Christine M. (ticklemeblue) reviewed A Thriller Served With Tortellini in Sunny Italy on
Helpful Score: 1
By JANET MASLIN
The New york Times
Published: January 10, 2005
Birds sing. Fish swim. John Grisham dreams up thriller plots that begin at full throttle, then move through their early stages in a series of flying leaps. For Mr. Grisham, who is now on his 18th novel, this style of jump-starting a story is part of the natural order of things.
So off goes "The Broker," starting with a partisan swipe at a lame duck in the White House. "In the waning hours of a presidency that was destined to arouse less interest from historians than any since perhaps that of William Henry Harrison (31 days from inauguration to death)," the book begins, a president named Arthur Morgan is cashing in.
"How sad that after four tumultuous years of leading the free world it would all fizzle into one miserable pile of requests from a bunch of crooks," Mr. Grisham writes scornfully. But President Morgan is strapped for cash, so he is ready to sell those crooks some high-priced pardons.
Cut to the federal prison where Joel Backman, former wheeler-dealer, has spent six years in solitary confinement. Backman embodies everything that Mr. Grisham currently chooses to detest. He is a former power broker (see title): "He'd been the epitome of money and power, the perfect fat cat who could bully and cajole and throw around enough money to get whatever he wanted."
Worst of all in Mr. Grisham's eyes, Backman was an embarrassment to his profession. The firm that he founded "was a lobbying machine, not a place where real lawyers practiced their craft," the book explains. "More like a bordello for rich companies and foreign governments." In other words, the world is a better place with Backman behind bars.
But along come a couple of mysterious operatives. They plan to spirit Backman into a new life, 14 years ahead of schedule. They sneak him out of prison, put him in an Army jumpsuit and load him onto a cargo plane, destination unknown. Quicker than you can say "Buon giorno, Marco," Backman has been handed a new identity in sunny Italy. All he need do is follow strict orders on how not to resemble an American. "No shorts, no black socks and white sneakers, no polyester slacks, no golf shirts," he is told, "and please don't start getting fat."
From now on the broker's responsibilities will be as follows: He must lounge in cafes. He must enjoy the espresso. He must learn to ask for "panino prosciutto e formaggio" when he wants a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He must savor Italian cuisine, architecture, history and joie de vivre. Backman has effectively died, been reborn as Marco Lazzeri- "that's you, pal, a full-blown Italian now" - and gone to tourist heaven.
As Marco studies Italian, he learns to distinguish tortellini from tortelloni, and to ask "Dov'é suo marito?" ("Where is your husband?") of the beautiful Italian tutor who has been hired to help him. He walks around with surveillance equipment hidden in his shoe, but this is the only minor residue of the book's original setup. What is the Italian word for plot? Marco doesn't need to know it and you don't either. Once it hits its first picturesque little piazza, "The Broker" has effectively gone fishing.
Mr. Grisham points out that he gained 10 pounds while doing the grueling research for this story. "I adore Italy and all things Italian," he writes in an author's note, "and I have to confess that I was not blindfolded when I threw the dart." Hardly. He was in the mood for an Italian idyll, and he presents the reader with a vicarious equivalent of that pleasure. Even the cover art for "The Broker," the blurry image of a man running past a row of classical arches, is more redolent of a postcard than of an action story.
It's certainly Mr. Grisham's prerogative to try new things, and to make his own personal escape from the thriller format. But "The Broker" switches gears so drastically that it seems to be two separate novels in a single binding. The same kind of contradiction applies to Backman: he is supposed to be the embodiment of corruption, and the book jacket promises that the C.I.A. will engineer his demise. "The question is not whether Backman will survive - there is no chance of that," says the jacket copy.
But Backman is happily admiring his grandchild at the end of the story. And reports of the broker's odiousness are greatly exaggerated. Actually, Backman makes a companionable figure, if a completely inconsistent one, in ways that make nonsense of the novel's moral distinctions. Even if scales fall from the broker's eyes and allow him to see the error of his former ways, this guy's wicked side is seriously unconvincing. And by the finale, when Mr. Grisham halfheartedly returns to the intrigue plot to throw one final whammy, the reader has long since begun rooting for Grandpa Backman's new lease on life.
While "The Broker" might uncharitably be described as lazy - especially in comparison with its immediate predecessor, "The Last Juror," one of Mr. Grisham's best - it is also notably relaxed. Yes, it falls hard for stereotypical distinctions between Italians (happy, sensual, steeped in history) and Americans (scowling, hurried, crass). And it demonstrates that Mr. Grisham can barely do Crichton Lite (the cloak-and-dagger part involves encrypted e-mail messages and a spy satellite), let alone offer any semblance of Alan Furst's richly atmospheric view of Americans abroad. But "The Broker" is a novel for, by and about somebody taking a vacation. Birds sing. Fish swim. Armchair travelers like a getaway even if they can't leave home.
The New york Times
Published: January 10, 2005
Birds sing. Fish swim. John Grisham dreams up thriller plots that begin at full throttle, then move through their early stages in a series of flying leaps. For Mr. Grisham, who is now on his 18th novel, this style of jump-starting a story is part of the natural order of things.
So off goes "The Broker," starting with a partisan swipe at a lame duck in the White House. "In the waning hours of a presidency that was destined to arouse less interest from historians than any since perhaps that of William Henry Harrison (31 days from inauguration to death)," the book begins, a president named Arthur Morgan is cashing in.
"How sad that after four tumultuous years of leading the free world it would all fizzle into one miserable pile of requests from a bunch of crooks," Mr. Grisham writes scornfully. But President Morgan is strapped for cash, so he is ready to sell those crooks some high-priced pardons.
Cut to the federal prison where Joel Backman, former wheeler-dealer, has spent six years in solitary confinement. Backman embodies everything that Mr. Grisham currently chooses to detest. He is a former power broker (see title): "He'd been the epitome of money and power, the perfect fat cat who could bully and cajole and throw around enough money to get whatever he wanted."
Worst of all in Mr. Grisham's eyes, Backman was an embarrassment to his profession. The firm that he founded "was a lobbying machine, not a place where real lawyers practiced their craft," the book explains. "More like a bordello for rich companies and foreign governments." In other words, the world is a better place with Backman behind bars.
But along come a couple of mysterious operatives. They plan to spirit Backman into a new life, 14 years ahead of schedule. They sneak him out of prison, put him in an Army jumpsuit and load him onto a cargo plane, destination unknown. Quicker than you can say "Buon giorno, Marco," Backman has been handed a new identity in sunny Italy. All he need do is follow strict orders on how not to resemble an American. "No shorts, no black socks and white sneakers, no polyester slacks, no golf shirts," he is told, "and please don't start getting fat."
From now on the broker's responsibilities will be as follows: He must lounge in cafes. He must enjoy the espresso. He must learn to ask for "panino prosciutto e formaggio" when he wants a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He must savor Italian cuisine, architecture, history and joie de vivre. Backman has effectively died, been reborn as Marco Lazzeri- "that's you, pal, a full-blown Italian now" - and gone to tourist heaven.
As Marco studies Italian, he learns to distinguish tortellini from tortelloni, and to ask "Dov'é suo marito?" ("Where is your husband?") of the beautiful Italian tutor who has been hired to help him. He walks around with surveillance equipment hidden in his shoe, but this is the only minor residue of the book's original setup. What is the Italian word for plot? Marco doesn't need to know it and you don't either. Once it hits its first picturesque little piazza, "The Broker" has effectively gone fishing.
Mr. Grisham points out that he gained 10 pounds while doing the grueling research for this story. "I adore Italy and all things Italian," he writes in an author's note, "and I have to confess that I was not blindfolded when I threw the dart." Hardly. He was in the mood for an Italian idyll, and he presents the reader with a vicarious equivalent of that pleasure. Even the cover art for "The Broker," the blurry image of a man running past a row of classical arches, is more redolent of a postcard than of an action story.
It's certainly Mr. Grisham's prerogative to try new things, and to make his own personal escape from the thriller format. But "The Broker" switches gears so drastically that it seems to be two separate novels in a single binding. The same kind of contradiction applies to Backman: he is supposed to be the embodiment of corruption, and the book jacket promises that the C.I.A. will engineer his demise. "The question is not whether Backman will survive - there is no chance of that," says the jacket copy.
But Backman is happily admiring his grandchild at the end of the story. And reports of the broker's odiousness are greatly exaggerated. Actually, Backman makes a companionable figure, if a completely inconsistent one, in ways that make nonsense of the novel's moral distinctions. Even if scales fall from the broker's eyes and allow him to see the error of his former ways, this guy's wicked side is seriously unconvincing. And by the finale, when Mr. Grisham halfheartedly returns to the intrigue plot to throw one final whammy, the reader has long since begun rooting for Grandpa Backman's new lease on life.
While "The Broker" might uncharitably be described as lazy - especially in comparison with its immediate predecessor, "The Last Juror," one of Mr. Grisham's best - it is also notably relaxed. Yes, it falls hard for stereotypical distinctions between Italians (happy, sensual, steeped in history) and Americans (scowling, hurried, crass). And it demonstrates that Mr. Grisham can barely do Crichton Lite (the cloak-and-dagger part involves encrypted e-mail messages and a spy satellite), let alone offer any semblance of Alan Furst's richly atmospheric view of Americans abroad. But "The Broker" is a novel for, by and about somebody taking a vacation. Birds sing. Fish swim. Armchair travelers like a getaway even if they can't leave home.
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