This review is gonna have some mild spoilers for Three Minute Hero, and talk about the Fischer books more generally, so I’ll get all the important stuff out of the way first. If you are a fan of crime novels with caustic humour and offbeat characters, this one is for you. There are fistfights, double crosses, and action—and it is funny as hell. It’s definitely more focused in terms of plot than the earlier books, maybe because of the twin narrative structure, but still loose enough to have that type of charm where you’re happy just hanging out with the characters.
If you’ve read any of the Luke Fischer books before, then you’ll already know what to expect. There are shades of Crumley, Elmore Leonard, and some ‘what the actual hell?’ vibes of a film like Blood Simple. Terlson also has a keen visual eye, and at times when you're drifting through the landscape, you feel as if you’ve stepped into the hallucinogenic emptiness of an Edward Hopper painting.
But there was another reference point in Three Minute Hero that I just couldn’t shake as I was reading it and I’m determined to see this comparison through—much like Fischer once he’s on a case. And it’s a strange one. Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Stick with me.
The most Larry Davidesque character is, erm, Mostly Harold, the hitman who we last saw quietly stealing the show in Surf City Acid Drop. He’s promoted to co-lead here, and he’s still the angriest man west of New York. Modern life in general seems to piss him off, but the bottomless contempt he has for the entire nation of Canada in particular—their food, beer, and turns of phrase—always threatens to spill over into violence. Sometimes it does. Try and picture George Costanza as a gun-wielding jawbreaker. Terlson definitely had a blast writing this guy.
But what I’m really talking about is the overall energy of the book. Three Minute Hero is a crime novel in the same way Curb Your Enthusiasm is a sitcom. It hits all the beats and operates inside the scaffolding of the genre, but is also keenly aware of them.
There is a “meta” quality to the novel, though not in a Brechtian alienation or winking at the camera type of way (and I never expected to use the term ‘Brechtian alienation’ in a book review, or indeed ever, but here we are).
I’m also not suggesting this is a deliberate gambit by the author, but perhaps at reaching the third entry to a crime series, Terlson is starting to poke and prod at the genre, testing its boundaries and seeing how it could be stretched.
The understanding and subversion of the usual crime fiction tropes was already present in Surf City Acid Drop. Characters who veer into cliché are told they’ve watched “too many cop shows”, and Fischer himself remains adamant that he is not a detective. “It’s all too Sam Spade, stepping out of dark alleys under cover of night bullshit for me.”
But in Three Minute Hero, Terlson builds on this wariness of the tropes by how the other characters respond to them. The classic hard-boiled language frequently gets mocked and rebuked. Harold asks a lady if she’s a ‘working woman’ and she laughs in his face. “What TV show from the fifties did you walk out from?” Fischer later enquires about ‘potheads’ and gets told that “Language like that went out with the gramophone.” There are references to fictional gumshoes and crime shows throughout – Columbo, Rockford, Hawaii 5-0 – but it’s always freighted with an edge of suspicion. Those guys? They’re make believe. This is the real world.
But it’s a novel, and it isn’t, and much like the way Curb Your Enthusiasm pushes the conventional tricks of the sitcom into self-aware territory that threatens to break apart—the mistaken identities, the mix ups and misunderstandings—Three Minute Hero’s unfolding crime plot (essentially a real estate con involving all sorts of shady money) gradually builds to a surreal crescendo. There are not one, not two, but THREE femme fatales here. We have two layers of mystery to be solved, with Fischer on the trail of Harold, who is on the trail of someone else. The car chases verge into Looney Toons territory, and at one point there is a duel involving a rake and a shovel.
And our intrepid heroes seem to know what’s up. Fischer says, “I’ve wandered into a web of corruption, bad guys with guns, and likely suitcases of money. There was always a suitcase of money somewhere.”
Mostly Harold, ever the Louis L’Amour fan, puts it way more bluntly: “There was a whole lot of bullshit going on in this big circle of wagons.”
I’m not saying it’s all silly games, just that there’s a playfulness to proceedings. Terlson handles it with a light touch—the verbal pyrotechnics kept just on the right side of being overcooked. “We stood there for a while. We’d both run out of clever quips.”
It perhaps goes without saying that this is quickly followed by a clever quip. Fischer then muses to himself: “I was wrong. She had one more.”
If I’m making this sound academic, well, it really isn’t. This is just how the book spoke to me at a certain level, and you can definitely enjoy the corruption, bad guys with guns, and likely suitcases of money without drowning in postmodern theory.
There’s a motif running through the book about the grid system of roads in the Canadian Prairies, and how – due to the curve of the planet – those straight lines need a curve thrown in every so often to stop them from colliding. If we think about Fischer and Mostly Harold on their own linear journeys, they hit some curves themselves: Harold meets a beguiling woman and goes after her when she disappears, deviating from his path and setting the story in motion. Fischer, ever relentless, is on his own fixed path after him - but then he swerves into a detour back home and into a past he'd left behind. It's one thing to wage war on familiar tropes, but it doesn't necessarily mean you're offering up something fresh yourself.
Those correction lines, the curves, are the key to the novel and why it works. They are ultimately what gives it its heart.