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A review by djaehnig
Private: Oz by James Patterson
2.0
ames Patterson's Private Down Under, the 8th in the Private series, is an exciting romp and is sure to please his followers. However, if you are expecting a thought-provoking book or one that even can be taken entirely seriously, this might be a pass. It kind of falls into the category of a beach book, entertaining but easily forgotten.
James Patterson has been churning out pulp fiction since 1976 and has to date written over 200 novels, sold over 300 million books and is valued at roughly $700 million. In short, James Patterson is an industry all on his own. His books are quick, to the point thrillers, and seldom leave an aftertaste or afterthought. Indeed it is even unclear how much writing Patterson does these days with all his co-authors. He may be more brand name then a writer at this point. One cannot argue with his popularity, though, and his influence on the thriller/detective genres will likely continue well into the future.
Co-written with Michael White, Private Down Under is another in that long line of no-calorie thrillers. The book centers on the creation of a new branch of Private, "the world's most exclusive detective agency," in Australia. On opening night of the new branch, a tortured and dying Asian man crashes into the party and dies amongst the cocktails. This death, of course, is their first case. Simultaneously, a down on her luck woman has a mental break and becomes a very active serial killer. Private takes on both cases, and we are off on an adventure.
The plotlines are pretty standard and don't represent much that we haven't seen before. Although with pulp detective novels, you learn to expect the familiar vice the original. Patterson fits that mold entirely. He attempts to liven up the plotlines with an Australian flavor, but it comes off oddly. With Patterson's ongoing machismo and poorly executed hard-boiled sensibilities, it feels like Crocodile Dundee meets Phillip Marlow on a B-movie budget.
Lines like "I jumped in my Maz" (meaning Mazarati) are the essence of fresh in Patterson's mind, but it just sounds silly. Kind of like many macho guys revving their engines at a red light or thinking the mere act of owning a Harley Davidson makes them a badass. It's just laughing out loud, stupid. There are many such gems throughout the book as the narration attempts, in the first person, to invoke Raymond Chandler.
So what do you do? You accept the material for what it is, silly throwaway entertainment, akin to a Jason Statham movie. You get on for the ride, and when you get off, you enjoyed the artificial thrills, hope you don't throw up and carry on.
Although I will say, a roller coaster ride would, in the end, probably be more memorable than this book.
Monkeyfist.life
James Patterson has been churning out pulp fiction since 1976 and has to date written over 200 novels, sold over 300 million books and is valued at roughly $700 million. In short, James Patterson is an industry all on his own. His books are quick, to the point thrillers, and seldom leave an aftertaste or afterthought. Indeed it is even unclear how much writing Patterson does these days with all his co-authors. He may be more brand name then a writer at this point. One cannot argue with his popularity, though, and his influence on the thriller/detective genres will likely continue well into the future.
Co-written with Michael White, Private Down Under is another in that long line of no-calorie thrillers. The book centers on the creation of a new branch of Private, "the world's most exclusive detective agency," in Australia. On opening night of the new branch, a tortured and dying Asian man crashes into the party and dies amongst the cocktails. This death, of course, is their first case. Simultaneously, a down on her luck woman has a mental break and becomes a very active serial killer. Private takes on both cases, and we are off on an adventure.
The plotlines are pretty standard and don't represent much that we haven't seen before. Although with pulp detective novels, you learn to expect the familiar vice the original. Patterson fits that mold entirely. He attempts to liven up the plotlines with an Australian flavor, but it comes off oddly. With Patterson's ongoing machismo and poorly executed hard-boiled sensibilities, it feels like Crocodile Dundee meets Phillip Marlow on a B-movie budget.
Lines like "I jumped in my Maz" (meaning Mazarati) are the essence of fresh in Patterson's mind, but it just sounds silly. Kind of like many macho guys revving their engines at a red light or thinking the mere act of owning a Harley Davidson makes them a badass. It's just laughing out loud, stupid. There are many such gems throughout the book as the narration attempts, in the first person, to invoke Raymond Chandler.
So what do you do? You accept the material for what it is, silly throwaway entertainment, akin to a Jason Statham movie. You get on for the ride, and when you get off, you enjoyed the artificial thrills, hope you don't throw up and carry on.
Although I will say, a roller coaster ride would, in the end, probably be more memorable than this book.
Monkeyfist.life