As an X-phile - meaning a fan of the TV show The X-Files, to the uninitiated (though I have to say that the sixth season, so disappointingly blunt and...simple-minded, so dumbed-down for the masses and untrue to the unique mood and spirit of the show, is on the way towards making me an ex-phile) - and as someone who is excessively fond of shooting her mouth off, I am quite partial towards perusing my kindred loudmouths' musings on the series down at a site called X-Review. Everyone down there has their own style, whether it's intensive episode deconstructions, "season in review" columns that flit from show to show, essays on how particular installments affect, build on, or relate to a particular character, etc. I find uniquely interesting the works of Chris Williams, a guy who has taken it upon himself to rate MOTW - "Monster of the Week" - episodes (in The X-Files, there are three basic types of episodes - those dealing with the series' main UFO/conspiracy plot, MOTW's (which feature some sort of enemy that agents Scully and Mulder confront and deal with through the course of the episode, with said conflict concluding by end of said episode and said "monster" generally never returning), and "humor" episodes (like "War of the Coprophages" or "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose", which do not always take themselves seriously but which often (the best indeed do) deal with some serious, significant undercurrent or theme. A vague categorization, but be assured that one can spot a "humor" episode when one sees one)). But Mr. Williams does not goes about his analyses helter-skelter; no - he has divined a set of guidelines - of "Rules", he calls them - that formulate a good MOTW. It might seem like a rather stringent, too straightforward concept in the abstract, but, believe me (or go down to X-Review and read his writings yourself), it's surprisingly effective - perhaps because Williams does not necessarily consider his analyses reviews (though he is sharp when he gets down to such business); rather, he uses his Rules as a tool in explaining an episode's various strengths or weaknesses.
Now, in reading Williams's analyses, I got to thinking (hold on, folks, there is some Cat Who...-related stuff in here) - is there any set of "Rules" that can be appplied to the Cat Who... books to help explain their individual strengths and weaknesses? After further ponderance of the issue, I believe that, yes, in the general sense, a set of Rules can applied to Lilian Jackson Braun's famed series. I am not claiming, of course, that, to be good, a Cat Who... book must conform to some preset formula of my own cockamanie design; I am just saying that there are some elements that the best Cat Who... mysteries seem to share, and that by examining the different ways by which the different installments meet or fail to meet that "criteria", we can better understand what makes the Cat Who... series so distinctive and what makes certain books effective and others not.
So - I've gone off and written three Rules analyses of my own. Tell me whether or not you think this conceit is worth pursuing or if I've correctly determined the "Rules" of the series. Abject silence will be construed as a license to sally forth in my own little creative vacuum here.
Williams's four rules are:
1. The monster must be big. (There are three composite "ratings" that make up this score - creepiness, scope (how much of a threat the monster constitutes or could potentially constitute to the populace), and body count, I think.)
2. No gift solutions - "M & S [Mulder & Scully] need to solve, or fail to solve, the problem through their own struggles."
3. There has to be some character development for our protagonists.
4. Some underlying theme must thread throughout the ep. (Williams is a little lax with what he accepts for this law - he seems to identify motifs instead of themes.)
Here, then, are my own Cat Who... Rules:
1. Williams's first rule is that the monster must be big. One would reason, then, that the corresponding rule here is that the crime must be big. True, in a sense, but there's more to a crime being "big" than just body count - a generic murder that just produces an anonymous corpse as the plot device which sets the mystery rolling won't do. No, for a crime to be truly heinous, we must perceive some sense of loss for its commission - we must become involved, otherwise we won't care about bringing the perpetrators to justice. Therefore, Rule #1 is - the crime must make an impact on the characters and the reader. Sheer magnitude can be a factor if the crime itself is staggering enough, but we're primarily looking for impact here.
2. The second rule I'm going to lift directly from Williams - no gift solutions. Like Mulder and Scully, Qwilleran must solve (never fail to solve, of course ^_^) the case through his own struggles (and the clues that Koko gives him - more on this in Rule #3). I will note, however, that if Qwilleran is going through a lot of rigmarole to "discover" something that should be perfectly obvious to him - in other words, if the mystery is a giveaway - the book isn't going to get a checkmark for this category.
3. The next rule is a sort-of tie-in with Rule #2 and rather tough to verbalize - Koko's behavior must play a significant hand in the investigation, be it Qwilleran's or the reader's own. Qwilleran, often, doesn't grasp the significance of Koko's behavior until after he's solved the crime - but, since we know to always pay attention to Koko, it must be clear, at least in retrospect, that his behavior was geared towards the intent of giving out subtle hints that will help solve the crime - in other words, his clues can't be vague or dismissable as coincidental or typical cat behavior. And note the word "subtle"; they also can't be hit-you-over-the-head obvious - they preferably have to have some sort of finesse. (This is a rule better explained through example than definition.)
4. We also need good supporting characters. True, Qwilleran is the thread that holds the series together, but a lot rides on the people with which he is given to interact - the supporting characters are the catalysts that bring out Qwill's character. Perhaps the word "supporting" here is misleading; the best way to create great such characters is to give us folks who are interesting and multi-faceted enough to stand on their own, independent of their relationship with the books' "star". If a novel is populated by a strong supporting cast, the piece as a whole shines; if the secondary characters are weak, Qwilleran will flounder. The presence of strong supporting characters all across the board is not only a vital necessity, but also perhaps the best indicator of the overall quality of the book.
5. We need character development. We need to delve deeper into either Qwilleran's mind or into those of who surround him. In a few cases, exploration or discovery of a theme or truth (such as the Casablanca apartment debacle in The Cat Who Lived High) might also suffice - but the characters must develop from its exploration.
May I note that these analyses are not reviews - we have a formal Reviews page for those matters. These are simply little evaluations, to see where a book succeeded, where it failed, and how "typical" it is of a Cat Who... book as a whole. They also assume that the reader has a working knowledge of the book under inspection. Let us go to, then.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards
The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern
The Cat Who Turned On and Off
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards
Earl Lambreth. His murder was what set the whole ball of wax in motion, and yet the man didn't seem very interesting or important, be it to the story or in "real" life (the real life of the book, anyway). He was just someone Qwilleran met on the beat; we didn't connect to him, and we had no reason to - and yet, in a certain strange way, Braun made that work to the story's advantage. I'd like to refer to a quotation that speaks to the strength of Backwards's mystery as a whole - "what anyone could gain by dispatching Earl Lambreth to the hereafter is beyond my comprehension". Exactly. Why would anyone go to the trouble to knock off Earl Lambreth? What does this have to do with the other monkey business discovered in the later chapters? How could all of these little threads *possibly* be tied together? The fine craftsmanship of the mystery - especially considering its elegant, perfect payoff - made for a delicious puzzle - a challenge that neither Qwilleran nor the readers could tear themselves away from.
This is not to say, though, that the mystery is emotionally sterile - I thought that the death of Mountclemens was quite involving. Qwilleran liked him - enough to cause him to redouble his sleuthing efforts when it appeared that Mountclemens would be blamed for Lambreth's murder (a drive to clear the man's name, ironically, that spurred him on to an investigation that uncovered all of Mountclemens's misdeeds, including his coupability in the Lambreth homicide). Perhaps it's just a personal matter with me, but I liked him too. He was a marvelous supporting character, arrogant as heck but nigh-impossible not to admire or like, and the story seemed to mourn his loss. Qwilleran and I missed him when he was gone, and the urge to discover who had killed him and why, and what his murder had to do with the other crimes in the story, would be more than enough to satisfy Rule 1's requirements. Combined with the mystery's aforementioned deep intricacy, it makes Backwards a shining example of the first law.
It is only natural, then, that we find within Backwards Braun's most deft application of the series's "gimmick". I'm talking about, of course, the famous "Narx!" climax scene. I have a sort of problem with when the books have Koko go out of his way and character to give direct, "psychically devined", out-of-the-blue hints to the criminals' indentities unconnected with the evidence at hand; it's too clumsy and transparent in its purpose - too giftish. I much prefer when Koko simply investigates as would come naturally, pointing out something to Qwilleran that he (the man) might not have otherwise noticed, redirecting his thought process and nudging him towards the proper deductions. Here, Koko's taking a talent established earlier in the book - "reading" print backwards - and applying it to the signature on the Scrano painting, brought about the series' most divine moment of realization. Beautiful. Rule #3 obeyed.
An example of how thoroughly Backwards understands Rule #4. In most lesser I<>Cat Who... books (i.e., the weak entries in the Moose County series), Qwilleran's viewpoints are the story's viewpoints - his opinion is taken as canon, and the status of those surrounding him is determined by his opinions of them. Not to disparage Qwilleran or his (normally sharp) character judgment at all, but such a tack is a tad simpleminded; Backwards is wiser than that. Take Zoe Lambreth. Qwilleran, though he did allow himself to momentary indulge in some professional skepticism, ultimately thinks her golly-gee-wonderful and above reproach in the whole criminal mess. What the narrative, through its unbiased, unnuanced account of the dialogue between the two characters, allows us to glimpse of her true character, however, implies that she's using her seemingly innocuous dewy doe-eyes and baby-doll looks to bolster her woe-is-me helpless, hapless facade and enlist (or seduce) Qwilleran's sympathy and help, timing her revelations for maximum effect and withholding all the facts (under the pretense of temporary incapacitation over her husband's death, despite the fact that when Qwilleran visited her on the night of the murder she was disturbingly unshaken) to hinder Qwilleran's investigation and avoid self-implication - the woman, frankly, is a calculating manipulator. Yet the narrative is confident enough to allow Qwilleran's and Braun's takes on the characters to diverge, which strengthens the story in the long run - it shows that our hero is fallible and why he is fallible, and Qwilleran is more human - and thus himself a richer character - for it.
Another example - the scenes between Qwilleran and Mountclemens, in which we find a striking difference with the rest of the book (and even the series) - Mountclemens's reactions to Qwilleran - NOT, as is so typical, Qwilleran's reactions to him - are the focus of the scenes in which he appears. It is his words and thoughts, not Qwilleran's, that carry his scenes. A testament to the strength of Mountclemens as a character - and to the strength of the rest of the folks in the book as a whole, too. Not only can they pull their own weight, they can shoulder the heft of the whole narrative, too.
Anyhow, between my review and my Top 101 list and here, I think I've amply honored the quality of Backwards's cast. Point made; Rule #4 obeyed.
And, on top of all of this, we have, of course, the bit about "artists always paint themselves". This is one of the few mysteries I've read where spotting a key truth of the character development and human nature was integral to solving the mystery. Brilliant. Rule #5 obeyed.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards hits 5 out of 5, which doesn't surprise me; I consider it the best of the Cat Who... series.
The scene in which David Lyke was discovered dead - as the sobering climax to a hilarious scene - was rigged for maximum impact - there was an attempt to deal with the problem of the Gracious Abodes that more-than-halfway succeeded (it's questionable that a significant emotional loss would have been felt if Lyke had died under completely serious circumstances anyway, since he was a likable-in-the-abstract but not sympathetic character). There was also Qwilleran's drive to clear the Fluxion's - and, more importantly, his own - good name. That compensated a little, but not enough to completely save matters. As it stands, I'll have to (to again quote Williams) give Danish Modern only a half a nod on Rule #1.
Which brings me to another point - too much of the book was spent waiting for Odd Bunsen's photos of the Tait residence to develop and get to Qwill. That one particular photo - the one that showed the hiding place for Tait's jade - was all that was really needed to put this puppy to bed, and, when you think about it, it was available from the very day of the theft. Creating fabricated delays to prevent Qwilleran from getting it generated false suspense, and the whole device was a cheap trick. Rule #2 disobeyed.
We met some other interesting folks along the way, too. David Lyke, as much of a cad as he was behind his friends' backs, was entertaining and had real chemistry in his scenes with Qwilleran and Bunsen; had he lived, he would have been a good addition to the core city cast. Harry Noyton, with his unique blend of aggressive friendliness, devil-may-care generosity, and quiet loneliness, charmed and elicited pity. Shrewd Jacques Boulanger and his personal philosophy made for an interesting interlude and a nice spate of admirable logic and cool level-headedness in the midst of all the usual artistic pretentiousness. The only character who really didn't work was Qwill's girfriend, the frivolous, inconsequential Miss Wright, but everyone else more than made up for her. Not as many supporting charas as in The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, but the quality was maintained. And we have Odd Bunsen on the balconies. A classic bit. Rule #4 obeyed.
But Qwilleran is still in his swingin' bachelor stage - he doesn't want much responsibility in his personal life, so he hasn't yet completely learned how to adjust his life to the demands of a feline companion. Result - the scene where Qwilleran obliviously drags Koko, sick and lonely, off to a noisy, crowded party to be passed around like a trophy object. Ah, well - he'll be making up for it in future episodes. ^_^
Speaking of Koko's loneliness - I'm glad that Braun chose to (even though her newsman hasn't yet completely learned to) continue treating Koko as an equal with the other characters, endowing him with very human behavior and traits. The subtle development of Koko's new loneliness was a touching element to the zany proceedings (and, as I said in my review, I'm glad that someone missed Mountclemens as much as I did). If I were as intelligent as Koko, I'm not sure that the companionship of someone like Yum Yum would solve my loneliness problem, but no matter - rule #5 obeyed.
So The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern clocks in at 3.5 out of 5. I enjoyed it much more than the Rules score suggests - about as much as a 4/4.5 out of 5 book. It was the mystery requirements that got it - Braun constructed Danish Modern as a character-oriented, get-to-know-my-world-better type of novel that are so frequently described as "romps", and it was most enjoyable at that level.
Andrew Glanz was, by all evidence, a self-righteous, hypocritical prig. C.C. Cobb wasn't exactly an angel either (remember the tape? He didn't threaten to turn Ben in; he wanted a cut of the drug money); whatever sympathy was present in his demise was elicited by Iris's (heart-rending) reaction, not the death itself. All the people that were murdered made their own beds.
The bookkeeping plot thread was awfully thrown in - literally on the last page of the book. Plus, Ben was not a really great villain or menace - he was annoying precious and pretentious more than anything else. I do understand - and, to an extent, admire - what Braun was trying to do here - work in her interest in civic preservation and work the readers' sympathy for the Junktown residents' plight to sow the idea that the real crime here was in Ben's drug dealing, that nefarious trade that turns neighborhoods into ghettos and torpedoes property valuies, by which Ben betrayed all his neighbor's efforts to save their way of life, get the city's recognition, and keep Junktown a decent place to live. Clever, thematically consistent and unifying, and enough to half-way save the day - but, as for the heinousness of the wrongdoings as a whole...I'm unconvinced. A half a nod, but nothing more.
Y'know what the difference between Up North and Down Below is? Moose County folk emphasize commmunity harmony and cohesion, yet they take the troubles and travails of one of their own as an opportunity to talk about their neighbors behind their backs - very rarely do they go out of their way to help someone in trouble, lest they jeopardize a newly-sprung fount of juicy gossip. The folks Down Below - and, more specifically in the case at hand, in Junktown, - hated each other, but they pulled together. True, they were motivated a little more by self-interest than by any sort of altruism or sense of civic duty. (They did, however, also band together to keep Mrs. Cobb's store - competition for their own businesses - open during the block party while she was away for the funeral, somehting they did not have to do.) But they did stick together, and, for the most part, they didn't allow petty personal problems to stand in the way of their own survival.
So I had to ask myself - had I found all of the Junktown characters deplorable or unsympathetic, would I have cared about the restoration of Junktown? No. A good setting can give a well-used, good set of characters something to work with and make them even better, but it will not improve a bad set of characters. While a "cohesive motif", so to speak, may be one of the things that makes a Cat Who... book, it's not always one of the things that makes it good. As always, with all subplots, the success of a theme rides with, rises, and falls with the supporting cast. So, ultimately, it is the characters who make the difference.
True, we had no supporting character on the scale of Mountclemens or Harry Noyton to steal the show. The closest we had was Mary Duckworth, a strong, calculating, capable woman admirable and notable in the Cat Who.. pantheon, one of Braun's best creations (here, not necessarily in her Lived High incarnation), but not of the type of personality that seizes the stage. Save for the aforementioned Ms. Duckworth and to-be staple character Iris Cobb, with her good sense, caring outlook, and memorable scene of heart-wrenching grief, there didn't seem to be many standouts among the denizens of Junktown. I am, however, nitpicking. Had Cluthra, Amberina, and Ivrene shown up in Moose County, I'd doubtless think them a breath of fresh air. It is only in the comparison with the natives of Could Read Backwards and Ate Danish Modern that they pale; otherwise, they did their job. Rule #4 obeyed.
The Cat Who Turned On and Off scores 3.5 out of 5. A lot of half-nods here - a tad more focus probably would've remedied the situation.
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