Customer Reviews

Don't Point That thing at Me

5 star:		(8)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

This is a reprint of an exceedingly witty English book from 1970 in which the wordplay and piercing descriptions far outweigh the enjoyment to be gotten from the actual plot, which features stolen art, blackmail, double crossing, etc... There is plenty of foreshadowing, so you aren't surprised at the rather bleak ending, but the journey there is highly entertaining. Imagine a crime thriller written by P.G. Wodehouse, and you might get a feel for the type of dry Brit humor to be found here.

I agree with Stephen Fry:"You couldn't snuggle under the duvet with anything more disreputable and delightful". And it is available from www.amazon.co.uk under the title THE MORTDECAI TRILOGY! How delicious.

When the detective in the mystery has a manservant named Jock Strapp, you get a pretty good idea of what to expect. It's a detective story, well sort of as the hero is not all that honest himself, even when he's sober. So you combine the stolen paints, the secret police, a dead client, and the obligatory ravishing young widow -- and it's hard to make a dishonest living.

This is the first of a series of British mysteries beginning in 1972. It's written by an art dealer. But as the introduction says, This is not an autobiographical novel: It is about some other portly, dissolute, immoral and middle-aged art dealer. The rest of the characters are quite imaginary too, especially that Mrs. Spon, but most of the places are real.

Popular enough to have assumed almost cult status in England, I'm glad to see that it's finally crossed the pond.

A friend gave me 'Don't Point that Thing at Me' and recommended it highly. He didn't explain why it was good, but merely placed it in my hand and urged me to read. I now understand the difficulty in communicating why this book is so wonderful. It is the characterization that shines in ways that is not simple to understand or describe.

The novel begins as Charlie Mortdecai, the clever main character, puts one over on the police in a light-hearted fashion. Only a few scenes later, Charlie is being tortured by these same people. I was surprised by the harsh turn and wasn't sure how I felt about it (although Charlie took it with grace and kept the British end up). At this point I knew I wasn't reading generic mystery fiction.

The novel swings like a pendulum between bright and murky so quickly that it is often bewildering. If strict plot is what you read a mystery for, avoid this novel as it has many plot holes and a conclusion that is fairly improbable. If, on the other hand, you enjoy oddly compelling characters (as unique as Suskind's Grenouille from Perfume or Mcdonald's Fletch), this book is a real and rare find.

As has been noted, if you're looking for a traditional detective story, you won't be served well by this book. Yes, there's a mystery (though the plot is a bit convoluted), but the real draw is the narrator -- a debauched cad of an art dealer -- and the author's deft passages:

"Your mother and father met only once. Money changed hands. A dime, probably."

It's a guilty pleasure of novel, and while it can't quite compete with Hammett or Chandler, it's not fundamentally the same sort of novel. In the end, I didn't care who killed who; I was just sad this series of clever, lurid misadventures came to an end. Time to order the next one.

Although I enjoy Wodehouse, with whom Bonfiglioli is endlessly compared, I find more apt comparisons to S.J. Pereleman and, in his darkness, to some of the 20th century Eastern European writers. But he is also quite an orginal voice; there is nothing really quite like him that I have read. Will read more as they come out in the US.

Because of Leo Carey's wry, admiring, melancholy essay in THE NEW YORKER, I grabbed this novel and its two sequels when I found them at a local used bookstore, and oh, how I wanted to like them more than I ended up doing. But they're just not as good as the hype. They drift all over the place [to be fair, Carey admitted that devotees of mysteries would find these books too undisciplined], and the narrator's aggressively amoral personality -- imagine P. G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster crossed with Jonathan Gash's Lovejoy -- can wear on one after a while. The plots are made of Swiss cheese, at best, and these books are also sadly dated in their views of women. Maybe it's because I read the Lovejoy books before these -- if I had come to them without knowing about Lovejoy, I would have enjoyed them more.

I knew this had originally come out in the 70's and that it was very witty in the British style and I kind of like that stuff, but I never got a chance to read it, so when I saw it on sale at my local used bookstore, I couldn't pass it up.

From start to finish, this book is hysterical. It revolves around an unsavory character by the name of Charlie Mortdecai. At first glance, Charlie appears to be an aristocrat; he wears expensive clothing, drinks fancy cocktails, and hobnobs with the high and mighty. What he really is though is a scoundrel, who will do anything to make a buck. He's an art dealer of not so moral means, who gets involved with stolen art and blackmail.

What I really enjoyed about the book is the wonderfully descriptive writing. Everything was described with so much care in order to make the reader feel as if she's a part of what's going on. This book had me staying up way past my bedtime several nights in a row. If you are a fan of crime thrillers and dark humor, this book will not let you down!

This is a really good book with a mixture of comedy, crime and suspense. It narates the picaresque adventures of a corrupt, mysogynist art dealer. Highly recommended

This book is like biting into a rich chocolate sundae. It's a guilty pleasure, it won't make you a stronger or moral person, but you will have one heck of a smile on your face as you read the book because it is just jam packed with witticisms, cutting asides, and outright gaspers. Nobody has done the smug, witty bastard characterization since Kingsley Amis (maybe his son, see Martin Amis's Money) or P.G. Wodehouse.

Charlie Mortdecai is an art dealer, an inveterate tippler, and person of general low morals and high standards. Bonfiglioli treats the difficult matter of a plot like Terry Southern did in Candy, or Voltaire did in Candide; it's just a device to keep the witticism, asides, and gaspers coming. In fact, imagine the plotting of Southern, the sharp wit of P.J. O'Rourke, and the polished knowledge of all things art of say, someone like Robert Hughes, and that pretty much sums it up.

Oh, and there are the characters: Mortdecai's servant, Jock Strapp, the devious Inspector Martland, the ravishing (and loves to be ravished) Johanna.

Don't worry that the plot is thin and kaleidoscopic. If it needed attention, you miss all the literary allusions, sly historical allusions, and trenchant observations about the history of Britain.

Not since the Jason Starr/Ken Bruen trilogy involving several lowlifes have I laughed so hard while reading a crime novel. This will not impress your friends, your parents, or your clergyman, but it will make you smile broader than just about any book I can think of.

If you are politically correct, run like hell from this author. He loves to skewer your sensibilities. Preferably while quaffing champagne, oysters, and caviar.