After something of a hiatus (sorry, dear reader), we’re back with postcard number 13 – lucky for some, but apparently not for this poor disillusioned reviewer, who clearly feels about as thrilled by this novel as a reclusive Scrooge with a headache at the annual office Christmas party.
To be honest, I can see their point. Perry Mason novels are hardly lauded for their depth of character and literary genius. A Booker winner this is not. Wooden dialogue and crude character development are unquestionably the order of the day.
But isn’t that the point – just a little bit? Crime fiction – that old hard-boiled American detective novel – takes its stylistic heritage from 1920s pulp fiction – which offered mass-produced, cheap and affordable fiction to Britain and the US for the first time. Unrealistic, poorly-written, sexist and stereotypical? Sure.
But a bit of a guilty pleasure? …I’ll leave that up to you.