This is the first time I've given a favorite author a goose egg.
There's a flair, an art, and even a bit of poetry to being a pastry chef. No pretense is made to fashion more "substantial" fare. New York writer Arthur Nersesian is one of the more talented practitioners around of the light and airy literary souffle, and I have loved him for that. His tasty confections melt in your mouth, and if there are additional notes going down the throat, then all the better. His sweetness always comes with a little extra gravitas. But here, Nersesian goes for the stolid old main course of Beef Wellington, and I felt less nourished than if he'd just served up cotton candy.
Nersesian's usual shtick is young urban professionals -- usually underemployed and predictably snarky -- eking out a living in the Big Apple while stumbling out of and into love. He's very good at this and I consider him among my favorite contemporary authors. He's not a breathless literary heavyweight, but when he's at his best his books are charming, funny and very smart. When Nersesian writes about New York City, you feel like you're right there on the pavement. And in this book, New York is again vibrant, and its denizens cognizant of the town's uniqueness.
In the case of Gladyss of the Hunt, our urban professional is the eponymous 23-year-old heroine with the extra "s" to her name; a tall, blonde, attractive rookie cop, who also is improbably a virgin. The story takes place after 911 and on the eve of the Iraq War. Gladyss has been assigned her first homicide case under the tutelage of bedraggled veteran detective Bernie Farrell, a curmudgeonly abusive cop with a heart of gold who loves the nasty old New York of 30 years ago and is nursing a bum leg gained from hazardous duty at the WTC on 911 and unsuccessfully holding the lid on his inner demons.
This unlikely buddy cop duo explores the nooks and crannies of New York tracking down dead-end leads while trying to stop a serial killer (or killers) who seem fixated on Marilyn Monroe or girls who resemble her. The playground for these developments is an ever-changing New York City, old hotels and new sleeker ones, slums and gentrifying blocks, where Gladyss and Bernie seem to represent different eras and attitudes, and where the killer seems to roam with uncanny ease. Gladyss begins to believe the killings might be linked to Greek mythological visions she has had while in a yoga-induced trance; visions which seem to suggest she may be Diana the Huntress. Clues found along the way seem to corroborate her metaphysical insights.
Along the way, Nersesian introduces us to his typical unlikely cast of characters: jaded NYC cops, movie stars and hangers-on, a ditzy actress starfucker friend, and sketchy low-life people from Bernie's past who seem like living ghosts and who harbor deep and disturbing secrets. Potentially guilty parties include a Jude Law-like movie stud, a director whose name sounds suspiciously like Quentin Tarantino, an old killer nemesis of Bernie's, Gladyss' would-be lover cop friend, O'Ryan, and several fringe denizens. Hitchcock-like McGuffins are thrown in to create false leads and twists. And, with all the chaos going on, Gladyss seems hellbent on losing her virginity.
For most readers, all of this might sound pretty good, and from the reviews I've read on here, the majority seems pleased with the results. But to state a strong bias up front, I have no interest in police procedurals, and this is Nersesian doing a police procedural, and I found it labored.
Within the straitjacket of the genre conventions of the police procedural, Nersesian strains to afford his characters and situations his usual deftness of touch, and he just doesn't succeed. Nersesian is best taken when he lets his characters run wild in loose, free-form plots driven by silly deus ex machina and running gags. That bag of tricks is emptied but smothered in the story, and the humor is neutered by the imperatives of the plot.
Most readers, I think, require more plot than I do, and maybe Nersesian, knowing the mass preference for formula plotting, is giving it to them, in the form of a popular and reliable crime-fiction genre. Maybe Nersesian wanted to make a little more money this time instead of being pegged as a New York cult writer with a limited coterie of devotees. It's possibly a good move for him, especially if the book gets optioned as a series or a screenplay. Gladyss seems consciously devised as a vehicle for Charlize Theron or a similar blonde beauty of tall stature. But, for me, this book is a step backward in terms of accomplishment.
Nevertheless, Nersesian does have legitimate, and even poignant things to say about the homogenization of culture, the Disneyfication of not just New York but all places that cling tenuously to the things that make them unique.
It seems to me that Nersesian worked harder on this than any of his other books. I wish he hadn't worked so hard. If Nersesian does more genre books, I'll likely avoid them.
(KevinR@Ky 2016)
Nersesian so far (the first four on this list are easily recommendable):
**** The Fuck-Up
**** Chinese Takeout
**** Dogrun
*** (3.5) Suicide Casanova
*** Manhattan Loverboy
* Gladyss of the Hunt