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A review by cinemazombie
The Room of White Fire by T. Jefferson Parker
Detective novels are a love of mine, not just for the tried-and-true formula that can be recreated across time, space, and setting, but for the unique way they provide insight into the author behind them. Whether it's love for a micro-regional cuisine, preference for a uncommon cocktail, or deeply informed insights into a hobby, the loves of a fictional PI are as much an window into the soul of author as they of the character. And in the case of this new California-based detective, we see that the author is likely an old white guy looking for retirement.
Roland Ford loves bourbon, fancy fedoras, and boxing. He is wealthy but lives plainly, barring his multi-cabana rental operation and his penchant for flying a private plan for fun. He loves dancing, hates torture, and has a military AND police background that paint him only as a Good Man. He is written to be in his mid 30s but seemingly has the voice and mannerisms of a man twice his age (I wonder how old the author is...) He has a dead wife and dead parents, is chastely chivalrous to all women he comes across, and has a forehead scar that nags at him in stressful situations. He is a golden-boy Marty Stu desperately trying to be Sam Spade.
As for the book itself, it is cliched, drags in all of the wrong places, and lingers aggressively on political issues (in this case, torture), putting the actual detective work in the backseat. Ford spends most of his time in this novel listening to people wax about their loves or hates, flying a plane, or watching people get shot. Parker spends the remaining time setting up a cast of 'regulars' that are clearly designed to spawn anywhere from three to eighteen sequels, all with their own brand of intensely-specific skill sets and vague backgrounds to ensure no shortage of writing fuel.
And yet...I finished it. I didn't hate it. The setpieces were engaging to pull me from scene to scene, and the characters (as trope-riddled as they were) played off each other well-enough to hook me. Did I buy the sequel? You betcha.
If you like reading the retirement wish-fulfillment detective dream of an author, you can probably do worse than this!
Roland Ford loves bourbon, fancy fedoras, and boxing. He is wealthy but lives plainly, barring his multi-cabana rental operation and his penchant for flying a private plan for fun. He loves dancing, hates torture, and has a military AND police background that paint him only as a Good Man. He is written to be in his mid 30s but seemingly has the voice and mannerisms of a man twice his age (I wonder how old the author is...) He has a dead wife and dead parents, is chastely chivalrous to all women he comes across, and has a forehead scar that nags at him in stressful situations. He is a golden-boy Marty Stu desperately trying to be Sam Spade.
As for the book itself, it is cliched, drags in all of the wrong places, and lingers aggressively on political issues (in this case, torture), putting the actual detective work in the backseat. Ford spends most of his time in this novel listening to people wax about their loves or hates, flying a plane, or watching people get shot. Parker spends the remaining time setting up a cast of 'regulars' that are clearly designed to spawn anywhere from three to eighteen sequels, all with their own brand of intensely-specific skill sets and vague backgrounds to ensure no shortage of writing fuel.
And yet...I finished it. I didn't hate it. The setpieces were engaging to pull me from scene to scene, and the characters (as trope-riddled as they were) played off each other well-enough to hook me. Did I buy the sequel? You betcha.
If you like reading the retirement wish-fulfillment detective dream of an author, you can probably do worse than this!