Reviews: the return
I'm back! From outer space! Actually from the end of classes, but it's a lot like.
Laurell K. Hamilton, Micah: Bad, bad, bad. Not even entertainingly, guilty-pleasure bad (or in this case Incubus Dreams bad), but boringly and cheaply bad. Full of stupid rhetorical questions, repetition, and pointless descriptions of makeup; Hamilton seems to be getting paid by the word - padding out a story that was already too short to put into hardcover. There's a fascinating story to be told in Anita's change from uptight vampire slayer to polymorphously perverse necromancer, but instead of telling it, Hamilton has let her prose deteriorate like Anita's moral boundaries. Hard-boiled noir style has to be managed carefully to avoid caricature, and Hamilton isn't even trying.
In light of all that's wrong with this book, I shouldn't even be complaining about the ridiculous size-queen descriptions of Micah's enormous schlong and Anita's superwomanly ability to accommodate him where inferior lovers couldn't, but it's my review and I'll complain if I want to. I'll admit some sympathy about the sex scenes; they're difficult to write, and choice of words for girl parts is hardest because you have even fewer options, compared to the already sparse list of sexy words for boy parts, that won't immediately make your audience uncomfortable. But that doesn't excuse "... it was the kind of sore I didn't mind. The kind of sore that would be like a keepsake, that I could take out and look at and remember what we'd done. I'd remember the pleasure of it with every ache between my legs." Paid by the word, I tell you. At least I didn't pay for this book; I recommend that you also refrain from doing so. If Hamilton writes a better book after this (and judging by the excerpt from the next one, which includes some seriously nasty issues with other women, I'm thinking she won't), it will doubtless include an infodump to get you back up to speed.
Jonathan Kellerman, Twisted: Sentence fragments. Many. More annoying this time than I usually find them. Think that Petra Connor is not as natural a character for Kellerman than his stand-in Alex Delaware. There’s a young guy. Smart, has a crush on Petra. Discovers a serial killer’s pattern. The date of the next murder approaches as Petra works a concert slaying. Kellerman maybe ought to have stuck to damaged kids.
Lemony Snicket, The Penultimate Peril: I admit, as this series has gone on, I’ve gotten increasingly nervous. I was burned badly by the XF, and I’ve wondered how on Earth Snicket plans to resolve all his conspiracy plots. I still don’t know, but I’m hopeful. In this volume - possibly the next to last, though it’s never smart to rely on what series writers tell you midseries; it’s the writerly equivalent of “I’ll pull out, I promise” - some mysteries are cleared up, while others merely accumulate more clues. The setting is a hotel whose rooms are labeled and organized according to the Dewey Decimal System (there is really a hotel like this, though it got sued for trademark infringement), which is both quirky and disconcerting. Sunny continues to develop, though her speech remains limited. All three Baudelaires confront the trouble with conspiracy - how do you know you’re on the right side? - and struggle with their complicity in evil deeds, even if only by accident. There’s a surprising amount of power lurking in the storytelling here, from the ways in which the Baudelaires are brought to question their own goodness to the ominous mention of fire early on in the volume. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Rachel Caine, Heat Stroke (book 2 of Weather Wardens): Joanne Baldwin, formerly a Weather Warden with the power to control the weather, lately died in action and was remade as a djinn, a creature of immense power but also immense vulnerability to being bound to service. As she tries to control her newfound powers and negotiate her relationship with the sexy djinn who made her, a strange new magic threatens djinn and, possibly, all existence. I found the romance far too tell-y for my taste - it was just hearing how sexy the guy was and how good the sex was, again and again - though perhaps it's just been too long since I read the first one.
Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return: Okay, so I skipped the first volume; I buy at book sales, what can I say? Satrapi’s story of misadventures in Germany as a teenager, leading to her return to half-repressive (a very scary half) Iran in the 1980s and a doomed first marriage, is engaging enough. The graphic novel format brings some freshness to otherwise standard insights about growing up, the desires of young people under repressive regimes, and the desires of young people under permissive regimes. “Wisdom reflects on the follies of youth” is the basic theme; Satrapi is fairly forgiving of her younger self and the other young people around her, though there are others, like a crazy landlady in Germany, she still finds contemptible.
John J. Miller, Wild Cards: Death Draws Five. George R.R. Martin’s name is the biggest thing on the cover (though the breasts of the major female character are some competition - it’s so much more cheesy than cheesecakey that I barely got offended), and the story features a number of characters he created in the 80s with his Wild Cards universe, which I loved before I knew about A Song of Ice and Fire. The story itself is not so great - a young ace comes into his powers and two religious sects (one a sort of Opus Dei, the other headed by a charismatic American ex-president) think that he’s the Antichrist or the Second Coming, respectively. Shenanigans ensue. The biggest problem is with the aforesaid female character, who’s supposed to be religiously uptight and demure but has apparently not noticed that she’s walking around in a skintight leather jumpsuit - which she takes off and puts on at intervals but never cleans, despite all the fights she gets into. Overall, not a great finish for a really enjoyable series. Maybe there’ll be more now that Martin’s relatively famous.
Laurell K. Hamilton, Micah: Bad, bad, bad. Not even entertainingly, guilty-pleasure bad (or in this case Incubus Dreams bad), but boringly and cheaply bad. Full of stupid rhetorical questions, repetition, and pointless descriptions of makeup; Hamilton seems to be getting paid by the word - padding out a story that was already too short to put into hardcover. There's a fascinating story to be told in Anita's change from uptight vampire slayer to polymorphously perverse necromancer, but instead of telling it, Hamilton has let her prose deteriorate like Anita's moral boundaries. Hard-boiled noir style has to be managed carefully to avoid caricature, and Hamilton isn't even trying.
In light of all that's wrong with this book, I shouldn't even be complaining about the ridiculous size-queen descriptions of Micah's enormous schlong and Anita's superwomanly ability to accommodate him where inferior lovers couldn't, but it's my review and I'll complain if I want to. I'll admit some sympathy about the sex scenes; they're difficult to write, and choice of words for girl parts is hardest because you have even fewer options, compared to the already sparse list of sexy words for boy parts, that won't immediately make your audience uncomfortable. But that doesn't excuse "... it was the kind of sore I didn't mind. The kind of sore that would be like a keepsake, that I could take out and look at and remember what we'd done. I'd remember the pleasure of it with every ache between my legs." Paid by the word, I tell you. At least I didn't pay for this book; I recommend that you also refrain from doing so. If Hamilton writes a better book after this (and judging by the excerpt from the next one, which includes some seriously nasty issues with other women, I'm thinking she won't), it will doubtless include an infodump to get you back up to speed.
Jonathan Kellerman, Twisted: Sentence fragments. Many. More annoying this time than I usually find them. Think that Petra Connor is not as natural a character for Kellerman than his stand-in Alex Delaware. There’s a young guy. Smart, has a crush on Petra. Discovers a serial killer’s pattern. The date of the next murder approaches as Petra works a concert slaying. Kellerman maybe ought to have stuck to damaged kids.
Lemony Snicket, The Penultimate Peril: I admit, as this series has gone on, I’ve gotten increasingly nervous. I was burned badly by the XF, and I’ve wondered how on Earth Snicket plans to resolve all his conspiracy plots. I still don’t know, but I’m hopeful. In this volume - possibly the next to last, though it’s never smart to rely on what series writers tell you midseries; it’s the writerly equivalent of “I’ll pull out, I promise” - some mysteries are cleared up, while others merely accumulate more clues. The setting is a hotel whose rooms are labeled and organized according to the Dewey Decimal System (there is really a hotel like this, though it got sued for trademark infringement), which is both quirky and disconcerting. Sunny continues to develop, though her speech remains limited. All three Baudelaires confront the trouble with conspiracy - how do you know you’re on the right side? - and struggle with their complicity in evil deeds, even if only by accident. There’s a surprising amount of power lurking in the storytelling here, from the ways in which the Baudelaires are brought to question their own goodness to the ominous mention of fire early on in the volume. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Rachel Caine, Heat Stroke (book 2 of Weather Wardens): Joanne Baldwin, formerly a Weather Warden with the power to control the weather, lately died in action and was remade as a djinn, a creature of immense power but also immense vulnerability to being bound to service. As she tries to control her newfound powers and negotiate her relationship with the sexy djinn who made her, a strange new magic threatens djinn and, possibly, all existence. I found the romance far too tell-y for my taste - it was just hearing how sexy the guy was and how good the sex was, again and again - though perhaps it's just been too long since I read the first one.
Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return: Okay, so I skipped the first volume; I buy at book sales, what can I say? Satrapi’s story of misadventures in Germany as a teenager, leading to her return to half-repressive (a very scary half) Iran in the 1980s and a doomed first marriage, is engaging enough. The graphic novel format brings some freshness to otherwise standard insights about growing up, the desires of young people under repressive regimes, and the desires of young people under permissive regimes. “Wisdom reflects on the follies of youth” is the basic theme; Satrapi is fairly forgiving of her younger self and the other young people around her, though there are others, like a crazy landlady in Germany, she still finds contemptible.
John J. Miller, Wild Cards: Death Draws Five. George R.R. Martin’s name is the biggest thing on the cover (though the breasts of the major female character are some competition - it’s so much more cheesy than cheesecakey that I barely got offended), and the story features a number of characters he created in the 80s with his Wild Cards universe, which I loved before I knew about A Song of Ice and Fire. The story itself is not so great - a young ace comes into his powers and two religious sects (one a sort of Opus Dei, the other headed by a charismatic American ex-president) think that he’s the Antichrist or the Second Coming, respectively. Shenanigans ensue. The biggest problem is with the aforesaid female character, who’s supposed to be religiously uptight and demure but has apparently not noticed that she’s walking around in a skintight leather jumpsuit - which she takes off and puts on at intervals but never cleans, despite all the fights she gets into. Overall, not a great finish for a really enjoyable series. Maybe there’ll be more now that Martin’s relatively famous.