In Cold Blood - the killing or the telling?

Written in 1966, In Cold Blood chronicles the murder of the Clutter family in Kansas in 1959 and the investigation and subsequent trial of the perpetrators. It is considered to be one of the first 'True Crime' novels and much of the book focuses on the killers, their lives, relationship and imprisonment.

In Cold Blood grabbed me and I zoomed through it. Not because I cared about the killers, or to be honest the tragic Clutters. The reader knows who committed the crime and that they got caught. As I read I wanted to try and comprehend the dynamic behind the killers, how they had come to the point at which they could commit such a horrible act and why? About half way though I actually stopped and thought about what was enthralling me in this book. Would the story eventually sate a need to know every detail and see into the mind of a killer; to comprehend violence and criminality in some neat equation. Why didn't I care more about the family? Or the killers? In Cold Blood was a forerunner for the media speculation that fills nearly every violent case - the call for gory details.

In Cold Blood does an excellent job of witholding the gory details and maintaining interest. The book is beautifully written and I wish more 'true crime' writers would put such effort into their script. In Cold Blood is also an excellent drawing together of testimonies and stories that attempts to enlighten us about the complex relationship between the killers. When the psychologists are finally involved they recite some of the babble heard on today's cop shows and now considered common knowledge. At the time of the trial of course this is a new idea and isn't given much credence - it also doesn't seem quite accurate and I found myself desperate to hear a modern criminal psychologists opinion.

This is Kansas in the 60s and to a modern British reader the capital punishment at the end of the novel seems barbaric - far more to me than the gunning down of a family for no apparent motive - it seems the plethora of violent detective stories and TV has dulled me to that. The inclusion of simple descriptions of rural Kansas and the very real friends and neighbours the Clutters left behind don't pull the heartstrings as much as modern dramatic storytelling might - they are from a bygone era - one that at times seems too innocent and almost oppressive. The book marks the beginning of a change in America. The Clutter's neighbours started locking their doors and the many people who were enthralled by Capote's book, marked the beginning of public fascination with true crime, one that ended in CNN criminal psychologists, teenagers who can quote random facts about common serial killer traits and eventually an ingrained fear of wondering criminals who kill in cold blood. Capote's 'novel' is therefore a book I strongly recommend. There is an innocence and almost pioneering nature to it, one that only stands out when you notice the comparative lack of (modern) sensationalism, lurid photos and psych reports. When the author doesn't have a degree in criminality, the testimonies included seem more genuine and almost as if he is stumbling about trying to make sense of the situation in the same way as everybody else; he is uniquely sharing rather than lecturing on an academic case. And so he provides a true crime book without the usual bitter voyeuristic aftertaste.

The Woman in White - Or 'Marian Halcombe - star in hiding'

One night Walter Hartwright meets and helps a strange woman in white, this chance meeting leads to a melodrama of intrigues and investigation: The Woman in White has many of the traits of what would become the 'mystery novel' and is widely recognised as a classic.

Several things are bound to annoy me in the average Victorian novel. You can probably guess them; casual racism, anti-semitism and the eternal misogyny. The Woman in White is short on the racism (although the Italians are a somewhat stereotyped) but it's the portrayal of women is an eye opener. I was unsurprised when the genial Walter Hartwright met the mad Woman in White on a dark lane and acted as a gentleman should, with typical Victorian patrony towards the weaker sex. But I was strangely delighted when several pages later, Marian Halcombe was seductively introduced - for the next chapter Marian continued to delight me with her competence, sensibility, resilience, charm and intelligence. Then Laura Fairlie, Marian's sister was introduced. I was instantly aware this was the heroine, she was so perfect, so winsome, so willowy, so utterly and completely without personality, talent or ability (other than loving everyone just too much) What else could she be? And so it proved.

Laura is such a pathetic Victorian Idyll of womanhood it's painful - she is an asexual useless child, incapable of looking after herself. In fact her childishness is disturbing and perplexing to the modern reader. Whilst Marian Hartwright is just awesome.When faced with an angry husband the drip (Laura) faints, sobs and becomes ill. Meanwhile Marian clambers about on a veranda at midnight, wearing her underwear in torrential rain attempting to overhear two men who can destroy her entire life and everyone she loves in a few words. Marian - what a (Victorian) woman! And that (Victorian) is necessary, for she isn't a modern woman, quite frankly if she had acted a little less properly at several points in the book she would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

The characters are a strange mix. The romantic protagonists Walter and Laura are really quite bland but everyone else is wonderfully sketched; especially Fosco, Mr Fairlie and Mrs Catherick. The duel of wits between foreigner Fosco and the woman Marian is far more distracting than the cold war between British Gentlemen Glyde and Hartwright. Irratatingly plot points and assumptions are repeated often and discussed too much, I assumed this related to the book being originally published in sections, but perhaps a Victorian audience was less used to picking up on the little details and intentions than modern thriller readers and needed to be pummelled with the importance of every discovery. The scenes are well set and atmospheric and thankfully pages are not set aside for describing how pretty the countryside is. The Woman in White is action packed, exciting and maintained my interest. If you can get your head around the women's real dilemma (No they can't just hit people with the poker, steal the carriage and get divorced) and care for that ridiculous waif Laura and her suitor it carries even more tension.

The Moonstone is the first proper detective novel and The Woman in White is it's forerunner. But most importantly The Woman in White contains Marian. Glorious strong Marian. Possibly the first Victorian heroine I have ever appreciated*. Marian - I love you! If your creator wasn't dead I'd be demanding you get a sequel.

*Jane Eyre is pretty good but putting out flaming beds only looks impressive if you know that every other woman in the building would've fainted. Marian has Laura to continually make her look good

Bitten again

I'm a Kelley Armstrong fan. Her supernatural books are my easy reading of choice; fast, funny and reasonably exciting. Plus they don't smack of desperate chaste teenage lust like some supernatural books out there. I picked up Frostbitten at an author signing in Manchester. The first I've ever attended. I was mostly facinated by the staff telling me how impressed they were with Kelley's down-to-earth nature. What are these authors normally like? Does Harlan Coben insist on only red smarties?

Frostbitten is a return to Kelley's first (and probably best) protagonist, the werewolf Elena. It's also a return to form, after the 'meh' of Broken. Elena and her wolf pack are doing what they do best; violently dealing with non-pack wolves. I think the improvement is due to the absence of the other supernatural species (witches, necromancers and half-demons) who have filled previous books. The story is purer and wilder without their cosmopolitan influence. Naturally Elena has some emotional turmoil to deal with as well as homicidal mutts, but Elena wouldn't be half as appealling without her issues. Blonde, beautiful, strong, clever, married to the werewolf version of brad Pitt, getting endless amounts of athletic sex, financially secure and blessed with beautiful children with live in baby sitting, she should be very easy to hate. Instead her worries and mistakes make her more accesible.

The book is like a ticklist of fan wishes. The introduction of new werewolves are sketched vaguely enough to wet fan's appetites, Nick finally has something to do other than look suave and Elena is back to silently muttering to herself about not being treated as a threat - but as a lust object (kind of hard when she is the only female of the species). Frostbitten is one of Kelley's best and her style really shines when she writes as Elena. I just wish that half the silly Twilight addled teenagers out there would stop dreaming of being useless Bella and start dreaming of growing their own claws and saving themselves like Elena.

Forgettably nameless

A Nameless Witch by A.Lee Martinez
After the horror of trawling through 600 pages of pretentious Norwegian post-modernism I was delighted to read this book that the ringbearer bought for me at Powell's City of Books. In short a witch with the terrible curse of being beautiful and ageless goes on a quest with her broom, a white knight and her familiar a duck named Newt. The part where I wrote 'a duck named Newt' should give you a hint as to where this book is pitched. Firmly into the fantasy comedy genre that Terry Pratchett presides over.

Its an easy read that rolls nicely along. The world building isn't oppressive and nor thankfully is the humour. (There are just too many Pratchett wannabes out there who feel that every sentence should be crammed with cleverness and include a witty comment). This book however has little original to add to the comedy fantasy genre. The situation isn't unique, nor is the author's voice or the characters (although Newt is fun). The author doesn't take the opportunity to add any depth to the gentle mockery he applies to the fantasy genre and it leaves the book toothless. The plot is very basic and only just holds the book together. However the book has some nice touches that made me smile, like Penelope the broom sweeping the road and the heroines efforts to be 'witchly'.

To be honest I'd recommend this to an adolescent, who needs something easy and enjoyable to ease them into reading. Or alternately someone who is suffering from Wergeland exhaustion. A nameless witch isn't unique, but it's fun and (very) easy on the brain.

Not very seduced

The Seducer by Jan Kjaerstad (English translation)

I ordered this book many months ago in order to take some Norwegian literature with me on a cruise in the Arctic. Sadly the book arrived late and I have been struggling my way through it for nearly 6 months. Essentially the plot is thus: Norwegian TV documentary producer Jonas Wergeland comes home to find his wife murdered. As he responds to this event we hear about the many disjointed events from his past. Circling around, the plot is non-linear; each chapter covers a different stage in Jonas' life and they gently reflect on each other. It's a nice motif and would be fantastic if it didn't last 600 pages.

And Kjaerstad needs 600 pages to even touch on Wergeland's life and his accomplishments. Of Jonas's many achievements he invents the Fosbury flop before Fosbury, he creates peace in the Middle East by moving a small stone, he saves an African country from a school debating podium and scares off a polar bear with his penis. I'm not joking about the last one. Jonas was so unrelentingly marvellous that it set my teeth. To add insult to injury Kjaerstad hammered home just how brilliant Jonas was, how unique and completely at odds with Norwegian conservatism with a frequency usually reserved for 13 year old's writing fanfiction that includes themselves. Jonas Wergeland never has to try to seduce any woman; they just throw themselves at him (they all go on top too). In fact by sleeping with these all incredibly talented women (politicians, lobbyists, composers, artists) Jonas, by some freaky sex-talent-hoover picks up some of their talents, such as fishing or mathematical comprehension. Jonas you see has a 'magic penis', I won't go into the details- something to do with the angle apparently but it's in line with a family fascination , his Aunt Laura's main artistic outlet is keeping a diary of sketches of all the penises she has 'encountered'. The worst that can be said of Jonas is that he isn't well read - managing to get straight As and hoodwink the entire Norwegian educational establishment, politicians, artists and leaders with just 20 quotes written in a little red book. But that's it. The book isn't meant to be a satire on how the untalented can become great ( like Forrest Gump), Jonas is just as fantastic as he seems and he gets everything that he deserves.

Pretentious doesn't quite cover the nature of 'The Seducer'. I'm fine with an intense barrage of references to scientists, quantum mechanics, Shakespeare and even Norwegian writers such as Hamsun and Ibsen. But there was plenty in the deluge I didn't recognise, I only got through several pages of a student baiting a teacher, which was already boring me (I get, he's clever and arrogant) by asking my brother in law what dialectic materialism was. I would like to assume all this is just to remind the reader how unworldly and untravelled they are compared to the Sydney Opera House Organ playing, Communist China visiting, Cruise ship collision surviving Jonas Wergeland. But no, I fear the author is just too enamoured with his talent to trim it. Jonas is made famous (not for all the other incredible feats) but for his famous documentary series, which is is just so orgasmic that people watch it like Brits would watch the royal wedding. It isn't hard to spot that Wergeland's incredible, life affirming (yes really, 'life affirming') documentaries are meant to mimic the book itself. But true to form Kjaerstad felt the need to defend them (and by very obvious extension) himself by filling the final chapters of the book with a televised debate about them.

I enjoyed learning about Norway and it's recent past and the change in small communities as Norwegian oil money flowed in. I also enjoyed hearing about how Norwegians began to alter their world outlook and their role in Europe. The book made me feel that I genuinely had a better picture of Norway and it's interests (even abroad Jonas finds connections to Norway). The Norwegian interest in winter sports, schools, languages and the sea really rang true for me and I wish I had read the book lying on the sun deck on last year's Arctic cruise. But that is why the book is perfect for a very long holiday with a lot of spare time, because the book drags under the weight of it's pretensions and masturbatory enamour with it's protagonist.

Historic toilets

Apologies for the absence, yet again my Christmas period was complicated with relatives going into hospital. Never fear though the mighty gingerbread project is not forgotten! It'll just have to be a pre-wedding-anniversary gingerbread extravaganza.

But onto important matters. Loos. The John Ryland library loos to be precise, which are AWESOME. Victorian in extremis. It's like walking into the past for a wee. Clearly other people feel the same sense of awe at the loos and there are signs up reminding them not to take photographs. However here is one from the Manchesterzedder's blog.

Of course the John Ryland Library is worth a vist anyday of the week. It is stunning and when I rule the world I shall live in it, happily polishing all the wood pannelling, reading books on cunning lecturns and naming all the gargoyles. Everything is beautiful in the church-like library building, built by the possibly gold-digging 3rd Mrs Ryland (She was a lot younger than her millionaire husband). Gold digging or not she was pretty smart insisting that her books be stored under electric lighting instead of gas whilst also being very picky about the doors and railings. In honour of the beauty of this place the modern extension is even tasteful. All libraries should look like this. All books should be stored like this. All loos should make you want to take a photograph.

Madame de Pompadour - Nancy Mitford spreads the aristocratic love

Madame de Pompadour is one of the most fascinating women in French history. A King's mistress with massive influence, which she maintained even after the physical element of her duties subsided. A woman of charm, beauty, artistic appreciation, imagination and intellect. A jumped up commoner, she was (like marmite) both hated and loved. An excellent introduction can be found here. I find I can despise Madame de Pompadour for spending the starving peasants' money on nothing, making important political decisions based on how charming a noble was but also appreciate the incredible longevity and influence in the snakepit of Versailles of a commoner. Therefore as far as I'm concerned anything about the Pompadour and her position is fascinating, and I cheerfully picked up Nancy Mitford's biography of her. Nancy's Mitford's biography is quite biased (although she does admit some of Madame de Pompadour's faults) and makes for a sympathetic read. I almost felt sorry for Madame Etoiles as she made her first haphazard forays in to the French court (It took her several months to learn how to walk, talk and curtsy - and this was a woman considered to be at the apex of Paris society) The biography is gossipy and touches on enough of the greater political and social economic issues of the day to appreciate the importance of Madame de Pompadour's actions, although it barely glances at her legacy (if any).

I found Mitford utterly condescending in insisting on quoting people and maxims of the time in French. Occasionally she translates but mostly expects her reader to follow the archaic French and in doing so she often completely undermines her points. I know that a hundred years ago or earlier every educated person spoke a second language but this is really unacceptable for a book written in the 50s designed for a wide and not purely academic audience. I was left wondering whether the author had assumed French speaking or a certain level of education/class were a pre-requisite for an interest for reading historical biographies about the French or if she was just lazy. Nancy Mitford's well known tendencies towards self aware snobbery would imply the former. She also brazenly assumes her audience are British frequently referring to the French equivalent of 'Our' Knighthoods or 'Our' House of Lords.

Mitford's plummy upper class style is apparent throughout the book, to begin with I was annoyed at her inability to avoid personal opinion and use colloquial phrases. She variously accuses historical figures of being 'a dear old bore', 'tiresome', 'dowdy' and 'simply delicious' . She describes the Queen's social abilities with the assertion that, 'Nothing is so frumpish as last year's gambling game', and 'we must beg leave to doubt' another noble's opinion of the Queen's personality. Her greatest adjective for a minister is his notable 'goodness'- whatever that might objectively be. However after a while, I found I quite enjoyed Mitford's tone and felt I was on a tour through an aristocrats world with an aristocrat. What she thought was important for posterity was probably not far off what her subject's peers thought.

I'm not sure Mitford's biography is the best that can be found to cover the fascinating subject of Madame de Pompadour nor the French court, but is certainly unique and if you can forgive the lack of translation and aristocratic tone an enjoyable read.

EDIT: Grammar, spelling, uselessness

If Chins Could Kill -how to inspire the would be B list

I recently finished If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B movie actor by Bruce Campbell. Hopefully Mr Campbell is known to most people as the King of the B movie (Especially the Evil Dead series) but is also a veteran of that other 'B' media: TV, in this case Xena and Hercules. The book chronicles his childhood and his erratic career, which has allowed him to cross paths with many well known names as well as be a first hand witness the elevation of colleague Sam Raimi to Hollywood 'A' director. However, as Mr Campbell is forever pointing out, his book is about the people not seen in front of the screen or at premières. It seems a shame therefore that most of his anecdotes still revolve around the more famous names (with the exception of his Evil Dead comrades). That isn't to say he panders to the Hollywood elite in any fashion. His book is both funny, insightful and quite inspired me to keep making amateur films. His tone cheerfully allows him to acknowledge his critics and his failures with both humour and honesty and it endears him to the reader. Bruce may be many things, but a writer he is not. I found the memoirs rambled around with space dedicated to not always relevant moments, anecdotes and opinions. I also found several sections quite flat, if not repetitive. The addition of photos, diagrams and lists hid quite a few of these faults and allowed the book to maintain it's cheery, non-snobbish outlook.

I enjoyed chins. It made me laugh and as the very kind person who gifted it to me hoped, it inspired me. As even Bruce would put it, 'If these idiots, can make a film and sell it, why can't I?[1]'. So, if you like films, read this book. Don't expect a literary masterpiece but rather a scrapbook of humorous anecdotes and nuggets of knowledge about the antics of Hollywood's middle-class and you won't be disappointed.

[1] Who needs 'Man with the screaming brain'? 'Woman plagued by teleporting gummi bears!' - a Chemie production!