I find myself of late, with no prior intent, in the midst of a detective fiction binge. I've always enjoyed the genre, as far back as I can remember. It probably started around the age of 12 or so when, prompted by my mother's love of the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films, I devoured all the Conan Doyle stories. I still read them from time to time and few things can so effortlessly transport me back to my childhood self as the foggy environs of Baker Street.
I've always considered myself a Holmes purist so it goes without saying, of course, that Jeremy Brett is still matchless perfection in the role but, as an aside, I was pleasantly astonished to discover that I really enjoyed the recent BBC adaptation, 'Sherlock', starring Benedict Cumberbatch. It's easy to see that the writers have a real reverence for the source texts and have done a marvellous job of conveying that most faithfully to the screen. Anyway, where was I?
Oh yes, detective fiction. After Holmes, several years passed me by as I discovered new loves (mainly science fiction) but eventually I came across (Ian Rankin's) Rebus; at the time of my discovery, Rankin was about 12 books into the series but I quickly caught up and remain so to this day. There have been, to my knowledge, 2 attempts to bring Rebus to television; John Hannah - an awful piece of miscasting, he was much too young and fresh-faced at the time, and Ken Stott - better, but still not right. Who do I see when I read Rebus? Paul Young - no, not the singer from the 80's, but the the Scottish actor, turned TV fisherman. Who do you see when you read Rebus?
That was where my interest in the genre lay stagnant for a long time until, after have seen many episodes on TV over the years, I turned my attention to Poirot. A couple of summers ago I decided that it was past time that I corrected, what had been until then, a glaring omission in my detective repertoire and proceeded to consume the lot within the space of a few months. In that, I was very fortunate my local library had just bought a complete set of both the Poirot and Miss Marple novels (the latter of which have never been able to engage my interest, despite several attempts).
David Suchet is to Poirot as Jeremy Brett is to Holmes; I personally find it impossible to imagine a more perfect portrayal, so there's very little else for me to add. However, I will say, that my recent qualms upon learning that there is to be a new Poirot novel, commissioned by Christie's estate, were lessened by my recent reading of Anthony Horowitz's marvellous new Sherlock Holmes novel, "The House of Silk". If the new Poirot is anywhere near as almost note-perfect as the new Holmes then there may still yet be a spark of life in the little grey cells.
Finally, well almost finally, we come to the Swedish detective Kurt Wallander. I'd heard nothing but good things about this series of novels and decided to try them out for myself. The first one, "Faceless Killers", left me none too impressed; it was solid, but uninspiring. I enjoyed it, but thought it had better improve if I was going to read all of them. The next two, "The Dogs of Riga" and "The White Lioness", were much of the same, my enjoyment of them lessening with each successive novel. I was on the point of quitting but I decided to persevere and I'm glad I did - number four, "The Man Who Smiled" was, for me, the turning point in the series, the remainder of which were uniformly excellent. Oh, apart from the very end of the last one, which was, by a long margin, the most miserable end to a series I've ever had the misfortune to read. But don't let that glowing endorsement put you off - Wallander is a wonderfully drawn character, full of everyman's grumps, conceits and rages.
I've never watched any of the television adaptations of Wallander, so I can't comment on his portrayal by the various actors who have undertaken the role. I can tell you, though, that when I read the books the actor whom I saw in my mind's eye was Ken Stott.
Currently I'm reading, "The Vicious Vet", number two in M.C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin series. In terms of the quality of the writing, it's rubbish; it is in no way comparable to any of the above-mentioned works. But it's fun rubbish and I may read a few more yet before I get heartily sick of them.
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