Ian Fleming Spoiled Me
It was inevitable that I would compare DOTJ to the only other books like it that I have heard: James Bond. Flip some circumstances—here, for example, the playboy with all the gadgets is the bad guy, while the good guys look and act more like Columbo—and the milieu isn’t dissimilar. The difference is in the writing. An exceptional meal, the bite of cheap wine, a jet liner touching down—these are the type of details over which Fleming would lavish his gift for the crystal clear image or the more-than-apt metaphor, in language that described each event in arresting, tactile ways. With Forsyth it sometimes feels like you’re listening to a movie script. Conversations are reported, action is described, but that’s about it. The meal is eaten, the wine drunk and the plane engines “sigh” as they wind down, which is about as close to a description of phenomenon as he gets. Until Chapter 9. That’s where things begin to pick up: a policeman directing the “lethal Parisian traffic” likened to “a bullfighter fighting a bull”. Why not a matador? Ok, now I’m getting picky. It could be that I just got used to Forsyth’s style, or the story picks up a good deal by Part 2 or maybe Forsyth, on his first outing as a published novelist, was learning his craft as he practiced it. Whatever the reason, I came to like this book more and more as the plot moved closer and closer to its crescendo. Certainly, the writing gets more vigorous; ideas and associations start to play in and out of the narration; we get some insights into the workings of a police bureaucracy—which, not surprisingly, works a lot like the office where you earn the bi-weekly stipend. No one wants to assume too much responsibility. It’s a parallel that makes the extraordinary situation of the book seem somehow familiar, drawing you into the story. Simon Prebble, as always, does a superb job.