What to Leave In, What to Leave Out*

In most well-written crime fiction novels, we find out who the culprit is even if we don’t actually get to see her or him (or them) brought to justice. Readers want that sense of closure and readers who like to match wits with the author like to know whether they’ve won if I may put it that way. But the truth is, there are some things about criminal investigations that real-life detectives never learn. So a novel that tells every fact about a crime wouldn’t be realistic. Besides, a novel like that would probably get to a tedious length. So many crime fiction authors choose, for good reasons, not to tell every single detail about a crime. Not only does this give the story a focus and keep it realistic but also, the strategy can keep the reader wondering and make a book stay with a reader longer.

For example, in Agatha Christie’s Mrs. McGinty’s Dead, Superintendent Albert ‘Bert’ Spence asks Poirot to re-open the investigation into the murder of a charwoman. Everyone thinks she was killed by her lodger James Bentley; in fact, he’s been convicted of the crime and is awaiting execution. But Spence has begun to think that Bentley is innocent. Poirot agrees to look into the matter and travels to the village of Broadhinny. There he discovers that several of the villagers are keeping secrets, some relatively benign and some not. Mrs. McGinty found out more than it was safe for her to know and she made the tragic mistake of letting the killer know that she knew something. Poirot finds out who the killer is and what that person’s secret was. But we never do know what passed between the killer and Mrs. McGinty. Did she hint? Did she threaten to go to the media? Did she ask for a ‘present?’ Poirot speculates a little but we never do know. That detail isn’t necessary for the reader’s sense of closure and it can get one wondering.

In Colin Dexter’s The Daughters of Cain, Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis investigate the murder of former Oxford don Felix McClure, who is found stabbed in his home. The most likely suspect is McClure’s former scout Ted Brooks. McClure had found out that Brooks was supplying drugs to some of the students and was going to reveal what he knew. But then Brooks disappears and later turns up dead. Now Morse and Lewis have to re-think the case. One of the people involved in this case is a prostitute named Eleanor ‘Ellie’ Smith, who counted McClure among her clients. Morse and Smith find themselves attracted to each other despite the fact that Smith is mixed up in a murder that Morse is investigating. We do learn who the killer is and we learn what the motive for both murders is. But there is one important thing we don’t learn. Towards the end of the novel Ellie Smith disappears. We don’t really know where she’s gone or what becomes of her. Here’s how Dexter puts it:

 

‘And above all in Morse’s life there remains the searching out of Ellie Smith, since as a police officer that is his professional duty and, as a man, his necessary purpose.’ 

 

The question of whatever happened to Ellie Smith isn’t answered here but the reader still gets the sense of completion that makes a crime novel fulfilling.

In Donna Leon’s Blood From a Stone, Venice Commissario Guido Brunetti and Ispettore Lorenzo Vianello investigate the murder of a Senegalese immigrant. The victim was shot execution-style while laying out his wares in an open-air market and at first there are very few leads in the case. But eventually Brunetti and Vianello tie the murder to arms trafficking and ‘conflict diamonds’ – gems sold to raise money to support armed rebellions. We learn the truth about the murder but we are not even told the victim’s name. We’re also not given every bit of information about how, specifically, he got involved in the arms/jewel trafficking business. Leon doesn’t give a lot of detail about the shooting victim. And what’s interesting is that we don’t witness any conversations that he has, really. And yet the reader isn’t left in frustrating doubt as to what happened and why. It’s an interesting case of what is included in the novel and what isn’t.

In Peter Robinson’s A Dedicated Man, Inspector Alan Banks and his team investigate the murder of retired archaeologist Harry Steadman, who moves with his wife Emma to the Yorkshire Dales to pursue his dream of excavating Roman ruins in the area. When Steadman’s body is discovered, Banks and his team look among Steadman’s friends, colleagues and relations to see who would have had a motive for murder. Then there’s a disappearance and another death. It’s clear now that Banks’ original theory isn’t going to easily explain these events so he has to look at the case in another way. In the end he and his team learn who the killer is and what was behind the murders. But that doesn’t mean everything is detailed. For instance we don’t get to witness exactly what led up to the second murder. We know why it happened and who committed it, but we don’t really get to hear what passes between killer and victim. Still, the novel gives a sense of closure because the main questions are answered.

The same thing is true in Teresa Solana’s A Shortcut to Paradise. In that novel, famous novelist Marina Dolç is murdered on the night of a glittering banquet at which she received a major literary prize. The most likely suspect is her rival for the prize Amadeu Cabestany. However, he claims he was in another part of Barcelona, where the novel takes place, getting robbed. Cabestany’s literary agent hires Barcelona brothers Eduard and Josep ‘Borja’ Martínez to clear her client’s name and they agree to take the case. There isn’t much movement on the case for a time because very little evidence implicates anyone other than Cabestany. But finally the PI brothers find out who the killer is and why the murder was committed. So in that sense we do get answers. But the novel doesn’t answer every question. We don’t for instance know exactly what passed between the killer and the victim on the night of the murder. We know what the end result was but we don’t witness in detail the scene leading up to it. Still, the novel does give readers a look at what happens to the major characters after the murder is solved.

One of the more haunting examples of questions that don’t get answered – ‘blank spots’ that aren’t filled in – is in G.K. Chesterton’s short story The Invisible Man. In that story, Father Brown investigates what seems to be an impossible crime. Successful businessman Isadore Smythe tells an acquaintance John Angus that he is being harassed by a former romantic rival and that somehow, threatening letters have been left for him. Angus recommends that Smythe speak to a professional about the matter and makes a recommendation. Smythe agrees and they plan to meet up at Smythe’s home. Father Brown is a friend of the detective Angus recommends and he comes along when everyone goes to Smythe’s home to discuss the situation. But when they get there all they find is an empty home and evidence that Smythe was murdered. No-one was seen going into or leaving the building; certainly no-one was seen carrying a body out of the building. Father Brown deduces who the killer must be and how the crime was accomplished and is able to catch the killer. Here’s how the story ends:

 

‘But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other will never be known.’

 

We find out in this story who the killer is and how the crime was accomplished. But we don’t know what passed between the murderer and Father Brown. We also don’t know the murderer’s point of view – we don’t really hear from that person.

Deciding what to detail and what not to detail isn’t easy. Crime fiction readers want the major answers to their questions (e.g. Whodunnit; Whydunnit, Howdunnit), but most of us would agree that there’s such a thing as too much detail. What do you think? Do you like all of your questions to be answered? Do you like all of the pieces put together? If you’re a writer, how do you decide what to include and what to skim over or omit?

 

ps The ‘photos are of my (finally) completed home office. But not everything is there. For instance, see that empty space above the daybed? Something is going to be there. I haven’t put that detail in yet. See what I mean?

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bob Seger’s Against the Wind.

You Can’t Judge a Book by Looking at the Cover…*

…Or can you? It’s a fact of life for the book-lover that there are far more good books to read than there is budget or time to read them. That means that most of us have to pick and choose among the many offerings. In some cases the choice is easy. We all have a list of authors whose work we look for and buy eagerly. And sometimes we get recommendations from people we trust. That makes it fairly easy to choose a book too. But what about the rest of the great books out there? What makes a reader pick up and flip through Book A as opposed to Book B? One answer is…the book’s cover. Covers aren’t the only basis of course on which we decide whether to read something or not, but they can really influence our decision.

For example, covers can give the reader a lot of information about the sub-genre of a crime fiction novel. Cosy mysteries tend to have covers that are quite different to the covers you see on other kinds of crime fiction. Just take a peek at these two examples. On the left is the cover of Elizabeth Spann Craig’s Quilt or Innocence, which features retired art expert Beatrice Coleman. Just a quick look will tell a reader that this is a cosy novel. There’s no violence depicted on the cover and it’s got a ‘folksy’ look to it. Now take a look at the cover to the right, of Vanda Symon’s The Faceless. Without knowing anything about the plot or characters you can tell right away that it’s a darker novel and most likely not a cosy.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

You’ll notice something else too I’ll bet about the cover of The Faceless. It’s done in attention-getting shades of black and red. Of course the purpose is to set it off from other novels. That’s part of the reason for which the covers of my two novels (Check my sidebar to see what I mean) have so much red in them. Same point.

One of the other things a useful book cover does is tell the reader something about the story. In fact I know several book lovers who get very cranky if the book cover doesn’t reflect the story. Here for example is the cover of Denise Mina’s Garnethill. The real action in that story begins when Glasgow ticket-taker Maureen ‘Mauri’ O’Donnell wakes up after a long night of drinking only to find the body of her former boyfriend Douglas Brady in her living room. Brady’s body is tied to a chair, and although the cover isn’t ‘busy’ you can tell something about the story just by looking at it.

You see the same thing on this cover of Robert Crais’ Lullaby Town. There’ve actually been several covers for that particular novel, but what works for this one (at least in my opinion, so do feel free to differ with me if you do) is that it gives a powerful message of what the story is about. In Lullaby Town, private investigator Elvis Cole is hired by powerful Hollywood director Peter Alan Nelson. Nelson wants Crais to find his ex-wife Karen and their twelve-year-old son Toby, mostly because he wants to get to know Toby better and start really being a father to his son. Cole reluctantly agrees and he and his partner Joe Pike trace Karen and Toby to a small Connecticut town. What they don’t know at first is that finding Nelson’s ex-wife and son is going to lead them right into the path of the local Mob. If you take a look at this cover, you see the focus both on film and on the boy. It gives a strong clue about the story.

Some books, especially if they are part of a series, are ‘branded’ on the cover as being a part of that series. The books in the Lilian Jackson Braun’ Cat Who… series, for instance, have a very similar look and distinctive ‘paw marks’ on the cover to indicate that they’re part of this series. Here’s an example: it’s the cover of The Cat Who Lived High. In that novel, newspaper columnist James ‘Qwill’ Qwilleran investigates the murder of art dealer Diane Bessinger. He gets involved in this case when he agrees to save the Casablanca apartment building from being demolished. While he’s working to save the building Qwill says in the apartment Bessinger used to have and thereby gets drawn into the investigation of her murder. You can see by this cover not just that it’s a Cat Who… mystery (check out the ‘paw prints’) but also something about the story.

Some book covers take advantage of television or film adaptations and tie in with them. That’s got the advantage of recognition for readers who perhaps have seen an adaptation and may be interested in trying the series. To show you what I mean, here’s one of the covers for Colin Dexter’s The Way Through the Woods. The cover features the incomparable John Thaw, who of course starred in the Inspector Morse series and who was Morse (at least in my opinion).

All of those things (shades and choice of colour, ‘brand markings’ tie-ins with adaptations and things and what’s depicted on the cover) are often very carefully chosen to get you to take notice. There are other strategies too that are used to attract your attention. Cover art is a big concern to a lot of publishers.

But does it work? What do you think? Do you choose to read or not read a book based on the cover? At the very least do you pay attention to what’s on the cover? If it matters to you, what do you look for? What puts you off? Fellow writers, what are your thoughts about the covers of your books and stories?

Want to read more? Check out this excellent post on covers from mystery novelist and superb blogger Elizabeth Spann Craig.

 

ps I know there are several aspects of this topic that I haven’t mentioned here (e.g. how covers have changed over time and the e-reader’s effect on covers). But there’s only room for so much in any one post…

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Willie Dixon’s You Can’t Judge a Book by the Cover, made popular by Bo Diddley.

One Step Up and Two Steps Back*

There are some criminal investigations that move along in a straightforward way. They may not go very quickly but they move along. Others though are hampered by all sorts of snags and challenges. In those investigations it’s very often a case of ‘two steps forward and one step back.’ In crime fiction, either sort of investigation can make for a good story depending on how it’s handled. Straightforward investigations can have a solid pace and plenty of suspense. But investigations that are hampered can be realistic and those hurdles to overcome can add conflict and interest to a novel.

For instance, in Agatha Christie’s The A.B.C. Murders, Hercule Poirot gets drawn into the investigation of a series of murders that begins with the killing of an elderly shopkeeper Alice Ascher. The victim’s husband is the most likely suspect. The two had been estranged for a long time and he had a well-known habit of trying to get money from her. But when the second victim, twenty-three-year-old Betty Barnard, is found, the case doesn’t seem so simple. And then there’s another murder. And another. Before each murder Poirot gets a cryptic note warning him of when and where the next murder will be. But even that doesn’t help the investigation at first. None of the murders gives Poirot or the police much in the way of clues so the investigation stalls. Matters aren’t helped by the fact that all of the murders occur during the summer holiday season when there are crowds of tourists that make it easy for the murderer to disappear amongst them. Finally there’s a break in the case and Poirot finds out who the murderer is and what the motive is. But not before the case is stalled several times.

Some investigations are hampered by powerful players who don’t want the case solved. We see that for instance in Michael Connelly’s Angels Flight. In that novel, Harry Bosch investigates the murder of Howard Elias, a prominent attorney who’s gone up against the L.A.P.D. in several cases. Elias recently took on the case of Michael Harris, who was convicted of the rape and murder of twelve-year-old Stacey Kincaid. Harris has since said that the police coerced (and that’s putting it kindly) his confession and that he’s not guilty. Before Elias can present Harris’ case at trial though, he’s found shot. The more closely Bosch looks into the Elias shooting, the clearer it is that Michael Harris was telling the truth; he did not kill Stacey Kincaid. So now Bosch has to find out not only who shot Howard Elias but who Stacey’s real killer is. To do that, Bosch has to go up against the powerful L.A.P.D. top brass, who don’t want stories of their mishandling of the case being made public. Bosch is also hampered by some highly-placed people who don’t want the truth about Stacey Kincaid’s murder to come out. But he doesn’t let those ‘backward steps’ stop him and in the end, he learns who’s behind both killings.

In James Craig’s Never Apologise, Never Explain, London police inspector John Carlyle and his assistant Joe Szyskowski are called to the scene of the murder of Agatha Mills. The victim, who lived quietly with her husband Henry, wasn’t wealthy or powerful. With a lack of other kinds of motives, the police focus on Henry Mills as the most likely suspect. He insists he’s innocent though and that Agatha had political enemies. At first the police don’t believe him but then Carlyle gets a very important clue that shows Mills was telling the truth. So Caryle and Szyskowski look into the matter more deeply. They find that Agatha Mills’ murder is tied up with international relations and politics so that finding out the truth will be very difficult. And some important and highly-connected people do not want the facts about the murder to come out. So the detectives face all sorts of setbacks as they work their way to the truth.

Of course, there are lots of other things that can set an investigation back. For instance, sometimes key witnesses or other people involved in a case simply won’t tell what they know. There are a lot of reasons that might happen. When it does it can set a case back. For instance, Karin Fossum’s When the Devil Holds the Candle sees Oslo Inspector Konrad Sejer investigating the disappearance of Andreas Winther. He hasn’t been home for a few days and his mother Runi has gotten concerned about him. At first the police don’t do much because it’s not that uncommon for a young man to go off for a few days without telling his mother about it. But when more time goes by with no sign of Andreas, Sejer begins to ask questions. Winther was last seen with his friend Sivert “Zipp” Skorpe, and from the moment Sejer meets Zipp, he’s sure that the boy knows more than he’s saying. But none of his efforts to get Zipp to talk are successful. Zipp has his own reasons for not telling everything he knows (and no; without spoilers I can tell you that Zipp did not kill Winther). The case is set back in this novel by the fact that people who could tell Sejer what he wants to know – won’t.

Sometimes an investigation is set back because the police follow up on the wrong leads, either because they’ve been lied to or because they don’t make the right deductions from the evidence. It takes skill to do that well; if it’s not handled deftly the investigator can look inept. But it does happen. For instance in Ian Rankin’s Exit Music, Inspector John Rebus and his  team investigate what looks like a mugging gone wrong. Russian dissident poet Alexander Todorov has been killed and his body found in a very bad section of Edinburgh. But Rebus doesn’t think it’s quite as simple as a case of mugging. Then there’s another murder that may be related, so Rebus continues to ask questions. It turns out that Todorov had attracted the attention of some powerful Russian businessmen, émigrés to Edinburgh, who didn’t like his politics. It also turns out that those people might have been closely associated with Rebus’ old nemesis ‘Big Ger’ Cafferty, a local crime boss. Following up on those possibilities leads Rebus in exactly the wrong direction – and sets the case back – until he finally gets the clue he needs to put him on the right path.

We also see that sort of plot device – following up on wrong leads – in several of Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse stories. Very often Morse makes brilliant deductions about the cases he works, but they don’t always lead him in the right direction at first. In my opinion (so feel free to disagree if you do), Dexter handles those (mis)leads quite effectively. It’s hard to have the sleuth follow the wrong path without making that sleuth look bumbling.

There are also cases in which the investigation is set back when the prime suspect becomes a victim. That’s actually a common plot point in crime fiction so it has to be handled carefully or it becomes cliché. But when it’s done well it can be effective. For instance in Håkan Nesser’s Mind’s Eye, Inspector Van Veeteren and his team investigate the death of Eva Ringmar, whose body is found in her bathtub. Her husband Jurgen Mitter is the chief suspect. Not only had they had difficulties recently, but he was very drunk on the night of the murder and can’t account for himself. In fact he doesn’t remember much at all about that night. So nobody believes he’s innocent. In fact he’s tried for and convicted of the murder. But even at the trial Van Veeteren wonders whether Mitter might be telling the truth. Because Mitter remembers nothing about his wife’s murder, he’s placed in a mental institution instead of a conventional prison. Then he’s murdered himself. Now the case, which seemed to have been solved, takes on a completely new cast and Van Veeteren and his team have to start all over. They find the key to both murders in Eva Ringmar’s past.

There’s an innovative approach to integrating ‘one step back’ into an investigation in Gail Bowen’s Deadly Appearances, in which political science expert and academic Joanne Kilbourn investigates the murder of her friend rising political star Androu ‘Andy’ Boychuk. Boychuk is poisoned during a public speech and at first there are no strong leads, although the murder happened in full view of the audience. As a way of dealing with her grief Kilbourn decides to write a biography of Boychuk. In the process of learning about his life she finds that there was a side to her friend that no-one knew. And it turns out that the key to the murder is in Boychuk’s past. Not long after the investigation begins, Kilbourn contracts a mysterious illness that leaves her weakened and unable to eat very much. Although there are times when she feels better, the illness begins to take its toll and more than once she has to make up lost ground as the saying goes.

Having a case go ‘one step back’ is realistic and can add to the tension in a story. It can also be tiresome if it’s done too often or not effectively. What about you? Do you think this kind of plot point works? If you’re a writer, do you use this as a way to add tension and suspense to your stories?

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bruce Springsteen’s One Step Up.

I Think You Were Lost in the ’70′s*

As anyone who lived through them could tell you, the 1970′s were a time of real social, political and geopolitical change. And because good crime fiction reflects society, we see those changes reflected in the crime fiction of the era. There won’t be space in this one post for me to discuss all of those changes; I’ll just mention a few of them and you’ll see, I hope, what I mean.

Let’s start, though, with some major changes that were going on in crime fiction itself. You may disagree with me on this, but I see the 1970′s as a bridge between the end of the Golden Age/traditional kind of detective fiction and more modern crime fiction. Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh and some other Golden-Age authors were still writing as the 1970′s began, and we see their influence. At the same time, though, other authors were taking that tradition and innovating with it.

For instance, Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö began writing their series featuring Stockholm detective Martin Beck in the mid-1960′s and carried it through into the mid-1970′s. In that series, we see elements of traditional crime novels. But we also see innovations such as exploration of psychology and social critique. We could say a similar thing about Ruth Rendell’s series featuring Inspector Reg Wexford. That series began in the 1960′s and has continued since then. As the series moved into the 1970′s, we see the traditions of the Golden-Age detective story, but made more modern and addressing more complex themes. I would argue (but feel free to differ with me if you don’t see it this way) that these two series reflect a growing interest in 1970′s crime fiction in the development of deeper and more complex characters.

We also see that development in Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse series, which also began (with Last Bus to Woodstock) in the 1970′s. That series has some elements that you could argue come from Golden Age traditions (e.g. the brilliant detective, the cast of suspects and so on). But at the same time there’s exploration of psychology, there’s the development of the flawed and complex sleuth, and other elements that one could argue are more typical of modern crime fiction.

The world outside was changing too and crime fiction of the day reflects that. One major change was the development of what I’ll call the youth culture. Many people think of ‘hippies’ as a ’60′s phenomenon,’ and certainly there was plenty of youth activism then. But student demonstrations and student political activism was vey much a part of, especially, the early 1970′s. We see that for instance in Reginald Hill’s An Advancement of Learning, in which Superintendent Andy Dalziel and (then) Sergeant Peter Pascoe investigate a murder on the campus of Holm Coultram College. There’s a strong student movement also in John Alexander Graham’s The Involvement of Arnold Wechsler. In that novel, a Classics professor is asked to investigate his brother’s connection to a radical student movement on the campus of quiet Hewes College. There are lots of other examples too of crime fiction that involves student activism and the ‘youth culture.’

Another major change of the 1970′s was the beginning of the move in international politics from the Cold War to what we think of as modern-day terrorism. Oh, the Cold War was still going on, and I’m sure you could list lots more Cold War-themed novels of the day than I could. And terrorism did not begin in the 1970′s. But especially after the tragic attacks at the 1972 Munich Olympics, terrorism began to be a reality more than it ever had. We see that reflected, for instance in Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s The Terrorists. In that novel, Martin Beck and his team are assigned to protect a U.S. senator who’s visiting Stockholm because he is at risk from terrorists. In the meantime, they’re also investigating the murder of pornographic film-maker Walter Petrus (Valter Pettersson) and the case of Rebecka Lind, who’s on trial for a bank robbery she says she didn’t commit. It’s an interesting look at, among other things, the rise of the threat of terrorism and its effects on policing.

The politics of the 1970′s (I’m thinking in particular about the Watergate scandal that brought down U.S. President Richard Nixon’s administration) changed the way many people viewed political leadership. There’ve been political thrillers around for quite a while of course, but consipiracy thrillers (such as those of Robert Ludlum) were made even more popular by real-life events such as Watergate.

The 1970′s was also a time of a great deal of social upheaval too. As women began to insist on being treated as equals (the movement was called Women’s Lib(eration) in the U.S.) there was a real re-thinking of the roles men and women should play. Basically, the rules had changed and a lot of people were no longer sure exactly what they were any more. We see that reflected in a lot of crime fiction. For instance, there’s Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse, who is old-fashioned in some ways. As the 1970′s goes along, he has to increasingly interact with women who simply don’t see the world, or male/female relationships, the way he does. And then there’s the beginnings of the truly independent female crime fiction protagonist. Of course there’ve been female protagonists for quite a long time in the genre. But protagonists such as Marcia Muller’s PI sleuth Sharon McCone were a newer development. McCone does have relationships, but she doesn’t depend on a man to ‘do the rough stuff.’ Nor does she try to ‘act like a man.’ By the end of the decade, women were beginning to take on the world, if I can put it that way, on their own terms, and we start to see that in crime fiction.

I could mention a lot of the other major changes the 1970′s brought (e.g. the rewriting of the ‘rules’ for race relations, the beginning of the gay rights movement, and so on). And the crime fiction of the era reflects what an unsettled time it was. But what’s your view? What 1970′s phenomena do you see reflected in that decade’s crime fiction? C’mon, comb those sideburns or that ‘Farrah Flip,’ dig out that forest-green suit or peasant blouse and let me know what you think.

ps. You will notice that this post contains no mention of disco or disco fashion, other than this sentence. There is a reason for that.
 
 
 

*Note: The title of this post is a line from Billy Joel’s All You Want to Do is Dance.

All I Need is a TV Show*

An interesting post from Sergio at Tipping My Fedora has got me thinking about happens when fictional characters are brought to television and film. Most people will say that because film is a different medium, stories and characters have to be adapted and that means there have to be differences between the original story and the television or film version. And that makes sense. Film of any kind has a visual impact and sometimes an audible one and that’s bound to affect the way one experiences a story. But what happens when a character (especially the protagonist) is substantially changed in a film or television adaptation? What happens when other characters are eliminated or changed, or when events happen very differently in the adaptation? Some folks are purists; they like their adaptations to be as similar to the book as possible and they get very cranky if the adaptation isn’t pretty nearly identical to the original. Other folks see it as a matter of telling two different stories. There doesn’t need to be much similarity between the book and the adaptation because it’s like the proverbial apples/oranges comparison. Others would rather watch made-for-television series than adapted series because of the frequent differences between the two. For still others, certain differences are fine but others aren’t. There are far too many adaptations out there for me to mention them all, so I probably won’t mention the ones you like the best. But here are a few examples to show what I mean.

There’ve been many, many adaptations of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. The television series starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes and (for much of the series) Edward Hardwicke as Watson is usually regarded as the most faithful to the original stories. There were some changes in plot points and some of the characters, especially in the series’ later years. But in general, the context, the major characters and so on are very much taken from the stories.

That hasn’t been the case with all of the Holmes screen adaptations. There’s now even an American series called Elementary in which a modern-day Holmes moves to Brooklyn after a stint in a drug rehabilitation program. His associate in this series is Dr. Joan Watson, a former surgeon who lost her license and has been hired to be Holmes’ sober live-in companion who’s there to help make sure he stays drug-free. Speaking for myself, I think Jeremy Brett’s portrayal of Holmes is the closest I’ve seen to what the books portray and to be honest, I like that. But many, many people like to have those classic stories updated; hence the positive reviews for the modern-day series starring Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes. For those folks, the fact that the series is well-planned, well-acted and so on matters more than does the fact that it’s not completely faithful to the original. And they like the modern-day feel of the series.

Sergio’s post focuses on another classic fictional sleuth Perry Mason. Among other things, he makes the point that the literary Mason comes across as somewhat hardboiled and even a little scruffy at times. The filmed Mason though is almost dapper in his bearing and less hard-edged. I’ve noticed that about the U.S. series featuring Raymond Burr too. One thing the television series and the novels share is an emphasis on Mason’s courtroom skills. He knows the law very, very well and that comes through in both the original stories and the television series. I’m less familiar with the films than Sergio is, so I will defer to his judgement that the courtroom aspect of Mason’s work is less a factor in the films. Many people prefer less emphasis on courtroom scenes and the twists and turns of the law, as they’re more interested in other aspects of Mason’s way of solving cases. And their vision of what a lawyer ought to be is less hardboiled than we see in the Erle Stanley Gardner novels. But others like those courtroom scenes and find the legal aspects of Mason’s cases to be really interesting.

And then there’s Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot. Again, there’ve been lots of adaptations of the Poirot stories, so space won’t permit me to mention all of them. The Poirot series starring David Suchet in the title role is, in some cases, fairly close to the original stories. And in my opinion (so please feel free to disagree with me if you do), Suchet is Poirot in terms of mannerisms, outlook, bearing and so on. But in several of the stories there are major departures from the original books. For instance After the Funeral (AKA Funerals are Fatal) tells the story of the Abernethie family and what happens when patriarch Richard Abernethie suddenly dies. Shortly after that death, Abernethie’s younger sister Cora is murdered. The television adaptation of this novel portrays the Abernethie family very differently from what we see in the novel. Several of the characters have different relationships to each other and their personalities are also quite different. There are several differences in plot points too. If you’ve watched Poirot episodes then you could probably name lots of other examples of that sort of departure from the original. For some people that’s not a problem; they like Suchet’s portrayal of Poirot and the differences in character, plot and so on don’t bother them so long as the story is engaging. For other people the stories stray very much too far from the original and lose what to them are essential parts of the story.

Colin Dexter was closely involved with the adaptation of his Inspector Morse series for television, so it makes sense that those episodes capture the essence of his novels and (again, this is just my opinion) John Thaw was Inspector Morse. In fact, Dexter fans will know that The Jewel That Was Ours was actually a book adaptation of the Morse episode called The Wolvercote Tongue. In that series, there are some departures from the original novels, but arguably fewer than there are in series where the author isn’t as closely involved in the creation of the television adaptation.

There’ve been several more recent adaptations of novels and series. For instance, Peter Temple’s Jack Irish series has been brought to television and features Guy Pearce in the leading role. I admit I’ve not watched that yet as it’s not (yet) available where I live. But sources I trust tell me that it’s a faithful adaptation and captures what makes the print series so well-regarded. I very much look forward to seeing this if/when I can.

Another more recent series based on novels (at least, recent for English-speaking audiences) is Montalbano, which is based on Andrea Camilleri’s highly-regarded series. That television adaptation stays quite true to the original stories, although there are of course some differences. The characters of Salvo Montalbano, Sergeant Catarella and Livia Burlando, among others, are very much the characters depicted in the novels. And those for whom the Sicilian setting is a major attraction may particularly enjoy the adaptation because the series is filmed in Sicily so the physical setting is a major part of it.

There’s also Vera, the adaptation of Ann Cleeves’ well-regarded series featuring Yorkshire DCI Vera Stanhope. This series features Brenda Blethyn, and (here we go with my opinion again…), she captures the Vera Stanhope character quite authentically. In fact, Cleeves has said she’s delighted with Blethyn as Stanhope, so in the sense of protagonist, this series is quite faithful to the novels. The stories are filmed in Northumberland so readers who enjoy the novels’ sense of place get the added benefit of seeing the physical setting of the stories in the adaptation. There are differences in the storyline of the adaptations, but they don’t depart really significantly from the novels.

There’ve been lots of other adaptations that space doesn’t permit me to discuss here (I know, I know, fans of Dalziel and Pascoe and Midsomer Murders…). Some are very faithful to the original novels; some are not. Does it matter to you whether a series is faithful to its source? How much does a series have to depart from the novel before it’s too much for you? If you’re a writer, what’s your take on this? Would you want your stories meticulously adapted? Or do you see a lot of room for flexibility?

Want more on this topic of adapting novels? Sure ya do! Please check out Book vs Adaptation, a really interesting feature by Bernadette at Reactions to Reading. Want more about crime fiction films? Check out Sergio’s Tipping My Fedora.

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Genesis’ Turn it on Again.