Ahhhah, now this one is right on the knuckle for my ongoing research. Relationships, mental health, the law, professional boundaries … it’s all there. Settle down for the long haul … glass of wine, top notch chocolate, notebook at the ready …
It’s a psychological thriller: Plea of Insanity by Jilliane Hoffman. Full of fascinating medical and legal information. At once spine chilling and yet sympathetic to those suffering serious mental illness. Cliff hangers at the end of each chapter. Brilliant. Hoffman was an Assistant State Attorney herself and has advised special agents on complex investigations. She also had a friend caught up in a similar situation to the protagonist in Plea of Insanity. She writes with real authority.
First then, the storyline. Dr David Marquette is a successful surgeon with a dream house, pretty wife and three gorgeous kids. Then one day, emergency services take a tremulous call from their house: a child’s voice pleading for help. The police race to the scene. What do they find? A shocking bloodbath. Scenes so horrific that veteran officers are reduced to sobbing wrecks. All three kiddies and their mother brutally butchered; the doctor seriously wounded.
And now Dr Marquette himself stands accused. Is he guilty? Could a man who has dedicated his life to caring for patients be capable of such brutality? Could any sane man kill his entire family in cold blood? But is he sane? If so, he must be a monster. Or is he suffering from schizophrenia? I changed my mind several times as to his guilt or innocence – all part of the mesmerizing experience.
State prosecutor, Julia Valenciano, is hand-picked to unravel the truth and bring this man to justice, but as she delves into the mind of the criminally insane, personal baggage emerges from her own past, dark secrets from her family history that will destroy her present peace and haunt her whole future. ‘Too many lies told to too many people, too many secrets kept for too many years …’ If I’m being really nitpicky, I found the parallels a bit too contrived, but that doesn’t stop it being a cracking good read.
And it’s set my mind racing along several productive tracks for my own next book. As so often I’m hugely grateful to all these authors whose work inspires and influences me. Thanks, guys.
Why do some books instantly capture the imagination of millions, fly off the shelves, become the talking point of after-dinner conversation and train travel, feature largely on chat shows and book festivals? Is it even possible to analyse and quantify the magic that makes them so appealing? To predict which manuscripts will go on to become mega-bestsellers?
Well, Archer and Jockers claim to have done exactly that. Archer and Jockers? Me neither.
They’re the authors of a new book out this week: The Bestseller Code. (Sounds vaguely Dan Brownish, doesn’t it?) Their bestseller-ometer was fine-tuned on over 20,000 contemporary novels, analyzing themes, plot, character, setting, and style; using an algorithm alleged to be right about 80% of the time. OK, I’m listening. So what are the secret ingredients of success? Become a journalist before you write your first book; focus on just two or three issues, no more; include at least one close human relationship; maintain a roller-coaster of emotions; use very active verbs … Sounding familiar?
But a predictor of success? Really?
Hang on a minute, though, isn’t this exactly what any writer wants? A winning recipe, a DIY measuring kit, a ticket to stardom. Or … well … no … on reflection … isn’t it want any publisher wants? A commercial shortcut to selection.
Before you start getting excited about the possibilities, though, it has to be said that reviews to date have been lukewarm to say the least. A ‘fascinating but ultimately futile use of multi-variate analysis‘ about sums it up.
Well, I guess it depends what you’re trying to do. And in fairness the authors don’t claim this tool identifies good books, just popular ones. Big difference. If your sole aim is to be another Danielle Steel or John Grisham or Gillian Flynn, then maybe there’s mileage in studying the list of factors that send those peaks soaring on the graph of readers’ engagement. But thankfully, lots of authors have higher aims. And good literature is based on more than commercial success. Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code and EL James’ Fifty Shades of Grey consistently featured in the analysis of Archers and Jockers as exemplars, but neither of these books is generally rated as a good book in the literary sense. Nor does either make the world a better place. Nor encourage quiet reflective thinking and empathy with people struggling with life’s big dilemmas.
As a writer myself, I’d be lying if I said I had no ambition to sell more of my own books – don’t we all? – but not at the expense of my principles; my reason for writing them in the first place. I just have to accept that my preferred subject areas and modus operandi are
most unlikely not going to appeal to the masses. And try to be glad for those writers who do make the big time with or without the bestseller-ometer.
Fresh from the Edinburgh Festivals, I’m feeling overawed by the enormous breadth of talent I’ve been exposed to lately. So it seems appropriate to home in on another aspect of human endeavour currently impressing me greatly: the skill that goes into creating a well-crafted thriller. I could select any of the books I’ve just read but I’ll take the last one – which happens to be the meatiest!
When I first selected The Winner by David Baldacci off my shelves I confess I was very inclined to return it rapidly. 565 pages … hmmm! And the layout is strangely off-putting. How glad I am that my conscience made me resist that temptation and give the book a fair crack of the whip. Almost 600 pages it might be but not one of them is surplus to requirement. Not for a second did I lose interest or skim a page. Coffees went cold, meals were late, bedtime extended way past a sensible hour. The pace, the tension, never slacken – totally gripping throughout. Why?
Well, let’s look at why.
- The protagonists are believable and well-rounded, their true characters emerging gradually as the story unravels. And they are multi-faceted, with strengths and weaknesses, attributes and flaws, appeal and unlikeable traits. So, LuAnn Tyler is a dirt-poor young woman shacked up in a down-at-heel trailer with an unskilled, unemployed drunk, Duane Harvey, who unbeknownst to her is dabbling in drugs. They have a baby daughter, Lisa, whom LuAnn adores and would give her life for. She’s a brilliant mother. She’s also very beautiful. Jackson on the other hand is a cunning manipulator with a brilliant mind, no scruples and no moral code. He is a master of disguise who has the power to infiltrate any world he chooses, and such is his reach that we start to suspect every new character and startle at every sudden appearance, fearing his malevolent influence.
- The motives of the main characters are mixed, complex and intriguing; nothing stereotypical here. So, for example, LuAnn’s conscience baulks at being involved in anything illegal but when she finds the father of her child dying and she herself has hit – probably fatally – Duane’s murderer, she realises she’s in a hopeless situation: if she does the right thing she’ll be clapped in jail and her baby girl will be taken away from her. For Lisa’s sake she must accept Jackson’s dubious offer. And even when she becomes enormously wealthy, her conscience dictates she must pay back to society in some way. But when the final challenge comes she’s not averse to capitalising on the proceeds of crime.
- We’re rightly wary of Jackson from the outset, but Baldacci ratchets up the tension by continually, incrementally, broadening the range of the man’s evil. We learn more and more about his modus operandi until we are fascinated by his ingenuity, fearfully anticipating his next devious move, and seeing him behind every shadow. Even though we actually learn his true identity on page 481, there is still no end to the depths to which he will sink to protect himself and his schemes, and we live in a state of high alert dreading what’s to come.
- On the other hand, the novel appeals to our better nature too. Flawed though LuAnn undoubtedly is, we want to see her win through in the end. She engenders sympathy and devotion in the people she meets: Charlie leaves behind his shady past and becomes her staunchest ally; Matthew Riggs forsakes his anonymity and quiet life to protect her. And LuAnn’s trust once gained becomes a precious commodity. We too care about her welfare.
- The plotting is so assured and clever that the improbable seems believable. The depiction of national security issues, the detail of each disguise, each manouevre, each scheme, each flight from retribution as the characters fight for supremacy or justice, keep the reader riveted and the pages simply fly by.
- The pace never flags. No saggy middle, no anticlimax, here.
- The story line is far-reaching and challenging, involving matters of international security, government shenanigans, personal crusades. Your imagination goes into over-drive wondering, what if …?
I could go on, but enough for now. Baldacci inhabits his characters brilliantly. He inspires a horrifying blend of reactions – unexpected empathy, dread, subtle identification, revulsion. And we have to ask ourselves, in LuAnn’s situation, what would I have done? Would I have her devotion, her courage, her determination? Would my priorities have been hers? Would I commit a crime for the greater good of those I love? Charlie and Matthew are convinced anyone would have done exactly what she did; now I know LuAnn, I have to ask again: Would I?
What I DO know is I’d love to be able to write with Baldacci’s assurance and cleverness. He totally deserves the lavish praise of the critics.
PS. I found one tiny flaw: a mistake in the name on p524! One of the hazards of using the same initial for two main characters I suspect. It surprised me though, given the stature of the author and its professional production and the number of eyes that must have checked this book.
Well, the 2016 Festivals certainly ended in fine style on Monday with a few thousand pounds worth of fireworks exploding spectacularly over Edinburgh Castle on a still dark night perfect for purpose.
Now the millions of flyers and posters are being swept from the streets; the artistes have left the city’s hotels and guest houses; mysterious venues become their alter egos again; the buses return to running on time; the air in Princes Street is no longer riven with native American music; the good people of Edinburgh heave a collective sigh of relief.
As you know, I’ve enjoyed dipping into the huge diversity of amazing opportunities available in this magical city. But now it’s time to knuckle down to some serious work.
Back to the masterclass in thriller-writing I spoke about last week. My attention has turned to analysing other new-to-me authors’ work: Heart Collector by Jacques Vandroux, The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins; The Winner by David Baldacci.
All helpful in reinforcing the essential elements I outlined last week, but also in highlighting things that don’t work for me:
Names which sound/look very similar; characteristics which are too similar. When you have a cast of many, it’s hard to hold them all in your head. Distinctive attributes help to keep them sharply defined.
Too many foreign place names.
Knowing too much too soon – reduces the tension too early.
Too many dates and flashbacks that require the reader to flick back and forth, calculating ages and years. A thriller’s meant to be tense, keeping you moving forward searching for answers.
Too many lies from an unreliable narrator; so many that they muddle the brain and the plotline.
But it’s also been comforting to see that the thriller author does not need a degree in jurisprudence! I’m hanging on to that thought at least. So many stories in this genre hinge around police procedures and court wrangles, but there are other ways to approach crimes.
Also I am newly aware that even in the staccato sentences and fast pace and intense action of thrillers, building up a detailed picture of each character over time adds to the reader’s engagement with them.
The more I read the more I’m impressed by the skill behind these books … and the more daunting my own task becomes. I’m forced back to the question: Could I do it? or maybe it’s: Could I do it? Jury’s still out on this one.
It was probably a throwaway suggestion: ‘I think you should make your next book a thriller‘, but it’s stuck in my mind – especially as it came from someone in the book world whose opinion I respect.
Well, OK, I’m prepared to consider it at least. But first I need to understand what’s involved. Would my ideas thus far fit into this genre? Do I have what it takes to master this kind of writing? So I’ve been delving into the theory; what I’d need to do to create a good thriller. To date I’ve identified seven essentials.
1. Use dread and frightening possibilities to drive the story.
2. Make it action-packed from the outset. Maintain urgency and tension (short paragraphs, cliff hangers, surprises, active verbs, each chapter revealing something new, etc etc) throughout. Include confrontation.
3. Make the stakes high. Give the bad guys seemingly justifiable aims too.
4. Keep the reader guessing till the end.
5. Give the protagonists lots of baggage and emotional complexity, something to fight against and triumph over. Make sure they endure plenty of grief and anxiety along the way. Some characters at least shouldn’t be what they seem to be. Avoid stereotypes.
6. Build dramatic tension by means of multiple points of view.
7. Have an unforgettable take-home message/meaning.
OK, some at least of the basics.
I’ve read plenty of thrillers over the years; indeed I’m a big fan of both Harlan Coben and Robert Goddard, but I fancied testing the theory using something new to me … Hmmm, how come I have so many unread thrillers on my shelves? … Right, let’s choose something with rave reviews … an acknowledged masterpiece … and maybe something medical?
Young neurosurgeon Zackery Iverson has left an understaffed, under-resourced hospital and dedicated team of colleagues to return to the place where he grew up, leaving behind a broken relationship and almost all his belongings. His new workplace, the ultramodern rejuvenated regional hospital in Sterling, New Hampshire, is thriving under the leadership of his older brother Frank. State of the art equipment, a growing team of specialists, ultra modern facilities, a veritable ‘juggernaut of technology’. Sounds impressive, but where is the heart?
Zack becomes increasingly concerned about the policies and politics behind the veneer of success. How can the hospital board own so much property? Why are poor patients shipped elsewhere? Why is a very senior doctor claiming harassment and a campaign to get rid of him? Why can a young patient recall events when he should have been anaesthetised during a routine operation? Why is Zach’s new friend and colleague, Suzanne Cole, so alert and bright immediately after her surgery; and why is she behaving erratically now? And why is Zach’s own brother resurrecting childhood rivalries?
Old doubts and insecurities raise their heads. Is Zach being naive and idealistic? Is the cut and thrust of a modern medical ‘business’ simply not for him? Should he have stayed as a champion of the underprivileged and poor?
A growing sense of dread starts to unravel in his head when he’s called in to work with 8 year old Toby Nelms, a boy who’s so disturbed he’s stopped speaking, is having nightmarish flashbacks, and is wasting away. Why is this lad so terrified of hospitals? How does he know about Metzenbaums? – only staff working in an operating theatre would use the word. There can be only one answer: somehow Toby was awake during his surgery for an incarcerated inguinal hernia. But how could he be? And how much of his suspicions dare Zach share with Toby’s desperate mother?
Could some of his colleagues be monsters masquerading as caring physicians and nurses? Is his own brother somehow implicated? Just where do the ethical boundaries begin and end?
Yep, I’d say this fits all of the above criteria. Thrilling! Unputdownable. I’m hooked, reading long after I should be tucked up asleep.
But I note something else important. There are lots of characters and subplots in this story – hard to keep a handle on initially, but gradually they become rounded out and emerge as … the shrewd controlling judge … the anaesthetist with a secret unsavoury history … the cardiologist with an abusive ex-husband and a young daughter … the nanny who has served her family faithfully but is now threatened with a nursing home … the nurse who can be bought … the shallow secretary chosen for her loose morals and voluptuous body. This steady drip of detail from various sources adds greatly to the suspense. You’re left wondering just who is the real baddie in all of this? who else is implicated in some way? Everybody seems to have mixed motives, vulnerabilities and dubious characteristics. And the links between them grow ever more tortuous. A tall order to achieve that level of complex interweaving. Could I manage it? Right at this moment I’m not at all sure I could.
Having a take-home message is less of a problem to me. In this case: how far would any of us go to uphold our personal moral standards? What if it became a question of love and loyalty over rules and systems? Familiar? Yep. My kind of territory.
OK. Let’s try again with another novel, another author … a medical mystery-cum-thriller, Damaged by Pamela Callow. Again stories within stories, lots of intertwined characters with mixed agendas, false trails. A blond dog-walker, a lawyer with a haunting past, an inscrutable judge with a murdered daughter, a rejected policeman … By now I’m hugely impressed by authors who can hold all this together so successfully.
One thing is definitely in my favour. Medicine’s a hotbed of ethical quandaries – that’s why I became a novelist in the first place, of course. All those folders containing ideas and research material amassed over the years? Ideal material for intrigue and mystery and dark deeds.
So, what do I think now? Well, I’m not ruling out a thriller this time around. Indeed I’m already trying to work out some kind of grid that would make my story-line work. But, boy, what an undertaking. I might be gone some time!!
Have you ever discovered that you’ve somehow bought two copies of the same book – neither of which you’ve read? Mea culpa. Twice! Grrrrr. On both occasions I’ve sternly resolved to order my books more carefully … when I get time. But that time never seems to materialise.
So I was mightily impressed by this story I read about recently. In the tenth century, Abdul Kassam Ismael, Grand Vizier of Persia, took his library with him wherever he went so he’d always feel at home. At first I was pretty sceptical – well, how many books were there in those days? But this man had no less than 117,000 titles. It took 400 camels to carry them and would you believe it, these living shelves were trained to march in alphabetical order! Knocks our Dewey Decimal systems into a cocked hat, huh?
Since the Festival is in full swing, I’ve only had space to dip into secondhand bookshops in odd breaks between shows this week, but so far – phew! touch wood – no duplicates among my purchases. No time to read them yet though. Nor to rearrange my shelves. Too busy being a regular Festival-goer with my grandchildren and being challenged and bowled over by other people’s amazing talent – scriptwriters, actors, musicians, dancers, artists. So much cleverness out there. Star of the show so far: Rebecca Dunn with an impeccable eighty minute monologue about her life as Lady Pamela Moore, fashion columnist and secret agent infiltrating the lives of Wallis Simpson and Edward VIII. Fantastic.
And while we’re on the subject of brilliance … Can you get your head around a mind that could conjure up something as stunning as this living sculpture (Jupiter Artland)?
Or these wonderfully evocative weeping girl statues nestling so naturally in woodland (also Jupiter Artland)?
We visited this collection of amazing installations for the second time yesterday and were impressed all over again. Highly recommended.
Wow! Once again, how fortunate am I?
I live just south of the city of Edinburgh, home to the biggest arts festival in the world and in history. For years I’ve been a keen supporter of the International Book Festival. My record of attendance to date is 23 events in 2008 in that famous tented village!
However, since my granddaughters have demonstrated a keen interest in the performance arts, I’ve divided my time between the EIBF and the Fringe, taking in lots of plays, shows and concerts with them. A real treat. So I have a fat wallet full of tickets ready for an exciting couple of weeks this month.
This year’s events began well for me with the Writers in the Fringe event in Blackwell’s Bookshop on the first Thursday in August. Five authors gave us a fifteen minute glimpse into their latest books; entertaining as well as informing. One even put on her own little side-show involving a suitcase and audience participation! Very clever. (Five different authors each Thursday in the month if you’re interested. Oh, and it’s free!)
The Foodie Festival in Inverleith Park was new to me but great fun, offering tastes and experiences well outside my usual comfort zone. Jam made with chocolate as well as fruit? Toffee vodka? Blue cheese oatcakes? Lemongrass chocolate? Marmite popcorn? Frozen passion fruit prosecco? All quite delicious. That was gloriously sunny Saturday – fortunately; the event was closed for its third and last day on Sunday because of the high winds!
Tomorrow evening, I’m off to a beautiful old church in Palmerston Place (creating a grand stage) to see a fab theatre company Saltmine for the third consecutive year. They’re a hugely talented young Christian group who convey powerful moral messages about society in their polished and very artistic performances. This one’s called The Soul in the Machine and tells the story of George Williams, Founder of the YMCA –
“We are more than bodies to be fed to a machine. We are made for more than work. We have souls, we have spirits and somewhere in this dead city there must be a place for those things.”
London, 1844 – Centre of Empire, crucible of the New Jerusalem. Her gutters run with effluent and blood and her skies are choked with the smoke of a hundred factories and foundries, but above the smoke, the stars still shine. George Williams is a country boy who comes to the city to find his place in the world and to make his mark. Appalled by the spirit-crushing rhythms of the Worker’s life he fights to spread the light of God, and create a place where the soul can be nurtured.
I have high hopes.
Next week we begin the serious daily show-hopping, but of course, the streets are also strewn with market stalls and performers strutting their stuff for the millions of tourists cluttering up the city, to the everlasting frustration of the natives who’re simply trying to get on with their ordinary everyday lives.
But living where I do, I have the luxury of escaping the mayhem and sitting in the garden enjoying the peace and fragrance all about me with only the boom of the Red Arrows and the muted-by-distance explosions of the Tattoo fireworks to remind me of the frenzy a few miles away.
As I say, extremely fortunate.
The first time I died, I didn’t see God.
No light at the end of the tunnel. No haloed angels. No dead grandparents.
To be fair, I probably wasn’t a solid shoo-in for heaven. But, honestly, I kind of assumed I’d make the cut.
I didn’t see any fire or brimstone either.
Not even an endless darkness. Nothing.
One moment I was clawing at the ice above, skin numb, limbs burning. Then everything – the ice, the pain, the brightness filtering through the surface of the lake – just vanished. And then I saw the light.
A man in white who was decidedly not God stuck a penlight into each eye, once, twice, and pulled a tube the size of a garden hose from my throat. He spoke like I’d always imagined God would sound, smooth and commanding. But I knew it wasn’t God because we were in a room the color of custard, and I hate custard. Also, I counted no less that five tubes running through me. I didn’t think there’d be that much plastic in heaven.
Delaney Maxwell is 17 when she falls through a frozen lake and is trapped under the ice for eleven minutes; brought out as dead. A friend resuscitates her and somehow miraculously she survives, but she is not the girl she once was. The medical evidence points to brain damage; the lived reality is that she has a heightened awareness for impending death – ‘a knowledge, a sense, a purpose‘. But is her brain predicting the deaths or causing them? Whichever it is, when she responds to this irresistible extra sense pulling at her, she feels a great urge to try to stop the decline/accident/death, to save the person’s life. ‘I’d want to live. I’d want to try.‘
Troy Varga’s attitude is different. He was 19 and driving when he was involved in a terrible road collision in which both parents and his sister died. He ended up in a coma for three days himself; he too recovered against the odds. Like Delaney, he now has a sixth sense for death and even works in an assisted living facility. But he is still haunted by the memory of his sister wanting to be put out of her misery, and his powerlessness to help her. Now he wants to assist people to die, especially those who ‘don’t have the guts to do it themselves. They want to, but they can’t.‘
As you can see, the subject matter is very much in my line of work. Which is why I bought this book, Fractured, by Megan Miranda. I must confess the writing style isn’t really my bag (not her fault) but I did find the thinking behind the story intriguing: If I had the power to influence life and death, which way would I go? And as you know I like a book that challenges me.
Delaney also questions what it is to be human. The frozen lake has taken so much – her friendship with her lifelong pal Decker, her humanity, nearly her life. Her parents have changed because of her. Sometimes she even wonders just how alive she really is. She asks the doctor: ‘What makes me human, then?’ His reply? ‘We are the only species aware of our own mortality. We are the only ones who want to know why we live and why we die.‘ Hmmm.
ALERT! MY LAST COMMENTS CONTAIN SPOILERS
True to her own desire to fight for life, Delaney initially tries to warn people of their impending death and help save them, but the results are problematic and she’s forced to accept that she can’t. What’s more, she comes to realise that death is ‘not the worst thing that could happen‘. Living on in an insentient body, living with a heavy burden of guilt, prolonging pain and indignity, these are a form of entrapment, a version of hell.
Her focus changes to facilitating the best experience during the time that is left.
If you had just one day left, what would you want to do with it, I wonder?
Gone Girl is one of those much-hyped books that hit the headlines big time. OK, OK, I know, I know! I’m way behind the curve here; it did indeed come out in 2012 and I did buy my hardback copy ages ago, but I’ve only just got around to reading it this week. It’s attracted thousands of reviews (with its fair share of negative ones it must be admitted), won prestigious awards, and was dubbed ‘thriller of the year’. In my case I selected it now to serve a dual purpose: to psych myself gradually back into work mode after a couple of weeks of family priorities; and to hopefully counteract a recent run of disappointing reads.
So what did I make of it? Well, I can quite see why it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but my agenda as a writer is probably atypical, and I found it gripping.
The book is divided into three parts, each one combining all the ingredients of a psychological thriller with the intense dissection of a marriage, each one taking us deeper and further into the conundrum of a relationship and the dark capabilities of the human mind. It’s ingeniously constructed, smoothly paced, with unreliable narrators providing contradictions and plot twists to keep the reader guessing right to the end. Nothing is as it seems.
It begins well with two very distinctive narrator voices – Nick Dunne (American magazine writer until computers took over the world and the economy went down the plughole) and his wife Amy (writer of personality quizzes and reluctant model for a series of books about Amazing Amy). One paragraph in each voice to give a flavour:
Nick: My morning breath warmed the pillow, and I changed the subject in my mind. Today was not a day for second-guessing or regret, it was a day for doing. Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long-lost sound: Amy making breakfast. Banging wooden cupboards (rump-thump!), rattling containers of tin and glass (ding-ring!), shuffling and sorting a collection of metal pots and iron pans (ruzz-shuzz!). A culinary orchestra tuning up, clattering vigorously toward a finale, a cakepan drum rolling along the floor, hitting the wall with a cymballic crash. Something impressive was being created, probably a crepe, because crepes are special, and today Amy would want to cook something special.
It was our five-year anniversary.
Amy: Tra and la! I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this. I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met a boy!
But I did. This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy.
She is the woman that every American girl (allegedly) aspires to be – beautiful, brilliant, inspiring, and very wealthy. He is the guy that all American men (allegedly) admire – handsome, funny, bright and charming. But on 5 July, their seemingly perfect world comes crashing down when Amy Elliott Dunne disappears, leaving behind a scene of overturned furniture and hastily mopped up blood, the iron still switched on, a half-pressed dress still on the board. It’s their fifth wedding anniversary.
They’ve had their problems: redundancy, ill parents, financial reversals, but Nick is appalled and bewildered (allegedly) when evidence mounts against him, clear motives are identified, and he becomes chief suspect in Amy’s supposed murder. Every year on their anniversary Amy has prepared a treasure hunt reflecting their in-jokes and secret knowledge of each other; this year the clues seem weighted in a sinister and damning way. The police, the press, friends, family, neighbours watch mesmerized as the Dunne’s seemingly charmed lives unravel to reveal a very different reality.
Any author skilled enough to hold all those timelines and lies and plot twists together and unpack a story as deviously compelling as this, deserves enormous admiration. I was constantly checking and double checking and worrying about links far less complicated than this in my own books, so it was no surprise to read that Gillian Flynn had pieces of paper and index cards taped all over the walls of her office as she wrote Gone Girl, and by the time she’d finished the room ‘looked like the lair of a serial killer‘ with ‘crazy words and questions fluttering from every surface‘. The end result is so tight and assured and beautifully dovetailed because of this meticulous attention to detail and thorough cross-checking. Top marks there.
I rarely watch films of books I’ve read – they never match with my imagined characters and places, and usually miss out vital components, but in this case I made an exception. Given the complexity of the story, surely no film could do justice to the printed version, all the unreliable elements, all the deceptions. But it can and it does*. Perhaps that’s in no small measure a tribute to the author who herself contributed to the screenplay. Her parents were both community-college professors – her mother teaching reading; her father, film, and according to her website Gillian ‘spent an inordinate amount of her youth nosing through books and watching movies‘. That could explain a lot. Whatever, Gillian Flynn certainly has an amazing talent; she’s indisputably a master of ‘dark and nasty‘!
I am now absorbed in the tactic of unreliable narrator …
*NB. The filmmakers need to take lessons in the properties of blood! The scenes involving copious amounts of it are entirely unconvincing.