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Title: Angelmaker
Author: Nick Harkaway
Genre: Existential pulp?
Thingummies: 5
Synopsis: The mild mannered clock maker son of a gangster gets drawn into in international conspiracy about identity and free will when an aging secret agent uses him to set off her lover's doomsday device. It's funny. And horrifying. Also funny.
Thoughts: This is the kind of book that gives editors fits trying to decide where to shelve it. Is it noir? A thriller? Steampunk? Literary?
Harkaway's writing is, simply, itself. He's less concerned about trying to fit conventions and more about barreling through them, hijacking his favorite bits and leaving the rest strewn about, shattered, in his wake. The plot is dizzyingly intricate, the characters improbably larger than life. And his writing has that devastatingly deadpan British humor reminiscent of Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett, only with more of a dark, sinister edge. I'm sure that being John le Carre's son doesn't hurt, but Harkaway's style has a panache all his own.
Aside from the wit, which is considerable (although he does tone it down as the action speeds up), I mostly fell in love with the characters. Nearly all of them, even many of the minor characters, are more complex than would appear at first glance. (Except, perhaps, the villain, who arguably makes himself less complex on purpose as things progress.) Joe has spent his entire life living as quietly as possible, rejecting the flamboyance of his gangster father and believing a number of things about his family that turn out to be entirely false. But there's also Edie, a little old lady who has not quite given up her globe-trotting super agent ways; Mercer, an incredibly resourceful lawyer; Frankie, an idealistic genius with more talent for revising tea kettles than understanding emotions; and a host of others including the wistful president of the St. Andrews' golf course.
My one complaint would be Polly, the hyper competent, sensual love interest. She is, despite making a speech specifically to the contrary, a Bond girl. Harkaway intends her to be "a supervillain in her own right", but she never quite gets there. So many of the characters reveal unexpected depth; Polly is all surface, as shellacked as her toenails. It's a disappointing misstep from an author who brings other women like Edie, Frankie, and Dotty Catty to vivid life.
But aside from that one objection, this is the kind of novel that makes me despair of my own writing even while being inspired. So many threads are spun out, only to be wrapped up at the end in a feat of high-energy pyrotechnics that ties everything together so neatly and with so much joyous style that I couldn't help but grin.
Author: Nick Harkaway
Genre: Existential pulp?
Thingummies: 5
Synopsis: The mild mannered clock maker son of a gangster gets drawn into in international conspiracy about identity and free will when an aging secret agent uses him to set off her lover's doomsday device. It's funny. And horrifying. Also funny.
Thoughts: This is the kind of book that gives editors fits trying to decide where to shelve it. Is it noir? A thriller? Steampunk? Literary?
Harkaway's writing is, simply, itself. He's less concerned about trying to fit conventions and more about barreling through them, hijacking his favorite bits and leaving the rest strewn about, shattered, in his wake. The plot is dizzyingly intricate, the characters improbably larger than life. And his writing has that devastatingly deadpan British humor reminiscent of Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett, only with more of a dark, sinister edge. I'm sure that being John le Carre's son doesn't hurt, but Harkaway's style has a panache all his own.
Aside from the wit, which is considerable (although he does tone it down as the action speeds up), I mostly fell in love with the characters. Nearly all of them, even many of the minor characters, are more complex than would appear at first glance. (Except, perhaps, the villain, who arguably makes himself less complex on purpose as things progress.) Joe has spent his entire life living as quietly as possible, rejecting the flamboyance of his gangster father and believing a number of things about his family that turn out to be entirely false. But there's also Edie, a little old lady who has not quite given up her globe-trotting super agent ways; Mercer, an incredibly resourceful lawyer; Frankie, an idealistic genius with more talent for revising tea kettles than understanding emotions; and a host of others including the wistful president of the St. Andrews' golf course.
My one complaint would be Polly, the hyper competent, sensual love interest. She is, despite making a speech specifically to the contrary, a Bond girl. Harkaway intends her to be "a supervillain in her own right", but she never quite gets there. So many of the characters reveal unexpected depth; Polly is all surface, as shellacked as her toenails. It's a disappointing misstep from an author who brings other women like Edie, Frankie, and Dotty Catty to vivid life.
But aside from that one objection, this is the kind of novel that makes me despair of my own writing even while being inspired. So many threads are spun out, only to be wrapped up at the end in a feat of high-energy pyrotechnics that ties everything together so neatly and with so much joyous style that I couldn't help but grin.
