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A review by twilliamson
The Snowman by Jo Nesbø
2.0
In 1841, Edgar Allen Poe wrote a short story called "Murders at the Rue Morgue." With it, he invented the modern detective story, and established a number of the tropes for the genre. The villain of the story, ultimately, was an orangutan with a razor blade.
In 2007, Jo Nesbø published the seventh book starring his own police investigator, Harry Hole. In many respects, Nesbø manages to craft a tale in The Snowman that is a showcase of how thrillers are crafted: leave along just enough of a trail of evidence that careful readers can anticipate the action, but leave just enough unstated to keep readers turning pages. The craft of the thriller is all about delayed satisfaction; readers have suspicions of who has done what, and what's going on in the story, but they have to turn the page in order to find out if they are correct. They piece together the story's meaning alongside the detective, in the best of cases. Sometimes, they might beat him to the punch.
So, as a showcase of how to craft a fiction thriller, Nesbø's novel seems to do the trick.
Except that the climax and denouement of the novel somehow manages to be even more ridiculous than Poe's orangutan with a razor blade. Nesbø's vision--not just of crime, but of the society of Norway--just feels like it has been taken from a funhouse mirror, where things never seem like they belong to any kind of actual reality, and while figures are almost recognizable, they're so warped as to strain credulity.
The ridiculous number of twists in the plot would be excusable if the rest of the novel didn't strain the credulity it so desperately wants to have so often. Its 500 pages feel about 200 pages too long, and I don't think alcoholism is robust characterization. But, hey, cross Nesbø off the list of authors I wanted to give a look. I think I've seen enough to know his isn't my style.
In 2007, Jo Nesbø published the seventh book starring his own police investigator, Harry Hole. In many respects, Nesbø manages to craft a tale in The Snowman that is a showcase of how thrillers are crafted: leave along just enough of a trail of evidence that careful readers can anticipate the action, but leave just enough unstated to keep readers turning pages. The craft of the thriller is all about delayed satisfaction; readers have suspicions of who has done what, and what's going on in the story, but they have to turn the page in order to find out if they are correct. They piece together the story's meaning alongside the detective, in the best of cases. Sometimes, they might beat him to the punch.
So, as a showcase of how to craft a fiction thriller, Nesbø's novel seems to do the trick.
Except that the climax and denouement of the novel somehow manages to be even more ridiculous than Poe's orangutan with a razor blade. Nesbø's vision--not just of crime, but of the society of Norway--just feels like it has been taken from a funhouse mirror, where things never seem like they belong to any kind of actual reality, and while figures are almost recognizable, they're so warped as to strain credulity.
The ridiculous number of twists in the plot would be excusable if the rest of the novel didn't strain the credulity it so desperately wants to have so often. Its 500 pages feel about 200 pages too long, and I don't think alcoholism is robust characterization. But, hey, cross Nesbø off the list of authors I wanted to give a look. I think I've seen enough to know his isn't my style.