David Thayer

I’m reading 42 books right now. Well, not right now. Sara Gran sent me Come Closer about a month ago, and she was nice enough to sign it. So I’m reading that. I read most of it all at once which is the way I read Dope. I slowed down with Come Closer, not because it’s slow, but because of my own work. I sent my manuscript to Bert and with it most of my active brain cells; hey, it was nice knowing you guys. Then Oprah called, and then I woke up, vowing to kick the Nyquil, cherry flavored controlled substance with fourteen active ingredients. Hell, I don’t have fourteen active ingredients.

More books arrived. Michael Koryta’s fine PI novel, Ian Rankin’s Blood Hunt which I’m tussling with, Robert Dugoni’s The Jury Master, The Renegades by Clive Egelton. And a Rhys Bowen title called Oh Danny Boy. Then Tom Delay won his primary and my head exploded.  I tried reading Come Closer but Sara Gran needs a different job description from Rhys Bowen or I need an ocean of Robitussin PM not to be taken in the AM or while studying CNN’s photo of Delay who resembles what I would imagine to be a human emerging from a car wash without a car. So shiny.

Here is what I did to prioritize: first I ended a phrase with a colon, a liberty I do not take lightly because list making is a character flaw and the colon does send a list making shot across the bow. Time check. PM. Good. I read a paragraph of The Jury Master after opening the book to page 287. Hmm, the jury is out. I will read The Renegades and Blood Hunt. Then I will circle back to Come Closer. Wait I have to take this call…it’s a telemarketer. Maybe I won something. A book?

Due to the previous editor’s lack of insightful commentary the Big O has asked me to write a column on the state of crime fiction. I spent two hours watching In Her Shoes last night, so my mind is not on crime fiction but something more elusive. I enjoyed the movie. There are frightening scenes, the closet full of shoes, the cyncial girlfriend, the dog washing and subsequent kidnapping of said pooch. After years of being the target of marketing overtures and demographic questions  I’m an informed consumer.

Let’s deal with demographics: I’m a middleaged white guy. Not the target demographic for In Her Shoes. Life would be more exciting if I were not a middleaged white guy. Why? We don’t buy anything. Studies show that middleaged men have reached a precarious plateau losing cultural influence in huge chunks to their offpsring and contemporaries thereof. I don’t have an X box and worse, I’m not absolutely certain I know what an X box is. I don’t want one. Blame me if the economy tanks.

Watching In Her Shoes I’m intrigued by the story structure; the first thirty minutes are action oriented as Maggy malfunctions and her sister compensates. Back story is hinted at but not revealed, and the first act ends in a dramatic moment where a very plausible break is created between the principals. From dog washing to near rape at an impound lot Maggy is out of control while Rose adopts the adult role of exhausted guardian. When the story moves to Florida some fog rolls in and we are becalmed. Maggy begins to change while back in Philly Rose does too; the catalyst for all of this is their grandmother banished by dad after the death of his wife. The story becomes a study in sharing grief, blame, and guilt. Whose sorrow has priority when a woman dies? The kids? Her husband? Her mother?

There are elements in the film of chick lit formula, designed, I think, for commercial  purposes to signal the audience not to think twice, it’s all right. This is a serious story despite the unnuanced male roles and happy ending. Guys, you will enjoy the movie.