Offensive racist stereotyping, rampant sexism, an abundance of rape, clichéd and disjointed storytelling and an unwieldy cast of homogenous characters of which to keep track – what’s not to love about this 1940s noir in graphic novel form?
Oliver’s illustrations are lovely, except for the ginger-haired child with what I can only describe as a pink phallic object on his forehead which appears in every depiction of him. What the hell is it? Perhaps I should just say what we’re all thinking – dickhead. It’s a perfect representation, no? Did the editor not notice this . . . appendage before printing? I mean, it’s kind of obvious. Is it some sort of unique Australian thing of which I’m unaware?
Surprisingly Miss Marple isn’t the protagonist, instead it’s a self-deprecating vicar with a dry sense of humour in his middle years who married in haste to his young wife and is repenting at leisure. He proposed to her after knowing her a day. A day! He’s so humble he claims his own sermons are dull.
‘The sneeze was not a usual kind of sneeze. It was, I presume, a special murderer’s sneeze.’
Looks at title.
Hannibal, is that you?
After reading 11 chapters I decided to put this down and return it to the library. Not because it was terrible – the writing hooked me from the start, and the characterization was detailed, delivered via “show” rather than “tell”, but it was obvious to me that I was going to be strung along.
Clearly this is a mystery and not paranormal, as advertised. From Armstrong’s last few novels, I knew reading the whole would provide few answers to the questions and mysteries posed in the opening chapters. Frustration would only sour my view, so I chose not to continue.