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kris_mccracken's reviews
2529 reviews
The Bookbinder by Pip Williams
3.0
"The Bookbinder" weaves history, emotion and intellect into an interesting tale of societal constraint, familial duty and ambition. Set in Oxford in the early twentieth century, it is a story rich in both substance and sentiment.
Evocative, subversive and rich with characters, "The Bookbinder" explores knowledge – who gets to make it and who gets to access it. Steeped in the history of Oxford's bookbinding trade, the novel does a great job of creating time and place.
While the pacing occasionally falters, particularly in the middle sections, and some plot points feel a touch too convenient, these are minor quibbles in a story that is otherwise so gorgeously rendered.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2
Evocative, subversive and rich with characters, "The Bookbinder" explores knowledge – who gets to make it and who gets to access it. Steeped in the history of Oxford's bookbinding trade, the novel does a great job of creating time and place.
While the pacing occasionally falters, particularly in the middle sections, and some plot points feel a touch too convenient, these are minor quibbles in a story that is otherwise so gorgeously rendered.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2
Detours by Tim Rogers
4.0
Tim Rogers, frontman of You Am I, might be best known for his music, but "Detours" offers a surprisingly different side of him. As someone who enjoys Rogers' music very much, I expected a memoir steeped in riffs and rhythm. Instead, this unusual and utterly charming book feels more like sitting down for a heart-to-heart with the man himself, an unfiltered, meandering conversation about life, love, and everything in between.
Rogers' writing is, like the man, full of flair, described aptly as trailing "floaty scarves." It's lush, often poetic, but occasionally trips over its own extravagance. That said, beneath the literary flourishes is a brutal honesty. He writes candidly about anxiety, drinking and some less-fine memories. His insights into his turbulent family life and unstable childhood dig into the psychological roots of his struggles, making for a raw and cathartic memoir.
"Detours" covers a dizzying array of topics: masculinity, love, footy, drinking, his father, being a dad, and his love of making music. Surprisingly, though, there's not actually much about his music here. Songwriting is mentioned, but more as a lifeline, a way for Rogers to turn pain into art, mirroring what this memoir does so beautifully.
Sport runs throughout. With vivid memories of Kalgoorlie footy, battered blokes pushing through pain for the sheer joy of it, and the soothing drone of cricket commentary evoke a sense of nostalgia.
There is a blending of reflections on art, anxiety and identity with intimate moments from his life, fatherhood struggles, brushes with fame, and his relentless search for meaning. Rogers is achingly sincere, especially when recounting his demons and failures. There's a sense of someone coming to terms with himself, laying it all bare without pretence.
This is a deeply engaging read, equal parts mesmerising and messy. Tim Rogers has crafted something that feels intensely personal like a handwritten letter smudged with ink and tears. For fans of his music or anyone drawn to stories of resilience and reinvention, this is well worth the detour.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Rogers' writing is, like the man, full of flair, described aptly as trailing "floaty scarves." It's lush, often poetic, but occasionally trips over its own extravagance. That said, beneath the literary flourishes is a brutal honesty. He writes candidly about anxiety, drinking and some less-fine memories. His insights into his turbulent family life and unstable childhood dig into the psychological roots of his struggles, making for a raw and cathartic memoir.
"Detours" covers a dizzying array of topics: masculinity, love, footy, drinking, his father, being a dad, and his love of making music. Surprisingly, though, there's not actually much about his music here. Songwriting is mentioned, but more as a lifeline, a way for Rogers to turn pain into art, mirroring what this memoir does so beautifully.
Sport runs throughout. With vivid memories of Kalgoorlie footy, battered blokes pushing through pain for the sheer joy of it, and the soothing drone of cricket commentary evoke a sense of nostalgia.
There is a blending of reflections on art, anxiety and identity with intimate moments from his life, fatherhood struggles, brushes with fame, and his relentless search for meaning. Rogers is achingly sincere, especially when recounting his demons and failures. There's a sense of someone coming to terms with himself, laying it all bare without pretence.
This is a deeply engaging read, equal parts mesmerising and messy. Tim Rogers has crafted something that feels intensely personal like a handwritten letter smudged with ink and tears. For fans of his music or anyone drawn to stories of resilience and reinvention, this is well worth the detour.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Manassas by James Reasoner
3.0
"Manassas" is the first instalment in a ten-book American Civil War historical fiction series. Told through a distinctly Southern lens, the novel explores the rumblings of secession and the First Battle of Bull Run, interweaving themes of familial bonds, personal allegiance and moral dilemmas.
Reasoner weaves a textured tapestry of Civil War-era life, threading together the raw nerves of a society on the brink of fracture. His portrayal of Confederate volunteers pulses with an unvarnished energy, young men swept up in a romantic delusion of martial glory, their naivety etched in every line. Domestic scenes serve as a counterpoint, rooted in the gritty realities of households bracing for upheaval, where personal costs of conflict simmer beneath the surface of daily existence.
The novel stumbles where it should soar. Characters drift like pale sketches, never quite breaking through the page's membrane. Prose marches in lockstep, functional but bloodless, missing the nuanced tremors that could have illuminated this fractured moment in history. Despite the narrative's fertile ground, Reasoner seems content to skim the surface, side-stepping the deeper moral fault lines that could have transformed a merely competent book into something truly piercing.
That said, "Manassas" offers a readable and accessible narrative that will appeal to readers who enjoy character-driven historical fiction. The battle itself emerges later in the story, but Reasoner's patient buildup may reward those who prefer their history served with a generous dose of familial drama and period detail.
"Manassas" is an interesting beginning to a lengthy series. While it doesn't quite deliver on the promise of its premise, it might still find its audience among those looking for an undemanding yet immersive foray into the Civil War's early days. Reasoner's saga could grow into something more ambitious, but as a standalone novel, this opening chapter struggles to rise above pedestrian.
⭐ ⭐ 1/2
Reasoner weaves a textured tapestry of Civil War-era life, threading together the raw nerves of a society on the brink of fracture. His portrayal of Confederate volunteers pulses with an unvarnished energy, young men swept up in a romantic delusion of martial glory, their naivety etched in every line. Domestic scenes serve as a counterpoint, rooted in the gritty realities of households bracing for upheaval, where personal costs of conflict simmer beneath the surface of daily existence.
The novel stumbles where it should soar. Characters drift like pale sketches, never quite breaking through the page's membrane. Prose marches in lockstep, functional but bloodless, missing the nuanced tremors that could have illuminated this fractured moment in history. Despite the narrative's fertile ground, Reasoner seems content to skim the surface, side-stepping the deeper moral fault lines that could have transformed a merely competent book into something truly piercing.
That said, "Manassas" offers a readable and accessible narrative that will appeal to readers who enjoy character-driven historical fiction. The battle itself emerges later in the story, but Reasoner's patient buildup may reward those who prefer their history served with a generous dose of familial drama and period detail.
"Manassas" is an interesting beginning to a lengthy series. While it doesn't quite deliver on the promise of its premise, it might still find its audience among those looking for an undemanding yet immersive foray into the Civil War's early days. Reasoner's saga could grow into something more ambitious, but as a standalone novel, this opening chapter struggles to rise above pedestrian.
⭐ ⭐ 1/2
We Solve Murders by Richard Osman
3.0
Richard Osman’s “We Solve Murders” feels a bit like wandering through a grand old house that keeps surprising you with hidden rooms. It’s sprawling, almost to the point of overreach, but Osman has a knack for balance. Every subplot earns its place, and every character feels necessary. It could have toppled under its own ambition, yet somehow it doesn’t. Instead, the pieces click together with the kind of precision that suggests Osman was always in control, even when it appears as though the story might unravel.
The tone is light, almost effervescent, as though the characters are sipping cocktails instead of facing mortal peril. They’re clever, sometimes too clever, tossing bon mots as if they’re auditioning for a panel show. This cleverness cuts both ways, with dialogue occasionally veering into territory that's a bit too rehearsed. You won’t be gripping the edge of your seat or doubled over laughing, but you’ll smile, nod, and keep turning the pages. It’s all delivered with a knowing wink, which works most of the time, though there are moments when you might wish someone would drop the mask and let the tension breathe a little more.
Osman’s affection for people shines through. He’s got an eye for quirks, the odd habits and eccentricities. His leads are relatable, the kind you’d want in your corner, and the supporting cast is just as well-drawn. Villains and allies alike have texture, even if some teeter on caricature. You get the sense Osman delights in his creations, sketching them with the kind of detail that suggests genuine fondness rather than mere convenience. Such warmth smooths over those elements that might otherwise feel implausible.
Still, it’s hard to ignore the daftness of it all. The stakes never feel that high, and there’s a faint whiff of farce to the proceedings. Yet it’s undeniably enjoyable. Light as air, this one, but smooth going from start to finish. It’s the literary equivalent of a supermarket sponge, soft, sweet, and satisfying enough, even if it doesn’t quite leave you full.
For all its charm, “We Solve Murders” doesn’t quite capture the spark of Osman’s “Murder Club” series. It’s a Sunday afternoon kind of read, undemanding but comforting, and I’ll probably keep reading the series. The book feels like it’s coasting slightly, relying on familiar rhythms and well-worn beats rather than taking risks. Still, that’s not necessarily a flaw. For readers wanting something gentle and amusing, it delivers exactly what it promises.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2
The tone is light, almost effervescent, as though the characters are sipping cocktails instead of facing mortal peril. They’re clever, sometimes too clever, tossing bon mots as if they’re auditioning for a panel show. This cleverness cuts both ways, with dialogue occasionally veering into territory that's a bit too rehearsed. You won’t be gripping the edge of your seat or doubled over laughing, but you’ll smile, nod, and keep turning the pages. It’s all delivered with a knowing wink, which works most of the time, though there are moments when you might wish someone would drop the mask and let the tension breathe a little more.
Osman’s affection for people shines through. He’s got an eye for quirks, the odd habits and eccentricities. His leads are relatable, the kind you’d want in your corner, and the supporting cast is just as well-drawn. Villains and allies alike have texture, even if some teeter on caricature. You get the sense Osman delights in his creations, sketching them with the kind of detail that suggests genuine fondness rather than mere convenience. Such warmth smooths over those elements that might otherwise feel implausible.
Still, it’s hard to ignore the daftness of it all. The stakes never feel that high, and there’s a faint whiff of farce to the proceedings. Yet it’s undeniably enjoyable. Light as air, this one, but smooth going from start to finish. It’s the literary equivalent of a supermarket sponge, soft, sweet, and satisfying enough, even if it doesn’t quite leave you full.
For all its charm, “We Solve Murders” doesn’t quite capture the spark of Osman’s “Murder Club” series. It’s a Sunday afternoon kind of read, undemanding but comforting, and I’ll probably keep reading the series. The book feels like it’s coasting slightly, relying on familiar rhythms and well-worn beats rather than taking risks. Still, that’s not necessarily a flaw. For readers wanting something gentle and amusing, it delivers exactly what it promises.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2
Hell Hath No Fury by Charles G. West
2.0
“Hell Hath No Fury” feels like a story written on rails. Following the familiar grooves of the Western genre, ticking boxes rather than breaking new ground. The plot rolls along steadily enough, but there is little to intrigue the reader.
The main issue lies with our protagonist, Hawk, who - despite the very many trials and tribulations thrust his way - remains frustratingly distant. We spend half the book circling him, catching only fleeting glimpses of his character. Even when we finally get closer, it is still just scraps, fragments that never quite add up to a fully fleshed-out man. He is competent and stoic, but his interior life is non-existant.
The moral landscape is equally stark, painted in absolutes. Hawk’s nemesis, Roy Nestor, is pure villainy, without a single redeeming feature or complexity. He's shit at his job and sneers, bullies, and kills, offering nothing in the way of nuance. Everyone else falls neatly into their roles, good or bad, with no shades of grey to complicate matters.
When the violence begins, it comes thick and fast. Bodies pile up by the final page, yet every single one of Hawk’s kills lands squarely in the realm of self-defence. It is too tidy, stripping the story of any real tension or moral ambiguity.
The dialogue, meanwhile, rings hollow. While Hawk himself avoids the usual prejudices about Native Americans, their own dialogue leans heavily on tired stereotypes. It feels less like a window into lived experience and more like something borrowed from old films.
“Hell Hath No Fury” delivers the basics, gunslingers, vengeance, and bloodshed, but never steps outside the lines. It is the literary equivalent of a tin badge, serviceable and polished, yet ultimately hollow.
⭐ ⭐
The main issue lies with our protagonist, Hawk, who - despite the very many trials and tribulations thrust his way - remains frustratingly distant. We spend half the book circling him, catching only fleeting glimpses of his character. Even when we finally get closer, it is still just scraps, fragments that never quite add up to a fully fleshed-out man. He is competent and stoic, but his interior life is non-existant.
The moral landscape is equally stark, painted in absolutes. Hawk’s nemesis, Roy Nestor, is pure villainy, without a single redeeming feature or complexity. He's shit at his job and sneers, bullies, and kills, offering nothing in the way of nuance. Everyone else falls neatly into their roles, good or bad, with no shades of grey to complicate matters.
When the violence begins, it comes thick and fast. Bodies pile up by the final page, yet every single one of Hawk’s kills lands squarely in the realm of self-defence. It is too tidy, stripping the story of any real tension or moral ambiguity.
The dialogue, meanwhile, rings hollow. While Hawk himself avoids the usual prejudices about Native Americans, their own dialogue leans heavily on tired stereotypes. It feels less like a window into lived experience and more like something borrowed from old films.
“Hell Hath No Fury” delivers the basics, gunslingers, vengeance, and bloodshed, but never steps outside the lines. It is the literary equivalent of a tin badge, serviceable and polished, yet ultimately hollow.
⭐ ⭐
Cactus Pear For My Beloved: A Family Story from Gaza by Samah Sabawi
2.0
Samah Sabawit’s “Cactus Pear for My Beloved” is a thoroughly decent book, but - despite the monumental life events described within - I will confess to finding it a bit dull. It is the kind of book that feels more worthy than enjoyable, like something you’re supposed to admire rather than get lost in.
The structure is episodic, which works in fits and starts. Skipping explanations and avoiding deep psychological exploration of characters, it instead relies on the vibrancy of their world to hold your attention. Sometimes, this pays off, but other times, I felt like I was purusing images from someone's family album without the bigger picture to tie it all together.
It’s a semi-memoir, blurring the line between personal narrative and historical account. I always feel a bit wary of this approach. It can work, but here it made it harder for me to settle in. I kept wondering if I was reading fact or fiction, and I’m not sure the book does enough to make that ambiguity feel intentional rather than distracting.
The focus on Gaza and the author’s family history is no doubt remarkable, especially if you’re drawn to personal stories rooted in political struggle. I get why these moments matter to the family, but I have to admit they didn’t always engage me. Perhaps that’s because I already know the broad strokes of Palestinian history, so the material felt familiar rather than revelatory.
I also struggled with the tone. There’s something academic about it, like it’s observing its subjects rather than letting you get inside their lives. It felt distant, and that made it hard for me to stay emotionally invested.
There are some strong images and scenes, and I respect what Sabawit is trying to do. Still, the book never quite grabbed me. It felt more like an intellectual exercise than a story I could sink into.
⭐ ⭐
The structure is episodic, which works in fits and starts. Skipping explanations and avoiding deep psychological exploration of characters, it instead relies on the vibrancy of their world to hold your attention. Sometimes, this pays off, but other times, I felt like I was purusing images from someone's family album without the bigger picture to tie it all together.
It’s a semi-memoir, blurring the line between personal narrative and historical account. I always feel a bit wary of this approach. It can work, but here it made it harder for me to settle in. I kept wondering if I was reading fact or fiction, and I’m not sure the book does enough to make that ambiguity feel intentional rather than distracting.
The focus on Gaza and the author’s family history is no doubt remarkable, especially if you’re drawn to personal stories rooted in political struggle. I get why these moments matter to the family, but I have to admit they didn’t always engage me. Perhaps that’s because I already know the broad strokes of Palestinian history, so the material felt familiar rather than revelatory.
I also struggled with the tone. There’s something academic about it, like it’s observing its subjects rather than letting you get inside their lives. It felt distant, and that made it hard for me to stay emotionally invested.
There are some strong images and scenes, and I respect what Sabawit is trying to do. Still, the book never quite grabbed me. It felt more like an intellectual exercise than a story I could sink into.
⭐ ⭐
The Hotel Avocado by Bob Mortimer
4.0
Bob Mortimer’s “The Hotel Avocado” is a proper delight. It’s odd, often absurd and absolutely hilarious. Mortimer has a gentle charm about him that never feels forced, and it carries the whole thing beautifully. He’s properly funny without trying too hard, which is harder than it sounds.
If you read “The Satsuma Complex” last year and found yourself laughing at its sheer inventiveness, you’ll be glad to know Mortimer’s stayed true to form. “The Hotel Avocado” follows the same peculiar blueprint, right down to measuring people’s features in hamsters and fruit. None of it makes any sense, but somehow it still paints a vivid picture. It’s the sort of imagery that sticks with you, even when you’re not sure why.
Fair warning, though. This one’s odd, and not everyone will warm to its particular flavour of strange. But if you’re already tuned to Mortimer’s wavelength, you’ll find something rather lovely here. The story weaves itself together with surprising ease, balancing quirk and heart. It’s populated by actual humans rather than cartoon cut-outs, which makes a refreshing change. Best of all, it wraps up without resorting to the usual violent crescendo, proving you can keep things interesting without guns or explosions.
Mortimer’s not aiming to change literature forever, and that’s fine. This is not Dostoyevsky. It’s a funny and engaging romp that slides down as easily as morning coffee. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
If you read “The Satsuma Complex” last year and found yourself laughing at its sheer inventiveness, you’ll be glad to know Mortimer’s stayed true to form. “The Hotel Avocado” follows the same peculiar blueprint, right down to measuring people’s features in hamsters and fruit. None of it makes any sense, but somehow it still paints a vivid picture. It’s the sort of imagery that sticks with you, even when you’re not sure why.
Fair warning, though. This one’s odd, and not everyone will warm to its particular flavour of strange. But if you’re already tuned to Mortimer’s wavelength, you’ll find something rather lovely here. The story weaves itself together with surprising ease, balancing quirk and heart. It’s populated by actual humans rather than cartoon cut-outs, which makes a refreshing change. Best of all, it wraps up without resorting to the usual violent crescendo, proving you can keep things interesting without guns or explosions.
Mortimer’s not aiming to change literature forever, and that’s fine. This is not Dostoyevsky. It’s a funny and engaging romp that slides down as easily as morning coffee. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Our Tiny, Useless Hearts by Toni Jordan
3.0
Toni Jordan’s “Our Tiny, Useless Hearts” is melodrama at its best. It is loud, ridiculous and often laugh-out-loud funny. The story moves at a cracking pace, stuffed with twists, chaos, and sharp observations about love and modern life. If you go in with an open mind and a willingness to embrace the absurd, you’ll likely find it an enjoyable ride.
Jordan’s satirical jabs at Australian middle-class suburban life highlights the absurdity of social norms and human behaviour while maintaining a warmth at the story’s core. Beneath the farce, themes of love, family, and redemption help keep it grounded.
Our protagonist, Janice, is sharp, independent, and funny, holding the whole thing together with her dry wit and determination. Her perspective keeps the madness in check, even when characters like Craig and Martha stretch plausibility. Some of their antics felt too far-fetched, pulling me out of the story now and then. Still, the humour and heart managed to draw me back in.
Jordan’s dialogue is sharp and packed with wit and energy. The relationships are messy but believable, filled with real affection despite the chaos. It is refreshing to see flawed characters whose connections still feel genuine, even when they’re making a complete mess of things.
“Our Tiny, Useless Hearts” is quick, funny, and bursting with energy. It doesn’t aim to be subtle and leans heavily into its farcical elements. While it occasionally veers into territory that feels a bit too silly, it still delivers an engaging and enjoyable experience.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Jordan’s satirical jabs at Australian middle-class suburban life highlights the absurdity of social norms and human behaviour while maintaining a warmth at the story’s core. Beneath the farce, themes of love, family, and redemption help keep it grounded.
Our protagonist, Janice, is sharp, independent, and funny, holding the whole thing together with her dry wit and determination. Her perspective keeps the madness in check, even when characters like Craig and Martha stretch plausibility. Some of their antics felt too far-fetched, pulling me out of the story now and then. Still, the humour and heart managed to draw me back in.
Jordan’s dialogue is sharp and packed with wit and energy. The relationships are messy but believable, filled with real affection despite the chaos. It is refreshing to see flawed characters whose connections still feel genuine, even when they’re making a complete mess of things.
“Our Tiny, Useless Hearts” is quick, funny, and bursting with energy. It doesn’t aim to be subtle and leans heavily into its farcical elements. While it occasionally veers into territory that feels a bit too silly, it still delivers an engaging and enjoyable experience.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
The Gifted Son by Genevieve Gannon
2.0
If beige were a novel, it would be "The Gifted Son" by Genevieve Gannon. Not the tasteful taupe of an architecturally smug Airbnb, mind you. We're talking about the kind of beige that haunts waiting rooms and unravels souls, a colour that doesn't offend so much as it quietly drains the will to live.
The opening chapters swagger in with the confidence of a Year 12 formal suit - sharp, polished, a touch over-eager - introducing a school attack and the fallout for a promising 17-year-old boy and his family. Yet, much like that formal suit, the shine fades fast. What begins as a study in trauma and resilience devolves into a plodding exercise in narrative hand-holding. Themes of grief and guilt are so clumsily telegraphed that one half expects them to arrive in flashing neon, underscored by a sombre string quartet.
And the pacing. God help us, the pacing. It moves with the urgency of a pensioner counting change at the self-checkout, lingering on irrelevancies while the central mystery festers in the background like a forgotten Tupperware container. When the confession finally arrives, it's less revelation and more comedic pratfall, like Hercule Poirot tripping over his own moustache.
Characterisation fares no better. The titular' gifted son' is less a fully formed human and more an afterthought, a cypher designed to absorb tragedy without ever generating it. His family is similarly spectral, circling the plot in listless orbits, their dialogue as stilted as a Year 9 production of Arthur Miller. Emotional depth is hinted at but never dug for, like a council worker leaning on a shovel.
The novel does attempt Big Ideas. Social issues are tackled with all the finesse of a drunk uncle delivering a wedding toast, well-meaning but excruciatingly blunt. Readers are offered no room to interpret, only to endure. It's the literary equivalent of being cornered at a barbecue by someone with Opinions on fluoride.
To its credit, the prose is readable: clean, functional, and inoffensive. But therein lies the rub. It never risks beauty, never courts danger. Instead, it tiptoes through its 300-odd pages like a guest at high tea, terrified of spilling the milk.
By the end, "The Gifted Son" leaves you feeling not enraged or enthralled but vaguely embarrassed, like discovering a charity shop purchase still has its previous owner's tissues in the pocket. Two stars, then. One for the premise, which deserved better, and one for the brief, flickering moments where genuine tension threatened to show its face before promptly scuttling back into the beige.
⭐ ⭐
The opening chapters swagger in with the confidence of a Year 12 formal suit - sharp, polished, a touch over-eager - introducing a school attack and the fallout for a promising 17-year-old boy and his family. Yet, much like that formal suit, the shine fades fast. What begins as a study in trauma and resilience devolves into a plodding exercise in narrative hand-holding. Themes of grief and guilt are so clumsily telegraphed that one half expects them to arrive in flashing neon, underscored by a sombre string quartet.
And the pacing. God help us, the pacing. It moves with the urgency of a pensioner counting change at the self-checkout, lingering on irrelevancies while the central mystery festers in the background like a forgotten Tupperware container. When the confession finally arrives, it's less revelation and more comedic pratfall, like Hercule Poirot tripping over his own moustache.
Characterisation fares no better. The titular' gifted son' is less a fully formed human and more an afterthought, a cypher designed to absorb tragedy without ever generating it. His family is similarly spectral, circling the plot in listless orbits, their dialogue as stilted as a Year 9 production of Arthur Miller. Emotional depth is hinted at but never dug for, like a council worker leaning on a shovel.
The novel does attempt Big Ideas. Social issues are tackled with all the finesse of a drunk uncle delivering a wedding toast, well-meaning but excruciatingly blunt. Readers are offered no room to interpret, only to endure. It's the literary equivalent of being cornered at a barbecue by someone with Opinions on fluoride.
To its credit, the prose is readable: clean, functional, and inoffensive. But therein lies the rub. It never risks beauty, never courts danger. Instead, it tiptoes through its 300-odd pages like a guest at high tea, terrified of spilling the milk.
By the end, "The Gifted Son" leaves you feeling not enraged or enthralled but vaguely embarrassed, like discovering a charity shop purchase still has its previous owner's tissues in the pocket. Two stars, then. One for the premise, which deserved better, and one for the brief, flickering moments where genuine tension threatened to show its face before promptly scuttling back into the beige.
⭐ ⭐
Smoke Wagon by Brett Cogburn
2.0
Brett Cogburn’s “Smoke Wagon” is exactly what it promises: a loud, leathery western that kicks down the saloon doors, empties its revolver, and leaves the bartender to clean up the mess. It’s the literary equivalent of a spaghetti western marathon on a hungover Sunday. There’s grit, gunfire, and just enough smirking bravado to keep the tumbleweeds rolling, but don’t expect it to reinvent the wheel. Or even bother oiling it.
Morgan Clyde, the hero, strides through the carnage like a frontier Terminator. He’s shot, punched, and presumably concussed, yet manages to emerge from every scrap with little more than a poetic scratch. The villains, on the other hand, drop like they’ve been shot by cannons instead of six-shooters. It’s an endless parade of casualties that makes one wonder if the Old West had any men left to build railroads after all this carnage or if tumbleweeds started rolling just to avoid being gunned down.
The prose does try for realism, at least in its dialogue and commitment to physical detail. Characters spit, bleed, and groan with convincing anguish, though often just long enough to collapse in dramatic heaps while Morgan dusts himself off. Yet this realism stumbles against the cartoonish action sequences where bodies pile up faster than chairs in a closing pub. For all the mud and sweat, the novel never quite decides if it wants to be a hard-edged character study or a high-noon pantomime with villains twirling imaginary moustaches.
Speaking of clichés, Molly - the inevitable ‘hooker with a heart of gold’ - makes her entrance with the kind of tragic allure that suggests she was assembled in the same factory as every other brothel-dwelling love interest in Western fiction. She’s likeable, sure, but also the sort of character you could swap out for any other fictional Molly without losing much. And then there’s the supporting cast, a procession of faces that drift in, mumble a line, and evaporate. If Chekhov’s gun had this many redundancies, it’d be buried in the desert by chapter three.
The pacing drags like a three-legged mule thanks to Cogburn’s devotion to describing every hat, saddle, and grain of sand in vivid detail. The action, when it finally arrives, hits hard but never fast enough to make up for the long slogs in between.
As for the cliffhanger ending, it’s less a nail-biter and more a polite shove toward a sequel that I have no intention of reading. “Smoke Wagon” is fine if you like your westerns loud, familiar, and lightly soaked in testosterone. But for all its smoke and bravado, the gun never quite goes off.
⭐ ⭐
Morgan Clyde, the hero, strides through the carnage like a frontier Terminator. He’s shot, punched, and presumably concussed, yet manages to emerge from every scrap with little more than a poetic scratch. The villains, on the other hand, drop like they’ve been shot by cannons instead of six-shooters. It’s an endless parade of casualties that makes one wonder if the Old West had any men left to build railroads after all this carnage or if tumbleweeds started rolling just to avoid being gunned down.
The prose does try for realism, at least in its dialogue and commitment to physical detail. Characters spit, bleed, and groan with convincing anguish, though often just long enough to collapse in dramatic heaps while Morgan dusts himself off. Yet this realism stumbles against the cartoonish action sequences where bodies pile up faster than chairs in a closing pub. For all the mud and sweat, the novel never quite decides if it wants to be a hard-edged character study or a high-noon pantomime with villains twirling imaginary moustaches.
Speaking of clichés, Molly - the inevitable ‘hooker with a heart of gold’ - makes her entrance with the kind of tragic allure that suggests she was assembled in the same factory as every other brothel-dwelling love interest in Western fiction. She’s likeable, sure, but also the sort of character you could swap out for any other fictional Molly without losing much. And then there’s the supporting cast, a procession of faces that drift in, mumble a line, and evaporate. If Chekhov’s gun had this many redundancies, it’d be buried in the desert by chapter three.
The pacing drags like a three-legged mule thanks to Cogburn’s devotion to describing every hat, saddle, and grain of sand in vivid detail. The action, when it finally arrives, hits hard but never fast enough to make up for the long slogs in between.
As for the cliffhanger ending, it’s less a nail-biter and more a polite shove toward a sequel that I have no intention of reading. “Smoke Wagon” is fine if you like your westerns loud, familiar, and lightly soaked in testosterone. But for all its smoke and bravado, the gun never quite goes off.
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