Unambitious courtroom drama.
John Mortimer published his first book starring Rumpole, the London defense lawyer, at age 55, drawing on his own legal career as well as that of his father. This launched the popular Rumpole franchise which ran to nearly two dozen books, with Mortimer writing the last shortly before his death at age 85.
Rumpole has iconic status in Britain, including as adapted for TV in the 1970s and 80s. The dustjacket compares Mortimer to P. G. Wodehouse, describing his writing as “witty” and of “high intelligence” (New York Times Book Review and Wall Street Journal).
This is my first venture into the Rumpole series, and it proved sadly disappointing. The stories are populated by caricatures and the plots are wafer thin; Rumpole’s courtroom victory usually rests on a single clever, albeit pedestrian observation rather than the usual twists and turns of legal thrillers.
More depressing still is the outdated manner of the writing. Published in 2002 when Mortimer was nearly 80, this had the feel of British culture from two or three decades earlier. Rumpole’s charming self-deprecation is rooted in an unshakeable sense of his superiority (to both his bumbling lawyer colleagues and his colorful defendant clients). Reading Rumpole, I am taken back to the 1970s when we Brits could make fun of ourselves because, in our hearts, we knew there was no conceivable life better than being British. In retrospect, of course, our confidence blinded us to the country’s slow stagnation.
I have probably been generous with my three-star rating. But it’s hard to condemn an eighty-year-old writer who has found a lucrative niche, publishing unambitious, but much-loved books. Also, how to condemn the Rumpole stories when, despite their flaws, they remind me so much of my British heritage, like beans on toast, and Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate?