Tag Archives: mystery

Star Trek: Section 31

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People have been lining up to deride Section 31, the most recent Star Trek movie that was originally supposed to be a TV series instead, and yeah, it definitely feels like a two episode pilot in a lot of ways. But is it really worse than Star Trek V? It seriously isn’t. Come on.

This is not to say the movie isn’t problematic. As a story, it’s perfectly fine. You take an anti-hero you’re already familiar with from previous stories, and she’s played by Michelle Yeoh in full scenery-chewing mode. And then you enlist her in a Suicide Squad caper with several other misfits-in-search-of-redemption, and they’re off to save… I dunno, probably the quadrant? …from utter destruction, in about 90 minutes. Dark antihero capers full of impossible odds, inevitable betrayals, and sudden death are cool.

But, and this is a big enough but that Mix-A-Lot is contractually obligated to like it:

But, this is Star Trek. Section 31 is the least Roddenberry thing that was ever introduced into Trek, and The Suicide Squad is about as big of a tonal mismatch with Trek as I can imagine, even when I acknowledge the existence of Section 31. (Which, if you don’t know, is the Federation’s black ops division.) So… yeah. As a story, it’s fine, like I already said. As a Star Trek movie… I’m glad they didn’t make it a series instead.

The Mystery of the Whispering Mummy

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I’m gonna read some books to the boy that aren’t these, for the next little while.

That said, yes, I still like the Three Investigators, while recognizing that the first one was quite a bit better than the next couple have been. The good news is, that doesn’t mean The Mystery of the Whispering Mummy was bad.

You can really tell it’s a different time: the mystery hinges around a mummy found 25 years earlier, which the professor who found him is considered the owner of(!), and he’s been graciously loaning the mummy to a local museum in Cairo. But when he decided to bring the mummy home to southern California for further study, that’s just a thing he can do, since he found it in a tomb back in the day. Like, there are modern rewritten editions of these books and how I wonder did they rewrite the central premise of the story to explain away that this is not the way archaeology works anymore?

Nevertheless, that premise settled, the story itself is pretty good, what with a plausible curse, a mummy who seems to be talking (but only to one man), villains who are sufficiently threatening, scary car chases, and also Anubis, because how are you supposed to mention ancient Egypt and just leave out Anubis?

The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot revisited

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Anyway, the boy really likes the Three Investigators. The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot is about how the teens with the junkyard secret base set out to find a missing parrot who only quotes Hamlet, but with a stutter[1], and end up embroiled in the sinister world of European art theft.

So, this book was written in the mid ’60s, and is very clearly of its time in some ways. The last book had some pretty glaring stereotypes, even if they were perpetrated by notional bad guys, and the next book, which I’m already reading, just casually indicated that rich women get involved in charities because they do not have enough housework to keep them busy, which, wow. Some things I’ve lightly edited on the fly as I read, others, i’m not sure where to begin.

All of that to say, this particular book has a Mexican boy named Carlos, and his uncle, usually a flower peddler but most recently a parrot peddler. They are poor immigrants, but it was honestly astounding to see them written so positively given the publication date. Nobody thought any ill of them just for being on this side of the border, and in fact at one point plans are made for the uncle to go home to Mexico to convalesce after an illness, and then probably just come back and resume his flower business, just as though we have more or less open borders and share freely with our neighbors.

It’s hard to remember, and I mean this in both the knowledge gap sense and the emotional gut punch sense, that some things about the past are better than we’d expect today and in fact maybe even better than they are, today.

Anyway, that Rolls Royce is still pretty cool. Also, like with all such series, I’m really loving the strong continuity. They’re kid books, yes, but they’re certainly better than the modern chapter books I’ve been reading to him[2]. Hooray!

[1] “To to to be, or not to to to be. That is the question.” Honestly, the payoff on that line was pretty good and has stuck with me all this time, even if almost none of the rest of the book had.
[2] I’m not not reading them to the girl, but she is not nearly as patient to sit and be read to as he was at the same age, and certainly she’s not taking much in right now, as pertains to the plot and its twists and turns.

The Secret of Terror Castle revisited

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Long, long ago, in the 1980s, I spent some brief amount of time obsessed with the Three Investigators books, as introduced by Alfred Hitchcock. It wasn’t that they solved mysteries; Joe and Frank and Nancy already had that covered.  It’s that they had a secret clubhouse in a junkyard and drove around in an old model Rolls Royce. The whole idea was so enchanting, plus they got to solve mysteries on top of that? Let me in!

I’ve now read The Secret of Terror Castle to my son, and I have adult thoughts about this childhood love. In no particular order, they are these:

  1. I am not sure how old the boys are supposed to be, 14 maybe? In any case, this book might be too old for the boy, even though he liked it. He definitely found it scary in addition to liking it, maybe just a little too scary?
  2. The probably OCR scan I read was of the 1978 edition paperback I once and long ago read from the library, and there were just enough errors to be distracting, without being a bad scan at all. Whereas apparently the brand new Kindle version no longer has Alfred Hitchcock in it?? I am extremely offended. I also wonder what other changes they made,
  3. There were definitely positive changes that could have been made. I have a hard time accepting the old name for Romani as a slur, since I’ve never seen or heard it used as one, but I nevertheless try not to use it, and certainly wouldn’t when describing a real person as opposed to a character. What bothered me in this book was not that usage nor the old fashioned usage for someone from eastern Asia, it was how hard into certain stereotypes that the story leaned into, even if there was an in plot reason for that to happen. I’m just not ready for the boy to grapple with casual stereotypes, because I’m not ready to have conversations about why they are a problem and would not be accepted in a book written today on the same topics. So I made some on the fly edits.
  4. So yeah, I really wonder how much of the book has been edited for audiences that are sixty years more enlightened.
  5. Also, the scan was of a British version of the book? Because everyone was carrying around torches instead of flashlights, even though they were in L.A. It was pretty dang weird.
  6. On the whole, it’s fine. Certainly not as good as I remember the gestalt of the series being, but at the same time not so bad that I regret having read it. The boy was really excited by there being a hook into a new story at the end of this one. He thought maybe the book would never end, so I suppose at some point I’ll need to rustle up a copy of the second book. Plus, you know, they might improve as they go. Who’s to say?

Anyway, though, the story: there are these three friends on what would have to be summer vacation in southern California. One has a recent leg injury and works in the library, so he doesn’t do much adventuring, but is definitely the research guy. One is tall and athletic, you know, the muscle. And one is a bit fat, extremely clever, won the use of a fancy car for “thirty days of exactly 24 hours each” by guessing right calculating best in a “how many jelly beans are in this jar?” contest hosted by a local car rental company, and has a secret clubhouse in his uncle’s junkyard. That last one, Jupiter Jones, also has the idea to form a detective business with his friends Bob (research) and Pete (muscle), the first case of which will be to prove a local abandoned house once owned by a silent film era star is in fact haunted, so Alfred Hitchcock can use it for authenticity in his next movie,

I guess my point is even if in practice the writing is workmanlike and the mystery is at least a little predictable, you simply cannot convince me that’s anything less than a spectacular premise, rife with future possibilities,

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

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We saw Death on the Nile as one of our rare theatrical outings last year, which inspired me to want to see Murder on the Orient Express[1], but then also to very promptly forget all about it, until Mary suggested it last weekend. Irony: now that we watched that one, she is getting Agatha Christie books to read.

I wonder if chronology bears out my theory that this movie is a sequel to the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby? Anyhow, Hercule Poirot, after hilariously solving a priest, rabbi, and imam joke in Jerusalem (I think), gets on a boat to Istanbul[2] to look at art, but then instead gets on a train to London, because he’s been summoned to solve something or other. The Orient Express is like five cars long, and that counts the food car and the engine (and probably the coal car), so you can tell that the super-luxury compartments for the multi-day journey are also extremely exclusive.

We never do get to find out what important business Poirot was called away from his vacation for, because an unexpected avalanche in (let’s say) Carpathia derails the train, upon which they find that one of the passengers has been murdered, and Poirot must determine who, you know, dunnit. Obviously that’s all I can say, but I do wonder if the books are as funny as Branagh makes the screen version be.

You guys. The mustache sleeping mask! Also, an unrelated thought: why was there a random The Last Supper callout?

[1] Or for that matter really anything Branagh has ever done. That man is acting gold.
[2] Which they did not call Constantinople, but for some reason did call Stamboul.

Holly

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‘Tis the season, by which I mean autumn and time for the annual (or more) Stephen Kjng book. Like the other books written in which Holly Gibney solves (or helps to solve, the first time out) mysteries, this book is not a mystery for the reader to solve, but rather, to watch the characters solve. Usually, the tension to a mystery novel where you already know whodunnit is in watching your hero (or heroes) work it out. Yes, they’ll solve it, but how? And will it be in time to save… well, no, too late for them, but what about… okay, but surely in time to save, well, whoever you want to see survive after the halfway point of the book.

But this is Stephen King, and he has named the book after its main character. So in this case, the tension is in whether Holly will solve the mystery before the mystery solves her! … Alright, that one got away from me. But seriously, I was nervous on page 1, and I was nervous on page 301[1].

I suppose I’ve said nothing about the plot. The book opens on the very worst night of a Hispanic literature professor’s life, and proceeds forward over the course of several years and several victims of a pair of undetected serial killers, in parallel with Holly’s present-day travails in the age of Covid, until, inevitably, they cross paths via a missing person’s case her detective agency is hired to solve.

Which reminds me of something I’d already suppressed over the last few days since I finished the book, which is… King is maybe too political for my tastes here. And I say this as someone who shares his politics, but, wow, fully justified, pre-established viewpoint character or not, this was the most polemical work of fiction I’ve read this side of Terry Goodkind. I wonder if it will hurt his sales. I also wonder if it will read differently with the passage of time, by which I mean, will it hit the same when people aren’t still being constantly infected by this thing? Maybe it won’t feel quite as cartoonishly diatribical when people aren’t still glaring dismissively at each other in real time.

I feel like I’m complaining here. Ultimately, this did not hurt my enjoyment of the book, it just started out so strongly positioned, in a way I’m not used to thinking about his fiction ever being. And I don’t want to be complaining, particularly when I don’t know how many new King novels I have left to read. Which is I suppose an appropriate mix of maudlin and morbid, for both the subject matter and the season which I so recently ’tissed.

[1] Pagination simulated for effect

Glass Onion

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Knives Out was probably the last movie I saw with Mary in the theater before Covid happened.[1][2] This is apropos of nothing in particular, just a memory from the before times. For example, here in modernity, we did not see Glass Onion in the theater at all, though it got to Netflix with surprising rapidity[3].

So there’s this tech billionaire guy, who like all tech billionaire guys on film in the past five years is probably a riff on Elon Musk. And he invites all of his friends to his private Greek island for a murder mystery weekend by way of an incredibly fancy puzzlebox. (A literal puzzlebox.) Plus he also invites the world’s greatest detective, Benoit Blanc, which is to say Daniel Craig.

It’s hard to say more (even if it’s easy to intuit more) about the plot. What I can comfortably say is that it’s every bit as clever and as funny as its predecessor, and I would happily watch Craig and Rian Johnson make these movies until the end of time.

[1] Not the actual last movie I saw in the theater, that was The Invisible Man
[2] (Also, it wasn’t even that; we saw three other movies in between Knives Out and lockdown. Huh.)
[3] Joke’s on me: apparently it is a Netflix original that had a one week theatrical release. Huh.

Dexter Is Dead

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I have cleared an entire series from my to-read shelf. This comes with a pretty huge sense of satisfaction, since I’ve done such a poor job of reading almost anything over the past few years. (Well, okay, a lot of comics.)

The problem is… I really wanted to like Dexter Is Dead. I’ve liked the previous books generally, and I really liked the TV series quite a lot. And I even kind of fancy myself capable of understanding the feeling that accompanies when TV bypasses what you’ve written in your book series, or takes everything in a completely different direction or (and this is the especially tricky one) comes up with so many ideas about how to proceed that they get stuck in your head and now you’re constantly thinking, what if I write the Oops All Plagiarism book on my next attempt.

So, and here’s the thing. This book felt like it was written mainly to close the door in the character, rather than because there was a really solid idea for a story here. Dexter is no longer a serial killer taking care of the murderers of the world that slip through the American justice system, and hasn’t been for a couple of books. I don’t even see this as a noble failure, just a “there, now nobody will bother me about writing more of these”, and it’s really disappointing. I think I would have been happier if his story just petered out instead of coming to a definitive end in this particular manner.

Oh, well.

In positive news, I can say this: cliffhanger from the previous book was entirely resolved.

Double Dexter

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A couple of months ago, as you will no doubt recall, I read the wrong Dexter book. Since these are not 100% episodic, this presented a bit of a problem for me in terms of going back to right myself. Because, you know: yes I always know how the book is going to turn out at least mostly, but I don’t usually know how the incidental incremental advances in Dexter’s domestic and professional life will turn out? Except this time I did.

Anyway, Double Dexter chronicles the time Dexter got caught in the midst of pedophile clown slaughter, and then the witness got away, and then (let’s be honest, somewhat implausibly) got obsessed with the idea that maybe he, the witness, could start murdering bad guys, and then he sets his aim on the main bad guy he (still the witness) knows about, which is to say: our hero.

The main thing I got out of this book is that it’s probably good Lindsay decided to wrap up the series, because Dexter’s “look how smart I am” but clearly he isn’t so smart as all that schtick only works if the author, on some level, believes Dexter is in fact pretty smart, but just misses small tricks now and again. Whereas in this book, I felt like Lindsay was making fun of his creation, and, that is just not the series I want to read.

So, after whatever my next brief palate cleanser turns out to be: the finale! And I will have gotten another series off my to-read shelf, woo.

Ahem. This makes me sound like the series is a task, and therefore why am I even reading them? It’s not as bad as all that, even if this book was for certain the low point of the series. But the weight of that shelf (mostly metaphorically) has been holding me down for some time, and my greatly-reduced incidence of book-shopping over the last few years does make it feel like accomplishments are possible. So you see.

Death on the Nile (2022)

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I have never read an Agatha Christie novel. I do not think this counts as a moral failing. Particularly because I just haven’t read that much out of the mystery section in the first place, you know[1]? It is my understanding, however, that she is kind of a big deal.

So she has this one character, Hercule Poirot, who is a great detective. Possibly the second character ever to be bestowed with that title in the annals of fiction? And although I never thought about it[2] before Kenneth Branagh’s performance, I guess it must be true that all detectives in the Holmes / Poirot type, who can become (or possibly always are) hyperfocused on specific details and make deductive leaps based on the tiniest shreds of evidence, all such detectives fall somewhere pretty deep into the spectrum.

So, while not knowing the plot meant that I showed up for Death on the Nile to be interested in the details of the murder[s], who did what to whom and when and why, what I left with was a renewed respect for Branagh’s craft, portraying someone who felt very deeply while hating to feel anything at all. It was very subtle, and very moving because of how subtle it was, and I’m sad I missed his Murder on the Orient Express from a few years ago. I shall perhaps eventually do something about that.

[1] What does perhaps count as a moral failing is that what I have read is mostly chosen based on “I liked the TV show they made later.” …then again, if I started reading Christie, it would be because I liked this movie, so.
[2] at least in part because, how much have I thought about this character at all, sure