Finally managed to sneak a date night with my wife into the hellacious firestorm that is my schedule. We’d missed Argo when it first came around, so I was happy to see it back at one of the hipper theaters in the area.
In summary: Flawed, but overall enjoyable — and not a waste of theater admission. I’m glad I didn’t wait for Netflix.
First thought: This Affleck kid’s gonna make a name for himself, someday.
Second thought: Have the screenwriter flogged in the square and then confiscate his writing utensils for a month. Continue reading
★★ out of five
Pendergast’s genetically engineered, Nazi, serial-killer love child is murdering random tourists in Manhattan (whose addresses are chosen via the Fibonacci sequence because “Fuck you, Dan Brown!”) in an attempt to lure the intrepid FBI agent to a remote Brazilian fortress town populated by more genetically engineered members of the “master race” and their knuckle-dragging, organ farm twins. Somehow, Pendergast convinces a small battalion of Brazilian police to come along and get themselves killed in the process.
Back in NYC, the cops decide that since the serial murders have stopped, the problem has been solved and they can get back to drinking in yuppie bars that still have 1980s era decor.
Until now, this has been one of my favorite ongoing series, but halfway through “Two Graves,” I found myself routing for the death of the hero and an end to the whole thing. That’s right Lincoln and Child, you made me root for the Nazis.
Also, secondary characters have their own unrelated, useless adventures with plot points that get dropped midway through, but whose endings are alluded to as “conversations to be had later” — because how the hell else are they going to get me to pick up the next one after this?
This book gets two stars instead of one because the authors still manage, while pissing on the altar of the plot gods, to craft complete English sentences, thereby not completely sapping my will to live.
I should not have followed the link to this Tumblr.
Oh, blessed Mistress Schadenfreude, thanks to Thee I shall achieve nothing else for the rest of the day.
While the “hunt for agent” dance continues, we return to our regularly scheduled writing regimen in the new year.
At the moment, my writing desk holds two volumes of theatre history and the Penguin Classics edition of The Oresteia. Obviously, this means I’m working on a follow-up to Seraph.