‘Basil’s War,’ by Stephen Hunter

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.

A run of lackluster books and movies

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.

‘Shooting Season,’ by David J. Gatward

I read and reviewed the first three Inspector Harry Grimm novels previously, and liked them. Somehow the series fell off my radar. But I picked up the fourth book, Shooting Season, recently, and found it still worked for me.

Harry Grimm has a face that literally scares people – due to an IUD explosion during his service as a paratrooper. He was a detective in the city of Bristol, but was seconded up to rural Wensleydale in Yorkshire when the local inspector went on leave. That leave has been extended, and Harry is discovering he quite likes the place. He likes the fresh air, the scenery, and the people. His team (they have no actual police station, but operate out of the community center) is low-key but smart and professional, and they’ve taken to him.

Charlie Baker is a bestselling thriller writer, famously arrogant and hard to work with. Because his latest work is set in a shooting lodge in Yorkshire, his agent (and former lover) has set up a “shooting” (clay pigeons) weekend in the area. But at a kick-off bookstore reading, a fan stands up to accuse Charlie of using a ghost writer. What makes this even more awkward is that it happens to be true – Charlie’s “editor,” also visiting at the lodge, does in fact do most of the work. Also present are Charlie’s elderly accountant, his young female assistant, and a couple shabby-nobility hangers-on.

After the fiasco at the reading, Charlie gets more drunk than usual, and clashes with most of his “friends.” In the middle of the night he’s seen driving off, and the next day his body is found in a field near his crashed Porsche, his head literally blown off by a shotgun. At first it looks like suicide, but the mechanics of this shotgun make that impossible.

There’s no lack of plausible suspects, but everybody has an alibi. Inspector Grimm will need to do some heavy thinking on this one. But he’ll also need to think about his own greatest mystery – what to do about his criminal father, who killed his mother.

These books are pretty low-key, almost “cozy,” but with an edge. I like them a lot.

‘Mercy,’ by Brett Battles

I’m a fan of Brett Battles’ novels about covert operations “cleaner” Jonathan Quinn, and the spin-off Night Man novels have been fun too. The Night Man is Nate, Quinn’s associate, who has taken up a sideline in his spare time – essentially being Batman. Along with his sort-of girlfriend Jar, an Asian woman on the Autism spectrum who does the computer stuff, he intervenes to help people who need help, but can’t be helped by the law. It’s nice, and his relationship with Jar is quite sweet. Nate is motivated to these actions by the voice of his ex-girlfriend, Lisa, who is dead. Nate doesn’t believe in ghosts, but the voice always seems to be right.

But I was a little disappointed with the latest Night Man book, Mercy. Because this one takes Nate and Jar out of their usual urban environments into American flyover country. And they don’t look good there – in my opinion – though I’m sure they see it differently.

The Cleaner team is on suspension right now, so Nate and Jar have more time for their vigilante activities. Unfortunately, those activities have begun to attract media interest, which they don’t want. So they decide to get a small Winnebago and take a road trip. Jar has never seen much of the US.

At the Grand Canyon, guided by Lisa’s voice, they hike along the edge of the Canyon and rescue a teenaged boy who is stuck on a ledge just below the brink. When the boy returns to his camper, he is cruelly punished by his father. Nate and Jar do not hesitate to make this guy their target, following the family to their home in Mercy, Colorado, planning to document his abuse and turn the evidence over to the authorities.

However, they soon discover that the man is involved in plenty of other shady activities. There’s a criminal conspiracy under way, and Nate and Jar are on it, whatever the danger.

The adventure in Mercy was up to Brett Battles’ usual high standards. What I didn’t like was Nate’s attitude. He looks at these small-town people and has nothing good to say about them. They’re too white, they use the wrong pronouns, they’re not worried enough about Covid masking. As a resident of the Midwest, I found all this condescending. Nobody in the town is depicted positively, except for the abused kids.

I won’t be boycotting Battles’ books, but I hope he sticks in the future to people he understands and can sympathize with.

Celebration in a time of Covid

From last year, a “distanced” celebration of 17 May, Norway’s Constitution Day. No doubt today’s celebrations were similar. The tall old man on the balcony is King Harald V, the little boy on the “Atlantic Crossing” miniseries.

“Ja, Vi Elsker,” the Norwegian national anthem, says this (roughly translated by me):

Yes, we love this land, as it rises, tree-covered and weather-beaten, over the water, with its thousand homes. Love it, love it, and think of our fathers and mothers, and the saga nights that descend with dreams upon the land.

Norwegians in houses and cottages, thank your great God. He will protect the land, however dark things may appear. All our fathers have fought for, our mothers have cried over, the Lord will quietly alter, so that we will have our rights.

I don’t know the third verse.

Miniseries Review: ‘Wisting’

I’d been waiting a long time to see the Wisting miniseries. It was one of the very first projects I worked on as a screenplay translator, and the scripts impressed me so much I tried the original books by Jørn Lier Horst. I became a fan, and I generally don’t like Scandinavian Noir.

When the series was finally released for American audiences, it was streamed on the Sundance Channel, which limited its audience. It’s now available on Amazon Prime, but you have to pay an extra fee to stream it. I waited in frustration for further developments, and finally broke down and ordered the Blu-Ray.

More than I usually pay for discs, but I have a personal stake in this one.

I was in no way disappointed.

If you recall from my book reviews (here’s one), William Wisting is a police detective in the small city of Larvik, Norway. He’s played here by Sven Nordin, who possesses perhaps the perfect glum Scandinavian Noir face. He’s still mourning the recent death of his wife, and copes by obsessing on his work, with the result that both his adult children feel neglected and resentful. Justifiably.

When a murdered man’s body is found under a tree on a Christmas tree farm, an item on the body carries the fingerprint of one of America’s most wanted serial killers. Once forensics prove that the dead man could not have been the fugitive, a pair of FBI agents, led by Maggie Griffin, played by Carrie-Ann Moss, are sent over from the US to “consult.” Naturally there is friction between the two teams, but unsteady progress is made.

Meanwhile, Williams’ daughter Line (Thea Green Lundberg), a journalist for VG, one of Norway’s major newspapers, decides to do a story on the man who lived next door to the Wistings, who was found dead in his chair, unmissed by anyone for months. When she begins to suspect the man was murdered, her father thinks her imagination has run away with her… an attitude he will come to regret.

That’s the first five episodes. The second five involve a separate, but slightly related case a few months later. The FBI is gone now, and all the dialogue is subtitled Norwegian.

The discovery of the serial killer in the previous case calls into question a local man’s conviction for kidnapping and murder in the same period. His lawyer accuses Wisting, as chief investigator, of evidence tampering. Wisting is temporarily suspended, but that doesn’t stop him investigating secretly (and illegally). Plus a young girl who had appealed to the police for protection because she “felt” she was being stalked, actually disappears.

Line, at the same time, is doing a story on a man who was murdered in a park while walking his dog. Her interviews with the man’s few friends raise her suspicions about who might be responsible; she too gets suspended from her job.

Themes of social alienation and human barriers pervade the series, enhanced by wonderful photography. Especially in the first half, set in the winter, black-on-white, angular winter landscapes convey an evocative, barren mood. This is not picture-postcard Norway – Larvik boasts neither magnificent fjords nor high mountains. It’s a workaday place for workaday human tragedies.

Wisting was extremely well acted, tightly plotted, and suspenseful. It sucked me into bingeing on it, and I’m pretty sure it would have done so if I hadn’t had a (small) part in the production.

In fact, I was surprised how little I had contributed. There were only a handful of scenes in the 9th episode that I remember translating. A couple earlier scenes, I think, were highly revised and compressed versions of ones I worked on as well.

Highly recommended, though pricey. Cautions for language, disturbing situations, and some nudity.

Buy my books. Someday they’ll be worth this much

Dale Nelson drew my attention to this book offering at AbeBooks.com. It’s an original review copy of C. S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength (one of my favorite novels in the world), autographed by the author himself to George Orwell and his wife.

Posted price: $30,000.

I’m sure some of our elite blog readers are in a position to purchase this book, and then donate it to the Marion Wade Center or some other worthy institution.

I wish we had a referral arrangement with AbeBooks, as we do with Amazon, so we could get a piece of that action.

In case you’re wondering what Orwell thought of the book, he called it “worth reading,” but was not in love with it.

If you’re on a budget, you can get the book slightly more inexpensively here. We do get some of that.

‘Capital Murder,’ by Dan Willis

Book 7 in Dan Willis’s Arcane Casebook series is Capital Murder. Once again we join private eye/runewright Alex Lockerby as he fights the forces of evil in a magical 1930s America.

Alex has gotten pretty good at traveling by supernatural means, but only in one direction. Wherever he is, he can get home by opening a magical portal to his interdimensional vault, which opens into his home and office. But when his sometime boss Andrew Barton, the Lightning Lord of New York (who provides the city’s electricity through sorcery) wants him to accompany him to Washington DC, they have to take an airship.

Once there, Alex gets an appeal from the widow of a senator, who was recently murdered. She does not believe the man the police are accusing is really guilty. Will Alex investigate? Also a major gang leader wants Alex to locate his nephew, who has disappeared. On top of that, Alex is surprised to find that his sort-of girlfriend, sorceress Sorsha Kincaid, is in town investigating for the FBI, and she’s furious because the newspapers are giving Alex credit for her own successes. And you don’t want to see Sorsha angry…

Not highbrow entertainment, Capital Murder was an enjoyable read, like the other books in the series. We are also learning gradually more about a mysterious group called the Legion (biblical reference) which has some kind of malevolent plan to rule the world.

It was fun.

There was a DISTINGUISHED Old Fellow

May 12th is Limerick Day, perhaps for the arbitrary reason any day is a national day of some kind. May 9th is Lost Sock Memorial Day as well as National Sleepover Day. May 17th is Cherry Cobbler Day, which must not be allowed to carryover into May 18th, because that, honey child, is Cheese Soufflé Day. There are so many of commemorative days for every day of the year it’s no wonder Congress can’t get anything passed between the cobbler and soufflé.

But I was talking about limericks, being an apt subject for the distinguished readers of this blog.

The form of the limerick is believed to have been created as a party or festival song that invited participants to spin their own verse of the marvelous attractions or mishaps of Limerick, Ireland. Each verse would be capped by a chorus inviting everyone up to Limerick. I get this from The Complete Limerick Book by Langford Reed, published in 1925.

Reed notes the artist and author Edward Lear is the name many people associate with limericks and could easily believe to be the one who created them whole clothe. Of all that he accomplished in his life, his Book of Nonsense is the main thing for which he is famous. Reed offers these lines on the subject of fame:

A goddess, capricious, is Fame;
You may strive to make noted your name
But she either neglects you
Or coolly selects you
For laurels distinct from your aim.

In honor of the day, let me repeat one of the most excellent of tongue-twisters, this one from Ogden Nash:

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, “let us flee!”
“Let us fly!” said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

Sweet and sour times

As we enjoy the collapse of Western Civilization, there are at least a few consolations to be found in the gradual reduction of lockdown restrictions. In Minnesota, our venerable governor has graciously eliminated occupancy limits in restaurants, and allowed us to go maskless out of doors, as long as we aren’t too friendly about it.

So I went crazy on Saturday and ate at a Chinese buffet for the first time since the Troubles began. Chinese buffets had come to occupy a disproportionate portion of my consciousness, such as it is. Many had already closed even before the pandemic; I feared the lockdown had wiped them out completely. I have an idea the place I went to had been open for a while, actually. But one of my great horrors is having someone tell me, “You’re not allowed in here,” so I waited until I was fairly sure it was OK now. (If you’re in the area and wondering where I went, it was Ocean Buffet in Brooklyn Center. In my experience, the majority of their customers are always Chinese. I tell myself this means something.)

And it was good. Not as good as one imagines after a year of abstinence, but good. I had to wear plastic gloves, provided at the door, at the steaming tables – the cheap kind of gloves made of the same plastic they use for produce bags in the grocery store. Prices have gone up, of course, but that’s a given. I felt a sense of closure. (Or anticlimax. I always get those two confused.)

Reduced restrictions means it looks like there should be some Viking events this summer. I need to take final action on getting my dead tree edition of The Year of the Warrior printed. The printer was going to get back to me, and hasn’t so far. I suppose I’ll have to call him. That book is loooooooong, you know, like something out of 19th Century Russia. It will be expensive to print.

My great fear is that I’ll sink a bunch of my savings into a stock of books, and then the lockdown will return and all my venues will vanish. And I’ll be left with a basement full of stock.

And my basement leaks a little.