BOOKS
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 Michael Mann’s Heat remains one of the best films of the 90s - a sprawling, operatic cops & robbers epic, virtually without peer, that captures the almost symbiotic duality between the police and the criminals they chase. The climax, played out between Al Pacino’s hardwired LAPD detective Vincent Hanna and Robert De Niro’s ice-veined professional thief Neil McCauley, had a blunt force emotional impact; it was one of the most satisfying denouements of the decade, a cinematic mic drop. What more possibly needed to be said?
Nonetheless, Mann - feeling nostalgic, perhaps, or simply unable to shake these characters - elected to revisit his magnum opus with this prequel/sequel hybrid he constructed with the help of Edgar-winning novelist Meg Gardiner. The book picks up in the immediate aftermath of the film, as a desperate and grievously wounded Chris Shiherlis (played by Val Kilmer on-screen) - the only member of McCauley’s crew still drawing breath - seeks to escape Los Angeles as Hanna closes the net. This opening prologue pulses with a particular level of narrative electricity; it’s almost like an extended cut, a cache of post-credit deleted scenes. From there we shift back to the late-80s, which finds both Hanna and McCauley working out of Chicago. Hanna is investigating a string of particularly brutal home invasions (perpetuated by one Otis Lloyd Wardell - one of the most staggeringly repellent antagonists in recent memory, and a character who shares more than a little DNA with original scumbag Waingro), while McCauley is alerted to the potential of a once-in-a-lifetime score - assuming his crew has the cajones and nerves of steel to blindside the cartel near the Mexican border. In present day 1996, Chris resurfaces in Paraguay, working security for a Taiwanese crime family… but as he takes on greater responsibilities within the organization, he must grapple with the question of whether he’s willing to sever ties with wife Charlene and son Dominick forever. Finally, in the year 2000, events come full-circle as Hanna and Chris’s orbits collide once more on the urban battleground of LA, as past, present and future merge into one. Regardless of how collaborative responsibilities were divided, what’s clear is that the novel does a fantastic job of translating Mann’s visual poetry onto the page - the prose is terse yet muscular, laser-focused, propulsive… the language high-tensile tempered. It’s impossible to read Hanna’s lines without picturing Pacino’s edgy, gum-chomping attitude. The attention to technical detail is impressive (Mann has always been fixated on the process of how things are done, the practical nuts and bolts - the literal tools and technique of safecracking, or robbing a bank beyond pulling on a ski mask, for instance). The action sequences unfold like blueprints for large-scale cinematic set pieces. You can almost envision Mann’s on-screen choreography (ideally accentuated by a Brian Eno score). Did Heat really warrant this sort of expansive universe? Debatable. Hanna was an open book in the film - a nocturnal predator-lawman, driven by the addictive endorphin rush of the job (as his soon-to-be-ex-wife Justine notes “You sift through the detritus, you read the terrain, you search for signs of passing, for the scent of your prey…. and then you hunt them down. That’s the only thing you’re committed to”). There’s nothing further to be gleaned about him. The same could be said for McCauley, though the events of 1988 do at least explain the origins of his iconic “Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you spot the heat around the corner” ethos. Chris, on the other hand, was more inscrutable in the film… and he’s really the driving force of the novel. From his initial courtship of Charlene in Vegas to his time spent in Paraguay - in which he emerges from the fog of his post-film system shock (the effects psychological as much as physical) to reconnect his razor-edged synapses one-by-one - he comes into far sharper focus as a character. He has the deepest, most fully realized arc. It’s just a shame Val Kilmer won’t be able to build on his initial portrayal - he’d almost certainly slay the role. Heat 2 does have some fun flourishes in terms of fan service (not surprisingly, Justine wants nothing to do with Hanna’s ass, but we learn that he’s still very much in contact with his former stepdaughter Lauren, played by Natalie Portman in the film). It also has a pretty remarkable swath of narrative coincidences and contrivances that accumulate over its twelve-year span. But that’s okay - just go along for the ride, you’ll enjoy yourself more. Mann has seen his directing career sputter somewhat in recent years (he brought little of his signature touch to the Tokyo Vice pilot, while his only feature between 2010 and 2020 was the critically panned techno-thriller Blackhat)… though hopes are high for his upcoming release Ferrari, which could pave the way for this project realizing cinematic form. The novel already feels like a detailed roadmap. All we need is for Mann to pull the trigger.
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 Ernest Cline’s 2011 novel Ready Player One was, at heart, a high-concept, carbonated and artificially sweetened sci-fi/fantasy romp fizzing over with sudsy, geek-pop enthusiasm… which, for whatever reason, inspired an increasingly razor-edged, laced-with-lemon-juice backlash. The rancor wasn’t entirely surprising. After all, the book, in many ways, encapsulated everything people loathe about the modern pop cultural discourse - the soulless worship of nostalgia purely for nostalgia’s sake (a criticism, for the record, that’s also frequently directed towards Funko Pop figures - not that I agree), the discomforting weaponization of fandom and its malignant undercurrents of gatekeeping (with gamers these days basically waging holy wars over their plastic console of choice), the parroted regurgitation of quotes and references in lieu of actual critical engagement. As Slate’s Laura Hudson wrote, in regards to Cline’s work, “Do we want to tell stories that make sense of the things we used to love, that help us remember the reasons we were so drawn to them, and create new works that inspire that level of devotion? Or do we simply want to hear the litany of our childhood repeated back to us like an endless lullaby for the rest of our lives?” (or - put more succinctly - refer to the Member Berries on South Park (“Member Dagobah? That’s where Yoda lives! Member Yoda?”))
Like a video game that’s had a multiplayer component grafted in extraneously, Cline’s follow-up effort Ready Player Two feels overly calculated while straining to justify its own cynical reality. The novel, after all, would seem to have no compelling need to exist, beyond the fact that its predecessor was adapted into a Steven Spielberg blockbuster… and franchise opportunities in this IP-dominated age are meant to be seized rather than spurned (likewise, one can’t shake the notion that the lukewarm reception for Cline’s prior book, Armada (a fairly straightforward cross between Ender’s Game and The Last Starfighter), made it that much easier to retreat to the comfortable embrace of his original moneymaker). Not to be blunt, but this might just be the most market-driven sequel since Michael Crichton crapped out The Lost World for the sole purpose of being turned into summer cineplex fodder. Just to recap - Ready Player One took place in a polluted and overcrowded Earth of 2044, where the majority of the populace seeks refuge in the virtual utopia known as the OASIS - an immersive simulation in which you can indulge your wildest pop culture fantasies (such as jamming on-stage with Axl and Slash, reenacting The Lord of the Rings, or, in my case, heading to “Planet Bloodsport” to fight in the Kumite alongside Jean-Claude Van Damme). When James Halliday, the eccentric creator of the OASIS, leaves behind a posthumous treasure hunt to determine the heir to his incalculable fortune, teenage hacker Wade Watts manages to crack the first clue and embarks on a fantastical, nostalgia-slathered adventure alongside his friends in order to keep the ruthless telecommunications conglomerate IOI from assuming authority over the simulation and yukking everyone’s yum. The end result was undeniably silly - perhaps even jejune - and yet, however misguided the tenor of its pop cultural worship, the book still had a snappy bubblegum quality that kept you chewing jauntily from the first page to the last. It was - dare I say it - even quite fun. But for those who found a satisfying poignance in the book’s ending - in which Wade learns the value of disconnecting from the OASIS and embracing life in the real world with his girlfriend Samantha (aka Art3mis) - well… too bad. Ready Player Two is one of those aggravating sequels that basically pops the entire arc of the original into the microwave and hits “reheat.” We soon discover that Wade and Sam, in fact, barely lasted a week together… thanks to a fundamental disagreement over a fresh technological advancement called an ONI headset, which provides an unprecedented level of immersion within the OASIS (and enables users to upload memories for public consumption, not unlike the SQUID clips in Strange Days). Wade also finds himself tasked with an additional riddle-based quest - designed exclusively for Halliday’s heir and referred to as the “Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul” - that alludes to a cryptic prize at the end of the figurative rainbow. Up to this point, the novel manages a certain surface-level intrigue (if not a great deal of originality). But once the “big bad” reveals himself and seizes control of the OASIS, demanding that Wade and his friends collect all seven shards in just twelve hours, the story begins to falter. At first, the compressed timeframe promises a more propulsive narrative thrust… but the relentless plot churn of shard hunting soon grows tedious. Half a billion souls supposedly hang in the balance, but as the characters traipse about “Planet Shermer” on a John Hughes-themed quest (rubbing shoulders with characters from Weird Science and Pretty in Pink), the stakes couldn’t feel more frivolous. Likewise, a world dedicated entirely to the musical legacy of Prince (a point of expertise for Wade’s best friend Aech) devolves into a mechanical exercise in rote fan service (“First we need to obtain the raspberry beret… then we need the little red corvette… then we need the guitar from Purple Rain…”) - something the first novel was frequently accused of, but tended to handle in a savvier, more clever fashion. Not surprisingly, Wade’s relationship with Art3mis once again serves as the story’s emotional core… which is thorny territory, given how that particular aspect of Ready Player One evolved into a strange Rorschach test of sorts, which people were quick to imprint their own emotional baggage onto (cute, coming-of-age romance or toxic distillation of Gamergate? You decide). One of the book’s better additions is the character of L0hengrin… not so much the clumsy virtue signaling over her being trans, but rather the way in which she and her tight-knit gamer clan essentially function as the junior varsity version of Wade and his friends. But Cline never does figure out a way to integrate them organically, beyond L0hengrin helping Wade obtain the initial shard. There’s no “old school” and “new school” working hand-in-hand to save the day - it’s a wasted opportunity. But then by the final third, you can almost feel Cline’s enthusiasm draining from the pages as he tries to barrel towards his conclusion, posthaste… as if a needle drop of Stan Bush’s The Touch or John Parr’s Man in Motion will gloss over how hastily and crudely the climax is stapled together (the fate of original baddie Nolan Sorrento is so perfunctory, one wonders why Cline even bothered to incorporate him at all). The end result is indifference, more than anything. It’s not even “Game Over.” It’s just… plain over.  Coffee. Toast. Jeans. Sweater. Trainers. Car. I checked underneath for bombs.
The great irony with mystery novels is that, more often than not, the mystery itself is largely beside the point. It’s the circumstances surrounding the mystery that matter; setting and cultural context are frequently the determining factor between a passable narrative and a great one. Such is the case with The Cold Cold Ground, the first of Adrian McKinty’s series revolving around Detective Sean Duffy - a Catholic copper in the predominantly Protestant RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) in Northern Ireland circa 1981… a time when the country was still very much in the thorny thick of the Troubles. Amidst a backdrop of the Thatcher administration, nightly rioting and bombings throughout Belfast, and the IRA hunger strikes, Duffy believes he may have a serial killer on his hands… one with a complex methodology who appears to be targeting homosexuals. When the first victim - Tommy Little - turns out to have high-ranking IRA ties - and may or may not be connected to the recent suicide of the ex-wife of an IRA solider incarcerated in the infamous Maze Prison - Duffy has to tread carefully and unravel the case without igniting a political powder keg. There was a big plate of wobbly yellow iron placed over a large pothole at the top of Coronation Road. In any other country in the world you just would have driven over it, but here, time and again, coppers had been blown up by explosive devices such as these. You dug a hole in the road, you filled it with C4 and nails, you covered it with a plate of iron to make it look like it had been done by a road crew as a temporary fix. You blew it up by remote. There was a 99 per cent chance that this really was a temporary fix by a road crew, but I wasn’t going to drive over it. If this sounds like resolutely grim subject matter, it is… and it isn’t. McKinty has a firm grasp of the social and political fabric of this particular era of Irish history - it’s a fantastic setting for a mystery series, the Catholic and Protestant factions mingling about as easily as nitric acid and glycerin. The murder scenes are unflinchingly gruesome (severed appendages; rolled up sheet music for Italian operas inserted in the rectum), but McKinty’s serrated gallows humor beats back any creeping despair (Duffy, romancing pathologist Laura Cathcart, suggests they go to the cinema “before they all get blown up”). As a lead character, Duffy is charismatic, a highly capable sleuth (as a Catholic policeman, allies are few and far between), unafraid to ruffle a few feathers… and more than a bit of a trainwreck in his personal life (even by Irish standards, the amount of self-medicating he does via vodka gimlets is extreme). Of course, the other great irony with mystery novels is that most mystery writers aren’t actually that great at writing mysteries. They’re functional mystery writers - like McKinty, their real skills lie elsewhere - and The Cold Cold Ground isn’t a particularly accomplished mystery. It mixes real life fact with fiction (you might want to familiarize yourself with the British intelligence asset known as “Stakeknife”) in somewhat brazen fashion… but goes beyond the normal amount of misdirect smoke; in this case one almost chokes on it. There are minor narrative missteps, of the sort associated with a nascent series still finding its footing (a mild homosexual dalliance on Duffy’s part goes absolutely nowhere - and was probably one too many ingredients stewing in an already crowded pot to begin with). But what knits the book together are the specificities of this world - the violent codes of brotherhood and, really, just the violence itself (of all the evocative brutality McKinty captures on the page, the payoff to the paraffin heater Duffy lights nightly is particularly harrowing). McKinty has an interesting history. He was forced to step away from writing briefly because his books weren’t generating enough income… but at the urging of Don Winslow and Shane Salerno, he produced the high-concept thriller The Chain, which proved a breakout bestseller (Paramount optioned the film rights, with Edgar Wright currently attached to direct). However, he remains committed to the Sean Duffy series - his initial “Troubles Trilogy” has since expanded to six novels, with at least two (possibly three) more on the way. It certainly makes sense. Unlike those who leisurely solve crimes in sleepy English hamlets with inordinately high crime rates, an RUC detective’s work on the blood-and-shrapnel-soaked streets of 80s Belfast is truly never done. 11/16/2022 0 Comments Kraken - china MiEVILLE Kraken almost feels as if its author, China Miéville - as a literary experiment of sorts -deliberately cooked up the most outlandish premise he could think of, then simply took off with it at full-tilt. The creativity spews messily, as if from a busted spigot. It’s the sort of novel in which you can never have too many narrative plates spinning; there’s always - always - room for one more.
The story follows Billy Harrow, a curator and cephalopod specialist at London’s Natural History Museum, who’s left flummoxed when a prized Architeuthis dux (aka Giant Squid) specimen vanishes without a trace - tank and all. The theft proves to have apocalyptic repercussions as Billy “pierces the veil” and is immediately plunged into a supernatural underbelly of the city he had no inkling existed. Miéville is part of the so-called “New Weird” literary movement - a fluid subgenre that merges elements of fantasy, science-fiction and horror, that builds on the legacy of writers such as Lovecraft and combines it with the traits of speculative fiction, creating a slipstream of the fantastical within a real-world context. It certainly reflects Kraken’s vision of London as a macabre playground of magic and mystery… a realm of the familiar entwined with the strange and the unknown. Billy’s journey initially leads him to the Krakenists - members of the Congregation of God Kraken - a religious order that worships the Giant Squid as a literal God and whose faithful are more than a little perturbed over their purloined deity. But that’s just the start. He also crosses paths with the FSRC (the Fundamentalist and Sect-Related Crime Unit), a secret branch of the London police that regulates magical crime, as well as the Tattoo - a vicious crime lord, who, as his name suggests, is quite literally a living, breathing tattoo plastered onto the backside of some poor SOB he controls like his own personal marionette (a long-dead rival, meanwhile, re-emerges dramatically, having somehow transformed himself into a sentient form of ink). Miéville doesn’t stop there. We meet the Londonmancers, special seers attuned to the city’s inner workings; the puckish yet terrifying demonic mercenary Goss and his off-putting child sidekick Subby; Wati, a phantasmagoric Egyptian entity (and labor union leader) who can only manifest himself in statues (and action figures) across the city; the Embassy of the Sea, which, as the name suggests, is a literal means of communicating with the ocean; and Gunfarmers, baddies who literally fire bullets that will give birth to baby firearms if left to fester and incubate in a person’s flesh. If this all sounds a tad overwhelming, well… it is, and it isn’t. Miéville writes in jagged shanks of prose, as if he can’t commit his words to the page fast enough. The novel has a restless, breakneck energy about it - like a pulpy form of Red Bull-fueled lit, fiercely determined that its momentum never slackens. At first, the effect is somewhat off-putting - the story compels, but its authorial hand feels intrusive. But once you acclimate to the rhythm, it’s hard not to marvel at Miéville’s control of the material. The plate spinning grows more and more frenzied as the plot approaches a certain pinball machine-level of pop-ding fervor (by the time Billy acquires a working replica of a Star Trek phaser and starts battling Chaos Nazis with it, it feels like all bets are well and truly off)… and yet the story’s narrative trajectory somehow never falters. It builds to a climax that both blindsides, yet feels strangely and completely logical - as if events couldn’t have played out any other way. Of course, this approach means the plot consumes most of the narrative oxygen. Billy spends most of the book as a largely reactive protagonist (his gaping reaction to each fresh story turn mirroring the reader’s own)… but even as he comes to take the heroic initiative he remains a bit of an empty vessel (the sharpest impression is made by FSRC constable Kath Collingswood, who treats just about everything with the same brand of withering disdain - even the impending apocalypse). But Kraken’s hell for leather pacing and fertile world-building make it fruitless to dwell on such concerns. When push comes to shove, its warped funhouse version of London is the only character you really need. |
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