All posts by Lars Walker

Terror Town, by Stuart M. Kaminsky

It may have been “Dirty Harry” on Libertas blog, or it may have been someone else talking about the movies somewhere. But I’ve never forgotten the insight. Whoever it was pointed out that the great moviemakers did not transcend their genres by trying to turn them into other genres. They transcended them by doing the same old thing better—with better stories, more interesting characters, superior artistic techniques.

This, it seems to me, is a problem with many mystery writers today. Everybody (including some authors I like very much) tries to turn the mystery into a thriller. Big explosions. Big conspiracies. Big gunfights. Big, thick, heavy books.

Old pro Stuart M. Kaminsky resists this trend, and like the great movie directors, simply works the old routine, but he does it a little better.

In many ways Terror Town is a small book. It’s short compared to most of the novels you’ll buy these days. The characters are ordinary cops and ordinary citizens, living believable lives and caring for—or damaging—one another in the usual ways.

But there’s more beneath the surface.

Terror Town is one of Kaminsky’s Abe Lieberman novels. Abe Lieberman is a Chicago detective, getting old. He’s not a romantic figure. He looks like a shoe salesman, we’re informed, and he has to watch his cholesterol. He’s been married many years, and he and his wife are now raising the children of their daughter, who ran away to California and carries an unexplained grudge against her father.

His partner is Bill Hanrahan (they call each other “Rabbi” and “Father Murphy”). Hanrahan is a widower who has recently remarried, and his wife is expecting a baby.

The first of three strands of mystery in the book concerns the murder of Anita Mills, a pretty, black single mother who is on the way to building a good life when she is robbed and shot outside a bank. Abe knew her and is assigned to her case, which comes to involve a prominent politician with a very unusual secret.

Then there’s the problem of Carl Zwick, a former Chicago Cubs baseball player who’s trying to stage a comeback in the majors when he’s attacked for no apparent reason by a crazy man who knocks him out with a Coke bottle. What’s worse, the same crazy man seems to want to kill Bill Hanrahan and his wife.

And then there’s Richard Allen Smith, a religious con man who’s practicing extortion to finance (so he claims) a crusade to liberate Jerusalem. (Normally characters like this in books drive me away, but I thought Kaminsky handled it well.)

Meanwhile, Abe’s brother Maish suffers a heart attack. Maish is angry at God. He doesn’t deny God’s existence, he just doesn’t like him much. This plot element, combined with that of Abe’s rebellious daughter, adds an exquisite Job-like subtext to the whole business. In fact the theme of parents, children, and their complaints against one another recurs throughout.

It’s on the low side for sex, violence and bad language (by genre standards). I recommend Terror Town, and all Kaminsky’s books (well, I don’t much care for the Porfiry Rostnikov mysteries, but that’s just me).

We call it “niceness” in Minnesota

Via World Views, this fascinating article by the English writer and physician Theodore Dalrymple, on the question of whether religious people are, or are not, actually nicer people than the secular kind.

You won’t agree with everything, but it’s a fascinating snapshot.

Walker attends wedding: diplomatic incident avoided

It came out OK with the garage door. Sort of. I guess.

The repair guy showed up on time on Saturday a.m., and he knew what he was doing. Instead of employing arcane, specialized tools to get the door open, as I expected, he used a lever and brute force. Then he informed me that nothing was actually broken. The bolt on a pulley had worked loose, and everything had flown apart. He put it all together, added a locking nut, oiled the rollers, and tightened the bolts. It now hangs much higher when it’s opened (meaning I can put the antenna on Mrs. Hermanson up a little higher, enabling me to hear AM 1280 The Patriot for maybe five minutes longer when I’m driving out of town), and everything runs more smoothly. It cost me on the low side of what I feared it might cost.

He also warned me that it’s an old door, and when (not if) something does break someday, they may not be able to find replacement parts.

I feel like that most days, myself.

So I was able to head out to Montevideo (no, I’m not kidding you. There really is a town called Montevideo in Minnesota. It’s over on the west side. We pronounce the name wrong, though) shortly after lunch. My recently purchased car compass proved its value when I missed an exit and realized, at length, that I was on the wrong road. I knew, however, that I was going in the right direction, so it was no big deal.

If you don’t live in the American Midwest, you may not be aware that our roads are mostly laid out on a grid—north/south roads intersecting with east/west ones. So all I had to do was turn north (it involved a detour, but everything does in Minnesota this time of year) to get back to my original course.

It was a small town journey, traveling what William Not-So-Hot Moon calls “blue highways,” under a cloudy sky that spit on me occasionally. I was in a mood to drive the speed limit, since I’d seen a highway patrolman ticketing a driver early in the journey. This led, as is so often the case, to a number of cars piling up behind me. I solved that problem by turning into a lot in one of the towns, waiting for the parade to pass me, and then pulling in again at their rear.

I arrived just in time for the wedding, said hello to some of the relations, and got seated with them. I made it through the ceremony without making a spectacle of myself, which I like to think was a pretty good achievement.

It was, I think, the biggest wedding I’d ever seen. There were eight (8) bridesmaids and eight (8) groomsmen. Two (2) flower girls, and two (2) ring bearers. I was half expecting Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell to conduct the ceremony.

Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell appeared in musicals during the Depression, which provides an elegant transition to a description of my mood that day. Weddings are like a perfect depression cocktail for me—you’ve got your happy couple enjoying the long-awaited day that I’ve been awaiting a heck of a lot longer and have given up on now. You’ve got your attractive young women, who were unreachable for me even when I was young, and haven’t come any closer with the years. You’ve got your crowd of people with whom I am expected to interact pleasantly, when I just want to run away.

I do my best. I honestly do. If people knew the things I want to say, and the faces I want to pull, they’d know that my sullen, mumbled conversation and my stone-faced, eye-contact-avoiding aspect are actually the results of considerable effort, and a genuine act of brotherly kindness.

Not that that buys me anything.

But the relatives know there’s something wrong with me, so they put up with it. My uncle and aunt (grandparents of the groom) talked to me for a while in their nearby house, and sent me off loaded down with caramel rolls and Special K Bars, when I opted to skip the reception dinner.

What was really embarrassing was that the aunt from California, whom I came to see, wasn’t there, and hadn’t even planned to be there. I’d entirely misunderstood the information I’d been given.

Still, any social event attended by me which doesn’t end with the deployment of SWAT teams and hostage negotiators can’t be called a complete disaster.

A piece of dialogue I’ll probably never get around to putting in a book

Conversation between a Christian and a Hollywood producer:

Christian: “How come you never have any sympathetic Christian characters in your movies?”

Producer: “What do you mean? We have lots of sympathetic Christian characters in our films.”

Christian: “Name one.”

Producer: “Well, there was Sister Angelica in _______________.”

Christian: “Sister Angelica became an atheist in that film.”



Producer:
“That’s what I’m saying! Sympathetic! What could be more sympathetic than that?”

Madeleine L’Engle, 1918-2007

Thanks to Gaius at Blue Crab Boulevard for alerting us to the fact that Madeleine L’Engle, the influential fantasist, has passed away.

I’ve never read any of Ms. L’Engle’s books, since I missed them as a kid, and as an adult I made the mistake of finding out about her theology, which made me chary of them. But she is much beloved of many readers, including many Christian readers. So R.I.P.

Garage door blues

Uff da, as we Norwegians say. I got home from work tonight, parked my car in the garage, lowered the garage door, and—snap!—the thing suddenly gave way and dropped like my spirits will, once I see the bill I’m going to get tomorrow. Can’t get the door open again, needless to say, and there is no side door. So I called a 24-hour garage door service place, and they’ll send a guy out tomorrow morning.

Hopefully my car will be free in time for me to drive up to Montevideo (we have a town called Montevideo in Minnesota, believe it or not) for the wedding I’m supposed to attend tomorrow.

Of course if they can’t get it out in time, that will give me an excuse not to attend. Which, all in all, I’d prefer. Hate weddings. But my aunt from California will be there, and her health is failing, and it may be the last chance I get to see her, so I promised I’d be there.

If I have a car I can get to.

That’s all the original material I’ve got tonight. I borrowed the following meme from Grim’s Hall:

1. Name a movie you’ve seen more than 10 times.

The Outlaw Josie Wales, as I mentioned a few days ago. Probably The Three Musketeers (the Richard Lester version). I don’t think I’ve seen any of the Lord of the Rings trilogy ten times yet, but it must be getting close.



2. Name a movie you’ve seen multiple times in the theater.


Same answer.

3. Name an actor who would make you more inclined to see a movie.

Sam Elliot. Can’t think of anyone else. Robert Duvall, maybe. There was a time when Clint Eastwood would have been at the top of the list, but that time is long past.

4. Name an actor who would make you less likely to see a movie.

Sean Penn. George Clooney. Angelina Jolie. Dabney Coleman. (And if you think there’s a political subtext to most of those choices, you’re perceptive.)

5. Name a movie that you can and do quote from.

The Outlaw Josie Wales. Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

6. Name a movie musical, to which you know all the lyrics to all of the songs.

Camelot, because I was in it once (played Mordred, if you insist on knowing).

7. Name a movie with which you’ve been known to sing along.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

8. Name a movie you would recommend everyone see.

Local Hero (though I can’t guarantee everyone will like it).

9. Name a movie you own.

You mean the DVD? Not a lot. Josie Wales. Once Upon a Time in the West. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The Lord of the Rings, extended edition. The Vikings with K. Douglas and T. Curtis…

10. Name an actor that launched his/her entertainment career in another medium but who has surprised you with his/her acting chops.

Can’t think of one.



11. Have you ever seen a movie in a drive-in? If so, what?


Several. I’m old enough. The first movie I ever saw was in a drive-in—Around the World in 80 Days with David Niven. My family saw it on a visit to my uncle and his family in Poughkeepsie, New York.

12. Ever made out in a movie?

What is this “making out” of which you speak?

13. Name a movie that you keep meaning to see but just haven’t yet gotten around to it.

Amazing Grace.

14. Ever walked out of a movie?

Not that I recall.



15. Name a movie that made you cry in the theater.


I must have teared up at some point in The Return of the King. Not sure, though.

16. Popcorn?

With butter.

17. How often do you go to the movies (as opposed to renting them or watching them at home)?

Almost never anymore.

18. What’s the last movie you saw in the theater?

I think it was Stranger Than Fiction, which is pathetic (my movie attendance, not the movie).

19. What’s your favorite/preferred genre of movie?

Action, I guess. I like a good fantasy, but there are so few.

20. What’s the first movie you remember seeing in the theater?

The Ten Commandments. My parents warned us not to tell our grandmother, who didn’t approve of movies.

21. What movie do you wish you had never seen?

Beowulf and Grendel.

22. What is the weirdest movie you enjoyed?

Magnolia, maybe.

23. What is the scariest movie you’ve seen?

I guess it was the original Alien.

24. What is the funniest movie you’ve seen?

The movie I remember laughing at most was The Return of the Pink Panther.

Movies fascinate me. I’m interested in what’s playing, what’s being made, who’s making them, who’s in them, and what they’re about.

I just can’t be bothered to go out and see them anymore.

Michael Medved says 3:10 to Yuma is a great traditional western, though. Maybe I’ll see that. Depends on how much the garage door people soak me for.

Wait. IMDB doesn’t list Sam Elliot as a cast member.

Isn’t there a law against that?

Death imitates art

First of all, a Philistine update. I think we can all agree that it’s a sad commentary on our times that so little attention gets paid to the Philistines anymore.

This item from Mirabilis reinforces, I think, my contention that the Samson story in the Book of Judges was not intended to provide a role model for us all (see my previous post about him here, which generated some controversy in Comments). Archaeologists have learned, according to this article, that the Philistines were regular consumers of pork and dog meat.

We already know that Samson broke his Nazirite vows by touching the carcass of a lion. It now appears probable that during all those Philistine banquets he intended, he ate pork and dog meat.

Like a knife in his mother’s heart, I’ll bet.

My view of Samson is that he’s an example of a guy who was given great gifts by God, but wasted them on his own passions and pleasures. A cautionary tale, a typological picture of Israel, but not a story for emulation.

Speaking of misusing your gifts, I found a very weird story from Poland by way of the New Zealand Herald. Ever wonder whether the people who come up with those grisly scenarios in the crime thrillers might not be a little twisted themselves, a little corrupted in their souls?

Apparently, at least one of them was. (Hat tip: World Views.)

So think twice before you attend your next book signing.

I know for a fact that every time a pagan deity materializes or the space-time continuum is violated in my neighborhood, the police put me under surveillance.

The Vanished Man, by Jeffery Deaver

Does it really count as a book review when you explain why you tossed the book aside less than half way through? Because that’s what I did with Jeffery Deaver’s The Vanished Man.

I was not disappointed with the author’s skill. He writes a good story, creates a tight plot. His characters are well realized.

No, I just didn’t like the points he was trying to make, and I didn’t want to waste any more time on them.

The Vanished Man is a well-crafted thriller with a clever premise. What if a master magician became a serial killer? What if he felt compelled to re-create the feats of famous escape artists like Houdini, except that he stages them with innocent victims, leaving them no avenue of escape? And what if he were skilled in quick changes, illusion and lock-picking, so that even when the police have him surrounded, he can slip away from them?

That’s the promising scenario of The Vanished Man.



But Deaver lost me as a reader. I doubt if he cares. He clearly despises people like me, and wouldn’t want us for readers.

For instance, I’m a sexist pig. I don’t believe women (in general) make as good policemen as men. I believe men have both an obligation and a psychological need to protect women, and that putting women in harm’s way debases both them and the men.

In Deaver’s world, about half the cops are women, and any suggestion that a guy thinks even for a moment that women don’t make equally effective cops proves that he’s a Neanderthal.

There’s a conservative Protestant pastor in the novel, and at the beginning he seems to be portrayed pretty sympathetically. This immediately made me suspicious, and I was right to be. A little further in, we learn that the pastor is a child molester, and that he’s in New York City to perform a political assassination on behalf of a right-wing militia group.

That was when I lost interest.

Nobody pays me to read these books, and I don’t have unlimited time left in my life. I’m not going to spend that time reading fiction that insults me.

No doubt some people feel the same about my books.

Fair enough.

Shark River, by Randy Wayne White

Today I gave my classic Orientation-time PowerPoint on library procedures to the students at the Bible school. As usual it was a hit, and it ought to earn me some tolerance from the students, right up until they actually have to deal with me in person.

I learned yesterday morning, as I lay in bed luxuriating in the Labor Day holiday, that I was supposed to be at school, delivering the thing. The implication was that I’d been informed about this. I have no memory of that (as unindicted co-conspirators like to say). So it was arranged for me to do it today, but I went in and put in a few hours work yesterday anyway. Had to update the PowerPoint, for one thing. New rules on fines, in general more forgiving ones. Naturally, as a Christian conservative, I hate that. All the money we spent on the new pillory and refurbishing the ducking stool, down the drain. There’s just no standards anymore.

I am strongly conflicted about Randy Wayne White’s Shark River. I liked it and disliked it, in about equal proportions. No, I guess I liked it a little more than I disliked it. I shall elucidate.

White’s Doc Ford character is widely considered an heir to John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee, and I have to say I haven’t read anything in the field that meets the qualifications better. Like McGee, Ford lives a laid-back life on the water in Florida (though Ford lives on the other coast, and works pretty hard as a marine biologist, while McGee purposely lived as a beach bum between cases). They are both actively involved in the social scenes in their marinas, though Ford’s neighbors are more important to the plot than McGee’s usually were.

But Ford has a dark past. He was formerly a member of an ultra-secret government assassination squad. He came to Sanibel Island, his present home, with the intention of killing a man named Tomlinson, who had been involved in a fatal anti-war bombing plot back in the Vietnam years. For reasons of his own, Ford decided to let Tomlinson live, became his best friend, and hung up his spurs, so to speak.

Shark River begins with the attempt of a Colombian drug lord to kidnap the daughter of an influential American bureaucrat. Ford, in the right place at the right time, prevents it. In the fight he paralyzes a man who turns out to be the drug lord’s son, making himself a target. At the same time he meets Ransom Ebanks, a Bahamian woman who claims to be his long-lost half-sister, but is in fact the daughter of his reprobate uncle, whom Ford never liked much. She has a letter from her father and a sort of treasure map promising to lead to her “inheritance,” and she is relentless in trying to get Ford to help her. But of course the Colombians are waiting over the horizon, planning to strike back at the man who crippled one of their own.

In his casual courage and human tolerance, Doc Ford pleases me in the same way Travis McGee used to. But there are elements in the story that please me less. I can’t help it, but I’m just intolerant of drug use. Ford doesn’t use marijuana, but his friend Tomlinson and his “sister” Ransom are both users.

Tomlinson is presented as a burnt-out case, a little flaky (he is a Buddhist and a teacher of Transcendental Meditation, which also doesn’t win any points with me), but I have trouble with his history as an anti-war radical, as well as his religion. I think his friendship with Doc Ford is meant to be a metaphor for American reconciliation, and that’s nice, but I’m still pretty bitter about the whole thing, so I found Tomlinson kind of hard to take. Especially when he was smoking pot.

The attitude toward sexual morality all around in the book was pretty heedless too, in my opinion. (Yes, even more heedless than Travis McGee’s.)

But I liked Shark River enough that I expect I’ll give White another read.