When bad books happen to good writers

Dennis Lehane’s latest falls ... and can’t get up

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette I had seen “Shutter Island,” “Gone Baby Gone” and “Mystic River” on the big screen, the latter of which, of course, basked in Oscar adulation, securing a Best Picture nomination and garnering a slew of other trophies and recognitions. So with that in mind, I was intrigued when our book editor handed me a copy of “Since We Fell,” the latest offering from the maestro behind the mind-bending mayhem, author Dennis Lehane, who had written the novels upon which the atmospheric films were based.

What would it be like reading Mr. Lehane instead of seeing an adaptation of his work? Would I be impressed with his mastery of characterization, pacing and mood? In other words, would the book be better than the movie?

Short answer: No, baby, no. “Since We Fell,” with its 418-page agglomeration of cringe-inducing dialogue, unbelievable occurrences, largely bland characters and plodding plot points, became my albatross.

Mr. Lehane’s protagonist is Rachel Childs, an emotionally damaged woman who grew up in New England without a father, without, in fact, even knowing his name (the time spent unearthing the mystery of her father’s identity represents a long and ultimately irrelevant digression that takes up a good chunk of the book’s beginning) and under the care of her unhappy academician mother.

Mrs. Childs is firmly in the rearview mirror, having died early and off-camera in a car crash, so Rachel’s story begins with her essentially as an orphan with more complexes than the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. She’s got daddy issues, mommy issues, self-esteem issues and attachment issues.

Mr. Lehane spends a good deal of time establishing Rachel’s psychology and biography, tracking her career trajectory as a journalist moving up the print ladder to bigger and better (the Boston Globe) and then switching to TV, because that’s what all ink-stained wretches want to do, right? She eventually reaches the cusp of big-league success while covering an earthquake in Haiti, but a horrific experience there and exposure to immense human suffering take their toll, leading to an on-air meltdown and the destruction of Rachel’s once-promising career.

Reduced to an emotional basket case, afflicted with panic attacks and agoraphobia, enduring a crumbling marriage and self-doubt, Rachel seems doomed. Enter handsome, successful and self-possessed Brian Delacroix, a purported Canadian timber-business scion who is, we guess pretty quickly, too good to be true.

Without giving anything away, Mr. Lehane finally gets his game on when Rachel — and the reader — realize that things are not what they seem. As the tempo picks up, deceptions and illusions aplenty are revealed as a cast of grifters, killers and schemers pursues a $70 million prize while leaving a trail of bloodshed. All the while, Rachel comes out of her shell and metamorphoses.

It’s too bad that it took until page 159 for the action to start. To his credit, once things got rolling, Mr. Lehane offered twist after twist, some foreshadowed, others not, some genuinely surprising, others telegraphed by a mile. But by the time the crazy started, I had lost interest.

From the first page — literally — which opens with “On a Tuesday in May, in her 37th year, Rachel shot her husband dead” the entire book seemed not so much an act of literature as a script for a film (if you hadn’t guessed already, “Since We Fell” has been optioned by DreamWorks, with its guaranteed A-list actors and director). My advice: Do yourself a favor. Skip the book and wait for the movie.