Re-Viewing: The Wire

This isn’t a review. I’m not going to give a score. I’m not sure how to do that with film and TV – particularly with TV, where different episodes and seasons of the same show can be so different from one another in style and quality. This is just… I recently re-watched this show, and wanted to put my thoughts down while I remembered them. Because before long, memory turns into myth, and you think you remember whatever you expect to remember. And then some time later you actually see the show again and think “wow, this is really good after all!” or “oh dear, not as good as I remembered”. A good example of the former is Friends – after years and years of watching repeats of mediocre and repetitive Friends episodes from the later series, and occasionally catching an early episode I’d seen fifty times before, and being told by everybody how awful the show was, how tame and predictable it was, I finally sat down for some reason and watched the first season: took a while to get going, but all of a sudden it was sheer genius. I carried on watching straight through the first four seasons (aaaand… then a cliff approached). Not only was it sharp, witty, versatile and creative, it was also – which I hadn’t expected at all – edgy. Not Bill Hicks edgy, but edgy for mainstream sitcoms, with a lot of very explicit jokes and quite a few rather dark ones too. I, like everyone else (including the writers, I think) had bought into a myth of what the show was meant to be like that had clouded my memories of what it had actually been like when I first saw it.

So anyway, recently I re-watched the whole of The Wire, and I’ve decided to state for the record what I think about it.

I’m trying to mostly avoid spoilers, and I’d appreciate it if any commenters did likewise.


Sometimes, talking about the quality of The Wire is a bit like talking about God. People make bold statements and feel justified in doing so, but still at some level feel they may be using the wrong words. In the case of The Wire, I want to say its the best thing ever, but I’m not entirely sure why. I’m not sure I’m comparing like with like.

First off, let’s get rid of one myth: The Wire isn’t a monolithic entity, it’s five separate seasons, and each is a very different programme. You can like one but not the others. And another myth: the seasons aren’t all about particular things. That idea got added on later, I think.

Season One is the best place to start, not just because it’s first, but because it’s the most conventional. It’s clear what it is: it’s a detective show. A murder has happened, and they have to solve it. That’s all. It’s unusual in spreading a single case out over an entire season, but aside from that it’s perfectly conventional. And it’s as much about the bosses who don’t want the case to go ahead as it is about the guys on the street, and it’s as much about the criminals as about the cops, but aside from that, it’s perfectly conventional. It’s an unusually intelligent, unusually slow, unusually well-written, unusually novelistic cop show.

For anyone who’s been living on another planet: D’Angelo Barksdale, nephew of a Baltimore kingpin, has killed somebody, with a lot of witnesses. It goes to court, but witnesses recant their testimony and D’Angelo is found not guilty. Infuriated by this is Jimmy McNulty, a hard-drinking natural-born-anarchist homicide detective – it wasn’t his case, but others were, and now he’s seen the Barksdale gang get away with one murder too many. Out of a confused collage of altruism, vanity, stubbornness and a desire to get one over on his bosses, he recruits the help of the judge (unhappy at seeing his court played around with by the Barksdales at will) to try to force  his superiors to seriously investigate Barksdale and his cohorts – all the way to a wire-tap if necessary. Unfortunately, nobody is interested – nobody has even heard of the Barksdale crew, busy as they are with street-level arrests and dodging work. Only McNulty, “giving a fuck when it ain’t your turn to give a fuck”, is determined to get to the bottom of it – not just this murder, not just this crew, not just the drug trade, but the whole of what is rotten in the state of Baltimore, and by extension the whole of America. Although of course it’s less about justice, and more about the Jimmy McNulty show – proving to everybody that he’s the smartest guy in the police force. Meanwhile, as McNulty struggles against bureaucracy, his counterpart on the street, D’Angelo Barksdale, struggles with a similar position of impotence – forced to rule over his thuggish, short-sighted crew of hoppers and dealers, while at the same time dictated to by the drug-gang hierarchy, in particular his uncle Avon Barksdale, and Avon’s more intellectual right-hand man, Russell “Stringer” Bell.

If you can get used to the slow pace, it’s actually pretty accessible. Humour is omnipresent to lighten the mood, and the tone is often larger-than-life, even cartoonish. Less so than in other shows, perhaps, but not the sort of dry, precise, uncinematic realism that the show became famous for. Famous scenes like Dee explaining chess to Bodie and Wallace (they’ve been playing checkers on a chess board, not knowing the rules; the following discussion morphs from chess rules to the nature of society – “the king stay the king”) and McNulty and Bunk Moreland (“The Bunk”) investigating a murder scene with five minutes of dialogue consisting of nothing but “fuck”, “fuck me” and “motherfucker” in a variety of intonations are hilarious and well-written, but fundamentally big, obvious, storytelling showboating. As a result, the first season is the most enjoyable, and also the most conventional.

The second season sees much of the action move to the docks, dealing with the decline of American industry, and is probably the weakest season. Attention has to be split between three forums – the police, the dockers, and the drug crews; the latter two aren’t sufficiently connected, while the police investigations feel like a half-hearted addition. What’s more, the series suffers tonally: the magnificent American tragedy of the Sobotka family is one of the crowning arcs of the show, but its journalistic dreariness and subtle agonies sit uneasily beside the flamboyant, Hollywoodesque elements of the seventeen corpses in a box, and the Bond-villain Greeks. It seems clear they didn’t know what direction to take things, and as a result its not really fully anything. Its still worth watching, but it’s disappointing – in particular, it takes a long time to get going.

The third season learns from the mistakes of the second. Action is mostly closer “to home”, and more controlled, and centres on a tragedy that could have been taken from Shakespeare, in its intensity and timeless themes, if not in its contemporary relevance. It’s perhaps the slowest and dullest of the five season, and the pay-off seems a little weak and personal compared to the flashy business of the second season. Yet it’s a vital season, not only for the majesty of its central story, but also because of its striking thematic ambition. This season is not “about” any part of life (it’s certainly not, as claimed, about politics!), but it does have a central theme: change, and those who try to institute it. Change is explored through the characters of Stringer Bell, a tired crime boss who would rather be a businessman; Denis “Cutty” Wise, a drug-gang hitman finally out of jail after a long time inside; “Bunny” Colvin, a senior police offer who wishes he could reverse the slow decline not only of his city but of his police force; and Tommy Carcetti, ambitious young city councillor, disgusted by the corruption and inefficiency of the political elite, determined to sweep them all aside and bring in a new daybreak. This season sets the stamp on what The Wire wants to achieve, and sets up important storylines. And it’s probably the most psychologically acute, most precise, of the seasons – many of the key scenes feel like they’ve been adapted from the theatre. Possibly from Shakespeare.

Those storylines come to a climax in the fourth season, the greatest season of any TV series ever filmed. It’s “about” the school system, and has an incredible cast of young actors, but more than that, it’s about what’ wrong with America. The writing is superb, the young cast (and Carcetti’s charisma) bring a refreshing vitality and fun to scenes even when little plot is apparent, and the architecture of its construction is simply awe-inspiring. By my count there are more than 60 significant named characters in the dozen-or-so episodes, not counting many minor roles, and they all feel real and accessible and tortured, and somebody’s calculated that in some episodes the hour of action advances approximately 100 different plot-lines. Even leaving aside the actual content of the story, the construction of it ought to be studied in every writing school as the pinnacle of the art. And the content itself is devastating; simple, always simple, and direct, and all painfully inevitable.

After the heights of season 4, season 5 was bound to be a let-down, particularly as there’s a distinct change in tone. At this point the show goes in a more absurd direction – not beyond the bounds of reason, but more obviously ‘TV’ than what has gone before. And yet – having watched through the show more quickly this time (my third time), and thus having its origins more firmly in mind, S5 seems less like a departure and more like a return, to the more conventional, more focused, and more funny first season.

The Wire is not perfect. Sometimes it struggles to follow so many (sometimes unrelated) plots simultaneously; in particular, for the middle three series the cop section often feels superfluous, tacked-on. There are a handful of badly-written moments – mostly (and again, the cop sections are the worst offenders) when the writers try to push a dramatic line more quickly than is realistic, leading to out-of-character outbursts. Sometimes, the writers were too cowardly, clinging too tightly to convention, keeping some characters alive too long and killing others off too soon. On the other hand, sometimes it is too pretentious, too wilfully contemptuous of plot and pace, and bogs down in long hours of nothing happening at all; I watched the first season and a half in a one-a-week format, and the first season’s taut, tense plot made it compelling, but the later seasons really need to be watched on DVDs, because sometimes waiting a week only to have nothing happen just isn’t worth it. Sometimes, particularly toward the end, and above all in the final series,  the writers are too full of their own brilliance, and the ‘subtle’ self-congratulation scenes are a little cloying. It’s not totally tonally coherent, with dark realism and cartoonish comic moments, both brilliant, sometimes working against each other rather than in harness. And now and then the writers are self-indulgent – this is a massive problem with Season 5, where for the first time we have an unimpeachable hero (David Simon’s Mary Sue alter-ego) and (for not quite the first time) unredeemable villains (David Simon’s former employers).

But: The Wire is landmark TV. Probably nothing on it is wholly original or groundbreaking (the more cynical look at the police may be unusual in America, but seems tame by UK standards, I think), but when you put it all together it’s an incredible statement of artistic intent. The novelistic approach – many characters, many stories, all stretched out slowly, thematically and tangentially linked – is sometimes breathtakingly bold. The attention to detail, the determination to push ahead and tell the story even if most viewers don’t understand what’s going on, the refusal (mostly) to speak down to us, are inspiring. It’s a show that forces its viewers to step up. The devotion to unflinching, serious social critique that educates rather than preaching is illustrative of the power and scope of television. The plots are cleverly intertwined and combine frequent unpredictability wit crushing inevitability, and are sometimes truly shocking. The writing is timeless, sometimes brutal, sometimes beautiful, sometimes hilarious. So many characters, down to the most minor, feel real and living and almost all in some way sympathetic.

If I were to create a list of the greatest scenes in television ever, a serious percentage would come from this show. In fact, that’s one of the incredible things about it: whereas most shows have key scenes and filler, this is almost all key scenes. If you ask ten Wire fans for their ten favourite scenes, you’ll probably get at least 80-90 scenes named. The quality, scene-by-scene, is so high, and the characters, themes and situations so diverse and complete, that different people can latch on to entirely different scenes as their favourites in a way I don’t think any other show can really match. Even if you ask for ten top scenes from one season, you’ll still get massive variety. [And yes, I’ve tested this in person and on-line].

And then there’s the acting, which is simply out of this world in places. The actors range from the mediocre and acceptable to the simply sublime. There are too many great roles to mention, but the crowning performances in my opinion come from Idris Elba as Stringer Bell (Elba is able to show us simultaneously a likeable, even heroic, embodiment of the American Dream, somebody who could have been a great man in any other walk of life, and at the same time one of the darkest, coldest, most calculating hard-men in the series, and on TV, while at the same time not being a mary sue, but actually deeply flawed, even weak – an enthralling mix of fire and ice that reaches out to us while at the same time remaining perpetually inaccessible), Aiden Gillen as Tommy Carcetti (the perfect politician: we are left wondering to what degree he is a slimy rodent out only for himself, and to what degree he is a deeply passionate man enraged by injustice, forced into deceit as the only way he can change the system); Michael K Williams as Omar (a larger than life character who could easily have been ridiculous and out of place, but transformed into a wounded, gentle, psychotically audacious crusader/war-profiteer); and above all Andre Royo as Bubbles, street addict and informant, whose searing presentation of the self-love and self-hatred of drug addiction manages to be humorous, charismatic, and devastatingly tragic all at once. Off the top of my head, I think Royo’s big speech in the final season of the show may be my single favourite moment of them all. Special mention must also be made of the Sobotka family – Chris Bauer’s Frank, the indomitable, good-hearted union leader who is forced to get his hands dirty but never for a moment loses sight of his moral standards, Pablo Schreiber’s Nick, his sensible, level-headed, opportunistic, embittered, morally questionable and fiercely loyal nephew, and James Ransone as Ziggy, Frank’s rash, pathetic, stupid son – possibly the most incredibly obnoxious (and at the same time somehow perversely sympathetic) man on TV.

It’s rare to have even one performance like these, let alone a handful, and let alone having a fantastic ensemble cast (of mostly-unknowns, sometimes even children), let alone having near-flawless supporting actors numbering in the dozens.

It’s hard to know what else to say about The Wire. It should be said that for all its brilliance, it never made me love it – not in the sense of a mature love. My love for it is a bit more like an adolescent crush for something so sexily smart and cool and brilliant. It’s not a series I want to cuddle up to at night.

That said, it’s still brilliant. It’s not all hype (though there is a lot of hype). It is one of the best things ever shown on TV. In fact, I’d say that it’s the best-made full-length TV drama ever – scene by scene, episode by episode, the consistency and originality is overwhelming. There are no dud episodes, and very, very few, if any dud scenes. There’s rarely even a bad line. It’s not the most entertaining TV, and it doesn’t set out to be (although it’s certainly not dry or dull – in particular, there’s a wonderful jet-black humour always lurking beneath the surface). It’s unsettling, off-putting, and wearying, and although I’ve enjoyed re-watching it, it was at another’s instigation, and I don’t see myself returning to it for quite some time. It’s just not that sort of “ooh, I know what I want to watch!” programme. But it is endlessly quotable, and endlessly memorable, and it may make you a better person for watching it. Certainly, if anyone wants to be an actor, or write scripts or otherwise in any way create TV shows or films, The Wire must be at the top of their list of things to see.

Billy Liar, by Keith Waterhouse

First, imagine Salinger – specifically, imagine Catcher in the Rye. Next, imagine PG Wodehouse, preferably as performed by Fry and Laurie in the old Jeeves and Wooster TV series. Step three: imagine Yorkshire. Ideally a Yorkshire combining the grimness of the Oop North with a strong dose of Monty Python (the ‘trouble up t’mill’, ‘spanish inquistion’ and ‘four yorkshiremen’ sketches all spring to mind).

Combine these three elements, and you’ve got a rough idea of what Billy Liar is like. At first glance, it is a simple re-write of Catcher: both are short novels from the fifties, both are the first-hand accounts of adolescent males, both relate the events of a single day, both deal heavily with issues of identity, authenticity, language, alienation, and so on.

Billy Liar, however, is in my opinion rather better than Catcher in the Rye – and it’s certainly more readable.

Billy Fisher is 19, a young adult or an old child, and he lives the bucolic idyll (or not) or Stradhoughton, a small Yorkshire town surrounded by moorland. He lives with his parents and his grandmother, and works for a firm of undertakers. His ambition, however, is to be a comic scriptwriter, and as the novel opens he is about to tell his family the good news: he has been offered a job in London. Before he can take that job, however, he has a few loose ends to tie up is Stradhoughton – mostly concerning either his love-life (he has at least three girlfriends, at least two of whom he is engaged to), or his current employers (who may, or may not, be about to discover one or two little misdemeanours and mistakes young Billy has made during his time with them). Many of these problems have arisen in part through his almost pathological tendency to lie through his teeth.

Billy, you see, is a fantasist. It is established early on that he has been “spending a good part of my time, more of it as each day passed, on this thinking business”; ordinary thoughts aside, this thinking is divided into two types: “obsessional speculations”  about various real or imagined disasters, ranging from disease to discovery of real or potential crimes; and daydreams that reconfigure the world and its inhabitants, running the gamut from slight modifications (an imagined conversation, say) to all-out  fantasy, in which Billy is (or is seeking to become) the President of the small nation of Ambrosia, complete with its own history, town planning, and language. It seems likely that this repeated flight into fantasy has something to do with his tendency to tell people, for instance, that he has a sister (he hasn’t), or a cat (he hasn’t), or that his father is a retired sea captain (he isn’t) or a working cobbler (he isn’t) or that the mother of a friend has broken her leg (she hasn’t). Or perhaps it’s simply that he has seen through the assemblage of cliche and ritual that makes up the life of the people around him, and has come to see it all as an elaborate performance of allotted roles and lines, in which he defiantly ad-libs – sometimes because it’s what people want to hear, sometimes just to make them miss their own cues, and sometimes simply to avoid saying whatever he’s expected to say.  This self-aware performance seems certainly to be part of the reason why he’s told (at least) two people he’ll marry them: it was simply what his character had to say at that moment, and in each case received in kind (one woman has apparently accepted his offer of marriage “probably thinking it bad manners to refuse”)

Mirroring Billy’s difficult transition into adulthood is the world around him, gradually transitioning from the old and the local to the new and the cosmopolitan, a transition Billy is decidedly ambiguous about. The old Yorkshire (of, for instance, his father, and of Councillor Duxbury, who retains a broad dialect) is obsolete, but the new world seems thin, copied, inauthentic and impersonal. And Billy is alienated from both directions: he is too much a son of Yorkshire to embrace the new wholeheartedly, and there is nobody there waiting for him, but he is not permitted to remain in the past – when his father catches him speaking dialect, for instance, he is furious that his son is not making use of the education given him, and suspicious that Billy is mocking him. Which, of course, he is, because unable to enter the secret society of the past he retaliates by dismissing it – while not quite sure if in the process he is mocking himself. As much as he wants to rise above the people around him, they still know him, and he still knows himself – it does not escape his attention, to give an example, that he himself speaks in repetitive phrases little more original than the clichés for which he castigates those around him. He searches for a rock of authenticity to ground himself on, but finds only performance, and as a result is trapped between fantasy and reality.

Yet Billy still feels more connected to others than Holden does – indeed, it is the web of connections that seem to hold him fast – and in the same way the novel feels more connected, less egocentric, more relevant, than Catcher. Yes, it is one of the early contributions to the post-war Bildungsroman tradition, following fast on Salinger’s heels, but it is also more than that. Its themes of gritty social realism, disillusionment, alienation, the lower-classes, the ‘provinces’, the issues of identity surrounding aspiration and modernisation, all put it alongside its Angry Young Men contemporaries, if not wholly part of the movement. Meanwhile, the reference to Wodehouse was not coincidental: Billy Liar is a native of a certain tradition of British comic writing that emphasises detachment, irony, and flippancy. Billy’s actual jokes (which strike the modern audience as very old-fashioned and corny) may not actually be funny, but his stiff-upper-lip interior monologue is often hilarious (though, as is the wont of such humour, no single sentence stands out, taken away from its brethren). It is this comic element (which should be no surprise: Waterhouse also wrote for That Was the Week That Was and The Frost Report) that takes what could otherwise be a dour, uninteresting foray into egotistical amateur psychology and turns it into a genuinely enjoyable novel. That and the fact that it actually has a plot, as the various elements of Billy’s deceptions come crashing down upon him, in a race against his (any time now!) departure for London.

I don’t want to say much more, because it is a very short book, and any more discussion of content would start to spoil it, I think. Besides, there’s just not that much to say.

Adrenaline: 4/5. Normally I find this sort of psychological vignette rather dull – but not this time. It’s true that the action does lag for a while, after the impact of the character introduction and before the plot starts kicking in (or rather, before the importance of the plot becomes apparent). Because this section is largely discovery of facts through oblique references, it was less exciting on a re-read, when I already knew what was going on, and who was who. However, once the trap starts to close on Billy, the tension and the action ratchet swiftly up, up to a genuinely riveting finale. I suppose that if you hate Billy, this might not interest you, however.

Emotion: 4/5. I didn’t actually start crying this time, although I think I did the first time I read it. But I did find it extremely moving. Perhaps because it’s a rare “literary” novel where I actually cared about the character, and I found the later stages extremely poignant.

Thought: 4/5. For a book this short (my copy is under 190 pages), and mostly devoid of actual sustained thinking-about-things passages, there’s a surprising amount of depth of content to be found here, both on the social and psychological levels. It doesn’t actually answer any questions, or even explore them in great depth, but it is highly suggestive of thoughts, as it were, and provides a rich texture of ideas for the reader to investigate.

Beauty: 3/5. Mostly above average, both due to the elegant humour of Billy’s monologue and to the sections of Yorkshire dialect, which possess a raw, archaic beauty of their own. Dropped down a bit due to some annoying teenageness, particularly the weird, postmodern humour of Billy’s purposefully-unfunny exchanges with his friend. They’re meant to be ugly, that’s the point – but they’re still ugly.

Craft: 4/5. Billy is perhaps a BIT too annoying. And as a result, the action lags a bit in places. And now and then some of the supporting characters are a little flat in their dialogue. Other than that, truly excellent. Waterhouse manages not create a compelling – both likeable and annoying – central character, and allow us to simultaneously judge the world through his eyes and judge his own judgements. When he condemns those around him, we laugh along with his bitter remarks, and see their validity, while still seeing Billy himself as both misanthropic and naive.

Endearingness: 4/5. Billy is a character I can empathise with – not at a surface level, as he and I are almost entirely different, but certainly at a deeper psychological stratum I can see the resemblance. And the book is very funny, and the conclusion both gripping and moving. The only reason I don’t LOVE it is that… well, sometimes Billy DOES get a little annoying.

Originality: 2/5. What originality it possesses largely comes from being at the intersection of different lines of descent. There’s nothing about it truly astonishing. Unsurprising – it’s about life, and only a day in a life at that, so no great amazements should be expected.

Echo: ½. I had a tingling under my skin for some time after reading this: it didn’t knock me to my knees, but it got into my flesh and made me think about life.

Overall: 6/7. Very Good. Going by my old scoring, only ‘good’, but I’ve decided to recalibrate my scale, since the gap between between books I was rating as ‘good’ was bigger than between ‘good’ and ‘very good’ (of which there weren’t many). So, I’ll be going through and changing some of the scores later on. But anyway: this is a book I really liked, and will read many more times in the future. And if you hate it… it’s under 200 pages, so you haven’t missed much. And you can probably get it for under £1.

Sorry to have two cycling posts in a row, but…


On a climb so hard the motorbikes exploded…

VDS and some other things

And now for something completely different: Virtual Directeur Sportif, and specifically my outstanding excellence at it.

For those poor fools who do not know, VDS is a fantasy road-cycling league game played at the Podium Cafe message board. Even if you don’t know about cycling (and I don’t know much) the concept should be pretty familiar – you pick cyclists according to certain criteria (you need a certain number, they each cost different amounts), and get points when they do well. For a certain somewhat unfair measure of doing well.

Anyway, last year was my debut season, and after a respectable spring classics season (peaking at 83rd), it all collapsed, leaving me somewhere in the 200-300 range, out of a bit over 400 players.

This year, however, things are going somewhat better! At one point, I reached a probably-unrepeatable-in-my-lifetime 31st place! Currently, I’m 97th out of 682 players.

I realise you probably don’t share my elation at this news. Nonetheless, I’m  massively, and pleasantly, surprised: I knew I would have a strong spring classics season, but to still be clinging on to the top 100 a week into the Giro D’Italia is beyond my expectations.

Of course, when the GC points for the Giro come in, I’m going to be wiped off the map. And then the Tour will kill me off entirely. But I’ve still got some GC hopes – Igor Anton and John Gadret are hanging around just outside the top ten and should keep me alive. [In case you’re wondering: yes I DID have Anton last year. Damn that crash!]

I’m hoping, for context, to end up in the top half of the table. That’s not TOO impressive given that there are quite a few joke and semi-joke teams around, but I could feel proud of it.

The counter-intuitive secret of my success: I’ve avoided the massively-expensive big guns, and spent the money on all-around strength: 20 of my 25 riders have already scored points, and 15 have scored 100 or more. My best signings have probably been Nuyens and Ballan – my principle has been that good riders don’t suddenly stop being good after one good season. Unfortunately, my downfall has been refusing to accept that riders don’t suddenly BECOME good after one good season – I’ve kept faith with Haussler for a second year, and bought into the overpriced bandwagons of Boassan Hagen and Sagan. And of course some of my riders haven’t had good years so far, and there are a couple of just plain stupid picks among them. Yet despite that, seven of my 25 have already got more points than last year, so I do have SOME eye for value.

Now, needless to say the Grand Tours will pump serious damage into me as people collect on their Contadors and their Schlecks. But I’m not convinced I’ve gone the wrong way – I put up my Boonen to other people’s Cancellaras and Gilberts and still came away from the spring classics in good shape. Then again, a lot of that was luck.

Next year, I think I need to focus more on the GTs. There’s just so many points on offer for GC – and it’s probably less random than the Monuments. Then again, less random means safer but harder to overachieve.


– I’m currently writing a grammar for Rawàng Ata. I may or may not post bits of it here in the near future.

– The next book I’m going to review will be Billy Liar. I expect this weekend.

– I’m also going to, hopefully, put up some posts on two things I’ve re-watched in the not-too-distant past: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Wire. Not official reviews, but just some thoughts.

– I may get around to putting up some more History of the Future posts as well, although I’m not sure how much I agree with them anymore.

Assassin’s Quest – Robin Hobb

The Six Duchies would fall. The world would end.

We went to fetch blankets.


“Even while [they] were raping me, they seemed to take no pleasure in it. At least, not the kind of pleasure… They mocked my pain and struggling. Those who watched were laughing as they waited[…] It was a thing they could do to me, so they did it. I had always believed, perhaps childishly, that if you followed the rules, you would be protected, that things like that would not happen to you. Afterwards I felt … tricked. Foolish. Gullible, that I had thought ideals could protect me. Honour and courtesy and justice … they are not real.”

When I talked about Royal Assassin, I made a lot of the gradually increasing pace, which slowly mounts from a standing start to a frightening end. Assassin’s Quest is the opposite of that. The first half of the book continues at the same pace – if you put together second half of RA and the first half of AQ, you’d have a thoroughly riveting all-action adventure – but as it goes on it gets slower and slower and slower. I still enjoyed it, but it became heavy – I would read a chapter, enjoy it, but then feel that I needed a break. Hence why it has taken me so long to finish.

Assassin’s Quest is in some ways quite a disjointed book, easily split up into segments. There are approximately seven stages of varying lengths, which fall into two clear parts, although they aren’t labelled as such.

Part One is the mirror of the second half of Royal Assassin. Where that novel depicts the ‘teenager’ phase of Fitz’s maturation (not necessarily in age, but in role), with the lovelorn boy gradually confined, pressured, restrained and crushed by heavy weights, unable to escape either from his situation or his location, Part One of this novel relates what happens after the lid has been taken off the pressure. Predictably, it’s explosive. It is, as some have complained, not entirely wise – like many young men suddenly freed from the bonds of childhood, some of his goals and decisions are not perhaps the most sensible – but it’s enthusiastic, even exhilarating in its liberation, even as we simultaneously feel the great weariness within Fitz. There are three sections to this: the first, wrapping up the ramifications of the events at the end of the last novel; the second, showing new determination, and the third, a period of doubt and uncertainty. The first section is a little ungainly, but that couldn’t be helped; the second section is the most straightfoward adventure, and the third introduces more depth. All together, the first part is twisty and turny and full of event, but not without psychological acuity as well.

Part Two, as the momet of elation passes into a man’s dedication to a cause, his re-entering of the adult world, this time as an equal, is more problematic. And unfortunately it comes last, which doesn’t help the reputation of the book as a whole, as this is what they remember. In fact, the bit people complain about only lasts a few chapters – but it’s a few chapters of increasing sloth where we expect increasing speed.

That sloth is not without reason. The first section of this part, the bulk of it, is the procession to the ending, and because it is an emotional ending as well as a purely narrative ending – the novel remains primarily character-driven – it tries to impress the importance of the character development with weight and significance. It feels much like the way some pieces of music become slower and louder as they build to a solemn conclusion, or the way a river broadens and slows at nears the ocean. If it convinces you, it’s a moving and majestic – if it doesn’t, it’s an interminable travelogue filled up with boring character interaction. Indeed, the whole of the book has been accused of being a travelogue – I had no problem with this. Not much time is spent lingering on the surroundings, after all, it’s just a background for a character who keeps moving. Frankly, I’m surprised this is the part people have a problem with, rather than the previous novel, which was set almost entirely within a single building (and only about four rooms of that building). And then there’s the end. Or rather: then there’s three endings in a row. There’s the climax, the anticlimax, and the epilogue. (Not marked as such, but that’s clearly what it is). The climax (or climaxes, as there are actually two) work well enough, and the epilogue is sheer genius; and although I remembered the anticlimax as terrible, it’s actually not that bad. Basically, Hobb wanted to reach the epilogue, which requires eveything to be wrapped up, but the soul of the book is finished with the climax, so she has attempted to pass very rapidly from climax to epilogue with a whistlestop round-up of all the loose ends. I think that maybe because I was reading slowly this time it worked for me – if you go at full speed through all the slow weight of the climax and then suddenly drop off a cliff when you get to the anticlimax, it may well annoy you.

Hobb’s strengths are her plotting and her characters. She has a particular way of producing plots that are eventful and unexpected but that do not feel manipulative or artificial. In this sense, she is a true story-teller. She’s able to do this because her characters feel so natural (except Kettle. She may have hidden depths that help explain her, but for too much of the novel she’s a stock cliché), and because she allows them all the room they require. They are not railroaded into the plot, the plot evolves out of them. This authorial philosophy is seen most strongly in the character of Starling, who is, in the final analysis, entirely superfluous to the plot. There’s no reason for her to exist! But she does, and she’s a brilliant character, and she’s there because Hobb wanted to tell us about the character.

Of course, if you don’t care about characters per se and only want action, this renders the second half of the book rather dull. And it also makes the books very reliant on the likeability of their characters – particularly in the first half, where Fitz is more alone (both literally and metaphorically) than at any other time at the series. Now, I love Fitz, so for me this was a highlight, but those who find him whiny and stupid [patronising views, I think, from people who judge with the benefit of an omnipotent viewpoint, and who do not remember adolescence] are likely to groan when they find him alone and free to monologue internally. And it should also be said that those who [equally unfairly in my view] complain about how much suffering and physical damage Fitz has to go throw will also not be best pleased. There aren’t any prolonged and graphic torture scenes or anything here (and Hobb never feels gratuitous, even when discussing the worst things possible), but he does get put through the wringer. I think that’s entirely appropriate – Fitz isn’t a god, he doesn’t have superhuman powers of badassery, and his continued survival in dangerous situations is due to a combination of good luck and superior determination. Personally, I think that making the hero someone stubborn enough to not give in until he’s won, rather than making him someone so universally superb that he can win everything easily, a good decision. Others may disagree. He’s sort of an anti-Mary Sue: he’s set up with skills and abilities and knowledge in so many different areas, but as it turns out he’s only minimally or averagely competant in any of them, and generally hopelessly outmatched by his enemies.

Her characterisation, in my opinion, is superb; but some may not find it so. This, as I suggested in my other reviews, is because her characters are very natural – they are not all exceptional individuals, they are not strikingly good or strikingly bad or strikingly peculiar or even strikingly complex. They’re just people. This series, I think, is the epitome of the “gritty fantasy” that’s now become popular – but it feels distinct, because this doesn’t flaunt its violations of taboos or wave its ideology in your face. It’s very low-key and very matter-of-fact. Very human. In a way, that makes it even darker. A great example is the one I quoted above, where one character talks about being raped. The scene occurs in the dark, so that nobody can see them crying, but other than that it’s very straightforward. We don’t see graphic depictions of rapes and murders, we don’t see people wailing and screaming about how terrible the world is, we just get one person talking quietly about what has happened to them, and how it has changed them. It’s very brutalised – and very alienated. The book is full of moments of casual brutalisation. A character doesn’t just kill an enemy soldier and take their money – they take note of the personal items in the dead soldier’s purse and wonder about their lives. At one point Fitz kills somebody he recognises, and spends some time thinking sadly about shared memories from his younger years. It’s not – in my opinion – mawkish or sentimental, it’s just that the author is always at pains to remind us of the human suffering behind every action – even the actions of the heroes.  I think another reason people may not like Fitz is that he doesn’t slaughter his enemies with badass puns – he pities them. Humanity – albeit humanity in the most constrained and terrible of circumstances – is his strongest characteristic, and the core characteristic of the trilogy as a whole.

Indeed, the moral ambiguity in general is worth mentioning. Although we’re assured that the good guys are doing things that are For The Best, we almost have to take it on faith, because in this world The Best is still pretty awful – we realise this at the end in particular, when we zoom out to understand the underlying causes of the conflicts in the trilogy, and have a bittersweet comprehension of the possible consequences of “victory”. Indeed, hints that we should be somewhat uneasy crop up as early as the second book, where we see, amongst other things, the oppressive nature of the Outislander regime (that is, many ‘enemies’ are actually just as opposed to the enemy government as the good guys are), the racism of the ordinary people toward the Outislander refugees, and an uncomfortable number of references to seeking a “final solution” to the Outislander problem. Our real-world knowledge should warn us at this point that final solutions are never the end of the matter, and the determination to seek them can lead to unsavory consequences.

The naturalism that underpins her characterisation is also seen – tangentially, but symbolically enough that it’s worth mentioning – in the topic of knowledge. Fitz lives in a confusing world, and much of the third volume is discovery, and piecing together of facts. From an omniscient viewpoint, many of the conclusions of Fitz and others are wrong – but we don’t get that in the books. We get Fitz’s viewpoint. It’s only in the later trilogies that we actually get to see from another direction and work out how Fitz is wrong – in this trilogy, all we have is a slight confusion, the unease that he clearly hasn’t got eveything quite right. But where Fitz’s knowledge and intellect run out, so does the book – it shrugs its shoulders and does not explain. Again, I liked this. Others have found it frustrating.

I’ve been praising her a while, but Hobb is not without faults. The writing is the least awkward of any of the three books; and she also largely avoids the problems with recapping that cropped up in Royal Assassin. In part this may be because she has become a better writer – Assassin’s Quest, I think, is in all technical ways the best written of the three – but it is also partly because Royal Assassin  and Assasssin’s Quest form a clearly-linked duology, whereas Assassin’s Apprentice is largely an independent preliminary adventure designed to set up the pieces for that duology: instead of having to restart, as at the beginning of RA, here the action can flow directly onward (though with a few nods in the first chapter or so to remind readers of where we are). But she is still not perfect. The slightly-fauxdieval language is largely unobstrusive, but there are still uncertain moments, particularly the insistence on “did I know, I should not have”-type conditionals. The pacing is… understandable but still trying. Toward the end, some of the psychobabble becomes unconvincing; and having so much of import happening through the intangible sense of the Skill and the Wit makes it hard to keep describings things in a way that’s understandable without being repetitive. I’m not entirely convinced by some of the metaphysics, in terms of its continuity and coherency. And another problem is that Hobb seems to have hedged her bets too much, and tacked on a heroic framework that just doesn’t seem required or justified. The story works perfectly well on the level of personal and national crisis – and then she has to tack on the prophecies and the annointed heroes and the saving-the-world stuff, which doesn’t fit in, and doesn’t serve any real purpose. And the prophecies in particular add to that metaphysics worry I mentioned. They also are one way in which we can see constant retconning throughout the trilogy – some of it is actually explanation of things that were unknown earlier but make perfect sense in hindsight, but other bits feel like later additions. And Fitz is a little too perfect an observer to put us in full ‘unreliable narrator’ territory, so the moments that remind us that he ISN’T perfect are a little jarring. They also lead to “Fitz is an idiot” complaints, since the quick-witted audience will work some things out long before Fitz does.

That said, this is an impressively ambitious and original book, that tries to put gripping storytelling, imaginative worldbuilding, deeply personal and relatable and naturalistic and memorable characterisation and a profound and steadfast conscience (some may find it occasionally preachy at points, but I think this would be a very hostile reading; to me, the morality expressed both through the characters and through the events seems to evolve naturally, even inevitably, out of the characterisation and the world, and I never felt lectured at – which is actually somewhat rare for me) all together in a pleasantly entertaining, yet brutally dark and sophisticated (but never gratuitous or manipulative, or for that matter depressing, or unrelentingly bleak; Hobb doesn’t shy away from the darkness when it appears, but doesn’t go looking for it, and the darkness is thoroughly lightened by the moments of humour and humanity), mature and complex story, embedded in and offering glimpses of a larger and stranger world beyond the confines of the page.

It isn’t entirely succesful in any direction, and in it’s epic-storytelling-with-a-literary-tone, many may find it (as I think it is) neither sufficiently enjoyable nor sufficiently literary. Nonetheless, I personally find the attempt itself to be of value, and while it is neither the most thrilling trilogy nor the most incisive, I found it by and large highly readable, highly likeable, and highly memorable. It isn’t a perfect work by any means – but it is good solid adult (in the true sense of the word, neither prudish nor sensationalist) epic fantasy. I don’t think there’s a lot of that.

Adrenaline: 3/5. Some people may find it deathly dull, but I didn’t. The first half of the novel in particular I found very exciting. The second half is slower-paced, and my attention wandered at points, but although it took me a while to read the book I never took any length of time to read the chapters. Mostly, I’d say it was heavy rather than slow. So overall, I think an average score here is fair.

Emotion: 3/5. I mostly found it a surprisingly cool and distant book; but there are a few points where the emotion does hit home. The final page is one of them. In general the emotion tends to the bittersweet and the sorrowful.

Thought: 3/5. It’s still fairly straigtforward, but as we come toward the end the wider mysteries about the world, the moral complexities, and at some points simply the difficulty the main character has in grasping what exactly is going on, do start to keep the mind rather active. There are also some intriguing points here that will only be noticed and understood by readers of the later trilogies.

Craft: 4/5. By and large, I think it’s very well written (if you don’t mind the diction, but if you’re reading fantasy at all you probably don’t). It’s not perfect, though – the diction occasionally becomes objectionable even to me, and the pacing doesn’t do the book a service (though its hard to see how it could have been improved without totally rewriting the story).

Beauty: 3/5. Not a lot of infelicity to object to, really. And the bittersweet ending counterbalances any problems there may be.

Endearingness: 4/5. I like it a lot – but I did find it a tad tiring and slow in the second half. I loved the ending, though.

Originality: 4/5. The plain plot alone is pretty peculiar. Add in the psychological dimension, the strange multiple ending, and the genre-unusual moral and character complexity and the imperfect (not dishonest, but limited) narrator, and I’d say it’s definitely odder than average!

Overall: 5/7. I think it’s right up there with Royal Assassin in terms of quality, although this is certainly likely to be the more opinion-dividing of the two, as it’s considerably more thinky and less pacy (or at least it feels that way, since the pacing is reversed compared to the earlier book).