DI Morse, as depicted by John Thaw in the '90s series, was a little too sour for my liking, but I watched many nonetheless because they were well designed and charactered, as well as nicely set. I recently treated myself to the entire Endeavour series, with the excellent Shaun Evans and Roger Allam (who makes an appearance in an early Morse episode), and thought them infinitely better, with perhaps only a couple of episodes not entirely absorbing. The characterisation of this latter series was superb, as was the sense of time as well as place, something the original series didn't have to recreate, being contemporary. While initially the '60s setting felt as drab as the reality of the era - with the pervading sense of grubby formica and outside loos - I soon began to appreciate the amount of work put into Endeavour, and that Russell Lewis, who wrote the entirety of the 6 series, had had a hand in one of the original Morse episodes. But the pull of the later series was not merely its superb scripting and production values, or its superb blend of characters with their homely names, from Endeavour to Thursday, Bright to Strange, Fancy to Trewlove, but the very fine performances of the two leads, made their own while developing a father-son relationship that was affecting, and developing the characterisation and mannerisms of the evolving Morse persona.
So a certain sourness - from years of establishment nonsense, reorganisation, injustice, corruption, and simply not fitting in - was, I see now, inevitable in the older Morse; yet it still detracted from the enjoyment of the watching, whereas every nuance Shaun Evans brought to the prototypical detective - the impatience, the earlobe tugging, the booze - was beautifully apt, and I initially watched the series for that superb characterisation than anything else.
Such a preamble to my first Dexter novel is by way of establishing probably a common factor that many people must have been very familiar with Morse as DI before they turned to the novels. After the loyal cameos and later references to Colin Dexter throughout Endeavour, I became curious... I had had no intention of reading any of the Morse series; there were far too many detective mysteries, hardboiled private eye stories, spy thrillers, suspense thrillers, procedurals and crime-horror novels on my immediate to-read list already, all of them classics. But escaping a sudden shower the other day gave me an opportunity to browse in Waterstones - just browse, mind - and I was drawn ineluctably to the crime shelf, where I selected my first Morse novel, slightly grudging the full rrp. On return, I scheduled it for 'soon', but books rise to the surface of the mind and so the list, call to be read, and establish an appetite for specifically that title which must be sated. From 6th to 1st in 24 hours, a call I could not ignore.
I don't know why I had unfairly judged that, with all the classics on my list of crime fiction to read, Dexter's novels could not compete. Having recently finished The Big Sleep [1939] (again), what really could compete or compare? Perhaps I had assumed that they might be pedestrian, non-literary and so not quite yet worthy for a claim to the rare and precious reading space I put aside for pleasure. But none of any of it. They are erudite, comfortable as old boots, somewhat demanding (Latin and Poetry), and while the pace may be pedestrian, the writing and content are certainly not. You can tell without referring to his bio that Dexter did classics at uni. Yet it doesn't have the feel of being highbrow, of talking down; it establishes its sightline, and you lock in or put down. And the setting! It is as classical as Rome, but still with that inevitable English smuttiness - largely due to the corruption of the council vandals of the past, like any other provincial town. But none of this detracts; rather it lends a realism, that, despite gorgeous appearances, every place, every life, has its patina, shadows or grime. And crime.
For you are, before anything else, inside the personality of the man before you are inside the mind of the inspector, the one greyish, baggy and boozy, the other brilliant, braggish and tetchy. And almost immediately in that sense of shyness comingled with social awkwardness and the inevitable tristesse of failure as a private man, against the success of the accomplished detective. While, for example, you are very aware of Marlowe's personality, attractions, needs, tolerances, compromises and ethical lines, they are sublimations of the primary narrative, the private eye caper; with Morse, the balance is much finer: there is no separating the personality from the detective, so well is he characterised and compromised. He doesn't just fight a winning battle with the criminal; he fights a losing battle with himself (which Marlowe never quite does).
So a certain melancholy lingers amid the honeyed and verdigris Oxford imagery, and not a little pedestrian soot. The great and the good, the ordinary and the nondescript, all are levelled by death - and murder. But we are raised from pondering these baser points by the flux of the classics streamed throughout, from the chapter epithets to the involvement of mythology in the plot. And if Morse gets some things wrong, it's the fact that his mind leaps into these more cultured backwaters which are the setting for the series, novels and TV. It's an essential part of the fabric, and it's seeded in Dexter's books. I enjoy those splashes, as much as I enjoy the establishing shots of the cupolaed rooves of Oxford. I also enjoy the idea of the eclectic - the opera, the crosswords - whereas I enjoy neither pursuit, just as I enjoy the idea of rewarding and refreshing pints, but indulge for neither reason. It adds flavour.
A very convincing start, and I'm wanting for more. I feel comfortable, somehow, here. This is certainly because we are not in the otherwise modern terrain of the slasher, the serial killer, the psychopath, nor the forensic spatter-land. It's all much more urbane, aimed at the brain, and I fancy more of the same.