For as many of them as there are and as popular as they purportedly have been over decades of readers, this was a huge disappointment. Nancy Drew is full of bland, shallow characters, predictable and slow-paced action, and boring and unnecessary detail.
First things first -- characters. A good writer can take a character you don't really want to like and make you like them, as with Sherlock Holmes. Yes, he's brilliant, but he's very annoying. However, you can't help but like him, faults and all. With Nancy Drew, the characters are just too cookie-cutter to be likable. They have no realism to them. I kept feeling like I was reading about those chipper, chirpy cartoon housewives you always see in vintage pictures. They cover all three hair colors -- blond, red, and brunette -- and all three girl types -- overly feminine and chubby, athletic and tom-boyish, and middle-of-the-road, girl-next-door. Boring. The conversation is horribly stilted. I've watched commercials with more meaningful dialogue. When the "boys" come along, first of all, they have nothing better to do than drop everything to partake in this mystery? They don't have lives or plans to speak of? Well, of course not, because college hasn't started yet. Until then, they just sit around and stare at each other. After college starts, don't expect them to drop as much as a line. All in all, everything is just so white-washed. It's like watching the Andy Griffith show except without adorable little Opie.
SPOILERS. The biggest thing I don't get is the behavior of the other red-headed woman. She has lost her only children, her husband is dead, and she is so calm. If it were my children, I would have been INSANE. She casually stops in to buy a record from the local soda shop owner because she has time to think that he might need the business. Seriously? I would be fighting tooth and nail to get my children back, and I am willing to bet that most "normal" mothers would be a little more like a tiger whose cubs have been taken than a vaguely robust Stepford Wife. And then when she gets them back, after they've been ABUSED, all she has to say is, "Yes, I'm your mother, let me tell you all about it," and these traumatized children not only just wander peaceably back to the living room with her, but then it's like she missed them about as much as if they'd been in the next room all this time. There are no tears, there are no embraces, there is no movement and vigor. It's all just very calm and precise and proper. It's like she was possessed by Emily Post. And the next morning, she's not feverishly by the side of her children making sure they are okay (which I would be. . .I would be violently overprotective until I died), she's getting all giddy and silly over the prospect of a treasure! Your children are the treasure! I personally wouldn't be surprised to learn she was in on the scheme the whole time and is playing them for fools. What a creep fest.
Secondly -- the action. Predictable. I know it's for children, but it's patronizingly predictable. Oh gee, you think there could be something sinister going on here? Oh no, Nancy, everything in the world is peaches and cream! You would use that metaphor, wouldn't you Bess? (But that's another barrel of fish altogether.) Sure, a young child probably wouldn't have been able to figure it out, but let's pretend for a moment that children excel when given the opportunity to be challenged and that a more complex plot-line still would have been okay. Yes, it picks up after a while, but it's very much a laundry list. They went here and then they went there and next they moved a little bit to the left which might be important but probably isn't.
Which brings us to number three -- the inane amount of useless and mundane detail. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THEY ATE FOR EVERY MEAL AND WHO SERVED IT. This may be almost unfathomable, but I DON'T CARE. This whole book is one giant laundry list of details all mushed together to very little effect. It should serve as a primer of what not to do with a novel. There was surprisingly little of actual value in the points that made up the plot. This kind of writing is not only infuriatingly dull but also just plain bad. I cannot count the number of times I rolled my eyes at lines like, "Nancy and Bess, although sympathetic, did not comment. They quickly purchased the items they needed, then said good-by and left" (pg. 45). Oh golly gee, I'm so glad to know that they actually bought the things they needed, rather than just staring at them and then leaving. . .and thank goodness I know they said goodbye! Otherwise, I might think they were rude! And why does every chapter need to end with an exclamation mark?
Lastly -- poor Bess. The whole book, it just felt like the author and the other characters were pointing and chanting "fatty". They pointed out way too often that Bess would have two scoops of ice cream instead of one or that she is the one who insists upon a snack or that she really likes cookies. Good lord. We get it. She's chubby. It makes you feel better to look down on the fat girl. However, it does you no favors in my mind. Mid-life suicide, anyone, when Bess finally has enough and her last fifteen diets have all tanked and she's heavier than ever? Can you solve that one, Nancy?
I know I must seem vitriolic in my review. Honestly, though, this book left a bad taste in my mouth. It's books like this that give older books a bad name. It's a purported "classic," but unlike classics that have actual literary merit, this one probably leaves most of its readers in the cold and with the notion that older books are terrible. Why on Earth there is such a huge number is beyond me. Not only does it highlight some of man's worst features while coating everything with a thick coat of white-wash mixed with a lot of sugar, the effect is singularly sinister because it all seems like a nightmarish situation where no one sees that anything is wrong. No, no, dear, it's definitely alright to make fun of the fat girl because we're all "laughing," for example. Peer pressure gone horribly wrong. I will be staying away from Nancy Drew in the future and will not be making a foray into The Hardy Boys, since they are written by the same type of people, if not the same ones exactly.
P.S. If you want to read about a more realistic and enjoyable "girl detective" (and she's a "young sleuth"!), check out the Herculeah Jones novels by Betsy Byars. I'd choose those over these in a heartbeat.