richardrbecker's reviews
497 reviews

The Maltese Falcon is a noir blast to the past, written entirely in external third-person narrative with no thoughts or feelings. The result is a somewhat disconnected perspective of iconic detective Sam Spade, who is often coldly detached, analytical, and unflinching in the face of danger. 

While some might even call him a poster child for toxic masculinity, I found his ruthless determination fun and refreshing. Given the other characters in the book are equally well-equipped and cunning (male or female), Spade needs to be every bit as charming and charismatic to thrive. 

In fact, the entire plot is sparked by the beautiful "Miss Wonderley" who hires them to follow Floyd Thursby. She claims Thursby has run off with her sister but is really setting up a con of her own — roping the unsuspecting detectives into an international treasure hunt for a near-priceless relic once owned by the King of Spain. 

Although Wonderley often comes across as a Confederate (or perhaps Spade wants it to appear that way), the other villains appear heavily stereotyped and overplayed. Or, they may have even set the stereotype that most of us have come to know from James Bond and Indiana Jones-like bad guys. The sniveling Joel Cairo and engrossed Kasper Gutman, and hot-headed Wilmer Cook feel like they've all appeared in a thousand similar stories about cops, robbers, cons, and crooks. 

The story is enjoyable overall, except for the rapid-fire tying up of loose ends at the finish. But even so, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't like nor understand noir, as you'll see most other reviews seem split along those lines — those who don't like noir don't like it. Those who understand it on the front end enjoy it because it delivers exactly what it is. Even as much as I enjoyed it, The Maltese Falcon will never be my favorite. But not all books have to be. 

I was first introduced to Where the Red Fern Grows as a movie. The 1974 film stared Stewart Petersen as Billy Coleman — a slightly older 12-year-old who is obsessed with coon dogs and coon hunting.

Even though I didn't have dogs of my own, I identified with Coleman and his desire to own dogs despite his family's financial disadvantages — and even started saving money from mowing lawns and drawing pictures to save up for one. I was never allowed to own a dog, but the central themes of unconditional love and determination weren't lost on me. I carried them with me all my life. 

Since then, I've seen the movie more than a dozen times and have just now considered reading the book. I wasn't surprised to see that the book shaped the movie — a series of adventures with Billy and his hard-earn coon dogs, with each adventure more dangerous than the last.

Rawls does an excellent job painting not only a boy's love for his dogs but also his love for family (and their love for him). There is a shared selflessness among every member of the family and the dogs, one that strongly links the characters together. The dogs, Old Dan and Little Ann, are equally inseparable. It's these strong connections between every character of note that will make any reader hope for the best for Billy, his dogs, and his family. 

The story takes place in the Ozark Mountains, which reminded me of upper Wisconsin, where I spent part of my early childhood with my grandparents (who also lived in the city). We were equally financially challenged, which I suppose is why this novel's theme touched me so deeply. While I never did own a dog, it taught me the importance of making the best of circumstances and finding our way out of them. 

It might be no surprise for some readers to learn that Wilson Rawls also grew up in the Ozark Mountains. Like his character, he spent much time exploring the mountains with his own hound. 

Where the Red Fern Grows easily lands a spot on my favorites shelf. It's a wonderful story, despite some sad overtones. Readers who are sensitive to animal violence might not appreciate the story, but it's a wonderful read for anyone who appreciates that the novel was written in a different era and rural country. I never have a problem with this — understanding that its often the consequences within a story punctuate its central themes as Rawls does splendidly. Five stars.

John Scalzi jumped up on my radar after reading Fussy Nation, so picking up Starter Villian was a no-brainer when it bubbled up as a bestseller. While it's a little less sci-fi and a little more James Bond (or, perhaps, Aston Powers), Stater Villian is a thoroughly enjoyable quick read. 

What makes the novel work is how Scalzi takes a typical fish-out-of-water story and transforms it into a whimsical world of supervillains. The fish is Charlie Fitzer, whose personality mirrors many of Scalzi's self-degrading protagonists with one exception. Fitzer is more affable and doesn't know what he is doing. And unfortunately, that is what keeps it from getting five stars. 

While I loved Starter Villian, Scalzi often spends too much time letting Fitzer talk about not knowing what he is doing — literally every time he meets someone or something (like dolphins). It's all he talks about. And because the true plot is so outside his prevue, it wasn't all that enjoyable when Scalzi turned everything upside down at the end. Surprises are only surprises when the protagonist has expectations, and Fizter never does. 

The result leaves one with a "Oh, gee, really?" kind of feeling. Sure, it makes sense, but so what? It also means Fizter doesn't grow as a character. He's just along for the ride. Fortunately, it is an entertaining ride except for a few conversations that run too long as Scalzi leans a bit too hard on some laugh tracks — the negotiations with super smart dolphins that want to unionize included. Don't get me wrong. They are funny. But it would have been more amusing with fewer pages. 

The banter between the supervillain club and what Fizter's uncle did or should have done or whatever was also drawn out a bit much. The net sum of it made the story a bit passive in its telling, relying on the concept of inheriting a supervillain to keep everything going (which it does). It might have been nicer had Fister embraced the job more before having the rug pulled out from under him again. 

While not as compelling as some of Scalzi's other work, Stater Villian is still worth its lighting speed read. And even if it is a bit difficult to endear oneself to Fizter, there are some potent characters most readers will like, chiefly Morrison and, of course, any character who is a cat. Personally (and unfortunately), I'm allergic to cats (even if they do like me) — but Scalzi's love for them is contagious enough that you might want to adopt a few before the book is done.

The Paris Library has plenty to offer as a historical novel. It's based on the true World War II story of the heroic librarians at the American Library in Paris, with ample amounts of romance, friendship, and books. I loved the concept. 

What it doesn't always have is the tension one might expect in any book with book-burning Nazis invading Paris. The narration tends to underwhelm the action with an intellectualism that sometimes gets in the way of empathy and emotion. 

Everybody is so proper. It isn't until the end that any feeling of fear or desperation takes hold — and at the hands of the French instead of the Germans — as newly liberated French enact revenge on Nazi sympathizers and benefactors. (Never mind their covert contributions to the resistance.) Even then, the savagery feels restrained and removed. 

For some readers, the heartwarming aspect of the book will undoubtedly make up for the tension. So will many of the elements Skeslien Charles pulled from her research. The authenticity rings true because so much of the novel is true as our young heroine packs books to send to British and Jewish colleagues in apparent defiance of the Nazi's occupation.

Alongside young Parisian Odile Souchet, the author shares a second less interesting story that centers around Lily Jacobsen, a seventh-grader who lives next door to Odile in Montana some four decades later. Lily is a bit boorish, but we keep reading to learn how Odile found herself there. Skeslien Charles also alternates the narratives, helping us bridge the two timeframes — even when we would rather find ourselves in the 1940s. 

The point of toggling between the two is an attempt to draw unlikely similarities between Odile and a conventional, small-town teenager. Lily is mostly there to make wild accusations and learn a life lesson or two about how to treat friends — something Odile did in France with much higher stakes and consequences. Although, once again, other than food rationing and turnips, the novel never really makes anything feel much like a hardship, making it interesting but firmly grounded in how we shape relationships rather than the period. As a World War II story, this was one of the weakest. But I don't ultimately think of it as one. 

Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows is exactly what one expects. It's a high-crime fantasy adventure featuring Kaz Brekker, a brilliant but ruthless conman and his crew. I've been meaning to pick it up for a while now, after watching Shadow and Bones on Netflix. 

Six of Crows follows the events of the Grisha trilogy (Shadow and Bones), so it naturally follows whether you've read the books or seen the series. The crew consists of everyone introduced as working for Kaz in the series: Inej, Jesper, and Nina. The four also have a shakey bond with Matthias also joins the team after they break him out of prison. 

All of the characters are cleverly wrought, which is one of the reasons Bardugo's books are so enjoyable. Although Kaz is arguably the lead protagonist, she shares each of their perspectives to create a vivid picture of events — which is especially important as the characters often go their own ways or share unique perspectives that contradict their comrades. It is helpful to know these characters before reading the book (whether you read the other series or watch the show). It will help. 

The story is a straightforward caper of sorts. The Merchant Council hires Kaz to retrieve a high-value target from the clutches of the Fjerdan Ice Court. There is a small fortune to be made. To make matters more interesting, readers aren't always sure of Kaz's secondary priorities, Matthias' loyalty, or what kind of defenses the Fjerdan Ice Court will throw in their way. (The Ice Court is rumored to be impenetrable, of course.) The Fjerdan are also not fans of Grisha, those who possess magical abilities a.k.a. small sciences — which make Jesper and Nina vulnerable.

The book earns its five stars for nonstop action and entertainment. There are ambushes and escapes, romances and betrayals, and plenty of hidden agendas. All of which amounts to keeping readers off balance and convincing them that everything could collapse at any given time. The read also makes a compelling case to keep up with Kaz and his crew for other adventures for anyone taken by this genre. Bardugo knows how to own it as an author. It's thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. 

Whether you subscribe to the notion that Kafka is writing about bureaucracy or religion, which possesses its own bureaucratic tendencies, The Trial is vexing in its ability to keep a reader's attention without sharing anything, or perhaps more correctly, it shares everything about something explicitly simple. I tend to lean toward the latter view with the caveat that Kafka didn't finish this novel. It was completed by his editor, Max Brod. 

The story is about Joseph K., a respectable bank clerk, who is arrested by two unidentified agents from an unspecified agency for an unspecified crime on his thirtieth birthday. He has no inclination of what he has done wrong, leading some readers to suggest he is dealing with the complexity of original sin as he and everyone on trial are presumed guilty, and even acquittals cannot be proven. 

As a painter puts it: "Only the highest judge can [acquit], in the court that's quite out of reach for you, for me and for all of us. We don't know how things look there, and incidentally, we don't want to know. The right to acquit people is a major privilege, and our judges don't have it."  

Then again, I don't see Joseph K. as innocent as he professes. His landlady mentions his immoral relationship with his neighbor Fräulein Bürstner. And, as the novel progresses, Joseph K. uses women and their attraction to him to further his ambitions without remorse. While he doesn't see the connection, his standing with the court suffers. 

Personally, I was especially taken by Joseph K. meeting with a priest near the end of the story. The priest provides a key to understanding that the court is operating with the writing about The Law, which is simple but subject to many, and often incorrect, interruptions. The tale the priest shares suggests that, once again, Joseph K.'s impatience is similar to a man from the country who tries to gain admittance at an entrance to the Law, but is always denied by the doorkeeper. As he dies, he learns that the entrance denied to him was meant only for him, and possibly his impatience to enter kept him from entering. 

The parable of the entrance to the Law hints at the relationship between the citizen and the Law, much like man's relationship to heaven. It is not the gatekeeper who has power over the proceedings, but the attempted manipulation of the gatekeeper or impatience on the part of a citizen trying to gain entrance when it is not his time, that could further diminish his standing with the court. "...it is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must only accept it as necessary." Indeed.

Readers picking up the novel should recognize it's an intellectual read, without a clear plot and an abrupt, likely purposeful end. There are also times in the novel that I was convinced that Joseph K. Was in purgatory or limbo, with any diminishing attachment to his real life fading away as the novel progresses (just as other arrestees talk about in their lives). As such, especially as one is presumed guilty, one wonders about the merits of postponement over damnation.  

A Rage in Harlem is a classic and still remarkably relevant. It's a story about Harlem, cons, and delusional love — one part hard-boiled and one part crime comedy. 

Our unassuming "square" and ill-fated protagonist, Jackson, is drawn into intrigue when his girlfriend Imabelle introduces him to a man who can turn $10 bills into $100 bills. When the stove explodes during the process, everyone flees the scene except Jackson, who is blackmailed by a police officer to come up with some cash or face an arrest. 

Since all of his money supposedly blew up in the cooking of Franklins, Jackson decides to borrow some cash from his boss and, later, the Hersh they use for their funeral business. At a loss for what to do, Jackson eventually enlists his twin brother who masquerades as a nun, collecting charity to be used as a means to feed his appreciation for drugs. 

As the two attempts to unravel the scam — including the theft of Imabelle's so-called chest of gold ore, Himes introduces readers to various hoodlums, religious leaders, madams, and other characters. What makes the book so brilliantly addictive is Himes writes with a wit that is underpinned by anger over the grim, relentless poverty, and desperation that epitomized Harlem and some other Black communities at the time, making it an excellent primer for social injustice as well as an entertaining and brisk read. 

Delightly surprising. Marco Cavazos proves to be as addictive with prose as he is with poetry in a Hotel California-esque story about a writer who can't remember checking into a hotel and isn't allowed to check out. 

That's not to say the devil (despite the unseen host being named Mr. Delivan) is truly behind the protagonist's entrapment (or maybe he is). On the contrary, the surreal story is set in a hotel supposedly designed by Andy Warhol with equal parts enticement and annoyance. (The main character's hotel room lacks a bathroom, and staff will serve him whiskey but not water.) 

Most of the story is consumed with the hero trying to explore the hotel and understand all of its oddities and colorful cast of other guests. Cavazos gives up just enough to let his readers fill in the blanks, seeing it for what it is — a place in between two realities with an absurd blending of rules. I found it an enjoyable farse of artistry — certainly fresh, original, and intellectually funny. 

Some readers might quibble with the front and end. It takes an extra minute to become consumed by the story as Cavazos begins with an editorial riff about the book's title. I'm not sure that particular darling was even needed to hook us in before the hotel's unique characteristics are laid bare (an orgy floor, smoker's garden, ocean-water rooftop pool, and build-it-yourself ice cream bar with coconut shell bowls). 

The end comes crashing down like a punchline filled with bricks — as if the author grew weary of letting his readers figure it out and said: Okay, fine. Here you go. Sort of. The wrap-up spells it all out, except for any additional metaphorical or allegorical musings that a reader wants to lend it. 

And yet, overall, Naked Gulls deserves its five stars for being different. This tiny novel is ideal for anybody who wants to read something fresh and enjoys people like Warhol, Kafka, and other artists who won't conform to the so-called rules of reality.

This Tender Land by William Kent Krueger touched me in some surprising ways — both as someone who is part Native American and as someone who lived in Minnesota, having even been to some of the places the story takes us in person. At its heart, This Tender Land resurrects and updates the stories of Tom Sawyer and Huck Fynn with a new cast along a new river. 

Krueger also adds an uncomfortable element of U.S. history to the mix, starting the story at the Lincoln Indian Training School, one of 20+ such schools in Minnesota tasked with the prospect of removing the Native from the Native Americans. The practice, which was even more prevalent in Canada, began as voluntary until policy changes made it much more aggressive in some areas — transforming its original purpose into forced assimilation. 

Not all of the children in Krueger's story are Native American. Two principal characters, Odie and his brother Albert, are among the 200,000 orphans created during the Great Depression. They are added to the school's roster as a misguided act of good faith. The person who sent them here had no idea the treatment they would be asked to endure. 

As a result, the boys — along with two others who are Sioux — flee the school and head toward the mighty Mississippi. They run into a litany of different people attempting to survive one of the most challenging periods in the history of the United States. Well crafted and memorable, the story sets one adrift in a time and place where vagabonds, faith healers, and shanty towns still existed. 

Life After Life left me with decidedly mixed feelings. The premise was so seductive; some scenes are remarkably vivid and unforgettable; and yet the execution of it all left me wanting something more. 

Life After Life is the story of Ursula Todd. She is a woman who is given a glimmer of all the lives — parallel paths through the universe — she will ever live, with the bulk of her experiences played out between 1910 and 1970 or so. She lives. She dies. She lives again. Sometimes her experiences last only a moment — dying at birth. Other times, she lives a long life to its fullest. Sometimes she is under the radar. And sometimes, she stands in the face of a world-altering moment. 

It's the kind of premise that many writers have experimented with, myself included, with varied degrees of success. And in Life After Life, so much of the work feels the same way. It hits with varied degrees of success, largely because Atkinson is such a splendid writer. 

It's easy to get lost in the English countryside. It's gut-wrenching to follow her into bomb shelters (on both sides of the North Sea). It's compelling to find her in the same room with Eva Braun and Hitler. There is so much to love about the book, that it's difficult to give it only three stars. 

The challenge resides in what it is about. Even Atkinson herself didn't know until settling that it's about an English character or being English. I can live with that because it definitely conveys it. For many readers (but not all, certainly), a quality standing in for a plot might be a hard thing to bear as Life After Life often feels rudderless and unstructured. Even when you enjoy it, it's easy to get lost. 

And getting lost, which occasionally happens, sometimes makes it more difficult to pick it up again. Sure, you know it will be good, but so what? Where is it going and can you remember what happened before? And even if you do, will Atkinson pull the rug out from under you and start over? She absolutely will, and sometimes what is inserted in between her best work are members that feel overtly inconsequential. 

Maybe I'll feel differently when I get around to watching the series. Maybe I won't. But even so, I'm glad I read the book that I sometimes loved and sometimes loathed, if for no other reason than to take in such a fine writer's prose. I learned a little something from it, even if I didn't set out to.