The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr

One of the more spectacular episodes in the life of Mary, Queen of Scots was the murder of her Italian “secretary,” David Rizzio, (who more was a musician and companion) by a group of nobles, led by Lord Darnley. They burst in on Mary and Rizzio, dragged out Rizzio, and stabbed him to death (stabbing him over fifty times). Darnley himself was later killed in mysterious fashion. If you tour Holyroodhouse, the royal residence in Edinburgh, and site of Rizzio’s murder, the tour guides will tell you all about it.

This grisly historical incident forms the background to Caleb Carr’s Sherlock Holmes novel, The Italian Secretary. Two men are killed at Holyroodhouse, stabbed over fifty times. Mycroft Holmes, working for the Queen, calls in Sherlock and Doctor Watson to look into the case. Holmes and Watson travel to Edinburgh to sort through what at first appears to be political intrigue but which they soon discover has a much tawdrier source.

The novel has a number of good moments. Carr does a credible job with the characters of Holmes and Watson, who are believable and interesting in his hands. The setting is well done – one gets a feel for the gloom of the western tower of Holyroodhouse as it must have been more than a century ago, before it became quite the tourist destination that it is today. He also does a good job of painting the historical background, such that it hangs over all the actions in the novel.

The story itself is interesting enough, with several misdirections and a number of tense moments. Holmes’s methodology is interesting, as always, and the mystery is enough to sustain the story most of the way, though by about two-thirds of the way through, it’s pretty apparent how it’s all going to end. So, in the end, it remains an enjoyable enough novel, but one that also feels like it is less than it ought to be. The paperback is 320 pages long, and the story really doesn’t merit that. It would probably have packed more punch as a 125-page short novel, but unfortunately there really isn’t a market for that sort of thing these days, so, even hard Carr wanted to keep it to that length, he probably couldn’t have.

The last few pages – where Watson seems to see a ghost – also seem a bit out of place (and don’t really fit the feel of a Sherlock Holmes story, despite Arthur Conan Doyle’s personal obsession with spiritualism later in his life). Moreover, the story is over at this point, and this is just a coda of sorts. It could also have been better left out.

It’s worth reading if you have a few hours to spare and you’re a Holmes fan, though there are better recent Holmes novels.

The Prestige by Christopher Priest

Some people – especially, I suspect, those who don’t read widely – like to talk about the dichotomy between “literary fiction” and “popular fiction,” between books that value style and those that are page turners, between, let’s say, James Joyce and Tom Clancy, or, in the SF world, between John Crowley and Robert Heinlein. But this ignores the fact that many good novels can be both very well written, in style where the writing is part of the impact, and at the same time be exciting page turners. (And this also of course ignore the fact that, while Joyce’s Ulysses isn’t a page turner in the sense of wanting to rush through to see what happens next, it is compulsive reading, at least once you know what Joyce is trying to do and where he’s heading. But I digress.) To be fair, part of the reason for this apparent dichotomy is that you often use different reading protocols for books at opposite ends of this spectrum. For books where the style is important, most readers slow down, to absorb and enjoy the writing. For page turners, the temptation is at times to skip over words, moving rapidly ahead to find out what happens. But there are many books in which you’re pulled both ways. Christopher Priest’s The Prestigeis a great example.

The Prestige centers around the story of two stage magicians in the late 1800s – Alfred Borden and Rupert Angier. In fact, the book is told through their journals, and through the journals of two of their descendents, living in our time. The two men are rivals, a rivalry which starts when Borden, discovering that Angier is making money as a spiritualist, tries to expose him. The two men’s careers are then spotted with attempts by one another to expose or sabotage what the other is doing, sometimes in dangerous fashion. At the same time, the rivalry drives each to develop new and more elaborate acts. Both men want to end the rivalry, as both come to feel that it is wrong, but neither knows how to end it.

Priest’s use of the journals of the two men as the core of the book (with the journals of the two descendents as a more modern frame) adds to the effect by giving us each man’s point of view of what is going on, though it also causes us to doubt, at times, the truth of what we’re being told. We first, of the two, see things from Borden’s point of view, and sympathize with him. He did indeed sabotage Angier’s séance. But he was doing it because he believed that it was breaking the implicit bond between the illusionist and his audience, the traditional magician’s view that the illusionist doesn’t claim magical powers, that he and the audience know, deep down, that all is an illusion. But in thinking of what he saw in the séance, he becomes convinced that it did comfort the family, so he writes a note of apology, which Angier ignores. At this point, we’re convinced that Angier is a young upstart, who doesn’t respect tradition, and who stubbornly carries on a feud over what is really a trifle.

But the picture changes when we look at it from Angier’s point of view. He is a young struggling magician when we first meet him, not the arrogant young man Borden views him as. Séance’s are a way to stay afloat and to provide for the baby that is on the way. Borden’s exposure of his séance not only destroys the séance but causes Angier’s wife to miscarriage – hence Angier’s angry response. Priest explores Angier in more depth than any of this other characters; far more of the book is told from Angier’s journals than those of any of the other characters, and, while we feel that Angier is honest with us, we do see things from his point of view and come to like him. He means well – but of course the tragedy of the feud is so, in his way, does Borden. Neither man is a villain, even if at times each views the other as one.

Much of the story follows the careers of the two men. The behind the scenes look at stage magicians – how they work, how they interact their view of the world – is fascinating. Priest has done his research (in part, apparently, in alt.magic on Usenet). This immersion into the world of magic in the 19^th century is both compelling and essential to the grounding of the story. Little touches – the ways the magicians name their illusions, the vocabulary of the stage, the way stages are set up for the show, even the way magicians phrase help-wanted ads – make this a well realized world. The novel, even when it takes a turn toward the fantastic, is soundly grounded in realism. And it does take a turn toward the fantastic when Angier, desperate to find a way to better Borden’s “New Transported Man” illusion, travels to America to visit Tesla, who at the time has a laboratory outside of Colorado Springs (though hints of what is going to happen here are present earlier in the story, since some parts of the story are told out of order).

This is a wonderful novel. It won the World Fantasy award, and is soon to be a motion picture starring Hugh Jackman as Angier, Chritian Bale as Borden and David Bowie as Tesla. I’m very much looking forward to the movie.

The Illusionist

In movies that involve stage magic, it’s difficult to make the magic compelling. After all, it’s a movie, and any illusion can be conjured up using special effects, with no need of the real magic of the stage. But part of the magic of The Illusionist is that it does make it’s stage magic compelling. The power comes not from the “trick” (since they are movie effects, not stage illusions), but by everything else related to them. The illusionist tricks – bringing an orange tree to life, having butterflies carry a banner, and so on – are beautiful and compelling, even as we know they are cinematic effects. In fact, that’s part of the game The Illusionist is playing with us – making us fall for the cinematic trick, even as we know it’s a trick (which after all, in its own venue, is what stage magic does). But the power also comes from what surrounds the illusions – the great buildup and introduction that leads to the illusions.

The preceding paragraph describes only a small part of the movie, the parts set on the stage. But, with little change, it can also describe the movie itself. It’s all a beautifully staged illusion, with great build up, remarkable misdirection, marvelous execution, and a conclusion that brings applause and delight, even as we figure out all the tricks involved – tricks that rely on the true craft of movies. It’s a marvelous little film, one of the best I’ve seen in a while.

The film is set in the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the early 20^th century. It is told, partially in flashback, by Chief Inspector Uhl, played by Paul Giamatti, an actor who over the past few years is finally getting some of the attention he deserves. He is interested in finding out how magic tricks work, and uses the same enthusiasm in unconvering the story of Eisenheim the Illusionist. Eisenheim (under a different name at the time) was a young peasant boy who had fallen in love with the daughter of a noble woman (Sophie) and she with him. The authorities force them apart, and Eisenheim leaves, deciding to pursue his interest in magic. He returns to Vienna as a remarkable stage magician, and finds that Sophie is now betrothed to the crown prince. The crown prince himself is set on penetrating Eisenheim’s secrets, and later, because of Eisenheim’s insolence, at stopping him.

I won’t give away more of the story, since in a movie of this sort much of the true delight – at least at first viewing – is in watching unwind and reveal its secrets. We, as audience, along with Inspector Uhl, are astounded and delighted at what we see.

Eisenheim is masterfully portrayed by Edward Norton, a very actor who I wish would do more movies. He creates an Eisenheim who restrained and mysterious, yet every so often seemingly on the verge of doing something just a bit over the line. It’s an understated performance. He doesn’t win us over by being frenetic, but instead by being controlled and quiet. Yet, throughout, we root for him. Strangely enough, we also cheer for Uhl, even though he is often Eisenheim’s adversary in the film, for we know the true villain is the crown prince, and that Uhl, deep down, is honorable and really wants to find the truth.

Philip Glass’s masterful soundtrack adds to the tone of the film, which, like much of Glass’s work, is hypnotic in parts and fits the film so very well. Likewise, the cinematography, sets, and costumes – all leaning toward again subdued tans and browns – supports both the atmosphere of the period as well as giving it the feel of an older movie.

This is the first of several movies involving stage magic that are due out soon. The Prestige, based on the Christopher Priest novel, is due out in October. I hope it’s as good as The Illusionist.

To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis

There are connections between books. Some are very explicit, as in this case where Connie Willis takes the subtitle of Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat as the title of her novel. Some are less overt, but are simply small connections that make the reader want to go out and read another book after finishing the one in hand. I’d first read To Say Nothing of the Dog when it was first released in 1997. After reading it, I immediately re-reread all Dorothy Sayers’s Peter Whimsy novels, since they are mentioned quite a few times in this book. This time, I first read Three Men in a Boat, and then went on to read To Say Nothing of the Dog. And now I may read a few of Agatha Christie’s Poirot novels (also mentioned a number of times in this book).

To Say Nothing of the Dog is set in the same universe as The Doomsday Book, a universe in which time travel is possible and investigators are sent back in time to learn more of the past. There are rules, though. The “web” protects history, prevents changes in history, and in fact causes things to readjust if the investigators do the wrong thing. Safeguards even prevent investigators from getting too close to historical pivot points, where small actions could have big effects.

However, To Say Nothing of the Dog is very different in tone from The Doomsday Book. It’s full of humor and manners (though with more of a serious plot than Jerome’s book). Lady Shrapnel is investing billions in restoring Coventry Cathedral, destroyed by the Nazis in World War II. She is overbearing and demanding, and has much of the time service tracking down missing bits she needs. In particular, several agents are looking for the Bishop’s bird stump (sort of a large, tacky, ugly metal flower vase). Ned, the main character, is being particularly hassled by Lady Shrapnel, and has made so many time jumps that he has severe time lag. His doctor recommends rest and relaxation (and hiding from Lady Shrapnel) and what better place for that than Victorian England, along the Thames.

At the same time, though, another time agent, Verity, has done what should have been impossible. She’s saved a cat from drowning and brought it back to the future. Ned must bring it back and set history right. From here, we have a novel that moves from one amusing segment to the next, as Ned and Verity try to re-connect two sets of young people who were supposed to marry, and encounter several very eccentric Oxford professors, crooked spiritualists, a butler who reads philosophy and books on the rights of man and who is as smart as Jeeves, and various flakey members of the upper class. Ned and friend (to say nothing of the friend’s dog) travel on the river and even pass Jerome K. Jerome, Harris, and George (to say nothing of the dog). Like Three Men in a Boat, much of this book is hard to review, since so much of what makes it so charming are the many incidents and character interactions that make you want to go back and say “and remember where …”

Though, unlike the Jerome book, which has no overarching plot beyond the simple river journey, To Say Nothing of the Dog has a very elaborate, very structured, very detailed plot underlying all these events. (As Lady Shrapnel would say, “God is in the details.”) Willis does a masterful job of pulling many seemingly unconnected things together by books end. She dedicates the book to Heinlein’s Have Space Suit, Will Travel¸ since that book also pointed her to Three Men in a Boat. But the dedication is also appropriate because this book – like several great Heinlein stories – is a very intricately worked out time travel story, one in which a number of events and paradoxes are all tied neatly together come book’s end.

Being able to combine such an intricate time travel plot with a Three-Men-in-a-Boat-style comedic travelogue (not to mention throwing in bits of 1930s mystery novels) is quite an accomplishment. It enable the book on one hand to be compulsive good fun ala Jerome or Wodehouse, but at the same time be serious, well though out SF novel, and to be worth rereading for both of these aspects.

Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome

Like many SF fans, I first discovered Three Men in a Boat after reading Robert Heinlein’s Have Space Suit, Will Travel. In that book, the main character’s father is rereading it (apparently something he does often) and mentions he’s coming to the scene where they have to open the tin of pineapple. For years, before I actually went out and found the book, I thought it was a travelogue about three men trying to survive on a boat trip, full of practical survival information, since that seemed like something the father would like. It was only several years later, when I finally tracked down the book, that I discovered that it was actually one of the funniest books you’ll find.

It’s hard to ignore the temptation that hits most reviewers of Three Men in a Boat to simply begin citing their favorite scenes. There are so many of them – opening the tin, Harris in the maze at Hampton Court, Harris trying to sing, transporting the cheese by train, etc. For anyone who is read the book, mention of even this much will bring on a smile, while probably sampling puzzling readers who have not. But it’s a difficult book to review, precisely because what makes it wonderful is this series of incidents and anecdotes, some of which happen on the course of the trip the book chronicles, some of which are simply digressions by the narrator.

As the book starts, Jerome (who tells it in first person, and who the others simply call J) starts by telling us about his being a hypochondriac. He reads a medical book and becomes convinced that he has all but one of the diseases mentioned (and feels somehow something is wrong that he missed that one). On taking this to the doctor, the doctor recommends relaxation, so J decides on a boat trip up the Thames. He brings along this two friends, George and Harris, as well as his dog. Montmorency. (The book’s subtitle is “To Say Nothing of the Dog,” a title that Connie Willis fans will be familiar with.) The book chronicles that journey.

Jerome narrates in a rather understated style, which adds to the humor. Take, for example, the story of the opening of the tin. They have forgotten to bring an opener, and try to use various implements to open the tin:

Then we all got mad. We took the tin out on the bank, and Harris went up into a field and got a big sharp stone, and I went back into the boat and brought out the mast, and George held the tine and Harris held the sharp end of his stone against the top of it, and I took the mast and poised it high up in the air, and gathered up all my strength and brought it down.

It was George’s straw hat that saved his life that day. …

The humor is also enhanced in that these aren’t cartoon characters. They are real people. We all now people like them (and in some cases share characteristics with them). Take for example, Jerome’s digression about his Uncle Podger, who has the whole house working all day for a small task he can handle himself. He is going to hang a picture, and tells everyone he can do it himself, not help needed. He then sends people off to find tools, nails, etc., then has them hold various things, help him find what he misplaces (and calls them foolish when they don’t see he’s sitting on it), needs them to patch up his wounds and his mistakes, etc. We’ve all known people like this (though maybe not quite to Uncle Podger’s extreme). Like many great comedies, it has us laughing as we also think of those we know this applies to. And we all know our Harrises and Georges and Jays.

This is a wonderful book, and I now re-read it every few years. It’s also great to re-read just before re-reading Willis’s To Say Nothing of the Dog, which I did this time, and which I’ll review next.