4.0 out of 5 stars
The amateur sleuth tale is well written, but takes a back seat to the period piece, October 24, 2007
This review is from: The Twilight Hour (Paperback)
1947, in a freezing still bombed out London, Dinah Wentworth finds the corpse of surrealist painter Titus Mavor. Not wanting to reveal any reasons for being at the Mayor's apartment and heeding advice, she fails to inform the cops.
Not long afterward, the police arrest family friend and film-making business partner Colin Harris, who had a vitriolic public shouting match with the deceased over the immediate future of England. Dinah knows Colin is innocent, a victim of circumstantial evidence compounded by his being a Communist as the Cold War begins to heat up. Over the objection of her husband Alan, who tells her the film partnership was over before Harris' arrest so they owe him nothing; Dinah needs to prove the innocence of Colin as she believes someone is filling in the blanks to finish framing him for the murder.
The amateur sleuth tale is well written, but takes a back seat to the period piece as London, still recovering from the bombings, suffers through a freezing winter as the Cold War begins. Dinah is a fascinating character as she wants the freedom men has, but besides her spouse and the males who dominate the fledgling English film industry keeping her down, her own limitations also holds her back as she accepts as gospel those limitations because she is a female. We've come a long way. Fans of historical tales with a mystery subplot will appreciate THE TWILIGHT HOUR more so than pure whodunit buffs as the incredibly vivid look at the era (readers will shiver with the cold) supersedes the solid investigative subplot.
Harriet Klausner
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3.0 out of 5 stars
Strong Atmosphere / Less Strong Plot & Characters, April 23, 2007
This review is from: The Twilight Hour (Paperback)
This third crime novel by feminist fashion expert Wilson is ultimately more interesting for its setting than its plot, which hinges on a pretty lame gimmick. The protagonist is naive twenty-year-old Dinah Wentworth, newly married to her older screenwriter husband and trying to find her own identity amidst the arty Fitzrovia scene of her husband and his friends. These include her husband's old filmmaking pals Hugh (relatively nondescript), Colin (intensely communist), Romanian film director Radu, willowy film star Gwen, property developer and potential film financier Stanley, has-been surrealist painter Titus Mavor, good-time girl Fiona, and assorted other journalists, artists, and gallery owners. Before long, one of the above is dead, and Dinah's deeply involved. In that oldest of plot devices, Dinah comes across the corpse and doesn't report it to the police right away. Anyone who's encountered this before in fiction (and really, who hasn't?) will recognize that her inaction will lead to all kinds of trouble for her as the plot progresses.
Soon, another of the above characters is charged with the murder on the flimsiest of pretexts. Things all get awfully complicated from here, as he has an alibi, but can't use it as it would expose him as a homosexual. Which also ties into dark events that took place during the war. Maybe. Or maybe it ties into some valuable Dali paintings the murder victim had. Or was said to have. Or maybe not. Or maybe the murder related to a love triangle. Or maybe not. It's a very murky plot just barely held together by Dinah and her husband's attempts to exonerate their imprisoned friend, with the help of a Jewish lawyer. Dinah does some haphazard amateur sleuthing, but the story is very herky jerky, and when all is revealed at the end, it's a major disappointment.
Fortunately, the book is greatly redeemed by its evocative portrayal of 1947 London, especially the semi-bohemian demimonde. Britain may have won WWII, but you sure wouldn't know it from this portrait of London (with a minor diversion to Brighton). The wartime unity of the nation is rapidly eroding in the face of an economy in tatters, food rationing, and the uncertain specter of the Cold War. And the bitter Winter isn't helping matters in a city still scarred by widespread bomb damage. Wilson does a nice job of weaving all this content into the story, along with a sense of social change, as Dinah notices a new freedom in fashion, makeup, and social mores. In terms of atmosphere and tone, it shares a great deal with classic noir novels such as Gerald Kersh's "Night and the City", Graham Greene's "Brighton Rock", Arthur La Bern's "It Always Rains on Sunday" (all made into excellent, if somewhat forgotten films) -- which is not to suggest that it's of that rank.
The plotting is a little too haphazard, the characterization a little too uneven, and the ending too gimmicky to make it wholly recommendable, but it's worth checking out by those with an interest immediate postwar London. The author is apparently working on a sequel.
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