Oh, boy. This book. Where to start?
Wild Horses is the first recognisably modern Dick Francis that I've read (the characters have mobile phones! and reference Prozac!), which honestly caused a bit of cognitive dissonance for me. I can deal with Francis's stoical male protagonists and flimsy love interests when it's the 70s, but it all gets a bit uncomfortable when it's supposed to be 1994 and the 30-year-old protag (a Gen X'er!) acts like your killjoy grandpa.
(Tangent: whyyyyyyyyyyyyy is there always such self-hating homoeroticism in Dick Francis's books? Why is there always a dashing gentleman who the hero is blatantly infatuated with -- in this case, movie star Nash -- who is unconvincingly tossed aside in the final chapter so that the protag can end up with an underwritten wisp of girl? I mean, am I reading this wrong????)
Nonetheless, I quite liked the premise of Wild Horses: it's a story within a story, with KilljoyGrandpa as a hotshot movie director making a film about an unsolved true crime case from 30 years ago. He begins trying to solve the case -- and gets too close to the truth!!!!! Obviously, this is right up my alley. (The only thing that would have made it more relevant to my interests was if someone was making a podcast about the true crime case.)
Of course, the usual Dick Francis suspension of disbelief insanities are in place: we're expected to believe that, in the 90s, horse racing is such a cultural phenom that everyone (EVERYONE) gets their news from some shitty horse racing newspaper. And that a movie studio would name its major new release, Unstable Times. (Because... stables??? Yeah!) Plus, this (pretty terrible-sounding) movie about horse racing attracts A-list talent and wins multiple Oscars. Riiiiiiiight. Seems legit.
My favourite insane subplot is that KilljoyGrandpa wants to include in the movie a shot of some WILD HORSES cantering down the beach. So he gets a guy to kidnap (horsenap?) some WILD HORSES from Norway, pop 'em in a shipping container, and then let 'em loose on some godforsaken shore in East Anglia. What the actual fuck.
There's too much movie-making jargon weighing down the novel and the melodramatic conclusion to the mystery doesn't gel well with its old-school feel. But, goddammit, I'm sort of sorry to see this one go. It's so batshit, you've gotta love it.
ETA: Almost forgot to share the only line in the whole novel that I highlighted on my Kindle. This is KilljoyGrandpa describing the lead actress in his movie, who I guess he hates for ~reasons: "Silva wore no lipstick and a feminist expression." INSCRIBE THIS ON MY GRAVE, PLEASE.