HHhH..ell Yeah!

Makes a great doorstop! Or weapon! Or gift!

Long time no speak, y'all.  Things fairly quiet on the Irregulars front.  No reviews recently to speak of though I've a gig or two coming up in the near future, more on these anon.

Anyway, with summer over and a proper job--thank God--to return to, I've not been doing too much structured writing.  Just a few bits here and there: notes, half-scenes, snatches of dialogue etc.  I have been doing some reading around the subject of my novel in progress, namely  the Indian Wars of the late 19th Century in Wyoming/Montana etc.  (And yes, I'm aware that calling the rampant, blood-soaked expansionism and treaty breaking of the period 'the Indian Wars' might, in some ways, be injudicious, but I use it as short hand.)

Aside from research, I've also just finished a fantastic book on the very nature of historical fiction: the very post-meta-modern-contemporary-historical 'novel' by Laurent Binet, HHhH.  (Talk about short hand!  The 4 h's an acronym for Himmlers hirn heisst Heydrich or 'Himmler's brain is called Heydrich')  Don't let my description put you off.  This book should be required reading for anyone interested in reading or writing historical fiction.

Post-Meta-Mod-Contempo Historical fiction...and quite brilliant as well

 HHhH is an (I assume) autobiographical account of Binet's attempt to write a novel about the assassination of Reinhardt Heydrich, Hitler's very own Butcher of Prague, by Czech partisan operatives sent from London.  The story itself I was familiar with, having read a non-fiction account at my parents' house several summers ago.  The ironic--and pleasantly fortuitous--thing is that I never actually finished the account.  It came time to leave before I got as far as the assassination--baggage weight limits mitigated against my taking a hardback in my luggage--and, though I knew the outcome of the action from other accounts etc., I didn't know what became of the assassins, brave, bold, patriots that they were.  (And I mean that without the slightest tint of irony.  Heydrich was as evil as they come, even by Third Reich standards, and his treatment of the Czechs made him deserving of his fate and then some.)  This made reading Binet's HHhH a particular pleasure because he treats the story--the true story-- of the assassination with the reverence it deserves. And as a story it is beyond parallel in terms of suspense, action, treachery, love.  It's a rare book that can make you think about the process of the story being told while maintaining its grip on the story, and the reader. HHhH is a book you can't put down and yet it makes you stop and contemplate the very nature of its telling.

Laurent Binet, author of the brilliant HHhH--if you're an historical novelist or reader of historical fiction, read it.

In fact, the whole book--while telling the story of the operation, of Heydrich and Czech and Slovak history, among other things--is a reflection on the historical novelist's right to co-opt historical events and real people for the sake of fiction.  This had a particular impact on me as I've wrestled with this myself as a novelist.  Oh, I've wrestled with it...and then simply left the ring and wrote what I wanted.  But like Binet, I was wary of putting words into the mouths of characters from history.  As he says in HHhH:  There is nothing more artificial in a historical narrative than...dialogue--reconstructed from more or less firsthand accounts with the idea of breathing life into the dead pages of history...When a writer tries to bring a conversation back to life in this way, the result is often contrived and the effect the opposite of that desired: you see too clearly the strings controlling the puppets, you hear too distinctly the author's voice in the mouths of these historical figures.

On the other hand, like Binet, I am equally compelled to tell the stories that, for whatever reason, have lodged themselves in my conscious and subconscious mind.  As Binet says:  I don't want to drag this vision around with me all my life without having tried, at least, to give it some substance.  I just hope that, however bright and blinding the veneer of fiction that covers this fabulous story, you will still be able to see through it to the historical reality that lies behind.

What I'm saying, I suppose--and perhaps I'll write more about this in another post--is that the writer must treat the subjects he has chosen, the historical personages--characters if you will--with the respect they are worthy of.  Not the best sentence there, but you get my drift.  Binet has been brutally honest about the doubt and the conviction; the obsession, the honesty and dishonesty that go into a work of historical fiction.  The above quote could, in fact, serve as a manifesto of sorts.

A June of Ordinary Murders: Review

Some weeks ago I mentioned the publication of Conor Brady's new historical crime novel, A June of Ordinary Murders.  The book's publisher, New Island, was kind enough to send me a review copy and here, alas, is the review!

'J.G. Farrell, the Liverpool-born, Irish novelist, renowned for his historical fictions, who died, too young, in 1979, wrote: “History leaves so much out … It leaves out the most important thing: the detail of what being alive is like.”  In his debut historical crime novel, A June of Ordinary Murders, Conor Brady goes a long way toward showing us what being alive was like for a Dublin Metropolitan Police (DMP) detective working a murder case during a heat wave in Dublin, circa 1887.  A crime novel rich in period detail and confident characterisation, the reader of A June of Ordinary Murders can almost feel the heat oppressing Dublin, smell the stench of the rancid Liffey at low ebb.  

Dublin Castle--the seat of British rule in Ireland
and headquarters for G-Division of the DMP

Set against the backdrop of the Irish Land War, in a city set to host a Jubilee visit by Queen Victoria's grandson, Prince Albert Victor, the novel presents us with Detective Sergeant Joe Swallow, a man tasked with solving the brutal murders of an unidentified man and child found in Phoenix Park.  To compound matters, the Queen of the city's criminal underworld, Ces 'Pisspot' Downes, has died and her retinue of vicious underbosses are beginning to jostle for control of her empire.  In a time when murders in Ireland were declared 'political' or 'ordinary'--with the bulk of resources devoted to  investigating 'political' murders in a country chomping at the bit of independence from the Crown--Swallow must negotiate the corridors of power in Dublin Castle as well as the mean back lanes and rough pubs of criminal Dublin in an effort to solve the murders.

Brady shows us early adaptations of
supposedly cutting-edge CSI 

It is Brady's portrayal of the murder investigation that is one of the book's strongest suits.  As a former journalist, Irish Times editor, Garda Ombudsman and author of the definitive history of the Garda Siochana, Guardians of the Peace: the Irish Police, Brady knows his cops and knows how they work.  In places, he exhibits this too well, one feels, with perhaps one too many scenes of crime conferences, which, while believable and fine summary of the story-so-far, could have been dealt with in a paragraph or two rather than pages.  This is a minor quibble, however, as Brady moves his tale along at a fine clip, pausing only to relish the minutiae of Victorian police work.  Much of this feels surprisingly modern, with revealing insights into the origins of much of what we take to be cutting edge CSI, such as the science of ballistics or facial reconstructions from the human skull.  He is especially good on the uneasily familiar relationship between detectives and their gangland nemeses which again, rings true.  There is a particularly fine scene where two young and ambitious detectives are somewhat too eager to believe the last-words of a dying underworld enforcer, and the results of their inexperience sail as close to real life as anything I've read recently in a crime novel.    


Swallow is a believable and sympathetic protagonist and his relationship with the publican, Maria Walsh, is particularly well drawn.  Another of the book's strengths, in fact, is its portrayal of female characters as rounded and modern in a way in perfect keeping with the waning Victorian setting.  All of the characters in the novel live on the page in a way that is never anachronistic.  It is the duty of the historical novelist to remind us that, while times change, people don't, and Brady pulls this off with panache.


His writing is clear and comfortable, as one would expect from a former journalist of Brady's stature, and the research, historical and criminal, exudes authenticity.  Again, a minor quibble, but perhaps too much of this fascinating research is evidenced in the early chapters; there is a long explanation of the Land War which, while interesting, admirably objective and well presented, would be better suited to a history textbook and could have been summarised neatly in a paragraph or bedded in the dialogue.  This tendency to over-inclusion of hard-won research--an occupational hazard for all historical novelists, myself very much included--fades, however, as the narrative progresses and we are left with a cracking whodunnit, rich in period detail and peopled with wholly believable, complex characters of whom I hope to see more of in future Joe Swallow novels.  All in all, a powerful, well-researched debut from Brady.  A June of Ordinary Murders is no ordinary historical novel and comes to you highly recommended by this reader.

Under the Boardwalk, Down by the Sea: HBO does it again

Kelly McDonald as Irish immigrant
Margaret Shroeder

Finally got around to cracking the dusty boxset of Boardwalk Empire last night and all I can say is: Why did I wait so long?  It is seriously excellent so far.  My wife and I have watched the first five episodes of series 1 and are enjoying it immensely.  As per recent posts, Boardwalk Empire is based on 'real' historical events and characters from prohibition-era Atlantic City, New Jersey.  Interestingly enough, and for much the same reason I explained of my own work in the previous post, the creator of Boardwalk--Terrence Winter, of Sopranos fame--took the figure of notorious political fixer/racketeer Enoch 'Nucky' Johnson and lightly fictionalised him as Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson so as to have more creative freedom with the story.

Enoch 'Nucky' Johnson and Steve Buscemi as
Enoch 'Nucky' Thomson

A few points from last night's viewing: 1) Steve Buscemi is wonderful as the crooked but complex Nucky.  His portrayal of venal...scratch that...mortal corruption would make the Mahon Tribunal blanche.  2)  Kelly McDonald, as the Irish immigrant Margaret Schroeder, (from Kerry--Schroeder is her married name though her husband...well, you'll have to watch it yourself...) is good and growing on me as a performance though the accent is dialogue-coach-101 for the most part.  McDonald is a fine actress--she was great in No Country for Old Men, where her accent was, to my ears, authentic and consistent--but could they not have found an actress from Kerry or Ireland at very least?  

Stephen Graham as Combo in
This is England

3)  Stephen Graham, conversely, is brilliant as a young Al Capone, despite hailing from Liverpool.  He is also a great actor and was cinema's most convincing psycho-skinhead in Shane Meadows' wonderful This is England.  I don't, in this case, mind that he's not actually from Brooklyn.  4) The sets are great but some of the panoramic CGI looks not a whole lot better than those shots of Atlanta burning in Gone With the Wind.  Technology is a funny old thing, but frankly, my dear, a minor quibble.

Martin Scorcese is an executive producer and directs the first episode, which I feel to be the best thing he's done on screen since Casino, though I've hardly seen everything he's done since then.  There is one long, Goodfellas-like tracking shot that roves along the boardwalk and into a dance hall only hours before the introduction of the Volstead Act and prohibition which is simply brilliant film-making.  

I'm surprised this series hasn't gotten the same resounding acclaim as, say, The Wire or The Sopranos.  Much like them, this is storytelling at its very best, most complex.  It makes one wonder (worry!), as a novelist, if the novel form is weaker as a vehicle for storytelling than high-quality, HBO-like TV series.  Any thoughts?