Book Review - The Last Storyteller, by Frank Delaney

I was offered a free copy of this book to review, being the unapologetic fan of Delaney’s that I am, and would like to offer my thanks for that opportunity. That being said, this book made me nervous. I normally tear through Delaney’s books, but this one was slow going for me. I was actually convinced about halfway through that I wouldn’t like it, and then dramatically changed course when I got to the superb last third of the book. As others have mentioned, this is the third book in a trilogy, and while I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this as a standalone novel, it is a wonderful conclusion to the story of Ben MacCarthy and Venetia Kelly.

I must admit that I still haven’t ready Venetia Kelly’s Travelling Show, despite being enthusiastic about Delaney’s other works. This shortcoming is what allowed me to view (and love) the previous book, The Matchmaker of Kenmare, as a standalone novel. Accordingly, I was a little more prepared for the continuity this time around; as with the previous books, this book is told from Ben MacCarthy’s point of view as a thorough, winding memoir. The story is written as a chronicle of his life, left for his twin children.

After finding Venetia married to another man in Florida, Ben MacCarthy returns home to Ireland and attempts to puzzle out what he should do with his life. He inherits the mantle of his venerable folklore-collecting mentor and begins to collect the tales of the famous storyteller John Jacob O’Neill. The stories he hears in O’Neill’s house seem eerily prophetic, as they parallel events in Ben’s life- since returning to Ireland, he has managed to fall in with an IRA gun-runner, which puts him squarely in the sights of both his dubious new friends’ colleagues and some unfriendly police detectives. When Venetia shows up in Ireland again, touring with her abusive new husband’s illusion show, Ben is compelled to act in order try and salvage the happily ever after that he has ached for since Venetia’s disappearance. This compulsion, combined with Ben’s tendency towards dark moodiness and reckless decisions, leads to an act that threatens to drown Ben in remorse and self-hatred. The only thing that can bring peace to Ben’s life is its one true constant: the stories he seeks out, dutifully records, and has all along been preparing himself to transform and tell to others.

The first few parts of this book proceed in a meandering, piecemeal fashion that is a hallmark of Delaney’s warm, organic style of prose. This time around, though, they seemed a lot more disconnected. As usual, we are treated to a cast of layered, interesting characters, which rise out of the mythic tapestry of Ireland’s countryside. The various situations that Ben finds himself tossed into (since, for all of his charm, Ben MacCarthy has always been a somewhat hapless protagonist) are a treat to read, but they never quite intersect in a meaningful way, as far as plot goes. At least, not at first. The story really picks up with the return of Venetia, and Ben’s daring plot to reunite with her. Once that gets going, though, the scenes before seem even less important.

It’s not until near the very end of the book that the big payoff comes, where Delaney connects Ben’s adventures with the rebels, his attempt to reclaim Venetia, and the journey to redemption he must take. True to form, the best part of the book is the suite of folk tales that intersperse the narrative, told with the lyrical bombast of an ancient seanchaí. Beyond their intrinsic loveliness, they serve as the glue that binds the story’s action to its theme, and lend a bit of more concrete mysticism as Ben’s story draws to a close. The epilogue, a matter-of-fact postscript written by Ben’s children, rounds out an ending that is enormously satisfying, regardless of whether the reader is familiar with the previous two books (and doubly satisfying if they are).

I suppose it takes a more observant reader than me to see these things coming together until the end of the book. I was flailing for a while, there. Things came together in a subtly beautiful way at the end, but to me, the first half felt a bit disjointed. Once Venetia enters the picture again, there are a lot of callbacks to the first book in the trilogy. Between my unfamiliarity with that book and the slow burn Delaney uses to tie everything together, I didn’t really feel invested in the story until I neared the end. For that reason, I’d be wary of recommending this as a standalone book. However, if you are a reader with a taste for wistfulness and clever writing, this book is definitely worth your time. The characters alone are worth the price of admission, and taken as a whole it tells a beautiful story. It goes without saying that this is a must-read for those that have read Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show and The Matchmaker of Kenmare; I can’t think of a better way to end Ben’s story.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Erebos, by Ursula Poznanski

Erebos is an entry in the “takes place in an online game” genre, which has been around for a while but is seeing a recent resurgence. It’s apparently getting enough hype from its original German publication to justify an English translation. I did a lot of vacillating while reading this; I came close to hating it in the beginning, got hooked somewhere in the middle, and finished it feeling content but vaguely dissatisfied. It does a lot of things very well, but could probably do some other things better.

The story revolves around Nick Dunsmore, a student in a London school. Nick notices that his friends and acquaintances are beginning to act strangely and are increasingly missing from class, and eventually discovers that a secretive package is making the rounds among them. When Nick is finally inducted into this mysterious club, he finds that the package contains a burned CD of an online multiplayer game called Erebos. It is like no other game that Nick has ever played before; it comes with very strict rules about secrecy, and seems almost able to read his mind. Furthermore, the game begins to assign him incomprehensible tasks in the real word in order for his character to climb the ranks. It soon becomes clear that Erebos may be part of a grander, more sinister design. By the time Nick realizes this, it may be too late to save his fellow addicted gamers.

The first half of the book covers Nick’s introduction to the game and his increasing infatuation with it, and thus takes place mostly in-game. At first, the transitions between Nick going about his daily business and his character Sarius exploring the game world are a little jarring, as there is very little in the way of segueing between the two. The descriptions of Sarius’s adventures are initially a little overblown; it’s hard to imagine anyone but a gamer being interested in stamina meters, world exploration, and hotkeys. Eventually, though, I found myself as hooked on Erebos as Nick was. The progression operates as seamlessly as playing an actual game. Once I was accustomed to the lore and rules, I slipped easily into the game world and eagerly followed each encounter. This, along with the escalating grimness of the game’s hold and demands on its players, makes for a exciting and suspenseful read.

Once I made it through the climax to the end, though, a couple of problems came back to the surface to haunt me (minor spoilers ahead). Even with all of the work that Poznanski puts in to explain how sophisticated the Erebos A.I. is, it still strains the limits of credulity. There are simply too many plot holes in the way of explaining how the game could maintain such a level of surveillance on its players, or how it was so difficult to see through its supposed omniscience as a player spent more time with it. The plot resolves itself admirably well, but ends a little too neatly. I was particularly bothered by the lack of consequences, especially considering that Nick is sort of a hard character to like in the first place. He uses the game to ruin the relationship of the girl he likes, and in the end… he gets to date her. The old boyfriend seems no worse for wear, despite enduring a false rape accusation by another girl. Meanwhile, the girl who actually levied the accusation on the game’s behalf is all smiles and “man, that was intense, huh, LOL” at the end. Not only is this unrealistic, but it actually imparts an unhealthy and even dangerous message, in my opinion. Even the fates of the villains at the end are left ambiguous, in favor of a satisfying but irrelevant explanation of which person was behind which username in the game (including the antagonist, repulsive nerds that apparently just wanted to be Nick's friend the whole time, or something).

I think I was bothered by all of this because I sense a missed opportunity. There could have been a much deeper exploration of what obsession can do to impressionable people, I think. As a result, the mass downplaying of consequences was disappointing. Even so, the book is adept in pulling a reader in, just as the titular game apparently is. It is nicely paced, and the central mystery is compelling. I wasn’t totally blown away, as there are better books about massively multiplayer online games out there. But this one gets a solid recommendation for gamers, fantasy fans, and readers who like action-heavy mysteries.

Verdict: 3 /5

Graphic Novel Review - The Walking Dead, Vol. 6: This Sorrowful Life, by Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard

I’m starting to realize that Walking Dead is one of those series that boasts a large number of fans that are oblivious to or are willing to look past its flaws. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but it is what it is. The universal acclaim that these books get seems to be at odds with some of the problems it has, especially by this point in the series. This volume, simply put, isn’t put together very well, and isn’t much fun to read. Spoilers ahead.

The issues in this collection continue to chronicle the ordeals of Rick, Michonne, and Glenn at Woodbury, including their harrowing escape and return to the prison. The centerpiece of the volume is a long, graphic section of torture porn, as Michonne enacts her foreshadowed revenge on the Governor for raping and brutalizing her in the preceding days. They make it out of the city with the help of a few defectors, but find the prison overrun by zombies when they return. Fortunately, most of the people at the prison are safely holed up (waiting for Rick to get back before doing anything about it, I guess?), and they get their sanctuary secured and cleaned up again in short order. However, an incident with one of the Woodbury defectors stands as a stark reminder that they now have living, breathing potential enemies right on their doorstep.

I read this volume faster than I usually do, but not because I was glued to the action. I was waiting for something profound or even interesting to happen, and it never really did. The extended torture vignette couldn’t end fast enough; it added exactly nothing to the story, since it didn’t seem to affect Michonne’s character in any way other than Rick noticing the crazy mannerisms she’s had since she was introduced. Also, I guess it’s perfectly fine to illustrate rape and torture in graphic detail, rather than simply implying it like before, if the victim is a man who deserves it. It’s a little weird to complain about violence in a zombie comic, I admit, but the whole thing seemed gratuitous. Anyway, we’re introduced to a few new characters, and in the space of a few pages, one dies, one is immediately slotted into an archetypical role (the person with vague medical knowledge that must find the courage to become The Group's Doctor), and one is inexplicably revealed as a traitor and even more inexplicably murdered by Rick. Hmm.

What story there was made very little sense, and really only served as connecting the plot point from the last volume (the existence of another, grittier group of survivors) with whatever the heroes are going to do next. It’s not a bad collection, really, but I wouldn’t really classify it as good, either. It doesn’t really add anything, and could have done without a lot of the supporting details (like, for instance, the ridiculous gladiator fight scenario). The AMC series seems to be getting a lot of flack lately for aimless writing and confusing character decisions, but that’s seems to be the hallmark of this volume.

Honestly, I think I would have liked it better if I had read it as individual issues, with a cooldown period between each. There are a lot of powerful, visceral moments in the volume that leave a lasting impression if taken on their own, but they come off as weak and even silly when lumped together as a story arc. Now that we’re past the long introduction of the Woodbury group, though, I’m interested to see what happens next.

In short, this isn’t a terrible book, but it’s easily the weakest of the series thus far.

Verdict: 2 / 5

Book Review - The False Prince, by Jennifer A. Nielsen

This is exactly the kind of fantasy I used to love when I was a kid: no-frills action with a charming rogue protagonist. Nielsen has done something admirable with this book, eschewing the high fantasy tropes that would work so well with an audience accustomed to wizards and dragons, and instead focusing solely on royal intrigue. I enjoyed this book because it falls within the spectrum of gritty fantasy, which is my genre of choice. It’s unfortunately hampered by a few major problems, though, even if those problems are only an issue for readers outside the target audience.

The story itself is pretty straightforward, and neatly summarized in the book’s blurb: Sage, a wily orphan, gets noticed by a passing nobleman, Lord Conner, and is recruited against his will for a scheme to take the throne of Carthya by deception. Unfortunately for Sage, he’s not the only orphan Lord Conner notices. There are three potential princes, but only one throne. Sage and his two new companions have a short amount of time to convince Lord Conner that they are the best fit for the plan, and it is painfully clear what will become of the two boys he does not choose. Sage, however, has a plan of his own- one more dangerous than even Lord Conner’s, but one that will hopefully keep all three of the false princes alive.

The plot certainly delivers on its premise, with a sense of urgency that is expertly maintained throughout the book. I sped through this book, due to its ability to keep me turning pages to find out what happens next. However, some of the methods Nielsen uses to keep the action going are used rather clumsily, and sometimes fail entirely. The main characters are surprisingly inconsistent; they are written as layered and unpredictable, but are prone to saying and doing things that are wildly out of character in order to move the story along. A pivotal scene in which Sage gains the upper hand over one of the other boys revolves around an event that makes no sense at all, either in the mechanics of the scene or in the motivations of the characters. There’s a twist near the end that helps bring the story to a close, but it’s a twist that’s easy to see coming and has enough drawing-room justification to feel too tidy.

It also must be mentioned that the book is written in the first person with Sage narrating, but as we get to the climactic scene at the end, we suddenly switch to omniscient third-person narration for a chapter. I understand that Sage's dramatic entrance at this point is the book's big payoff, but instead of sticking with him the whole way or alternating perspectives throughout the story, we have only this one third-person chapter. Maybe I’m being snobby, but that’s egregiously bad writing. Especially considering that it comes on the heels of a chapter-long flashback.

So, there are some definite flaws in execution, and the story’s resolution is a bit too convenient to be memorable. In the interest of fairness, though, this book is meant for a middle-grade to younger teen audience, who won't care a bit for these problems. Experienced fantasy readers will find this book unremarkable, but the suspense is ratcheted up to a nice level, the world-building is decent, and the pace is quick and enjoyable. This would be a good choice for newcomers to the genre who would like some human drama and intrigue in their fantasy books, and I would recommend it without qualification to younger readers looking for fantasy adventure.

Verdict: 2.5 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Phonogram Vol. 1: Rue Britannia, by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie

I was ready to hate this book. I was intrigued by the first issue of the comic, but by the time I had finished the second, the Pitchfork-esque celebrations of musical superiority had reached critical mass. Something happened, though, as I got near the end of this six-issue collection. I found myself looking up the mentioned bands. I found myself actually understanding the various metaphors, even though I stand firmly on the outside of the story’s cultural inner circle. By the time I finished the book, I realized to my surprise that I enjoyed it despite trying really hard not to.

The story arc begins with an avatar of a musical goddess sending a phonomancer (someone who can use music as a medium for arcane practice) on a quest to find out what has happened to one of her aspects, Britannia. Feel free to ignore this setup, though, because it has precisely nothing to do with the proceedings, other than to introduce protagonist David Kohl and give an overview of the setting. The book, for all of its fantasy trappings, is actually a fierce paean to Britpop music and an introspective exploration on what it meant and still means to its fans. David’s race to stop the dead goddess from being resurrected as a monster is a thinly veiled history of Britpop’s rise from the foundation of 1960s British guitar rock as a response to American grunge, its relatively quick decline and fall, and the state of the genre after it started feeding on itself instead of on a cultural identity. The most interesting part of the story is the consequences David faces if he cannot find Britannia in time: the destruction of his own essence, as his memories are altered and blurred until he is lost and transformed into someone completely different. Someone, for example, who hums along with Ocean Colour Scene and doesn’t mind listening to Kula Shaker. The fight to hold on to himself leads him to questions that every scene kid, no matter what the scene in question is, must eventually face. What happens when you get old, and the music you’ve loved so deeply and understood so intimately becomes a relic of the past? What’s the next step, when you can no longer define yourself by the trappings of pop culture once it inevitably leaves you behind, or vice versa?

These parables are so thinly veiled that it’s easy to get lost in the dreamlike twists and turns of the narrative, if you’re not keeping an eye on the big picture. Furthermore, even though there is a handy glossary at the back for readers that aren’t familiar with Britpop, there is still an excessive amount of musical preening. Obscure Britpop references are tossed recklessly around, with an indifference bordering on disdain for the comfort of anyone who may not be familiar with them. Or maybe I just felt that way, since I grew up on the other side of the pond, listening to reviled Seattle grunge instead of Pulp, Blur, Elastica, or Kenickie. I eventually realized that the story isn’t about excluding anyone, though. It’s simply a love letter to a musical era that passed by largely unremarked on, except for by those in the thick of it, and those who wandered in too late on the heels of “woo-hoo” and “Wonderwall.” Taken solely on those merits, this is a subtle and powerful work of storytelling.

The black-and-white art is fantastic. The pulp feel is wholly appropriate, somehow, and the realistic style conveys some remarkable articulation and emotion. The reader immediately learns almost everything about David Kohl by the expression on his face in the first page of the first volume. There are a few jarring shifts between pages and a handful of awkward action panels, but they’re balanced by some very expressive character art. Honestly, the covers alone almost make up for any other artistic problems.

Taken all together, this is a remarkable graphic novel. It’s bound to alienate some readers who either aren’t familiar with or don’t have any interest in the British guitar pop of the early 1990s, since the actual story doesn’t really hold up without at least a passing appreciation for it. But reading this with an open mind (and a tolerance for having your own musical tastes sneered at, just a little bit) opens up a surprising deep and heartfelt piece of music journalism in comic form.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - The Color of Magic, by Terry Pratchett

Back when I was a teenager and first dipping my toes into writing fantasy fiction, one of my regular characters was a bumbling wizard that constantly broke the fourth wall. I hadn’t known at the time that I was essentially doing a rough-hewn Terry Pratchett impression; in fact, at that point I’m pretty sure the only humorous fantasy I had read was a book somewhere in the middle of Piers Anthony’s Xanth series. I read Pratchett’s Soul Music not long after creating that character, and realized even then that I had found something that would amplify and resonate my still-developing sense of humor. At last, here was a book that had everything I wanted from humorous fiction: a fantasy setting, plenty of magic, random absurdity, armloads of meta-humor, and a smirking disregard for the fourth wall. Also, unlike Anthony’s books, it didn’t leave me with the lingering urge to take a shower.

The slapstick aesthetic of the Discworld books (at least, the ones I’ve read) make them a little hard to follow. I’ve always wanted to try them from the beginning to see if things feel a bit more concrete that way, but now that I’ve read the first book, I have to say that it didn’t really help. In fact, this book hopped around so much that I was past the halfway mark by the time I got oriented and comfortable with the material. The Color of Magic is ostensibly a tale of the hapless wizard Rincewind, a naïve tourist named Twoflower that finds excitement in the most dangerous places, and a mysterious, ambulatory, and sapient piece of luggage, which follows them whereever they go and causes no end of trouble. In actuality, the book is a collection of four bizarre vignettes that are tied together by a whirlwind tour of Discworld’s odd cosmology, which is loaded with delightfully silly words and concepts, and often seems made up on the spot. The book is essentially a starting point for Rincewind, and an introduction to the Discworld universe, without much in the way of an actual story. It’s best described as a few zany episodes, capped off by a cliffhanger ending.

As such, it must be said that this is a bit of a niche read. It’s not for everyone. Enjoyment of this book hinges upon having an appreciation for wordplay, British humor, and fantasy clichés. Also, one can’t be too attached to the traditional ideas of character and story structure, or at least be open to the idea of deconstructing and satirizing them. That being said, I had a great time with this book once I adjusted my expectations. It was lighthearted and genuinely funny (in a shake-your-head-and-grin way, rather than a laugh-out-loud way), without being patronizing or one-note. The random locales and situations are hilariously inventive, and there are patterns of consistency throughout that effectively create a sense of setting and highlight what are sure to be future plot threads. While I suspect the quality of the later Discworld is much better, comparitively speaking, this is still a great read for anyone who wants to get away from the self-importance of most fantasy fiction and indulge in a little silliness.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - The Lake, by Banana Yoshimoto

It’s hard to summarize this novella-length story without giving too much away. In fact, I’d recommend against reading the marketing copy, since it spoils the one and only surprise in the book. It’s best described as a stilted and intensely awkward meet-cute, I guess. Introspective young woman notices odd neighbor, and almost despite herself, begins to reach out to him and draw him out of his shell. They begin a fragile romance as she gets closer to the truth of his ethereal weirdness, and both of them have to reconcile the baggage from their respective pasts if they have any chance of holding on to what begins to bloom between them.

That’s it, really. Lots of walking, lots of monologues, and lots of narrative exposition on the nature of people and relationships. This is very much a thinking person’s book (or, to put it less kindly, a navel-gazing session), and it fits within a defined subgenre of literary fiction that almost eschews plot in favor of evocative, poetic ruminations on the human condition, and how deep and interesting it is to be sad all the time. It definitely has the hallmark style of Japanese fiction, as well- the writing, while occasionally clumsy through the lens of a Western perspective, is consistently elegant, and often beautiful. There are some choice observations in the book that are eminently quotable.

I couldn’t get into it, though. I don’t know, maybe I’m forever ruined by a lifetime of comic books and genre fiction, but I don’t have much patience for this kind of aimless meandering in the stories I read. This isn’t a bad book by any definition of the word; it’s quite good, and short enough that none of its earnest heaviness is lost on the reader. But it’s also extremely slow, and has no character arcs to speak of. I was pleasantly diverted, but I can’t think of anything enthusiastic to say about it, other than that the prose itself was occasionally brilliant.

This is a good one if you’re in a self-reflective sort of mood, but it doesn’t do much in the way of escapism.

Verdict: 2 / 5