Like a lot of millennials, I enjoyed Harry Potter. I was way too old for those books when I read them, sure, but they were entertaining, quick reads and, even when the later books ballooned up to over 700 pages, they were still brisk page-turners. Characters did stuff, events happened, the plot moved forward. That stands in stark contrast to the Cormorant Strike books, which are bloated with irrelevant details and dawdle on the minutia of running a detective agency for up to 20 chapters before even introducing the main plot. What happened? It’s fascinating.
The obvious answer seems to be that, while her publisher gave its star writer more leeway to meander in later Harry Potter books, they were still exercising relatively strict editorial control behind the scenes. They knew Harry Potter was the golden goose and they needed to deliver a readable book. But in the case of Cormorant Strike, no one is minding the store. It’s a vanity project, published purely as a sop to Rowling so that she’ll allow her publisher to continue profiting off of Potter, and no one at Hachette Book Group really cares if it’s a mess. It's unconscionable that they would allow their star author to embarrass herself like this.
And it must be said: Without an editor, it becomes obvious that Rowling has abysmal instincts as a writer. Important plot and character moments are glossed over with a single paragraph summary from the narrator, but the story slows to a crawl to deliver blow-by-blow details whenever something “funny” happens — like the chapter where Robin interviews a senile old woman who constantly repeats herself. Rowling reveals new information in massive data dumps, full of comically implausible names that are impossible to remember. We rarely see Strike or Robin engage in real detective work — they’re the heads of the agency, so most of that is done by a rotating cadre of freelancers. (This may be more true to how an actual real-life detective agency works, but it’s dull reading) On the rare occasion that they do detective work, it happens off screen so that they can meet afterwards, in a fancy pub or restaurant, to tell each other (and the reader) what happened. People print out Internet conversations or blog posts on long reams of paper (Has no one in the Strike universe ever heard of a flash drive?) and spend chapters sitting in fancy pubs or restaurants and reading them. Everyone is constantly going to fancy pubs and restaurants. Rowling lards up the narrative with pointless details about random things in the room. Robin gets distracted in the middle of a conversation by the random appearance of an American in a funny hat, because Rowling seems to think it's amusing but the reader is left wondering if this walk-on American is going to figure into the narrative somewhere later.
That’s not to say anything of the elephant in the room, the fact that Rowling uses these books as manifestos to drag people that she doesn’t like — which generally turns out to be people that argue with her online. There is a lot if disdain for autistic people in this book. A young autistic man joins a cult because, his father tells Strike, he simply can’t be trusted to make his own decisions; Strike nods along approvingly as the father explains his attempts to get his adult autistic son declared mentally incompetent for his own good. A good writer could put detestable words into her characters’ mouths and it doesn’t necessarily mean that the author agrees, of course, but all of these sentiments line up exactly with Rowling’s real life views as expressed on Twitter. So it’s extremely fair, I think, to assume Rowling agrees.
Also, boy, Cormorant Strike is just an unpleasant asshole. Rowling obviously intends Strike to be part of the tradition of rumpled detectives like Horace Rumpole or Columbo. He shares a lot of their blue collar affectations, like a love of good beer, smoking, and shitty food. But part of what makes this type of character such an enduring archetype is his surprising flashes of humanity, where his sympathy for the underdog and his passion for justice break through his hard, cynical shell. How many times has a hard-boiled gumshoe reluctantly accepted an unpaying case because he can’t stand to see a dame in a fix? Strike does not seem to be driven by anything other than, well… he’s in a detective story so I guess he’s a detective. But he doesn’t really seem to enjoy or care about the work.
Strike oozes with barely disguised contempt for everyone in his life. His employees at the detective agency are just that — employees — and, by the way that Strike complains about them, they’re not very dedicated to their work. There’s no sense of friendship or comradery among Strike’s underlings nor do they seem to have any particular trust or affection for their boss. Strike meets a growing list of half-siblings (his dad was a famously promiscuous rock star, the narrator constantly informs us) but he seems to resent having to spend time with them. He hates Robin’s boyfriend with the seething passion of a friend-zoned high school dork. Women are constantly throwing themselves at Strike’s feet — despite the fact that Rowling likes to remind us that he’s ugly, rude, reeks of cigarettes, and has chronic flatulence from his diet of take-away curry — but Strike can barely think of them as human even as he’s having sex with them. Yes, Strike will use them for sex, but he doesn’t respect them because they’re dumb sluts. Rowling seems to think that this casual misogyny makes him a lovable curmudgeon, but it really just makes him seems like a dour, unpleasant jerk. When Strike can find the energy to be civil, it’s generally only to his high-paying clients, almost exclusively polished, clean, upper-class dudes who don’t speak in comical regional accents. (Pick up a book from 1890 and you’ll see that transcribing a country bumpkin’s drawl was once considered the height of hilarity, but modern readers will probably find Rowling’s constant “‘ere now, wot i fink” dialogue distracting). He’s the opposite of a Rumpole or a Columbo, a man obsequious to power and openly disdainful of the underdog. “Why would anyone join a cult?” he snorts when Robin tells him about her research into the cult in The Running Grave. He doesn’t ask because he’s curious, he only asks to show his contempt for those more weak-minded than himself.
Speaking of dumb sluts, every woman, with the exception of the virginal unattainable Robin, is characterized as a dumb slut. One such slut even goes so far as to impregnate herself with semen out of a used condom she found in the trash in order to trap a man into marriage, a move so ridiculous it’s hard to believe that an ostensibly feminist writer wrote it and not an angry 14-year old chud from Wizard chan. Rowling likes to style herself a feminist but she oozes even more contempt for women than does Strike and the average “she breasted boobily” horny dude bro author has more nuance in his female characters than Rowling.
Ultimately, this book just isn't pleasant to read. It's about unpleasant people forced to spend time together but who are too British to ever articulate their boiling resentment. Strike always feels like he’s mad that someone somewhere might be having fun, and that’s really the most British vibe ever.