Wish fulfillment

In preparation for a review I'll be writing for the Second Pass, I'm currently re-reading Hilary Mantel's brilliant new novel, Wolf Hall, and it's reminded me of an e-mail exchange I had recently with Jenny Davidson of Light Reading about Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo--and why I seem to be the only crime novel fan (and maybe the only person, period) who actively dislikes it.*

Jenny nailed it, explaining that I didn't like Larsson's book largely because I'm not into wish-fulfillment novels--and that's what the novel's two leads represent. Mikael and Salander are smarter, more talented, more dramatic, better looking, and sexier versions of ourselves, engaged in more exciting and dramatic adventures than we ever encounter. Jenny's right: it just doesn't appeal to me. I don't buy it, and, more, I don't really even want it: life is fine without approaching perfection, and as someone with generally low ambitions, the few dreams I have are too reasonable to require authorial intervention.

What re-reading Wolf Hall has reminded me is that there is one particular kind of wish-fulfillment to which I am susceptible: that of simple, understated functional hyper-competence. I've written before, in joking fashion, about Mantel's portrayal of Thomas Cromwell's wide range of abilities, and how those help create an aura of fear, even awe, that is a great help in his multifarious activities on behalf of Henry VIII. Without ever bragging, or seeming to place too much importance on the fact, Cromwell demonstrates again and again that in almost any field he knows what he's doing. And even though I know that what I'm reading is fiction--however much the historical Cromwell may underlie Mantel's portrait--I find myself thrilling to that competence every time.

A similar feeling draws me to Richard Stark's Parker. Though he is clearly not a character Stark wants us to emulate, or even like, at the same time his relentless drive for perfection is hard not to admire. He is the best at what he does, and while he doesn't make me want to rob banks, he does make me want to be that capable.

Of course, to remain convincing such functional competence has to stay just this side of perfection. Parker does make mistakes, and even Cromwell can't retain the king's favor forever. On the other hand--to take an example that's been in the news lately, Robert Langdon, hero of Dan Brown's novels, is so endlessly, flawlessly skilled that his perfection quickly becomes risible, smacking far more of cack-handed authorial grant than of a lifetime of dedication.

But in the hands of a skilled author--like when Mantel shows us Thomas Cromwell casually calculating the value of Thomas More's carpet, then filing the answer away to use later against his rival--such demonstrated skill calls up some long-dormant childhood definition of masculinity, a belief that a real man is one who can do things. I know better, know the many ways in which such a definition is limited, complicated, even ridiculous . . . but reading about Cromwell I suddenly find myself wondering again about the skills I don't have, thinking maybe I should take boxing lessons, or brush up my Spanish, or improve my dismal swimming skills.

Nah. More likely I'll just continue with my autumn project of trying to re-learn how to play the piano. Surely a man who can make a strong martini and play "One for My Baby" can count on folks cutting him some slack in other areas, right? {Of course, first I have to manage the much simpler "Swanee River." Baby steps, baby steps.}

Wherein I cut to the chase.

A few days ago I learned of Norman Maclean's education as a writer at the hands of his strict Presbyterian father, who followed the time-honored practice of eyeballing the boy's compositions, then telling him to bring them back when they were half as long, then doing it again and again. Eventually, he would tear the paper up and throw it away--a case, I like to think, of Christian humility before God's perfection triumphing over Zeno's paradox.

The elder Maclean's writing instruction gave me an idea for dealing with the stack of books, mostly crime novels, that I've read lately and not gotten around to writing about: it's time for some ten-word reviews! Though I can't imagine I'll be as good at this--especially not on my first try--as, say Michael Atkinson is at his money-shot movie reviews, it can't be bad practice for such a partisan of the extended, comma-laden, clause-larded sentence as I to be forced to work in brief. So let's give it a try.

George Orwell, Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936)
Funny and bitter, bitter and poor, poor and hopeful--unexpected.

James Ellroy, The Black Dahlia (1987)
Starts strong, but sending a character to Mexico always fatal.

Laura Lippman, What the Dead Know (2007)
Missing sisters, one's found--maybe? Moment of revelation is perfect.

James Crumley, The Right Madness (2005)
The Long Goodbye, plus transexual twins, drugs, band-saw suicide.

Ross Macdonald, The Blue Hammer (1976)
Family troubles--ain't it always? Lew Archer's there to help.

Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2008)
Awkward prose, weak characters, lame mystery, pointless violence, terrible disappointment.

In the spirit of the Reverend Maclean, let's try all that again at half the length!

Keep the Aspidistra Flying
Comedic Orwell--oh, for more!

The Black Dahlia
Betrayals more sordid than affecting.

What the Dead Know
Lies? Memories? Which to believe?

The Right Madness
Murderous conspiracy in fallen world.

The Blue Hammer
Families seethe; Archer sorts, solves.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Failed locked room mystery disappoints.

And now to trim each to one lone word!

Keep the Aspidistra Flying
Bitter.

The Black Dahlia
Brutal.

What the Dead Know
Whorled.

The Right Madness
Blitzed.

The Blue Hammer
Ruminative.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Terrible.

Finally, because surely the glorious shambles that is the Internets is no threat to offend the Reverend Maclean's god--rather than tear it up, I'll hit post.