I'm not a fan of crime fiction, unless it was written by Raymond Chandler, but that's not crime fiction - that's noir literature. However, I was enticed by and enjoyed the Stieg Larsson books last summer, despite how poorly they were edited and awful the English translations were. The narratives were compelling, and I couldn't put them down.
I decided to pick up the latest book by Jo Nesbo - billed as the "Norwegian Stieg Larsson" - because I was curious about this new trend of explicitly gruesome murder mysteries in Scandinavia. They are the crime forensics TV shows and gore-schlock movies of the publishing world, and I've read theories that the bleak and desolate landscapes and climates of the region are a natural setting and reason for such books. A few days after I started reading "The Leopard," mostly unimpressed, the Oslo massacre took place, and the book became significant in a new way.
It still wasn't very good, and while it didn't explain or justify irrational violence, it was a strange parallel. The killer in the book is driven by a life-long hatred, derived power from torturing victims at his mercy, and invested effort in cooking up an elaborate plot to cover his tracks. Sadly, the real victims are those who spent time reading this book.
First, it's hard to enjoy a book when you absolutely cannot stand the protagonist. Crime novelists with a detective for a central character inadvertently pride themselves on molding tragic heroes who are smart about everything but running their own lives. Unfortunately, most try too hard and fail. Harry Hole, making his seventh appearance in a Nesbo novel, to be is just a sad sack of shit who can't get his life together. Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade - all the great crime detectives - constantly fall apart, too, but they remain knights in tainted armor. Hole is just annoying and a coward - he doesn't even get inebriated as suavely as Chandler and Hammett characters.
Then, the entire novel just feels like a TV show. One of the reasons I dislike watching TV dramas is that each one of them, especially on the mainstream channels, are calculated to keep you coming back each week. It's like you can see where the cliff drops off, yet you continue to lunge towards it and jump off, just to remain hanging on until the episode picks up again seven days later. It's manipulative. The twists seem forced, and the book is a hundred pages too long just to be able to toss one more huge wrench into your gullet and show off a huge rescue scene (which was actually very well done).
And that's the thing - there certainly are flashes of brilliance in the book, which I enjoyed, but they're burdened by Nesbo trying to be too cool, too badass, too smart for the readers. I love a great twist, but only when it's so masterfully executed it creeps up from behind, and has its tentacles around your neck before you even realize it's starting to squeeze you dry. Nesbo's are generally rats that you can smell barns away, and some you can actually pick up the scent on before the stench gets out.
Nesbo is obviously very influenced by American pop culture, and throughout the book, characters' moods and states of mind are established by music they're listening to and movies they have a particular affliction for. And that's why he attempts to write in a noir style, which sometimes works well, in lines like:
"... damp steamed off the walls like bad breath."
"... blew smoke at the ceiling fan, which was turning so slowly that the flies were taking rides on it."
"...the stained advanced like the Wehrmacht over a map of Europe."
Interspersed with lines such as:
"'Don't overplay your hand, Hole. I'll crush you just like that.' Bellman flicked his fingers."
"'I want you,' she whispered. 'I want to make love to you.'"
"He checked the phone again. No coverage, shit!"
Cringe. At these points, I almost knew how it felt like to be one of these imagined people, captured by a serial killing maniac and tortured, except that I was in the hands of a gung-ho serial novelist. I finished the book as quickly as I could, just like any good homicide detective - so the perpetrator can't strike again - and felt the relief of finally resolving and closing the book of a wrongful crime.