Oh lord, Jeff's at it again
When it comes to Boy’s Own stories for grown-ups, this bestselling author remains without peer.
There’s this rumour going around that I don’t rate Jeffrey Archer very highly. Nonsense: I’d choose his books over a root-canal filling any day. Almost any day.
Applying conventional literary criteria to Archer is like applying bel canto standards to a karaoke performer. He’s not a writer; he’s a sausage machine. You want 120,000 undemanding words about entitled classes, pin-striped ambition, posh houses and silver knives in backs that won’t challenge a single grey cell, and you want three more like it written in the next two years? Jeff’s your man.
It’s the early 1980s and young William Warwick, originally a fictional protagonist in an earlier series but now a “well-born” cop, gets involved in a plot of art thefts and forgeries. Top-level art, naturally: Rembrandt, Rubens, Dalí. He’s defied his rich and richly satisfied family to join the force, which means much generational grumping from behind the Times, and serious sibling issues. Sister Grace – in name, but not nature – ends up eviscerating him in one of the engrossing and very protracted court scenes.
There’s a good old cop who clips kids around the ears, a snooker tournament that William (“not Bill, please”) throws to prove he’s a decent chap, several branches of Scotland Yard with appropriately labelled doors, and villains with offshore tax havens. The Princess Royal gets a walk-on part. The next book in the series is deafeningly telegraphed.
What does this one offer? Some genuine jolts and surprises. Lifestyles of the rich and fatuous. A lot of detail about art swindles. Long and labyrinthine court scenes. What does it lack? Mischief, wit, compassion, modesty, emotional depth, authentic dialogue, plausible relationships, credible behaviour. See earlier karaoke reference.
Sex is British and bloodless. The plot lumbers along like a Bentley on an estate road. Characters don’t speak; they declaim: “I’ve enjoyed a fascinating and worthwhile career, and, dare I suggest, been moderately successful.” It’s a Boys’ Own for the over-30s, with blackguards, dodgy foreigners, pillars of society, plucky young fillies. William is idealistic, eager, pig-ignorant: “He still found it difficult to comprehend the tyranny of domestic violence.” I’d equate reading Nothing Ventured to eating a plate of damp cardboard. It’ll sell millions. How mysterious life is.
NOTHING VENTURED, by Jeffrey Archer (Macmillan,
$44.99)
You want 120,000 undemanding words about entitled classes, pin-striped ambition and silver knives in backs? Jeff’s your man.