All posts by Lars Walker

Fiction, Reviews

‘Straight Shot,’ by Jack LIvely

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“You’re using yourself as bait, Keeler. Is that wise?”

“Probably better to think of me as a carnivorous plant with legs. If they’re wise, they’ll just give up now, immediately. At least they’ll have a chance of staying alive.”

I think the idea with Tom Keeler, hero of Jack Lively’s Straight Shot, is to emulate Lee Child’s Jack Reacher. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Tom is newly retired from US Air Force Search and Rescue. But he belonged to a special unit, one trained for weapons, tactics, and covert operations. He’s a very dangerous man. Right now he’s touring Europe. He stops off at the town of Alencourt, France, because his mother’s family came from there. Maybe he can scare up some relatives.

He’s hardly off the train before somebody tries to murder him. He handles that situation with aplomb, killing his assailant, and the police give him no trouble – in fact one of them, Officer Cecile Nazari, strikes some romantic sparks. When Tom learns that a local citizen who may be his cousin has been crippled by a similar attack, and that various murders are happening around town, he starts investigating. He finds clues relating to human smuggling and official corruption. So he makes up his mind to clean the town up.

What I liked best about Straight Shot was the writing. Jack Lively knows how to put a sentence and paragraph together. The final action seemed to me kind of predictable – the previously invulnerable hero suddenly becomes vulnerable, to increase dramatic tension. And female fighters are brought in for equal opportunity or something.

But all in all I thought Straight Shot a pretty good read. I might go on to the second book.

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For Memorial Day

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Color Guard of the 23rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment.

Look at these guys. How old do you think they are? They enlisted them pretty young in those days, and a lot of boys lied about their ages to get in. Now they’re Civil War soldiers, an occupation Bruce Catton described as “more dangerous than anything we know about today.” No small chance of getting shot, and the risk of dying of accident or disease was twice as high.

These are the images that make us pause. Which is good. These guys paid the price so we could have the freedom to call America a racist, Nazi hell hole today.

We ought to ponder these images.

But it’s wrong, I think, to stop there. That’s what I dislike about the Vietnam War memorial in Washington. No disrespect meant – I know it’s a profoundly meaningful place for many people. But it’s the first war memorial in America that ever just said – “Men died, and these are their names.” Nothing about the aspirations they fought for. Nothing about the cause.

That’s understandable, of course. By the time the monument was built, America had decided there was no cause.

That, I think, is the greatest dishonor.

Maybe –very likely – I know nothing. I never went to war – avoided the draft for Vietnam. But I don’t believe the Narrative we’ve seen in every war movie made since Vietnam (with a couple exceptions, like We Were Soldiers), that all soldiers fight unwillingly, and take drugs and commit atrocities to dull the pain. A lot of guys reenlisted for Vietnam. I choose to believe that a lot of them did it, at least in part, because they believed in the war. Believed they were fighting to prevent the horrors that did in fact come to pass, after America abandoned its South Vietnamese allies.

One of my college textbooks stated baldly that old men start wars so that the young men will be killed, and then those old men can take the young women.

Somebody actually thought that was worth putting in a book.

Young men don’t cling to life like old men do. Young men race fast cars, and climb sheer mountain walls, and blow stuff up while drinking, because they want to face death, to show it what they’ve got. War disillusions them quickly, I have no doubt. But those young men in that picture had something more than youth. They had pride. They were warriors.

I think we should remember that when we think of them. They were not mere victims.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Maine Events,’ by Rodney Riesel

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What a weird reading experience this one was.

Rodney Riesel’s novel The Maine Events begins with our hero, bestselling mystery writer Allen Crane, arriving in York Beach, Maine. Blocked in his creativity since the loss of his wife 3 years ago, he’s hoping a couple weeks at a motel by the beach will help him find his creativity again. With him comes his faithful mutt, Frankie.

On the first day, at a restaurant, he stumbles in on a couple guys fighting in the men’s room. He intervenes, and the bigger guy suddenly collapses with a mild heart attack. However, the next day the guy himself shows up at Allen’s room to assure him there’s no hard feelings.

In fact, everybody seems to be nice in York Beach. There’s the pretty waitress who goes out with Allen, the friendly family staying next door, the elderly couple from Oklahoma, and the gay guy who makes a pass at him (but whom Allen befriends anyway, just to show how openminded he is). For about half the book, nothing much really happens, though the character interactions are pleasant enough. Then a couple young boys disappear, and Allen starts putting clues together.

And at the end of a relatively implausible final action scene, the author comes in out of left field and turns the story in a whole different direction than it had been going up to then.

I did not like the ending. I do not recommend this book.

Also, the author has trouble with his characters. There’s a difference between giving your characters quirks and just throwing in weird behavior that makes no sense. That sin is committed now and then in this book. The writing isn’t actually bad – not great, but passable – but the author is capricious.

Poetry, Reviews

‘Beowulf: A New Translation and Commentary,’ by Andrew P. Boynton

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A lone Geatish widow   a death-wail
braided for Beowulf.   Bound hard, 
she sang sorrowfully   of how she in full 
dreaded the dark days   that soon would come, 
a flock of the slain,   the fear of the folk, 
thralldom and shame….

Andrew P. Boynton is a friend of mine on Facebook, so I may be prejudiced, but I was greatly impressed by his recently released Beowulf: A New Translation and Commentary.

Boynton, unlike some modern translators who’ve opted for rhymed verse or prose, has taken up the challenge of recreating Old English alliterative poetry (very similar to Norse). Lee Hollander took the same approach to Eddic poems. This is difficult to do in modern English, which lacks the flexibility of diction the old languages possess. One way to increase your options is to employ obscure words (something Hollander did too). However, these words are explained here in the copious notes. Tolkien fans (and Tolkien’s influence is a constant presence) will welcome the word “mathom,” though Boynton uses it to mean “treasure,” which is not quite how Tolkien used it.

I found Boynton’s Beowulf vigorous and enjoyable, though sometimes difficult to follow (the notes help). Seasoned fans of the poem will find it very satisfying. The Commentary seems to me (as an amateur) very good; the best modern scholarship is referenced, and Tolkien is there in abundance.

I will make this one recommendation – the paper version is probably better for most readers. I got the ebook, and this particular work is awkward to use in that format. It’s set up for facing pages – the translation on one side, the original Old English text on the other. That means the pages are tied to one another, so you can’t adjust typeface size as in an ordinary Kindle book. The print was quite small for me, so I had some trouble reading.

Otherwise, I recommend Beowulf: A New Translation and Commentary.

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Appreciation: ‘Atlantic Crossing’

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“Wistful” isn’t a word I use often (not in front of strangers, anyway), but I’m feeling a touch wistful now that “Atlantic Crossing” has finished its run on PBS Masterpiece. It’s the most famous thing I’ve ever had a hand in, so there’s a sense that my fifteen minutes are over now. Future generations of my family will say to their kids, “Yes, your great-grandfather and great-granduncle had a brother who never married. Weird guy. Religious. Grumpy all the time. Wrote some novels, and did some kind of translating of Norwegian movies and TV shows. Wrote subtitles or something.” [Voiceover: “But they were mistaken. He was a not a subtitle writer, but a screenplay translator. They are different things.”]

What follows is not a review of “Atlantic Crossing.” I cannot do a review. My legal obligations to the people I work for prevent me saying anything negative about the production in public (assuming I even have any criticisms to make). I want to talk about the things I appreciated in this remarkable and memorable production.

First of all, I think it was masterfully produced. The visuals were tremendous – taking advantage of the glorious Norwegian landscape in the segments filmed there, and beautifully recreating the US in the 1940s. There was a real epic quality to it all, especially in the first and last episodes.

I found all the actors’ performances top-notch. Sofia Helin, who played Märtha, is not actually the right physical type – she should be taller and slimmer. But she did an excellent job of portraying an essentially shy woman, trained to act as a public figure as a matter of duty, who is then forced to get her hands dirty in practical politics. The strain shows under the gracious facade.

The performance that impressed me most was Tobias Santelmann as Prince Olav. Frustrated in his military ambitions, he grows jealous of his wife’s relationship with the US president – although he virtually pushed her into the situation. At last he gains perspective when he realizes that many people have made greater sacrifices than he has, and he steps up into a wiser maturity and greater responsibility. There’s a movie called “The King’s Choice” (I reviewed it here), which is often compared with “Atlantic Crossing” in terms of historical accuracy. One thing I disliked about the movie (which is very good, overall) is that Olav doesn’t look very impressive in it. I think “Atlantic Crossing” gave him his due, though with a dark side.

The performance most Americans talk about, though, is Kyle MacLachlan’s as President Franklin Roosevelt. “Creepy” is one description I’ve seen, though I don’t think that’s quite fair. I think MacLachlan created a faceted, nuanced portrait of a pre-feminist American alpha male. He’s charming, easygoing in company, empathetic, and never in doubt that any woman he makes a pass at will take it as a compliment. It was a (publicly deniable) given, in those days, that powerful men deserved some sexual perks, and could be good guys in spite of it. Ted Kennedy and Bill Clinton were in the same tradition. Kudos to the producers for not papering this over, I say.

Oh yes, the script translation, though it takes an exquisite sensitivity to perceive it, was excellent.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Restless Dead,’ by David J. Gatward

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David J. Gatward’s Detective Chief Inspector Grimm series continues with Restless Dead. It’s a small mystery, the kind that couldn’t actually happen, in the same way, in an urban setting. But Harry Grimm, facially-scarred war veteran, is settling in in the relatively bucolic Wensleydale region, and in these parts they give the public more personal service than cops did back in Bristol.

Retired Col. James Fletcher is devastated by the death of his wife, killed in an auto accident while driving him home on his birthday, because he’d been drinking. Although his two daughters, his son-in-law, and his grandson have rallied around him, he’s profoundly depressed. Lately he’s started imagining he’s seeing his wife again around the estate (already rumored to be haunted); the family reports it to the police, who find no sign of an intruder. Col. Fletcher is not mollified, and things are about to get deadly.

Also, somebody is rustling sheep in Wensleydale, and the father of one of Grimm’s team members is a victim.

The Grimm series is semi-cozy and character-driven. I like it a lot (in spite of the injection of a “genuine” spiritualist). Restless Dead ends with a cliffhanger, but the major mystery was solved, and I look forward to the next book, coming in June.

Bookselling

Translator’s travails

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Imagine, if you will, my bedroom. It is a palatial space, done in Wedgewood Blue in a Regency style, adorned with wholesome yet costly art, open and airy in ambience, with broad windows overlooking the ocean.

It’s nothing like that, of course. But you don’t think I’m going to describe my real bedroom, do you? You didn’t sign up for that kind of ashcan realism.

Anyway, my mornings in semi-retirement have acquired a sort of routine. I wake up way too early, as is the way of old people, and then try to get back to sleep. I can often achieve this (not always), but in between attempts, I check the email on my cell phone. You never know when translation work will show up, and they’re 7 hours ahead of us in Oslo.

This morning, I managed to get back to sleep around 7:30 a.m. I know this because that was the time when an email came in with a little job of work. Which I didn’t see until I woke up again, an hour later. The message was, “Can you do this small job? It’s not big but I need it in a couple hours.” Of which I’d already wasted one.

But I rolled out, postponed other things, and set about the task. Finished in plenty of time. Back to the usual Friday morning schedule then. Which involves washing clothes.

Shall I tell you about the new sheets I bought?

No, you’ve committed no sins to deserve that.

Maybe I should address the picture I posted above. Yes, why don’t I do that?

I posted that photo on Basefook precisely 3 years ago, when Viking Legacy was finally released, after many delays (if you want the paper version, I think this link works now). I’m still quite proud of it.

Just ordered a supply for events this summer. Did the same with West Oversea. I’m now invested in the prospect of a post-lockdown, semi-normal summer. When the paper version of The Year of the Warrior materializes, I’ll be all in.

Look at me, the avaricious capitalist risk-taker, living out my politics.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Basil’s War,’ by Stephen Hunter

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In fact, in one sense, the Third Reich and its adventure in mass death was a conspiracy against irony. Perhaps that is why Basil hated it so much and fought it so hard.

First of all, I have to take back a criticism of this book that I made last night. I said I was reading a novella I’d read before, which had been simply re-titled. Now that I’ve completed Basil’s War, based on the novella Citadel, I see that it is in fact a full novel (though a short one for author Stephen Hunter). He took Citadel and added some new action (mostly at the end), and made the whole thing a lot more complex.

Basil St. Florian is a British SOE agent in World War II. Like the character in Beau Geste, he possesses almost no virtue save courage. He’s good at lying, stealing, killing, and seducing women. In ordinary civilian life, he’d probably end up in prison. But now, as a top field agent, he’s more likely to end up dead – and he isn’t greatly concerned about it.

In a secret war room under London, he gets briefed (by Alan Turing, among others) on his next mission (should he choose to accept it), which will involve making his way to Paris and into a museum library. There he is to photograph certain pages from a rare manuscript, which has been used as a “book code.” This code will identify a Russian agent in the Bletchley Park cryptography operation. There are reasons for this, but Basil’s job is to get to the book.

We follow Basil as he parachutes into France, steals false identity papers, bluffs his way through security checks, and generally stays one step ahead of the Germans – until he loses a step.

Basil is an interesting character to follow – he’s very good at his job, and more sympathetic than he probably ought to be, mostly because of his wit. The book is full of mordant observations on the nature of war and of warriors, plus the characters of the French and the Germans. (As well as intimate moments with Vivian Leigh.) The riddles within enigmas that unfold at the end are clever and surprising.

Stephen Hunter is a fine thriller writer, and I think most readers will enjoy Basil’s War. Cautions for mature material, but for a war story it’s pretty lighthearted.

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

A run of lackluster books and movies

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My reading of late has been oddly frustrating. After a beautiful Syttende Mai (the Norwegian Constitution Day, on which I had a couple actual human interactions, both of them surprisingly pleasant) I’ve come up against a string of bum books.

First there was a novel from a series I hadn’t revisited in a while. I didn’t get far into it before I remembered why I’d stopped reading the books; I saw some ugly stuff coming and sent the whole thing into the virtual rubbish bin. Then I started a Christian novel that looked intriguing. I have an idea the story might well be worth reading, but the prose was so awful I gave up on that one, too.

Now I’m reading a new book by a favorite author, which turns out on closer inspection to be a novella. A novella I’ve already read. Re-released under a new title. I’m still reading, because it’s pretty good, but I’m a little bitter too.

I’m in the habit of watching old movies on Amazon Prime in the afternoons. Yesterday I saw “High Voltage,” which stars William Boyd (before he was Hopalong Cassidy) and Carole Lombard (in her first major movie role, before she added the “e” to her first name). It was a highly moral melodrama about bus passengers caught in a blizzard in the Sierra Nevadas, and ends with a repentant Boyd on his way to jail in St. Paul.

Today it was “The Naked Hills,” with David Wayne and Denver Pyle. This was a western with aspirations. Instead of the standard shoot-em-up, it’s a story about how greed destroys a man’s life. David Wayne, in a rare starring role, plays a man who grows obsessed with finding a fortune, in the 1849 Gold Rush and after. The message was commendable, but the story was one-dimensional, and the resolution anticlimactic.

What surprised me was the theme song. It’s a number called “The Four Seasons,” by Herschel Burke Gilbert and Bob Russell. I knew this song from before. I have blogged here previously about my fondness for the old “Yancy Derringer” TV series. During the series’ original run, it had its own title song, “The Ballad of Yancy Derringer.” But when it went into syndication, for some reason (probably having to do with copyrights) they changed it to an instrumental theme. And that theme was this same “The Four Seasons” melody. Only without the verses they use in the movie.

There are even lyrics, which somebody sings at the beginning. As best I remember, they go something like this:

We have four seasons, four seasons  
To make our dreams come true.  
God gives a man four seasons, that’s all that he can do.

I don’t know if that last “he” refers to God or the man.

Kind of depressing, actually. But I have an ear worm now.

And if you have to have an ear worm, it might as well be a song you like.