Some things stand the test of time; some don't - this book/it's story does not. It plays as comically dated.
Nothing - narration is fine; content is not.
Again, it's just that the scenes come across as hopelessly dated, silly rather than historical or retrospective.
While there's some mystery about who the main villain is, there's little reason to care. Perhaps someone who likes verbose descriptions of incredibly self-absorbed people would be drawn to this narrative of how great thou art and how lacking everyone else is...it wasn't for me.
See above - no real mystery and all the subplots were equally pointless.
OMG - this woman's diction was like Peggy Noonan speaking English as a second language. There were odd pronunciations of relatively common words, and a bizarre cadence that was somewhat hypnotic in is arhythmic hautiness. Listening was a chore driven my curiosity to see whodunnit...a waste of time in the end due to the ho-humness of it all.
Yes...but an odd shift near the end left me adrift as the listener wondering why the story was constructed as it is and what the point of the switcheroo was.
I would have plotted out a more consistent narrative or signaled something being doubt much earlier. The "twist" comes across as Agatha Christie introducing an 11th hour character/clue to make things work out.
No - but his performance was terrific...really added to the experience. Some performers attempt various voices and either fall short of fall into parody. His range was remarkable. I've enjoyed him on screen as a character actor, and his talents are similarly on display here.
It depends on how much editorial control Mr. Moehringer will concede - preferably to a director who can create and maintain a central character who challenges our compassion in a reasonable if not reasoned way.
DeMille used to write well - this was in many ways a racist screed. I kept checking the pub date thinking maybe this was written on Sept. 12, 2001...no luck - just ignorant.
Perhaps it was the writing, but essentially every line uttered by the ubiquitous "protagonist" was a snarky one-line effort to show how cool, funny, aloof, whatever this guy was. Nobody thinks, talks or acts like that and - if they did - they'd be unemployed and live alone. If someone had punched this clown in the face, the book may have had a tad more realism.
Again, I was once a fan of DeMille. Like Clancy, he seems to have fallen off the sad cliff of lazy racial stereotyping and what he must feel is some sort of patriotic gun-slinging. It's not compelling or even palatable. I won't be buying any more of his junk.
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