BEING A READER, Crime books

Revisiting genre giants Elmore Leonard and Henning Mankell

In the last two weeks, I revisited two of my favourite crime writers and learned a thing or two – not all of it positive.

Both of these authors have long reached the stage where their names dwarf the actual book titles on the covers. This, more than any printed claim, is the sure sign that an author is successful. So, kids, dreaming of publishing a book isn’t the ticket any more – you have to dream of publishing a book where your name is bigger than the title. To achieve success, the author has to become a brand.

But what happens to authors once they’ve become a brand? Suddenly there’s an expectation that they’ll write more books of the same type and quality, and do so with great regularity.

For Mankell, especially, this is a great challenge, as he’s known primarily for a series of books featuring one character, the detective Kurt Wallander. Being a cop, Wallander can be involved in a new crime as many times as is needed, so the plot permutations are virtually unlimited. The problem is the character itself. How many twists and turns can one man’s private life take before it becomes totally ridiculous?

Mankell has seemingly found a way out of that conundrum by shifting his focus to Kurt’s daughter, Linda Wallander. In Before the Frost, she takes over as the lead character.

The plot of this book feels unusually contrived. It’s not so much that it’s any less believable than the norm for books of this type, but that the plot comes across as a lifeless joining of dots, lacking the inspiration or gusto of earlier Wallander books. This is, however, offset to some extent by the clever game the author plays with dates, giving his fictional tale a deftly handled resonance in the real world of his readers.

Mankell has, of course, also written books that have nothing to do with Wallander. Based on the one I have read (Depths), these books should be well worth seeking out.

Without the expectation to stick to one character, coming up with a new book every year or so should be easier for Elmore Leonard than for Wallander. All his readers expect is that trademark stripped-down style and smart characters who are a law unto themselves. Leonard has done essentially the same thing in his early Westerns, the modern crime stories he’s most famous for and occasionally in novels with a historic bent. What he does is undoubtedly great, and in the pantheon of crime writers Elmore Leonard ranks with the handful of giants of the genre up in the Chandlersphere.

The problem is that he’s been at it an inordinately long time, and seems to be struggling a bit, if Up in Honey’s Room (2007) is anything to go by. The book seems to consist of highlights from previous books retold and bits of somewhat jarring research, joined together in a not altogether involving plot. And alarm bells always start to ring for me if an author has his characters telling jokes.

Leonard dusts of Carl Webster of The Hot Kid (himself the son of Virgil Webster of Cuba Libre), which is fine. What’s more worrying is that so many of the other characters become indistinguishable from Elmore Leonard characters in other books and even from other characters in this particular book.

Roger Ebert made the point about modern American movies that the characters in most movies are unbelievably dumb. In this book, the problem is the opposite – everyone is unbelievably clever.

The typical Elmore Leonard hero is smarter than the people around him, always first to catch on to what’s happening. In this book, Carl, Honey, the cop Kevin, German POW Jurgen and spy Vera are all exceedingly quick on the uptake. They catch on to things about each other and events so quickly that you wonder if they’re not all reading each other’s minds.

There’s just too much cleverness and this causes confusion rather than tension – something that’s not helped by the fact that the book doesn’t have a clear main character, nobody we really want to root for. Even the two villains (one charmingly evil, one a dull fool) are not hateful.

The lesson from all this, I guess, is that it’s unrealistic of readers and publishers to expect these marquee authors to keep churning out equivalents of their best books time and again. Perhaps becoming one of those writers isn’t the best thing in the world after all.

BEING A WRITER

How long must a book be to be a book?

Why are books that should be 60 pages long so often 600 pages long, asks author Sam Harris in a recent article. He did so only in passing while building another argument, but it’s a matter worth some consideration.

Harris’s answer is that publishers need the books longer, so they can sell them for more. The suggestion is that there is some practicality about book production that makes it economically attractive to have longer books. But what happens to this justification when you’re dealing with ebooks? And should works of art really be shoehorned into specific preset formats?

The latter question forms the premise of a little known but most worthwhile book by crime writer Charles Willeford. The Woman Chaser is about a man who has a bolt of inspiration and makes a movie that everyone who sees it agrees is a masterpiece.

The problem is it’s 60 minutes long. When he goes to the film distribution companies, they insist he adds 30 minutes to get it to feature film length. When he goes to the TV channels, they insist he cuts 10 minutes or so from it to make it fit into an hour slot with time for ad breaks.

Realising that both these options will destroy his film, the filmmaker sets fire to the only print. As a tragic ending for a book, it rates for me not far below the suicide of the title character in Jack London’s Martin Eden.

While perhaps not as rigid, preset formats exist in the world of books too. Upon hearing that I have a new book in the works, I was once asked if it was going to be “another novella or a proper book”. The supposed novella the speaker referred to was Nobody Dies, which at close on 70,000 words strikes me as being of respectable length for a book of its kind.

My editor at Random House, my publisher at the time, suggested that I aim for 80,000 words in future. Apparently that is how long readers expect crime books to be these days. By contrast, the pulp fiction of 50 or so years ago averaged around 55,000 words only. I have read a great many of those books and never once felt cheated that the book was too short. In fact, I didn’t even realise that they were shorter than today’s equivalents.

I’d like to avoid the hard choices involved in choosing my ten all-time favourite novels, but if I ever do, I’m confident that among them will be at least two very short books. In the edition I have, Vladimir Nabokov’s The Eyeruns to 92 pages, in an above average font size. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, undoubtedly one of the great novels in world literature, is little over 50,000 words long, as is Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

One can only hope that with the growth of ebooks, the paradigms that paper publishers seem to favour will become irrelevant and that it will be possible for authors to publish stories of 40 pages or 4000 pages – whatever it takes to convey what it is they want to convey.

The long and short of it is that there are many short books I’d read twice before reading a book of twice that length once.

BEING A READER

My life, fate and Vasily Grossman’s ‘Life and Fate’

Vasily Grossman’s novel with the all-encompassing title Life and Fate is number 1 and 5 on the Guardian bestseller list this week, if I can believe the pop-up that appeared on my screen as I was web surfing. Apart from the oddity of the book appearing twice, what intrigues me is: why now?I’ve had the book on my shelf for 25 years.*

Back in the 1980s, I had a deep love of fat Russian books, along with a curious infatuation with fat Russian women. (Something about those East Block javelin throwers…) My love affair with Russian writing started with Dostoevsky and continued through to Sholokhov and Solzhenitsyn. It ended with Grossman’s book.

It’s not that it’s a bad book, though almost all writers suffer by comparison to Dostoevsky. The story behind its publication is fascinating in itself – how an incomplete version of the banned manuscript was smuggled out to the West, to be published many years after the author’s death.

Of the book itself, I remember only disjointed scenes, most notably the one where a German camp guard drops his rifle and a Jew on the way to the gas chamber picks it up to give it back to him. Grossman makes the point that all the evil in the world doesn’t have enough darkness to kill the flame of one good deed.

I suspect I had enjoyed the book. After all, I got all the way to page 646. I know, because I had left a bookmark on that page in April 1987, when my reading was interrupted by life and fate. (Actually, it was the emotional upheaval around ordinary divorce, but “life and fate” sounds so much more profound.)

Perhaps one day I’ll ask a psychologist why my love for fat Russion books ended here. I might even be tempted to talk about those javelin throwers.

* Just discovered the book is being serialized on a UK radio station. Hence the surge in sales.