she's young and cute, thus an object of attraction to the much older, jaded former crime reporter Dan (a composite of half-drawn cliches).  The attempt at chemistry between the two was cringe-inducing, mostly due to their clunky, hokey dialogue. Even the killer was not very well-drawn nor charismatic, and many chapters were devoted to his POV.  

So the plot.  The only thing the mysterious House demanded from the killer was an occasional tribute:  seek out and murder a young woman who had “the shine” – not the telepathic ability from the Stephen King novel, but a shining talent.  The House demanded that these bright stars  be snuffed out.  

Of course, Beukes never delved into the reason, which would be fine if this was a better written story.  In this case, it seemed more like a convenient omission.  In return, the House provided sanctuary for the killer and through its door, the ability to step into any year in the 20^th century (with certain limitations that I now forgot).

Despite the amount of research devoted to Depression-era Chicago, Beukes was not able to weave it seamlessly into her narrative.  I think the fact she’s from South Africa showed how she was an outsider looking in.  She was also incapabe of inhabiting her characters completely nor could she write invisibly.  As a result, I wasn't able to lose myself in the narrative like I could with Lisa Lutz’s The Passenger, for instance.  

Structurally, the novel jumped around in time and switched between the POVs of all the characters, including the victims.  It took SO long for the plot to move along, I ended up skimming over a lot of unnecessary exposition, which was supposed to contribute to mood, but failed in its attempt.  

Another frustrating factor was Dan being such a middle-aged fart.  He spent most of the bloody time not believing any of the clues Kirby had discovered until they broke into the House and saw all the supernatural shit - at the very end of the novel!  

Beukes had hit upon a cool sub-genre of supernatural crime thrillers, and because of her intriguing premises, I gave this a second go.  My first book of hers was Broken Monsters (2015) - it was also disappointing, but not as much as this one.   I found Broken Monsters to be the better book than The Shining Girls, her previous effort.  

At least I can now absolutely confirm that I do not like Beukes’ writing, and thus, this will be my last book of hers. Amen.

4. Broken Monsters

By Lauren Beukes  

Based on what I can remember a year later, something about a female detective in decaying Detroit trying to solve a series of bizarre murders where the killer fuses the bodies of street kids with animals. 

The narrative switches between POVs of characters, going into the mind of the killer as his mind gradually disintegrates...or becomes something else.  It's later revealed he’s a homeless schizo artist.  The detective also has a fraught relationship with her teenage daughter, who along with her friend attempts to lure a potential online predator.  There’s also a transplanted loser-journalist who’s trying to revive his career in Detroit after screwing up his life in NY.  He hooks up with a dreadlocked DJ in the underground arts scene and becomes a local youtube sensation making ‘ruin porn’. 

All the characters somehow converge at the end with a confrontation with the psycho-killer who was able to transcend into some supernatural dimension using his demented art as a kind of portal.  Sounds like it was a crazy ride, right?   Mmm, no.

I first heard that Beukes’ niche was supernatural crime noir, which intrigued me.  I couldn’t find Shining Girls at Dark Carnival so got this instead.  So I really wanted to like Broken Monsters but several things prevented me from enjoying it.  I did not like any of the characters and the dialogue was often hackneyed and awkward.  There were some interesting descriptions of Detroit, which provided a cool backdrop of urban decay, but knowing that Beukes hails from South Africa, it became evident that she was writing about America from an outsider’s perspective.  

Moreover, there was something off about the writing style, which was workmanlike but lacked a narrative flow and a sense of lyricism that was needed in portraying lost or hidden worlds within a decaying metropolis.  As a writer, Beukes was just not able to pull it off. 

4. Deep Water

By Patricia Highsmith

This was the most unpleasant Highsmith novel I’ve read so far, mostly due to its cold portrayal of a disintegrated marriage, and the author’s razor-sharp misanthropic gaze is unflinching as ever. Vic and Melinda Van Allen’s marriage isn’t just loveless, it is also utterly dysfunctional and destructive. Think Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, but instead of Richard Burton as a raging alcoholic, the husband is a burgeoning sociopath hiding beneath a quiet, civilized façade.

Deep Water was one of Highsmith’s early novels. Published in 1957, it seemed ahead of its time in its depiction of a highly unconventional marriage arrangement. Rather than having a divorce (and perhaps admitting defeat), Vic allows his wife Melinda to see other men. But this is complicated by the fact that the couple lives in the suburban town of Little Wesley, so Vic bears the social implications of the cuckolded husband with his sexually loose wife.

The fact that Melinda had been carrying on like this for more than three years gave Vic the reputation in Little Wesley of having a saintlike patience and forbearance, which in turn flattered Vic’s ego. Vic knew that Horace and Phil Cowan and everybody else who knew the situation—which was nearly everybody—considered him odd for enduring it, but Vic didn’t mind at all being considered odd. In fact, he was proud of it in a country in which most people aimed at being exactly like everybody else. 

But matters are also complicated by the fact that Vic and Melinda, each nonconformist in their own right, are so different from one another.  Where Vic - despite his lack of emotion towards his wife - cares deeply for his daughter, Melinda seems downright indifferent towards her own flesh and blood.  Where Vic is educated and literate, Melinda is vulgar and has terrible taste in men.

He wouldn’t object to her having a man of some stature and self-respect, a man with some ideas in his head, as a lover, Vic thought. But he was afraid Melinda would never choose that kind or that that kind would never choose her. Vic could visualize a kind of charitable, fair-minded, civilized arrangement in which all three of them might be happy ad benefit from contact with one another. Dostoyevsky had known what he meant. Goethe might have understood, too. 

The problem is that Melinda keeps picking the wrong sort of man who rubs Vic the wrong way. And Vic keeps thwarting Melinda, even falsely admitting he murdered McRae, one of Melinda’s former lovers, to frighten off one of her current paramours. Melinda gets frustrated and becomes increasingly vindictive towards Vic by making him look increasingly foolish and emasculated in front their small circle of friends.  Soon, she begins seeing a common bar pianist:

… And the thought of Melinda dragging Charley to parties at the Cowans’ and the Mellers’—she hadn’t done it yet, but it was coming, he knew—the shame of endorsing socially a guttersnipe like Charley De Lisle seemed more than he could bear. And everybody would know that Melinda had picked up the first man she could find after the McRae story had exploded. Everybody would know now that he was disgusted and helpless to combat it, however indifferent he pretended to be, because obviously he had made an effort to hold off Melinda’s lovers by telling the story about McRae. 

As with the way of most Highsmith novels, a murder soon occurs. And like many of Highsmith’s novels, you always feel some measure of empathy towards the murderer. Part of it is because the murderer is so rational in his justification of murder, he really does comes across as superior to those around him, but mostly it’s because Highsmith put a lot of herself in the character of Victor Van Allen. Like Vic, the author took pride in her misanthropy and nonconformity. Murder, in Highsmith’s thinking, was probably the ultimate act of nonconformity.

Another interesting detail was that both author and character kept snails as pets. In any case, though I found it an interesting read, I was also relieved to finish the book -- it was so dark and unpleasant. But for Highsmith fans, I think Deep Water gives you a gleam of insight into the author’s personality via Vic’s internal thoughts. From what little I know of Highsmith’s bio, she was a difficult person to like and get along with. If you don’t think you’ll ever read this book, I’ll include the last bit of the ending, which is both telling and chilling:

Vic kept looking at Wilson’s wagging jaw and thinking of the multitude of people like him on the earth, perhaps half the people on earth were of his type, or potentially his type, and thinking it was not bad at all to be leaving them. The ugly birds without wings. The mediocre who perpetuated mediocrity, who really fought and died for it. He smiled at Wilson’s grim, resentful, the-world-owes-me-a-living face, which was the reflection of the small, dull mind behind it, and Vic cursed it and all it stood for. Silently, and with a smile, and with all that was left of him, he cursed it.

 For once, I read an online book review after writing my own, and was delighted to find a similar interpretation in this particular review from The Independent.

26. My Friend Dahmer

By Derf Backderf

I don’t think I had ended up posting about having read the Green River Killer: A True Detective Story by Jeff Jensen, which I read last year (I think). Both GRK and My Friend Dahmer were loans courtesy of DS. Not counting From Hell, this is the second graphic novel I’ve read about modern day serial killers.

Obviously, comics about notorious serial killers have to tread carefully with utmost sensitivity for such a gruesome subject. It helps to have a personal connection, like how Jensen’s father was one of the lead detectives investigating the Green River Killer case that lead to the (very) eventual capture of Gary Ridgway, and how Backderf was a high school classmate and one-time “friend” of Jeffrey Dahmer. It also helps that both these comics were well-researched, well-written and nicely illustrated – gripping without being too sensational, and thoughtful without being too indulgently maudlin.

Both comics make a point of exploring how Ridgway and Dahmer tried to stop or control their dark compulsions. Ridgway would put rocks inside his victims bodies so he would not be compelled to go back to their corpses. Dahmer became a hardcore alcoholic by the time he graduated from high school in a desperate effort to dull his increasingly powerful urges. This is not to excuse their crimes but more to provide some modicum of humanity as Ridgway and Dahmer struggle vainly to battle their own monsters.

 Like most people, I’m mildly fascinated about serial killers. It’s not just about the horrific crimes they committed, but because I’m so freaking normal, I can’t help but wonder how they got that way. My Friend Dahmer makes a notable attempt to understand how a sad and lonely teenager who grew up in a bucolic 1970’s suburb became one of the most infamous serial killers in history. And frankly, Backderf’s graphic novel satisfied this morbid fascination of mine.

25. Beast In View

By Margaret Millar

I was following a yoga video while Olman was bathing the baby when all of a sudden there was a loud boom and then everything was plunged into darkness.

My eyes were immediately drawn outside the window where just across the street a bright shower of sparks rained down from above like fireworks. Oil splattered on our poor neighbour’s black Audi. Turns out that the transformer across our building blew up. Perfect timing too, since this was the first cold night of winter (I think it was supposed to drop down to -15 C)!

The reason why I mention this event was because I finished reading Beast In View by candlelight. It turned out to be a cozy evening where we went out for dinner (shared a steak at Burger De Ville) and came home to read since there’s not much you can do sans electricité. Beast In View was a great read, even though I probably did not love it as much as Olman did.

It was Olman who happened to borrow this book for me when he was at La Bibliotheque Nationale. Since I’m a newish parent, I’ll let Olman’s review speak for me as well. But in a nutshell, the book starts off with a very intriguing mystery:  wealthy spinster, Helen Clarvoe, receives a prank call one day that impels her to hire an investigator. The story then evolves into a twisted tale full about a deeply dysfunctional family and the psychological (and homicidal!) ramifications that can bring.

… Then Miss Clarvoe stretched out her hand and Blackshear took it. 
    Her skin was cool and dry and stiff like parchment, and there was no pressure of friendliness, or even of interest, in her clasp. She shook hands because she’d been brought up to shake hands as a gesture of politeness. Blackshear felt that she disliked the personal contact. Skin on skin offended her; she was a private person. The private I, Blackshear thought, always looking through a single keyhole.

16. Red Harvest

By Dashiell Hammett

 “I’ll give you nothing except a good job of city-cleaning. That’s what you bargained for, and that’s what you’re going to get.”

If only we had The Continental Op to clean up the corruption that’s been going down in Montreal!

A “fat, middle-aged, hard-boiled, pig-headed” operative from the Continental Detective Agency is hired by a local industrialist to root out widespread corruption in Personville, a town so overrun with criminals and gangs that it’s better known as “Poisonville” to the locals. In no time, our unnamed protagonist, like a chess master, is able to play the various factions against one another, but as the bodies start piling up, he realizes this is becoming more than a job... he’s enjoying this way more than he’d like to admit.

This was only the second Dashiell Hammett book I’ve ever read, and lemme tell ya, this was quite different from The Thin Man, which was a gift from hubs several years back. The Thin Man was quite light and humourous, mostly due to the witty banter from Nick and Nora Charles as they cheerfully imbibe and solve murders. Red Harvest has its fill of witty banter all right, as well as imbibing, but it’s much darker and grittier. After reading a few chapters, I was a little surprised to learn that it was published in 1929, as some of the gritty subject matter seemed like it belonged in the 1940’s, during the height of film noir.

I also learned from Olman that Red Harvest was an extremely influential book, particularly for filmmakers over the years. The novel itself is a fairly straightforward crime thriller, but everything – the setup, the characters, the setting, the dialogue, the structure – is expertly crafted. And Hammett has such an awesome way with words. He says enough in a couple of sentences what a writer would struggle to say in multiple paragraphs.

     She grabbed my shoulders and tried to shake my hundred and ninety pounds. She was almost strong enough to do it. 
     “God damn you!” Her breath was hot in my face. Her face was white as her teeth. Rouge stood out sharply like red labels pasted on her mouth and cheeks. “If you’ve framed him and made me frame him, you’ve got to kill him—now.” 
     I don’t like being manhandled, even by young women who look like something out of mythology when they’re steamed up. I took her hands off my shoulder, and said: 
      “Stop bellyaching. You’re still alive.”

Book 39 – The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest

By Stieg Larsson

Well-- it’s been over year since I became The Girl Who Kicked Herself For Not Getting The Cheap Hardcover at Chainon.

Last we left off with the exciting conclusion of The Girl Who Played With Fire, Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head by her estranged Pa, her semi-conscious body airlifted to the nearest hospital. Even though you know our heroine is going to pull through somehow, it was still one hell of a cliffhanger to nurse for a year and three months. When hubs got me an iPad last Xmas, I was tempted to get the e-book, but thought the $11 price tag was a little steep. Now that it’s finally released in paperback (for $8! so Why-TF was the e-version more expensive?), I promptly ordered a copy.

Lemme tell ya, it was well worth the wait, despite the fact that this 563–page action-packed tome kept me up multiple nights in a row.  To quote that silly line from the new Cronenberg movie: “It excited me!”

Unlike the majority of trilogies or series where each sequel is like a watered-down and/or inferior version of the original (take The Dark Materials trilogy, for instance), each installment of the Millenium trilogy was better than the last. I liked The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo all right, but The Girl Who Played With Fire took it to the next level, focusing on the character development of the fascinating Lisbeth Salander, as well as allowing her to kick even more ass (physical and cyber-spatial) than before.

The second book also introduced a whole web of new characters and how they were all inter-related to one another. Of course, the common denominator was The Girl herself, but there were new writers working for Millenium, various police inspectors, government officials, secret police agents, biker gang members, old friends of Lisbeth, as well as not-so-friendly people from her tragic past.

The third book has many of the same characters, and then some. It’s like a crazy Swedish version of The Wire, except we have a young woman entangled in some secret government conspiracy to have her locked away in an institution for life. And all because her father happens to be a badass Russian defector and ex-spy who keeps getting into trouble with the authorities because he's an underworld gangster as well as a wife-beater!

Despite the fact that Salander is not able to kick as much ass as she did in the previous book (due to her recovering from a bullet hole in the head (--oops I gave it away, oh well!), Salander’s motley crue of unlikely allies (a few who have friends in strategic places) rise to the occasion to help her out of this conspiracy mess, and Lisbeth also turns to her comrades at the exclusive Hacker Republic for help. The plot of TGWKTHN has been criticized for being preposterous, which is ridiculous. I mean, the Millenium trilogy from the get-go has been about as realistic as, say, the Bourne books. This is escapist fiction, for chrissakes, and other than the not so subtle theme of Men Hating Women, these books aren’t pretending to be anything more. If you want to read a more realistic story, then go read some Margaret Atwood or something.

More importantly, despite the phenomenal number of subplots and characters, Larsson managed to tie everything together into something that was competently cohesive. There was a whole other seemingly unrelated subplot where Erika Berger quit Millenium to work as editor-in-chief for the major newspaper, SMP, and within the first two weeks of her new job, conventiently acquired a stalker. That storyline could have been cut out, but at the same time, it felt like it fit into the narrative, logistically and thematically. It could’ve been a structural mess in the hands of a less disciplined writer. As an experienced journalist, Larsson also did a great job writing about the bustling newsroom of a major daily, the inner workings of Swedish governmental politics or a general overview of constitutional laws. The complicated plot allowed Larsson to touch on various aspects of Swedish society, from the high-ranking offices of CEOs and government officials to some shabby apartment of a lowly drug dealer.

Even if you think the story was rather preposterous, Larsson grounded his universe in such a confident, straightforward maner that you won’t immediately realize how much info you’ve been absorbing at once… that is, until you’re having a fitful night of sleep as the various elements from the novel float about inside your head! Even after more than a year between the 2nd and 3rd books, I was able to remember many of the plot points and characters. I think, after reading the Millenium books, everyone becomes a little like Lisbeth Salander, with her photographic memory and careful observation of details. And the finale was awesome. There were no loose strings I could find.

Immediately after finishing The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, Olman and I watched the movie version, which was rather hurried, omitting tons of details and subplots. A few times Olman went “huh?” after the movie skipped or altered something from the book. Since he hasn’t read the Millenium books, I had to fill him in on some background info. So if you’re gonna watch the last movie, it might not make as much sense if you haven’t read the final book. It might have been worthwhile to split the book into two parts, like what they did with Twilight and Harry Potter. Let’s hope the American remake will do this!