The Vikings are coming! The Vikings are coming!

Every time I think about Vikings, I can't help but giggle at the memory of watching The Vikings (starring Tony Curtis!) in 10th grade English. There's something so amusing about watching campy actors fight with obviously fake swords, singing ludicrous songs, and toss "boulders" that bounce at each other. If ever a movie deserved the Mystery Science Theater treatment, it's this one.

Yeah, so back to the topic. I just finished The Funeral Boat by Kate Ellis - a well-done British mystery set in Devon. There are several plot threads running through the novel: the discovery of an ancient Viking burial on local land (hence the titular boat), a series of bold farmhouse robberies, and the unusual disappearance of a Danish tourist named Ingeborg Larson. Local coppers Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan work to untangle the mysteries while trying to resolve personal issues - Wesley struggles to find a balance between his work and his responsibilities to his wife and infant son, while Gerry tries to reconnect with his son after losing his wife.

Whenever I read mysteries by British authors, I'm amazed at the difference in quality between British and American writers. For some unknown reason, British mystery writers have a knack for avoiding the slap-dash, stereotypical plots that American writers cling to so desperately. They feel comfortable introducing a large cast of characters quickly, knowing that readers will be able to keep them straight. But perhaps most importantly, British writers assume a higher level of intelligence for their readership, and they trust that the clever twists and turns of their plots won't go sailing over readers' heads. I think that's why British mysteries appeal to me in a way that American ones never seem to do - I enjoy it when someone assumes that I'm smart. The ego boost is gratifying.

I'll definitely be checking out more of Ellis' books in the future - I'm pretty sure that my mom can dig some up out of her gigantic library.

Didn't your mother ever tell you sugar is bad for your teeth?

Clearly someone dropped the ball in telling Mitch Albom that. He should seriously think about finding a new dentist, because it's a wonder that he's not scary denture guy with the saccharine stuff he writes. I just finished his most recent book, The Five People You Meet In Heaven, and I came dangerously close to a diabetic coma. I realize I'm supposed to find his book morally uplifting and charming, but I guess I haven't quite let go of the rebellious teenager in me who says, "Oh, gross."

The plot (such as it is) follows an amusement park maintenance worker named Eddie after he dies attempting to save a young girl from a collapsing ride. Eddie moves through heaven, meeting the titular five people who help him come to terms with his life and death. Interspersed throughout are small vignettes of various birthdays Eddie celebrated (or not) during his life.

I think part of why I found this book so ham-handed is that if you're going to consider the weighty issues of regret and the search for life's meaning, you need to treat them with some depth, not a glossed-over, self-help-style surface analysis that fails to reach even 200 pages. I must admit, however, that I would have given up in disgust if it had run very much longer. So much of the book is obvious from a mile off, and the big revelation at the end takes the form of "Well, duh!" to any reader that paid any attention whatsoever. The emotional payoff amounts to nothing more than the statement that love is powerful and good. With this level of depth, I'm fulling expecting Albom's next book to feature such shocking pronouncements as "War is bad," "Puppies are cute," and "2 + 2 = 4".

As my friend Babs said to me recently, "I like reading books where I learned something. It makes me feel like I got something out of it." I heartily concur, and that's why I'm forced to denounce this particular tome. I learned nothing, and I almost vomited from all the sugar.

Reporters do not have strong do-it-yourself skills

Or so Eliot Arnold informs in the funniest mystery I've ever read, Dave Barry's Big Trouble. Eliot is a former newspaper reporter struggling to make ends meet at his advertising company, a job which largely consists of licking the boots of the Client From Hell. His son Matt is engrossed in a high-school game of Killer (known as Hitman where I grew up), particularly since his squirt-gun target happens to be the pretty and popular Jenny Herk. Jenny's mother is married to Arthur, an abusive drunk who happens to have made himself quite unpopular by stealing from his employer. Added to the mix are a pair of professional whack artists (Harry and Leonard), a lovable bum named Puggy, incompetent thieves, and a pair of Russian arms dealers running the worst bar in Miami. With a cast of characters more colorful than your typical Rainbow Brite and a slapstick botched murder plot, Barry has all the right ingredients for a hilarious first novel.

I'll freely admit that I love Dave Barry. When I read his columns, I can hear the deadpan delivery that makes me laugh until incontinence becomes an issue of concern. Big Trouble is no exception - I haven't laughed this hard reading a book in quite a while. Barry's descriptions of a dog named Roger ("the product of many generations of hasty, irresponsible dog sex") and his twin obsessions, food and his mortal foe The Enemy Toad, had me laughing so hard that my own dog was afraid to sit on the couch with me. The guy is potentially a nutcase, but he's also a nutcase that needs to write more books.

Book or movie script? You make the call.

I'm reading at a fast and furious pace right now - I'm trying to finish as many of the books I borrowed from my mom as possible before she comes into town for the wedding next weekend. I'm averaging about one a day, which is pretty good considering that I'm doing other stuff most of the time.

This time it's Harlan Coben's Tell No One, which is pretty much a textbook thriller. Dr. David Beck is still reeling from the murder of his wife Elizabeth nearly eight years ago. On a visit to the remote lake where they played as children, Elizabeth was abducted and David was left for dead. When Elizabeth's body turned up by the side of the road three days later bearing the telltale mark of a serial killer, David's world turned upside down. The murderer known as Killroy was eventually caught and sentenced to life in prison.

David attempts to get on with his life by burying himself in his work as an inner-city physician, but he has yet to move on from his wife's death. Suddenly, David's world is thrown off kilter yet again as he receives a mysterious email linking him to a webcam that appears to show his wife alive and well. David follows the clues, not knowing that they will lead him into danger as one of the city's major power players will stop at nothing to keep the truth from being revealed.

Amazon.com picked Tell No One as one of their best of 2001, but I can't say that I agree with that assessment. It's a decent enough story, but I'm not sure why Coben didn't skip the intermediate step of writing a book and move right on to what seems to be his primary aim - turning his story into a summer blockbuster. The plot would work very well on the big screen, but on paper it seriously lacks the depth necessary to keep me engaged. The characters are stock on almost every level - you've got your doctors who want nothing more than to help the indigent, man-eating lawyers, sassy African-American women (as if there were any other kind in popular media), and truth-loving cops who refuse to be swayed by planted evidence. With characters this trite, the plot twists practically announce themselves with flashing neon signs and mylar balloons.

Probably the most frustrating thing about the entire book is the fact that in the hands of a more capable writer, the story really could have reached "Best of the Year" status. Sadly, Coben fails to live up to his story's promise. That said, the book isn't utterly without merit. I'll give it a 3/5 since I'm feeling generous today.

The fine line between life and death

In an effort to keep pace with my reading a little better, I'm adding this review right away. I've always enjoyed Jodi Picoult's books (she's one of my favorite authors), and Second Glance is no exception. While it drifts away from her usual fare somewhat, the deeply moving prose is unchanged.

After the tragic death of his fiancee Aimee in a car accident, Ross Wakeman tries everything possible to escape the world, but he can't seem to succeed. Failing in several suicide attempts, Ross becomes a paranormal investigator, hoping to make contact with Aimee to ease his pain. Eventually Ross finds himself in Comtosook, Vermont, where his sister lives with her son, who suffers from a rare disease that causes him to burn severely upon exposure to sunlight.

Acceding to his sister's urging, Ross begins a new investigation into the paranormal activity swirling around Comtosook. Rose petals fall like rain, houses rebuild themselves, and a baby cries out in the night. The townspeople believe that the cause is a planned strip mall in an area reputed to be an Abenaki burial ground - they suspect that the construction work is disturbing the souls of those long dead.

Digging deeper into the mystery, Ross uncovers the town's shameful past and help the mysterious woman he encounters find her way in the world.

My mom is a huge fan of Picoult's work, so I've been able to borrow just about everything she's written from her. Picoult has carved a unique niche for herself as an author whose books always feature a thorny moral issue at their center, and her ability to handle such issues with sensitivity while still remaining honest never ceases to amaze me. While Second Glance doesn't quite match the level of her best work (Keeping Faith and Plain Truth), it's still a delight for me as a longtime Picoult fan. Her books read at the pace of a popular beach book, but the moral depth of the plots raises her work far above the typical mass-market fare. Her books are always exhaustively researched, so I invariably come away from them feeling as though I've learned something.

Picoult has somehow managed to avoid being tapped for Oprah's Book Club or something similar, so she's still somewhat under the popular radar. While I wish Picoult nothing but success and I'm sure she'd benefit from greater exposure for her work, I can't help enjoying the fact that she's still something of a hidden gem. As long as she keeps turning out great books, she'll always have a place on my shelves.

Green is for envy

My last catch-up review is Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener by M.C. Beaton - another recommendation from Babs. Beaton is known for her English cozies, and this is just one of her prodigious output.

In her third outing, Agatha returns from a long holiday to find her comfortable country life upset by a new arrival in town - Mary Fortune, a slim, fashionably dressed woman who's quickly gotten cozy with Agatha's neighbor, James Lacey. The green-eyed monster swiftly comes to the fore as Agatha undertakes a mission to win James' heart away from Mary, starting by outshining the newcomer at her chosen pasttime - gardening. Agatha can't tell a rose from a dandelion, but she's determined to take the town's gardening prize if it means she can stick it to the unpleasant Mary. Unfortunately, it looks as though Agatha isn't the only one Mary rubbed the wrong way - she soon turns up dead, head-first in a flowerpot full of dirt. Eager to show off her detective skills, Agatha jumps on the case and sets out to find a killer.

This is the first Agatha Raisin I've read, and I definitely got a kick out of it. It's not high art, but it's an enjoyable little trifle that's easily polished off in an afternoon. Agatha is quite endearing in spite of her many faults, probably because I see a certain amount of myself in her. She's fiercly competitive and loves to show off her skills - definite shades of me there. But what I really found fun about the book was Beaton's pitch-perfect depiction of English country life. As someone who'd dearly love to eventually make her home in the UK, I can't help but love it. Until I can convince the Sureshot fiance to pick up stakes and move to the land of tea and crumpets, I'll have to live vicariously through Beaton's work. Well, it could be worse.

Since everyone else is doing it....

I too have succumbed to the pressure and read Dan Brown's massive bestseller The Da Vinci Code. I read it for my book club, which happens to be meeting right now without my participation. After looking over my list of to-dos to accomplish before classes start tomorrow, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that 3 hours of coffee and critiquing with my fellow young alumni wasn't an option. Since I was planning to read the book anyway, it's not a huge loss. Still, I hate being 'that girl who only shows up sometimes.'

For the one person still living under a rock in an abandoned cave in the middle of the Rocky Mountains that hasn't yet heard about this publisher's wet dream, a brief synopsis. Symbologist Robert Langdon, still reeling from the roller-coaster that was Angels and Demons, receives that dreaded late-night phone call that never indicates that you've just won a million dollars in the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. This time he's awakened at his hotel in Paris to discover that the Louvre curator he was scheduled to meet earlier that evening in fact did not stand him up, but rather had the misfortune of being dead. Murdered, to be exact. The murder has a heavy ritualistic overtone, and the French police contact Langdon for help. Unfortunately for him, it quickly becomes apparent that he's the primary suspect in the murder. With the help of the murdered curator's granddaughter, Langdon races against time to find the true culprit. Add to this already potent mix a centuries-old struggle over documents that could prove the existence of direct blood descendants of Jesus Christ and you've got a breakneck plot sure to spin Langdon's life wildly out of control.

It's hard to say whether The Da Vinci Code is worthy of the hype that surrounds it or not. While I certainly enjoyed it, I have the feeling that my opinion would probably be higher if it weren't colored by the fact that no book could possibly live up to the expectations that come along with this one. I think the book struck a huge chord with readers because it gives you the sense that you're terribly clever for figuring out the rather by-the-numbers plot. By making the choice to write about Vatican-centered conspiracy theories instead of a ludicrous Bond-esque Spy vs. Spy bullshit, Brown manages to convince readers that they're reading something edifying instead of the latest potboiler. It's a neat trick.

For some reason there's a deep-seated part of me that's convinced that anything that's popular is by definition crap, even though I know that's not always the case (see also - the Harry Potters). I think it's my latent hipster, who loves nothing more than to bandy about the names of bands and authors no normal person has ever heard of. Hey, I'm not proud of it, but acknowledging my problem is the first step to overcoming it, right? I try not to be an asshole about it - I pretty much keep my derision towards other people's tastes to myself. Or at least I was until just now. Whoops.

So I'm behind. Sue me.

Thankfully, being oh, say, several books behind on a review blog is not a crime. At least not yet, anyway. I don't see it letting up any time soon either considering that I can't seem to help ordering the "Here, Have A Few Billion More Things To Do" blue-plate special for every meal. Tasty, but it kind of leaves me a massive food coma most of the time. Hopefully some well-earned r&r in Germany (two weeks! woo!) will get me back on track.

First up is another recommendation from my bestest book buddy ever (waves hi to Babs). I love it when I find someone who has the same taste in books because it allows me to keep my book budget somewhat in check for a change. Of course, the money I'm going to spend sending books-in-trade to her after she moves to Portland, ME probably makes it a wash.

Anyway, she offered me a shot at Donna Tartt's The Secret History, which traces the story of six disaffected classics students at a fictitious East Coast college and the slow disintegration of the group into fractured, broken people. The novel follows a certain stereotype about affluent and smart white kids - as is to be expected by anyone who watches CSI, they of course turn out to be drug-taking, drink-taking, shiftless, lazy, cold-hearted killers. I guess I should expect to go homicidal any minute now. Clock's ticking - I'm already 23 and probably due to lose my baby-faced innocence momentarily. Tartt manages to lift her book out of the sensational quagmire of her subject matter in some places with good writing, but there's something unsatisfying about books where all the major players are morally bankrupt. On some level it's untrue to the human experience - we're not all saints, but we're not all irredeemable sinners either. Tartt's characters are ultimately revealed to be little more than empty shells with little or no connection to anything, human or otherwise.

The Secret History is a tough book for me. I want to like it for the lyrical nature of the prose, but the more I ponder the plot and characters the more I find myself vaguely annoyed, particularly when I think about the different directions the story could have taken to provide the reader with at least some sense of satisfaction upon reading the conclusion. It's becoming an all-too-common problem in modern literature that well-intentioned authors want to move away from trite, Hollywood, wrap-it-all-up-with-a-silver-bow endings, but they fail to offer much in place of such an ending. There's no moral lesson, no takehome point. All the reader is left with is a depressing sense that the world sucks, and sucks unchangeably to boot. I'm not exactly an optimist, but even I'm aware that in spite of every tragedy that happens in our world, there is some good in life. Saying otherwise is of course terribly post-modern and tragically hip, but it also doesn't happen to be true.

Macabre massacres

Once again I'm chiding myself for not getting my reviews up in a timely manner. Then I remind myself that it's not as if anyone is actually reading these anyway, and then I feel better.

My latest review, Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin, is a recommendation from my mom, who read it for her book club. She enjoyed the book a lot, but allowed as how it's not the best choice for a book club where not all the participants finish the book before the meeting. She's right in her assessment that your opinion of the various characters shifts rather dramatically through the course of the book, right up until the very end.

The novel is framed as a series of letters from Eva Khatchadourian to her estranged husband, Franklin. Two years before the novel opens, Eva and Franklin's son Kevin killed nine people at his high school and is currently serving time in a juvenile detention facility. Eva struggles to cope with the aftermath of "Thursday," as she refers to it, and uses her letters as a way to put all her socially uncensored feelings to paper. Not surprisingly, Eva feels responsible for Kevin's actions and guilty about her own role in Kevin's disaffection. Getting no answers from her bitter, cynical son, Eva retraces her life in an effort to understand how it all went so wrong.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is a tough book to read because it strips away all the happy societal whitewash we paint over motherhood and family. In some ways it's really rather depressing to think that it's possible that our love for those near and dear to us may be an affection on some level - a fiction we create because we know society expects us to love them. That said, there's something meaningful in that level of candor, that ability to embrace the less socially acceptable feelings we all have. In another writer's hands Shriver's subject could easily become a Hollywood schlock-fest, but in hers it's a deeply insightful portrait of what we all try to ignore in ourselves.

Definitely a worthwhile read and a great choice to discuss in a book club (but only if everyone promises on their mothers to finish it before the meeting).