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ssejig's review against another edition
3.0
As an audiobook, this was a bit confusing to follow with the rich language and run-on sentences. But it was a good mystery and developed well.
Philip Marlowe is surprised with a blonde with black eyes wanders into his office. She seems way too upscale for his little office. But he takes the case anyway, already half in love with her. Apparently, a former lover was declared dead but she has seen him on the streets of San Francisco and she needs Marlowe to figure out if he is, indeed, dead. This sends Phil off on an adventure that takes him back into the world of the uber-wealthy and ends with several more deaths.
The writing was very similar to the original but still had hints of present day writing. I can't really explain what I mean by this or decide if that was good or bad.
Philip Marlowe is surprised with a blonde with black eyes wanders into his office. She seems way too upscale for his little office. But he takes the case anyway, already half in love with her. Apparently, a former lover was declared dead but she has seen him on the streets of San Francisco and she needs Marlowe to figure out if he is, indeed, dead. This sends Phil off on an adventure that takes him back into the world of the uber-wealthy and ends with several more deaths.
The writing was very similar to the original but still had hints of present day writing. I can't really explain what I mean by this or decide if that was good or bad.
epictetsocrate's review
3.0
Era una dintre acele după-amiezi de vară, într-o marți, când te întrebi dacă nu cumva pământul s-a oprit în loc. Telefonul de pe masa mea aștepta de parcă ar fi știut că era supravegheat. Mașinile treceau în sus și-n jos pe strada de sub geamurile prăfuite ale biroului meu, iar câțiva oameni de treabă din orașul nostru frumușel se plimbau agale pe trotuar, în mare parte bărbați, cu pălării pe cap, umblând fără țintă. Am urmărit cu privirea o femeie ce aștepta culoarea verde a semaforului la colțul străzilor Cahuenga cu Hollywood. Avea picioare lungi, purta o jachetă pe trup, crem, cu umeri înalți și o fustă conică, albastru marin. Pe cap avea o pălărie micuță, ce arăta de parcă o păsăruică s-ar fi așezat într-o parte a coamei ei de păr și-și făcuse acolo cuib, bucuroasă. Femeia s-a uitat în stânga și în dreapta, apoi iar în stânga ― ce fetiță cuminte trebuie să fi fost! ―, apoi a traversat strada luminată de soare, pășind cu grație în urma propriei umbre.
Până acum fusese un sezon slab. Mă jucasem o săptămână de-a bodyguardul pentru un tip venit din New York, pe vapor. Omul se ținea mereu proaspăt bărbierit, purta un ceas de aur și un inel pe degetul mic, cu un rubin mare cât o mură încastrat. Zicea că e om de afaceri, așa că m-am hotărât să-l cred. Era îngrijorat și transpira mult, însă nu s-a întâmplat nimic rău, așa că mi-am încasat plata. Apoi Bernie Ohls de la Biroul Șerifului m-a pus în legătură cu o bătrânică simpatică al cărei fiu dependent de droguri șterpelise colecția de monede rare a răposatului ei soț. A trebuit să mă folosesc puțin de forța brută ca să recuperez bunurile, dar nu a fost nimic serios. Printre bani se aflau și unul cu efigia lui Alexandru cel Mare, și încă unul întruchipând profilul Cleopatrei, cu nasul ei baban ― ce-or fi văzut toți la ea?
Soneria m-a anunțat că ușa din exterior fusese deschisă și am auzit o femeie traversând salonul de așteptare, apoi oprindu-se o clipă în fața biroului meu. Sunetul tocurilor înalte pe podeaua de lemn răscolește întotdeauna ceva în mine. Eram pe cale să o poftesc înăuntru, folosindu-mă de tonul meu grav ce parcă zicea „poți să te-ncrezi în mine, sunt un detectiv“, când femeia a intrat direct, fără să mai ciocăne.
Era mai înaltă decât mi se păruse de la fereastră. Înaltă și subțirică, avea umeri lați și talie de viespe. Cu alte cuvinte, fix pe gustul meu. Pălăria avea o voaletă delicată din mătase neagră, cu model, ce se oprea pe vârful nasului ― și ce mai vârf! Încoronarea unui nas foarte frumos, aristocratic, dar nu prea îngust sau lung, și în niciun caz ca trompa Cleopatrei. Femeia purta mănuși până la cot, crem deschis, asortate cu jacheta și făcute din pielea vreunei creaturi rare ce-și petrecuse scurta viață țopăind pe stâncile din Alpi. Avea un zâmbet binevoitor, prietenos, atât cât îl afișa, și un pic aruncat într-o parte, într-un fel sardonic, atrăgător. Părul ei era blond, iar ochii îi avea negri; negri și adânci ca un lac de munte, cu pleoape îngustate cu finețe la colțurile exterioare. O blondă cu ochi negri ― nu e combinația pe care să o întâlnești prea des. Am încercat să nu mă uit la picioarele ei. Era evident că zeul după-amiezilor de marți decisese că aveam nevoie de un mic impuls.
Până acum fusese un sezon slab. Mă jucasem o săptămână de-a bodyguardul pentru un tip venit din New York, pe vapor. Omul se ținea mereu proaspăt bărbierit, purta un ceas de aur și un inel pe degetul mic, cu un rubin mare cât o mură încastrat. Zicea că e om de afaceri, așa că m-am hotărât să-l cred. Era îngrijorat și transpira mult, însă nu s-a întâmplat nimic rău, așa că mi-am încasat plata. Apoi Bernie Ohls de la Biroul Șerifului m-a pus în legătură cu o bătrânică simpatică al cărei fiu dependent de droguri șterpelise colecția de monede rare a răposatului ei soț. A trebuit să mă folosesc puțin de forța brută ca să recuperez bunurile, dar nu a fost nimic serios. Printre bani se aflau și unul cu efigia lui Alexandru cel Mare, și încă unul întruchipând profilul Cleopatrei, cu nasul ei baban ― ce-or fi văzut toți la ea?
Soneria m-a anunțat că ușa din exterior fusese deschisă și am auzit o femeie traversând salonul de așteptare, apoi oprindu-se o clipă în fața biroului meu. Sunetul tocurilor înalte pe podeaua de lemn răscolește întotdeauna ceva în mine. Eram pe cale să o poftesc înăuntru, folosindu-mă de tonul meu grav ce parcă zicea „poți să te-ncrezi în mine, sunt un detectiv“, când femeia a intrat direct, fără să mai ciocăne.
Era mai înaltă decât mi se păruse de la fereastră. Înaltă și subțirică, avea umeri lați și talie de viespe. Cu alte cuvinte, fix pe gustul meu. Pălăria avea o voaletă delicată din mătase neagră, cu model, ce se oprea pe vârful nasului ― și ce mai vârf! Încoronarea unui nas foarte frumos, aristocratic, dar nu prea îngust sau lung, și în niciun caz ca trompa Cleopatrei. Femeia purta mănuși până la cot, crem deschis, asortate cu jacheta și făcute din pielea vreunei creaturi rare ce-și petrecuse scurta viață țopăind pe stâncile din Alpi. Avea un zâmbet binevoitor, prietenos, atât cât îl afișa, și un pic aruncat într-o parte, într-un fel sardonic, atrăgător. Părul ei era blond, iar ochii îi avea negri; negri și adânci ca un lac de munte, cu pleoape îngustate cu finețe la colțurile exterioare. O blondă cu ochi negri ― nu e combinația pe care să o întâlnești prea des. Am încercat să nu mă uit la picioarele ei. Era evident că zeul după-amiezilor de marți decisese că aveam nevoie de un mic impuls.
laurena's review against another edition
3.0
So many similies, so many analogies, but I guess that was part of the intended style. Still good.
alexiskg's review against another edition
4.0
Big noir hearts. A little heavy-handed with Terry Lennox nostalgia in the Victor's scene (like, obsession-level on Marlowe's part, which was totally out of place), but otherwise pitch perfect.
raven88's review against another edition
5.0
Author John Banville has won the Booker Prize. Here he writes as Benjamin Black, embarking on a homage to Raymond Chandler by recreating Philip Marlowe in a story meant to follow on from the 1953 novel The Long Goodbye. Using a title Chandler might even have used himself, The Black Eyed Blonde, Black has chosen an unenviable task – to try and be completely authentic to Chandler’s original tone of voice and come up with a story that fits into the canon. Joe Gores did a fantastic job with Spade & Archer, a proposed prequel to The Maltese Falcon, and we hoped Benjamin Black had produced something equally fitting.
In true Chandler fashion, the story opens in the early 1950s in a steaming hot Los Angeles, with our introspective gumshoe detective sweating in his office, and awaiting his next case. Cue a beautiful, mysterious and slightly tortured female client – the black-eyed blonde of the title – in search of an errant former lover. Although she’s a married woman and comes from a rich and influential family, Clare Cavendish needs Marlowe’s help in tracking down the slippery but charming Nico Peterson, whose disappearance is of some concern to her.
Of course Marlowe must fall for the dame, a dame who neglects to pay him at that, so he embarks on a search for Peterson. As he becomes intimately embroiled in Cavendish’s case and discovers more about Peterson’s unlawful activities, Marlowe finds himself is threatened by a local gangster. He uncovers the truth behind the veneer of a rich gentleman’s club, and is visited by a ghost from the past. Marlowe finds himself in deep water – literally – and needs all of his cunning to extricate himself from this thorny case.
The Black Eyed Blonde will transported you back to Marlowe’s world, and Black’s recreation of the sights, sounds and atmosphere of Chandler’s Los Angeles is as impressive as it is vivid. Having re-read The Long Goodbye recently, I take issue with criticisms other reviewers have raised over how authentic or credible a follow-up this is. It is a more than satisfying sequel to the events in, and tone of, earlier Philip Marlowe stories.
The outstanding feature is how the author has captured the narrative voice and style of Chandler’s private detective. His trademark introspection, wise-guy attitude and cynical asides are all there. Black also captures, in Marlowe’s a spare and uncompromising voice, all the protagonists, with the narrator’s observations and feelings bringing them to life. Respect for Chandler’s reputation and craft is in evidence throughout, and Marlowe’s natural, cynical humour will raise a smile.
Writing convincing crime fiction is not easy, but walking in the footsteps of a master like Raymond Chandler is almost impossible. I was more than satisfied with this homage to one of the most influential crime writers of all time. Raymond Chandler would be more than happy with the result. I certainly was.
In true Chandler fashion, the story opens in the early 1950s in a steaming hot Los Angeles, with our introspective gumshoe detective sweating in his office, and awaiting his next case. Cue a beautiful, mysterious and slightly tortured female client – the black-eyed blonde of the title – in search of an errant former lover. Although she’s a married woman and comes from a rich and influential family, Clare Cavendish needs Marlowe’s help in tracking down the slippery but charming Nico Peterson, whose disappearance is of some concern to her.
Of course Marlowe must fall for the dame, a dame who neglects to pay him at that, so he embarks on a search for Peterson. As he becomes intimately embroiled in Cavendish’s case and discovers more about Peterson’s unlawful activities, Marlowe finds himself is threatened by a local gangster. He uncovers the truth behind the veneer of a rich gentleman’s club, and is visited by a ghost from the past. Marlowe finds himself in deep water – literally – and needs all of his cunning to extricate himself from this thorny case.
The Black Eyed Blonde will transported you back to Marlowe’s world, and Black’s recreation of the sights, sounds and atmosphere of Chandler’s Los Angeles is as impressive as it is vivid. Having re-read The Long Goodbye recently, I take issue with criticisms other reviewers have raised over how authentic or credible a follow-up this is. It is a more than satisfying sequel to the events in, and tone of, earlier Philip Marlowe stories.
The outstanding feature is how the author has captured the narrative voice and style of Chandler’s private detective. His trademark introspection, wise-guy attitude and cynical asides are all there. Black also captures, in Marlowe’s a spare and uncompromising voice, all the protagonists, with the narrator’s observations and feelings bringing them to life. Respect for Chandler’s reputation and craft is in evidence throughout, and Marlowe’s natural, cynical humour will raise a smile.
Writing convincing crime fiction is not easy, but walking in the footsteps of a master like Raymond Chandler is almost impossible. I was more than satisfied with this homage to one of the most influential crime writers of all time. Raymond Chandler would be more than happy with the result. I certainly was.
taylormcneil's review against another edition
adventurous
dark
mysterious
fast-paced
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.75
I grant you, it’s not a promising thing when a writer tries to keep a famous author’s protagonist alive. It could just be mimicry, or it could fail spectacularly. Or, in this case, it could work out really well. Benjamin Black, novelist John Banville’s alter ego, took a very thin thread—in this case, a proposed title for a novel that Raymond Chandler left in a file when he died in 1959—and has spun a period noir mystery that evokes the master in all the right ways.
It’s the post-war period, and Marlowe is still in his office at Hollywood and Cahuenga when the eponymous blonde shows up, dripping beauty and danger. A married heiress, she wants Marlowe to find her boyfriend, Nico. She initially neglects to mention that Nico was killed by a hit-and-run driver until Marlowe trips on to the fact, and then drops another bombshell: she’d seen him out the window of a car in San Francisco six months after his putative death.
That’s just the beginning of the twists and turns, of course, as Marlowe runs into gangsters, drug runners, Mexican hitmen, jaded cops—and corpses. It’s pitch perfect, sharp and clever, with all the appropriate wise-guy gloom of a sweaty L.A. festering with corruption and malaise. If you like Chandler, you’ll take a shine to The Black-Eyed Blonde as well.
It’s the post-war period, and Marlowe is still in his office at Hollywood and Cahuenga when the eponymous blonde shows up, dripping beauty and danger. A married heiress, she wants Marlowe to find her boyfriend, Nico. She initially neglects to mention that Nico was killed by a hit-and-run driver until Marlowe trips on to the fact, and then drops another bombshell: she’d seen him out the window of a car in San Francisco six months after his putative death.
That’s just the beginning of the twists and turns, of course, as Marlowe runs into gangsters, drug runners, Mexican hitmen, jaded cops—and corpses. It’s pitch perfect, sharp and clever, with all the appropriate wise-guy gloom of a sweaty L.A. festering with corruption and malaise. If you like Chandler, you’ll take a shine to The Black-Eyed Blonde as well.
rebekahcraft's review against another edition
1.0
Noir mystery filled with tired cliches and a meandering plot.
The audiobook narrator's voice was particularly cloying.
The audiobook narrator's voice was particularly cloying.
juliechristinejohnson's review against another edition
3.0
Okay, first: Stephen King, you naughty, naughty man. Just sneaking that spoiler in there, with a wink and a nudge-nudge. Love it. Thumbs up.
Now. Black/Banville (henceforth B/B) taking on Phillip Marlowe. At first, I was mightily confused. I had the idea that B/B was intending to write this as the ghost of Raymond Chandler Past. I was quickly disabused of this notion. But I settled in, hoping enjoy B/B's dark voice snapping out of Marlowe's mouth. Well, damn if that didn't happen either.
I'm not really certain what this is. It's not steamy, sultry, elegiac Chandler. It's not lyrical, mournful John Banville. It's not smart, bitter Benjamin Black. It's barely even crime noir. Marlowe comes off as a bit of goombah, and um, PHIL?? Did Chandler ever refer to PM as Phil?? Golly, I don't think so.
It's all just so strange, because B/B rocks, either as litfic John Banville or his crimefic doppelgänger Benjamin Black. In fact, B/B writes some crackerjack crime noir. Quirk and 1950s Dublin are as dark and dour as the come. I'm just not sure what happened here. This made me think me of a caper film starring John Travolta.
Look. I still had fun. Heaps. This was worthwhile entertainment with a crisp plot, juicy characters, and raucous fights. There is little sense of L.A., certainly not Chandler's L.A. but I was still jonesing for a gimlet by the end. And for Raymond Chandler. Farewell, My Lovely ....
Now. Black/Banville (henceforth B/B) taking on Phillip Marlowe. At first, I was mightily confused. I had the idea that B/B was intending to write this as the ghost of Raymond Chandler Past. I was quickly disabused of this notion. But I settled in, hoping enjoy B/B's dark voice snapping out of Marlowe's mouth. Well, damn if that didn't happen either.
I'm not really certain what this is. It's not steamy, sultry, elegiac Chandler. It's not lyrical, mournful John Banville. It's not smart, bitter Benjamin Black. It's barely even crime noir. Marlowe comes off as a bit of goombah, and um, PHIL?? Did Chandler ever refer to PM as Phil?? Golly, I don't think so.
It's all just so strange, because B/B rocks, either as litfic John Banville or his crimefic doppelgänger Benjamin Black. In fact, B/B writes some crackerjack crime noir. Quirk and 1950s Dublin are as dark and dour as the come. I'm just not sure what happened here. This made me think me of a caper film starring John Travolta.
Look. I still had fun. Heaps. This was worthwhile entertainment with a crisp plot, juicy characters, and raucous fights. There is little sense of L.A., certainly not Chandler's L.A. but I was still jonesing for a gimlet by the end. And for Raymond Chandler. Farewell, My Lovely ....
janel's review against another edition
2.0
A fine mystery, but too different for me from Chandler's version of Marlowe.
Maybe noir can't survive in sunny postwar America; Marlowe circa 1953 is lonely, poetic, a little petulant (my, all those hot steering wheels!,) the kind of man who cries over a woman he's known for a week. Observant readers will see the twist coming well before its appearance.
I enjoyed Mr. Banville/Black's writing, and I would read another of his books, but not another featuring Phillip Marlowe.
Maybe noir can't survive in sunny postwar America; Marlowe circa 1953 is lonely, poetic, a little petulant (my, all those hot steering wheels!,) the kind of man who cries over a woman he's known for a week. Observant readers will see the twist coming well before its appearance.
I enjoyed Mr. Banville/Black's writing, and I would read another of his books, but not another featuring Phillip Marlowe.
samanthawattam's review against another edition
2.0
Wealthy socialite Clare Cavendish hires p.i. Philip Marlowe to find her ex-lover Nico Peterson who has disappeared.
I am not particularly knowledgeable on the subject of the noir style of Raymond Chandler but I have read his work in the past and have watched a lot of film noir (my Dad is a huge Humphrey Bogart fan). Benjamin Black seemed to me to have captured the style quite well, the book is an easy read and even with my limited Chandler reading knowledge it felt very familiar like pulling on a comfortable pair of old shoes. I have to say I didn't really see the point it is like Hollywood remakes of films like Casablanca its been done before to perfection so why would you. It doesn't really offer anything fresh to the genre. There are a lot of references to Hollywood actors of the time you don't really need to know who they are to read the book but I think you would lose some of the references if you didn't.
I have to say Philip Marlowe as portrayed in The Black-Eyed Blonde is a soft touch Clare Cavendish takes him for a ride not exactly the hardened gumshoe that I thought he was. And I didn't realise they work for nothing!! There's a lot of talking but not much being said.