“Wolf by Wolf”, by Ryan Graudin

 

379 pages, Little, Brown, ISBN-13: 978-0316405089

My boss at the Fraser Public Library told me all about Wolf by Wolf by Ryan Graudin – leaving out the fact that it was written with tweens in mind. Anyway…so it is an alternate 1956 in which the Axis powers of the Third Reich and Imperial Japan have won World War II and rule the world between them, with America an isolationist outpost. Every year the victorious powers host the Axis Tour, an annual motorcycle race across their conjoined continents to commemorate their triumph. The grand prize is a personal audience with the now-reclusive Führer at the Victor’s Ball in Tokyo. This is important to Yael (that’s Yah-ell), a member of the Resistance, former death camp prisoner and survivor of painful human experimentation which gave her the power to skin-shift and take on a different face and form almost at will. This year her mission is to impersonate last year’s only female winner of the race, Adele Wolfe, so that she may win the Tour and get close to Hitler – and assassinate him in public before the eyes of the world.

I have been on something of an Axis-Win-It-All-Alternative-History kick for a couple of months now, starting with reviewing Fatherland by Robert Harris on January 3^rd, 2024, continuing with watching “The Man in the High Castle” miniseries on Amazon Prime and now with Wolf by Wolf, all totally by accident, too. I swear. No really. So Wolf by Wolf just kind of continues the trend. The premise is interesting and the character of Yael, complete with superpowers, put an interesting twist on the whole Nazis Won It All narrative. And her coping with all of those people who know the real Adele – including Adele’s brother, Felix – added tension and brought forth Yael’s characteristics. Unfortunately, she is the only really developed character in the book, as brother Felix and erstwhile suitor/rival Luka are cardboard cutouts constantly trying to get close to “Adele” while also trying to control her. All the other characters are just background decoration who add nothing to the tale. And a little more insight into this alternative timeline would have been nice.

There were some surprising moments, as an event occurs at about midpoint during the race that I didn’t see coming; this was a negative and a positive, I thought, as it disrupted the flow of the narrative (and the race) while also giving a certain insight into this nightmare, Nazi-run world. And the ending was rather a surprise, as well, and was not typical of works of this sort. Trying not to spoil anything for you, Dear Reader, only trying to describe some strong-and-weak points in a book that was outside of my comfort zone. So Wolf by Wolf was okay and I don’t regret reading it; perhaps if I was in the target demographic I’d get more out of it, but it is what it is. There is a second book in the series that I think I’ll tackle, because why not? I got them from the Shelby Public library for $1.50 for the pair, so might as well get my modest cost out of them.

“Stonewall in the Valley: Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson’s Shenandoah Valley Campaign Spring 1862”, by Robert G. Tanner

 

436 pages, Doubleday, ISBN-13: 978-0385121484

Stonewall in the Valley: Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson’s Shenandoah Valley Campaign Spring 1862 by Robert G. Tanner was one of my Father’s books, bought at the height of his Civil War Mania in the 80s and 90s and read by him in preparation for one of our Civil War vacations that we took every summer. What it recounts is the Shenandoah Valley Campaign, conducted by Jackson from February to June, 1862, during the American Civil War, at the end of which Jackson’s reputation as a military genius would be cemented by both sides. Fighting six relatively small battles – Kernstown, McDowell, Front Royal, Winchester, Cross Keys and Port Republic – Jackson managed to defeat Union generals Nathaniel P. Banks, Irvin McDowell, John C. Frémont, James Shields, Robert H. Milroy and Robert C. Schenck.

Jackson managed to tie down Union forces in the Valley that could have been thrown against the Confederate capitol of Richmond, Virginia; and Jackson was in no way blind to the importance of his actions, stating that “If the Valley is lost, Virginia is lost” and, thus, the War. Everything relating to Jackson and the Campaign can be found in abundant detail and exhaustive documentation, including several appendices that discuss the orders on various critical days and how they were (or were not) interpreted, understood, carried out completely, partially, or not at all; the fog of war laid bare. All one associates with Jackson – the bravado, the daring, the Foot Cavalry, all of it – was earned over the course of these four brief months, and as Tanner shows, it was a well-earned and hard-fought reputation.

Well, mostly; for in spite of Jackson’s obvious drive and brilliance, the man had his flaws as a commander. First and foremost were the expectations placed and his soldiers and himself, which were often outrageously high if not downright ridiculous; the forces of the Valley District of the Department of Northern Virginia were fortunate indeed to escape relatively intact on several occasions, all because of the excessive demands placed upon it by Jackson, with Port Republic being the prime example. Maybe this insane audacity was necessary when fighting forces that, were they ever to combine, would have outnumbered his own 4-to-1. But it all caught up to them in the end as Jackson and his forces, recalled by Lee during McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign, were all but asleep during the battles, worn out no doubt by the constant fighting and marching.

Besides its strategic success, the Valley Campaign provided a much-needed boost to Confederate morale after a spring season of defeats, which made Jackson’s death at Chancellorsville all the more devastating to the South and made defeat all but inevitable. Stonewall in the Valley deserves its reputation as a modern-day classic of the Civil War, Stonewall Jackson and the price of audacity in war: fame, immortality, exhaustion, and the weight of expectations.

“American Comics: A History”, by Jeremy Dauber

 

592 pages, W. W. Norton & Company, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0393635607

Everything I know about comic books I learned through osmosis from my older brother, Tom. He was the true collector, and while such mainstream titles – like X-Men – made it into his collection, he seemed to favor the more independent titles, like Alien Legion, published by Epic Comics (an imprint of Marvel). I tried my hand at comics for a time, reading every issue of House of Mystery I could get my hands on (especially when they ran the I…Vampire recurring storyline), getting in on the ground floor with the resurrected Firestorm in 1982, along with such New Universe titles as Star Brand in 1986 (to say nothing of my beloved Groo the Wander). But all for naught, as I was well and truly under the sway of history, and these fictional beings couldn’t match the exploits of men (it was mostly men) who really lived and shaped their worlds.

So with all that said, it may make you wonder why I read American Comics: A History by Jeremy Dauber, seeing as I was a tangential fan of the medium, at best. Well, it was because I was ignorant of so much of what has occurred surrounding this most American of mediums, and decided to cure this ignorance the best way I know how. American Comics is exhaustive in its approach, starting with the birth of newspaper comics in the late 19^th Century and continuing on through to the present day, when these mainstays of every geek’s life (he said with nothin’ but love) conquered the movies and popular culture. While the big names everyone has heard of are represented, Dauber does justice to the underground comics of the 60s and 70s, as well as those publications attached to comics, like MAD Magazine and its imitators.

Dauber’s work is as thorough and comprehensive as one could hope for, and every character this comic book noob could imagine makes an appearance at some point; just as importantly, though, I learned about their creators, the often unheralded writers and artists (most of whom I’d never heard of) were brought forth and offered a bow. The big names are here, like Steve Ditko, Jerry Siegel, Stan Lee, Will Eisner and so many others besides, but the more obscure creators are given their due, as well. While some may kvetch that these lesser-known lights shouldn’t be given so much page space relative to their better-known colleagues, Dauber seemed intent on giving as complete a history of this American art form as possible, even if the reader hadn’t heard of whomever was under discussion.

Eclectic and incomplete, I’m sure, as I don’t think that Dauber spoke to a single comic-geek for a fan’s-eye-view of the medium, or any comic book store owners for any behind-the-scenes tales of selling these things. And when he speaks of so-called “toxic fandom” he really goes off the rails, availing himself of all the anecdotal evidence at his fingertips and assigning bad-faith motivations to fans who have reacted badly to the poor storytelling that is presented solely for the sake of achieving so-called “diversity”. Really, now, to pretend that this push for inclusion at all costs – while simultaneously cheering it on even as it subverts good storytelling for politics – hasn’t created a crisis in the industry is to ignore reality. And how in the hell do you write a book about comics with absolutely no pictures?

But, anyway…American Comics: A History did its job in informing me of what I didn’t know. Dauber doesn’t really bring anything new to the table that hasn’t been said before elsewhere, but he does provide a simple, concise history of this medium that conquered American culture and, thus, the world.

“Drive-Thru Dreams: A Journey Through the Heart of America’s Fast-Food Kingdom”, by Adam Chandler

288 pages, Flatiron Books, ISBN-13: 978-1250090720

I walk. A lot. It’s really the only exercise I get. I’ve walked at every job I ever had, doing lap after lap around the joint until I wore paths in the carpet. Most of my employers were cool with it – or at any rate didn’t complain about it – while others…weren’t. Ah, screw ‘em. I even walk when I’m not working, like when I’m at the library reading, or in the computer lab, and get up every half-hour (because that’s as long as I can sit still) and take a lap – which is when I saw Drive-Thru Dreams: A Journey Through the Heart of America's Fast-Food Kingdom by Adam Chandler and checked it out then and there. Because why not? Chandler’s book explores how modern American dining has changed over the course of the 20^th Century. While most pundits see fast food in only a negative light, Chandler uncovers the whole story by showing how fast food chains impacted Americans, both negatively and, yes, positively.

Personally, McDonald’s was THE fast food go-to joint. Saturdays my Dad would take Mom out for a well-deserved dinner at whatever place she chose; my brother Jonathan and I were basically left alone to watch TV (especially Airwolf) and scarf down our McDonald’s Happy Meals. On the many interstate vacations we went on we also inevitably had lunch at McDonald’s because it was cheap and reliable (dinner was something else; we always tried a local joint to add variety to our lives). Was all of this fast food good for me? Nope. But that’s the point of a guilty pleasure, isn’t it? If you want to eat healthy you don’t eat fast food; if you want to enjoy life a little you do. And Chandler relates these basic facts as he recounts the history of America’s greatest fast food chains and how fast food shaped America and how America shaped fast food, for fast food history is unquestionably American history, for good and for ill.

Chandler does a great job in showing how the Greatest Generation provided the perfect market for the explosive growth of seemingly every small-town burger joint into a much larger atmosphere which, when combined with a new advertising mindset, allowed them to become national icons – well, some of them at any rate, for with every international success there were a dozen failures (I still miss the Burger Chef that graced the strip mall opposite my childhood subdivision). If I had a complaint then it’s the double crutches of McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken that he leans on, to the detriment of other fast food chains. These other chains are discussed – White Castle, Hardees, Taco Bell and others, besides – but they all seem to come back to Mickey D’s and KFC at the cost of explaining how food tastes were changing overall. And the snide political commentary at times was as out of place as an onion ring in my large fries.

But anyway – Drive-Thru Dreams was an informative look at an often misunderstood and much maligned market whose greatest crime is giving the public what it wants. While I think the book would have been better had it been more linear, instead of bouncing about from one corporation to the next, what Chandler makes clear is that fast food did not originate from a single place but was created throughout the country, virtually at the same time. And over time, with the interstate highways connecting the country, fast food, in a way, connected us all.

“The Three Locks”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

432 pages, Collins Crime Club, ISBN-13: 978-0008380830

The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird is the fourth of her Sherlock Holmes adventures, the others being Art in the Blood (reviewed on September 18^th, 2024), Unquiet Spirits (reviewed on May 9^th, 2025) and The Devil’s Due (reviewed on July 20^th, 2026); The Three Locks just may be the best of her interpretations thus far. The locks of the title refer to three entirely different contraptions: a special box sent to Watson by his just-passed aunt which his long-dead mother meant for him to have; the contraptions invented by a husband-and-wife team of Italian magicians; and the river lock located on the River Cam. All three are connected in some fashion not obvious to the average person, but Sherlock Holmes is anything but average. What follows is an engrossing tale in which these riddles wrapped in mysteries inside of enigmas come to a head in true Conan Doyle fashion. As with the other books MacBird has written, her take on Holmes and Watson (and the underappreciated Mrs. Hudson) have an authentic feel that would make Conan Doyle proud. The atmosphere of and characterizations all have the true to life vibe of Victorian England.

MacBird is an excellent writer who employs good turns of phrase (turns of phrases?), and this book is full of sentences that causes one to chuckle like a major general as she channels Conan Doyle to display Holmes often overlooked wit; this undercurrent of humor is all the more enjoyable for not trying too hard, MacBird doesn’t force it on her reader but allows it to happen on its own. Holmes and Watson as characters are developed beyond simply describing their parts in the plot, as our author obviously is a fan of this most famous of detectives (and Watson). Speaking of which, Watson is a well-developed character on his own and plays a more active role than just being the most famous sidekick in literature; his knowledge and skills are called upon by Holmes to assist in the solving these crimes, and the insight MacBird gives on his past fleshes him out in ways his creator never really managed to do. The tragedy of his childhood, while perhaps not canon, makes for an interesting development and explains to a great deal just why John became a doctor. Really, MacBird does Watson justice.

There are several detailed descriptions of characters and settings, giving the entire book a virtual cinematic feel and scope, with even minor characters given their due. But it is Holmes and his reliance on Watson – an often overlooked aspect of the character, if I may be so bold – that is front and center. Their voices, characters and settings, as well as Holmes’ penetrating observations and brilliant deductions, will be instantly recognizable by anyone familiar with the classic Conan Doyle cases that “Watson” shared with the world decades ago. As I’ve said before, these new books are so unquestionably authentic that the most of knowledgeable and devoted Sherlockians would be excused for thinking that Bonnie MacBird’s conceit is real: that these stories were in fact written by Dr. John Watson and she is merely the transcriber, as was her predecessor, Arthur Conan Doyle. So here’s to hoping the MacBird finds more of these long-lost tales of Victorian daring-do and shares them with us jaded moderns; God knows we could all use some old-fashioned toxic men to ride in and save the day.

“The Daughter of Time”, by Josephine Tey

 

206 pages, Touchstone, ISBN-13: 978-0684803869

I said back on July 13^th, 2016, in my review of Richard III: England’s Black Legend by Desmond Seward that “what the JFK assassination is to Americans, the murder of the Princes in the Tower is to the English”; that is, a perennial conspiracy surrounding a supposed unsolved crime which is nothing of the sort – to wit, Richard III had his nephews King Edward V and Richard Duke of York murdered (oh, and Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated JFK and acted alone, too).

But the credulous must be appeased, and so theses fictions march on. In 1951 Josephine Tey (that would be Elizabeth MacKintosh to you and me) put her hand to this tale with The Daughter of Time, in which her character, Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant, in hospital on leave nursing a broken leg, investigates the murder of the Princes in the Tower (the title comes from Sir Francis Bacon: “Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority”).

The topic has been popular for some six centuries, and this book no less so: the British Crime Writers’ Association named it number one in The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time in 1990, while the Mystery Writers of America named it number four in The Top 100 Mystery Novels of All Time in 1995. Clearly, something is afoot for a book on a controversial subject to be so honored, and so let’s you and I figure out just why that is, shall we?

The Daughter of Time finds the aforementioned Inspector Grant researching an historical mystery at the suggestion of his actress friend, Marta Hallard, after she brings him some pictures of historical characters, one of them being Richard III of black fame. Grant prides himself on being able to read a person’s character from his appearance, and Richard seems to him a gentle, kind and wise man, incapable of the heinous acts set at his door. And so the game is afoot.

Whether Tey took her own premise seriously or not I cannot say; what I can declare is that it without question deserves inclusion The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time (at number 1 or 4, whatever you like). It is taut and well-thought-out, with each premise and theory that Grant and his compadres investigate both fascinating and plausible. Whether or not you accept her conclusion (I don’t), it is an excellent mystery and a rollicking good read, to boot.

Tey was not the only one who believed Richard innocent, and throughout the 450+ years since Richard lived and died there have been loyal groups in Britain who have continued to believe that he has been falsely maligned and to work to rehabilitate his reputation. Tey’s book influenced that movement and convinced many to join it, such has been the far-reaching influence of this unique (fictional) murder mystery.

This a work of fiction, of course, and The Daughter of Time offered a fascinating journey through English history while giving a lesson in high-minded obsession. Grant becomes thoroughly convinced of the falsity of the charge against the accused and is determined to prove him innocent and bring the guilty to justice (it is, after all, what he does). That he is misguided is easy to forget as one reads this near-perfect mystery.

“Call It Sleep”, by Henry Roth

 

599 pages, Robert O. Ballou, ISBN-13: 978-224405329206

Just when in the hell did I read Call It Sleep by Henry Roth? I know I didn’t read it for personal growth or knowledge or anything like that. So I must have done so for a class, somewhere. But what class? Would it have been in Junior High? High School? Some college course, lost to the mists of history? Hmmmmm…anyway, I dunno. But read it I did, and here is my penetrating, insightful review. Call It Sleep was all but ignored for thirty-odd years when originally published in 1934, but when literary critic Irving Howe reviewed it in The New York Times Book Review in 1964 it was reborn and hailed as a modern American classic. So there’s that. In a nutshell, it is about 6-year-old David Schearl, a “dangerously imaginative” Jewish boy growing up in the immigrant ghetto of New York’s Lower East Side in the early 20^th Century and his coming to terms with conflicting forces as he tries to forge his own identity.

In many ways, Call It Sleep is a typical coming-of-age story, albeit the character is much younger than is typical of this type of tale; indeed, there’s really nothing overly special about his life until he meets and befriends Leo, a Gentile – which is perhaps the point, for David’s experiences mirror those of his fellow Americans, Jew or Gentile. But I can see why, when this book was published, it was scandalous and shunned by the Respectable. One can find everything from suggestions of sex between children to foulmouthed Irish gashouse workers, and there’s quite a bit in between the two. But it’s a hard book to read because of all of the hardships, heartbreaks and disturbing incidents, one after another, that David and his family must endure. I’m sure all of these dark developments did nothing to boost the Golden Streets narrative favored by many an American then, and I can’t imagine immigrants wanting to read about the suffering they were experiencing.

Also, Roth was serious about capturing the dialect of his various urban characters, and I do mean the dialect, not just the flavor of their speech. Need examples? Okay: “My ticher calls id Xmas, bod de kids call id Chrizmas. I’ds a goyish holiday anyways. Wunst I hanged up a stockin’ in Brooklyn. Bod mine fodder pud in a eggshells wid terlit paper an’ a piece f'om an ol’ kendle. So he leffed w’en he seen me. Id ain’ no Sendy Klaws, didja know?” Or: “Beshnas mos hamelech Uziyahu vawere es adonoi yoshav al kesai rum venesaw, vshulav malaiim es hahahol. Serafim omdim memal lo shash kanowfayim, sash kanowfayim lawehhad, beshtayim yahase fanav uvishtayim yahase raglov uvishtayim yofaif”. And: “If I blyibm duh ywully ylyod, den he wonthye hilyt me so moyuch, myaytlybe”. Even reading those bits out loud – like I did with Margaret Mitchell’s similar attempt to recreate black speech in Gone With the Wind – didn’t help very much.

While at times a slog, Call It Sleep tells a tale that rings true for many an immigrant to the New World, whether they came over on the Mayflower or any number of steamships decades afterwards. Through the use of intricate analysis of David’s thoughts, Roth portrayed those innate emotions that we have all experienced and, from time to time, continue to experience, regardless of who we are or where we came from.

“The Dovekeepers”, by Alice Hoffman

 

 

528 pages, Scribner, ISBN-13: 978-1451617481

 

The Dovekeepers is the twenty-eighth novel by Alice Hoffman and is set around 70 AD after the Roman conquest of Judea and the fall of Jerusalem. Taking place over four years, it centers on the lives of four women who make their way to the Herodian stronghold of Masada and the families of several other survivors, especially the zealots who could rightly be held responsible for the whole thing (although the Romans needed precious little excuse for conquest).

• Yael, is treated like a dog by her father the assassin because her mother died giving birth to her, leaving her to maneuver life almost in a vacuum
• Revka, who could only stand by and watch helplessly as Roman deserters brutally raped and murdered her daughter, only to enact her revenge
• Aziza, who was raised as a boy and fought as a warrior by her stepfather, two facts that leave her adrift and without a place in the world
• Shirah, reputed to be a witch who worships Ashtoreth and has powers others believe in more than she does herself, and is the mother of Aziza

These four very different women are the Dovekeepers, whose work involves collecting these bird’s eggs for food and their droppings for fertilizer. The work is humble and dirty but, amid the filth and noise of the birdhouse, the women grow close, their lives becoming inextricably bound together as they inexorably change and the Romans come ever closer, all against the backdrop of the destruction of the world of these ancient Jews.

I was taken in by The Dovekeepers from the first word; Hoffman is a master storyteller who creates characters of flesh and blood and behave as they will in the situations she puts them in. Not once did I think that Yael, Revka, Aziza or Shirah did this act or spoke those words merely because that is what the plot called for. They behaved exactly as you would expect them to, knowing what you know about them. Their actions drive the story from one tragedy to the next, and the fact that you become so caught up in the lives of these women long gone speaks to the narrative power of the author. You truly feel for Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah – and for those who come into their orbit – and feel their every emotion as if it were your own. Being a little familiar with the Siege of Masada, I knew that the ultimate fates of most of these women would not be pleasant, and as I approached the end of the book, I became increasingly concerned for the well-being of them all.

Another strength of The Dovekeepers is how well Hoffman depicts the First Century AD in all of its dusty glory. This world in which the Romans sought to subjugate everything in their path merely for the sake of subjugation is as real within these pages as the world outside your door. From the fall of Jerusalem, to the deserts our protagonists wander through, to the relative paradise of Masada are all described in detail and brought forth once more. As much as her characterizations, the backdrop against which our heroines lived is as important to the story as they are, and this whole sun-drenched and sand-blasted place is made real once more by Hoffman. Between our four protagonists and everyone they encounter to the land they encounter them in, The Dovekeepers is that rare feat of historical fiction that is as informs like a textbook as it entertains like a novel. I will certainly miss Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah.

“The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London”, by D. J. Taylor

 

336 pages, Pegasus Books, ISBN-13: 978-1643133157

Sonia Brownell, Lys Lubbock, Janetta Parladé and Barbara Skelton are amongst only a few of the subjects of D. J. Taylor’s The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London. These swinging dames cut a swath through English literary and artistic life, with World War II barely slowing them down. All found themselves drawn into the orbit of Cyril Connolly (the most unlikely ladies’ man imaginable) and his literary magazine Horizon. Three of them had affairs with Lucian Freud, one of them married George Orwell while another became the mistress of the King of Egypt. No shrinking violets here, make no mistake. Equally at home in Bloomsbury and SoHo (or Cairo, for that matter), along with the couture studios of Schiaparelli and Hartnell, these “Lost Girls” would inspire the work of Nancy Mitford, George Orwell, Anthony Powell and Evelyn Waugh, and afford the missing link between the Lost Generation and Bright Young Things and the cultural revolution of the damnable 60s. And if you’re like me, you never even heard of any of them.

And there’s a reason for that. Taylor describes these women as chic, glamorous and bohemian and, for the most part, all of that is true. But as you read on you discover that these trailblazing women were actually rather conventional, seeking domesticity, albeit on their terms. They fell into and out of relationships, fought with their lovers, had abortions, married unsuitable men who cheated on them, divorced and tried again. Toward the end of their lives, some lived in penury, succumbed to alcoholism or died friendless. Not a hell of a lot to celebrate, one would argue. When I got this book, I somehow imagined that these Lost Girls were part of a wider movement in which women expanded their opportunities during an unprecedented catastrophe – but mostly, it was a record of an elite set of women and the clothes they wore, parties they attended and gossip they spread. Even though these Lost Girls hovered ‘round and worked with a bevy of famous literary people, they seemed more focused on status and fame, and snagging a rich husband. How very pedestrian.

All were comely, their beauty noted upon by critics in that era, and they tended to have a middle-to-upper middle-class upbringing in which they frequently became estranged from at least one of their parents. They often remembered their school years less than favorably, were members of the first generation of women to become independent in their 20s and take jobs that involved war effort work or in offices. According to Peter Quinnell, a staffer at Horizon, the Lost Girls seemed to carry a “sense of personal trauma” with them, and others noted their “air of waywardness and loneliness”, but also called them “courageous”. Another similarity was their relationship at different times with Cyril Connolly, who acted as the hub of the literary world in London then (yet another was that they all seemed to place a high premium on not being “boring”). Taylor states that “any attempt to label them ought to be resisted”, but throughout the book, he employs the “Lost Girl” label to explain their lives.

“The Devil’s Due”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

384 pages, HarperCollins, ISBN-13: 978-0008348106

Bonnie MacBird’s The Devil’s Due is her third interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s immortal detective, and just like in her two previous outings, she succeeds in breathing new life into this most famous of sleuths. Under her keyboard, Holmes and Watson are believably drawn, so much so that one would like to believe the conceit of the author that she did not write this tale but that it was gifted to her by person or persons unknown and that the true author is in fact Dr. John Watson, just like Conan Doyle always maintained. Her Holmes/Watson dynamic is believable, so much so that the whole Watson-One-Step-Behind-Holmes thing comes across as natural rather than tedious (and which becomes necessary in the denouement). The Devil’s Due circles around the narratives of an alphabetical killer of philanthropists with dark secrets, a new Chief Commissioner of police and budding fascist, French terrorists, and a girl’s school that is more than it seems. Through it all Holmes, naturally, sticks to his guns and follows the clues where they lead him though the Heavens fall, Watson, naturally, staying doggedly alongside him.

The Devil’s Due moves along at a brisk pass and never flags due to overwrought dialog or melodrama, two things Holmes would never countenance. MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. The story also contains an eclectic mix of eccentric characters that always populate a Sherlock Holmes mystery, whether they be an illiterate street urchin-come-spy or needy society widow. With that being said, a little more development of these characters would have served the story better, considering the roles that some of them end up playing by the conclusion. And MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. Also, the book is freighted with a lot hyperventilating about modern problems, especially immigrants and the prejudices around them; while this was indeed an issue at the time, MacBird seemed to come at the issue with a modern sensibility that was grating and, worse, inaccurate.

But it is the dialogue MacBird employs that is the highlight of not only The Devil’s Due, but of all of her other Holmes books, as well. The Watsoncentric ambiance of her books is true to Conan Doyle and adds a kind of credibility and continuity to all of the works. For all of those Sherlockians the world over for whom the original run of stories is simply not enough, MacBird has done a masterful imitation of the master’s voice and style nicely, and this book provides true satisfaction to any fan of the Baker Street fiddler. The mysteries are good, the characters, old and new, are excellent and the experience is uplifting. While having Holmes being (literally) demonized in the London press didn’t pass the London fog smell test, and having Holmes be entirely too deferential to some of the other main personages is out of character for this genius who can’t help but look down on those not as brilliant as he (which is most of humanity), The Devil’s Due still made me long for yet more tales from MacBird; as a true heir to Conan Doyle she has no competitor, and one can only hope for yet more Holmes stories in the very near future.

“The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage”, by Nick de Semlyen

 

352 pages, Crown, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0593238806

While I read for any number of reasons, it is knowledge and self-improvement that tops my list – but man cannot live on salad alone, or steak, or poultry and so on; now and again a slice of cheesecake or dish of ice cream is called for. So when I saw The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage by Nick de Semlyen at the Clinton-Macomb Public Library I thought “Ah, what the hell. Ice Cream is back on the menu”. Semlyen’s book is rather like Caseen Gaines’ We Don’t Need Roads: The Making of the Back to the Future Trilogy (reviewed on March 19^th, 2024), in that neither is very challenging or enlightening; many of the tales he tells are familiar and are simply rehashed in this volume. Indeed, while de Semlyen does better than Gaines by in fact interviewing the subjects of this book, the vast majority of those interviews were cribbed from earlier sources, and so The Last Action Heroes resembles a movie montage in which our Hero becomes stronger and faster after five minutes of training.

But so what. De Semlyen has written a memoir of my youth when giants walked the earth, movies were entertaining and an expansive VHS collection was a status symbol. All of these titans of the multiplex are here, along with other, less statuesque stars. Chuck Norris. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sylvester Stallone. Bruce Willis. Jackie Chan. Jean-Claude Van Damme. Steven Seagal. Dolph Lundgren. One could argue that not all of these names belong, but one cannot argue that each left an impact on popular culture – even if only as punchlines. This testosterone and patriotic fueled era of American movies (not Chan) was a once-a-millennium phenomenon, never to be repeated, and pity the poor fools of later generations who missed out on all of the fun. To be alive and a movie fan at this time meant to be spoiled for choice as to what movie to see every week, even if you were young and broke (like me) and had to wait for HBO to broadcast it or Blockbuster to rent it to you. You know: The Good Old Days.

And we learn a thing or two about these muscle-bound celluloid gods. Chuck Norris was actually a non-violent Christian who would rather talk than fight. Arnold Schwarzenegger is as driven as you have heard with a never-say-die attitude and an immigrant’s faith in America. Sylvester Stallone is as resilient as Rocky (or Rambo) who never lets a bomb get him down. Bruce Willis was as ordinary as you would think who seemed just happy to be mentioned in the same breath as these others. Jackie Chan was an international star who struggled to make it in America but whose stunt innovations influenced others well outside of China. Jean-Claude Van Damme, for all his ridiculousness, is an unfiltered quote-machine who has struggled with his demons and seemingly come out on top. Steven Seagal is truly the humorless asshole he comes across as and one wonders how more successful he’d be with a little self-awareness. Dolph Lundgren is fluent in five languages and was on his way to becoming a scientist before Stallone discovered him.

The Last Action Heroes was a fun read and allowed me the pleasure of reliving my youth when popular culture sought to entertain and not indoctrinate, when movies could be unabashedly patriotic and movie stars were bigger-than-life personalities for all the right reasons.

“Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War”, by Terry Brighton

 

480 pages, Crown, ISBN-13: 978-0307461551

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War by Terry Brighton is a kind of broad, triple biography of perhaps the greatest American, British and German generals of World War II (let the arguments begin on that declaration). The book is broadly chronological as it follows its three subjects while they maneuver through their relative country’s military structures and serve the same in peace and war. As is shown, Patton, Montgomery and Rommel served three quite different nations with quite different military establishments and quite different ways of shimmying up the greasy pole of promotion. And I have to say that Brighton, a British military historian, does not shirk his duty in showing us his subjects, warts and all.

While many historians have tried to explain away Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel’s fascination with and support for Hitler, Brighton shows that the Generalfeldmarschall supported his Führer up to the final moments of his life. His complete acceptance of the Nazi program and belief system (even though he never joined the actual party) is well laid out, and there can be no doubt that he was a fervent supporter of the same and was not just being a “good German soldier” who did not have all of the facts. While no doubt a military genius who did the best he could with his limited resources, Rommel made his share of blunders, although Brighton shows the Desert Fox continuously learning from his mistakes. One can only thank whomever that Nazi Germany never got its act together and fully supplied Rommel with whatever he needed.

George Smith Patton Jr. was beyond just bombastic and profane, as his well-known episodes of losing control and slapping soldiers in hospitals for being cowards are described. Without question the most privileged of the three, Patton had his share of obstacles to overcome, not least of which was dyslexia. And his love affair with the M4 Sherman medium tank over the M26 Pershing heavy tank is inexcusable. But as a tank commander his only equal was Rommel or, more controversy perhaps, Guderian, the true inventor of the Blitzkrieg. As an armor strategist with a clear-eyed view of what the tank could (and couldn’t) do, and what the Allies needed to do to win the war, Patton was brilliant, forceful and without remorse. One can see why Eisenhower tolerated him as he did and why the Germans were right to count him as Enemy Number One.

Surprisingly, coming from a British author, Bernard Law Montgomery comes across as the worst of the bunch, a general who managed to win one battle in one setting and then applied that same philosophy the rest of the way, whether or not such tactics fit the situation at hand. When he does not get the resources he wants, or is denied the command he seeks, he purposely slows his progress down and causes numerous casualties to his fellow commanders as a way of showing that he should have been given this support or command all along. How many thousands of unnecessary casualties were caused by this self-absorption? How long was the war extended by this prima donna? Perversely, Montgomery was the most successful of the three post-war, only because he was the only one to survive the hostilities.

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel illustrates all of this and shows how and why these gifted if difficult leaders of men succeeded and failed, and all without any obvious prejudice. Would that all histories were this enlightening.

“Vengeful”, by V. E. Schwab

 

480 pages, Tor Books, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0765387523

Vengeful by V. E. Schwab is the second in her “Villains” series and the sequel to Vicious (reviewed on January 26^th, 2026); it is also the second V. E. Schwab we reviewed for the Fraser Public Library Books on Tap book club – after my original choice, the brilliant The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective by Kate Summerscale (reviewed on April 8^th, 2021) was nixed by my crew. Harumph. Anyway, in short, Vengeful continues the tale of Victor Vale and his ragtag gang of EOs – short for ExtraOrdinaries…that is, beings with superpowers – as they attempt to carve out a place for themselves in an ever-more-dangerous world. Oh, Eli Ever is still about, imprisoned and the victim of sadistic experiments, and we are introduced to other EOs who make an impact, along with the government agency EON – ExtraOrdinary Observation and Neutralization – that seeks to track and capture EOs. The structure of Vengeful follows that of Vicious, switching back and forth between past and the near-present and forcing the reader to stay on his toes, but I never once found it to be confusing.

Let’s face it: most sequels suck, but Vengeful does that which all sequels attempt to do; remains sufficiently loyal to the original work to bring the loyal fanbase back while being satisfactorily different to justify its existence. The key elements are back, with new Villains added to our returning characters and an expansion of the world Schwab has created. EOs are a recognized thing now by the powers that be (and their reaction is about what you’d expect) and everyone tries to maneuver through a new world in which the rules are still being written (oh, and Schwab manages to make Eli Ever sympathetic, if you can imagine). But if Vengeful has a theme, it is desperation. Victor is desperate to be himself again, his resurrection at Sydney’s hands having broken him. Eli is desperate to be free, having been in prison since the end of the last book. Sydney is desperate for her sister’s company and contemplates her resurrection. Marcela is desperate for power and the respect she has been denied her whole life. June is desperate for revenge against those who wronged her. Stell is desperate to capture EOs and see them tamed and broken.

All of this desperation leads people to make some morally gray decisions, and Schwab really gets inside of her character’s heads in order for You the Reader to truly understand their motivations and what drives them along. Really, it is a writer of rare talent that can make Villains sympathetic, but Schwab does it time and again, making you consider and reconsider their moral values – and your own. Her characters don’t necessarily want to cause death or destruction (well, not all of them, at any rate) but really just want revenge on the people who hurt them and security in a world that hates them. All of which are very human and all-too recognizable motivations (minus the superpowers, that is). This moral ambiguity leads to many a deep discussion, both with others and yourself, and the fact that there are no easy answers to any of these questions just adds to the book’s appeal. I have no doubt that Schwab will be writing about more Villains in the very near future and I, for one, look forward to reading more about these utterly fascinating and very maddening (and recognizable) people very soon. Even if they are the “Bad Guys”.

“1913: The Year before the Storm”, by Florian Illies

 

268 pages, Melville House, ISBN-13: 978-1612193519

Back on August 10^th, 2022, I reviewed 1913: In Search of the World before the Great War by Charles Emmerson, and said that “I wanted this lost world to be brought to life once again, even if briefly, but it wasn’t. There are facts and figures and allusions and discussions and so on and so forth, but this is just dry knowledge…While 1913 is an interesting global tour of the world of 1913, it in no way brought this world back to life, and it sadly remains hidden still”. And so it was with this in mind that I got 1913: The Year before the Storm by Florian Illies, a German writer and art historian – for free, for reasons too opaque to go through here. Ask me about it sometime.

1913: The Year before the Storm is divided in twelve chapters, each corresponding to a month in this last full year of peace; each chapter in turn is made up of a series of vignettes of something interesting that happened at that time, many in Germany and Europe (well, what did you expect from a German author?). No verse. No poetry. Just a chronology of stuff, much like the aforementioned and maligned 1913. And so I am seemingly right back to where I started, with a dry recording of facts in which this happened and then that happened with no magic occurring and no spirits lifted by a lost world brought back to life, even if only in our minds.

Only…this 1913 does what the other 1913 did not; brings this world, dead by mass suicide committed on a global-scale, to life once more. You wouldn’t think that this was so, seeing as all it is are accounts of mostly famous people doing their things: politicians politicking, artists painting, singers singing, musicians playing and on and on – but somehow Illies accomplishes that which Emmerson failed to do: breathe life once more into a world long dead. Perhaps it is because Illies allows his subjects to speak for themselves, as it were; he steps back and observes their goings-on while narrating what is happening, never interfering with his own input.

Or perhaps it is because Illies chose to go small scale rather than large: by focusing on the lives of persons – not ordinary persons, but all the same – rather than on places or policies or politicians, he made his book more intimate and relatable to you and I. As these folks go through their days with Armageddon mere months away, we see them as we would ourselves, with their concerns both sacred and profane dominating their lives and motivating their actions. Just like us, today. This, I think, is Illies’ secret: by focusing his tales on the small he in fact encompasses so much of this lost world and makes it breath again, if only in our imaginations.

1913: The Year before the Storm resurrected this lost year and made me yearn for a world long dead – and I don’t know why, seeing as there is little to recommend this dead place to a fella such as I. Perhaps on some level I am fascinated by an entire society that saw cultural seppuku as preferable to the way things were, all without knowing the blood and terror that would ensue when this (admittedly unjust and flawed, though stable) culture imploded. Or maybe it’s just that I miss all of that Edwardian fashion. Regardless, Illies has done us all an invaluable service in making 1913 live once more, if only briefly.

“The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History” by D’Arcy Jenish

 

448 pages, Anchor Canada, ISBN-13: 978-0385671484

Hockey has been a part of my whole life thanks to my Dad; he was a dyed-in-the-wool Detroit Red Wings fan from the day he was born and thrived and suffered with his team through thick and thin. I was never much of a sport fan growing up – indeed, for many years I was actively hostile to sports of any kind – but that changed upon my maturity, and I’m glad I was able to share in another of my Dad’s passions before he passed (the others were Formula 1 racing and the American Civil War). But I was still ignorant of so much, and so when I stumbled upon The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History by D’Arcy Jenish I saw it as a way of correcting this particular flaw and jumped at it.

Published in 2016 as a celebration of a century’s worth of professional hockey, Jenish’s book traces the foundations of the NHL from before it’s official founding a decade later (with ten teams, no less; “Original 6” refers to the six teams that survived past that date). It’s all there, too, as the league fights to establish itself, grow the sport in the States, suffers contraction and promotes expansion, struggles with the aspirations of players versus the motives of owners, expands again and tries to adapt to the modern entertainment market. Somehow, Jenish manages to make all of these off-ice machinations interesting – or at least not-boring; thankfully he spares us the minutes of board meetings or lawyerly jargon.

And I must stress that The NHL is a history of the business of hockey; on-ice developments and rule changes are mentioned but typically in passing. The men who made the League – the owners, the coaches and even the players – are what Jenish focuses on, so if you wanted to know how the Icing rule came about or why fighting is tolerated then you won’t like it. I, for one, was engrossed by the backstage shenanigans these hockey-mad businessmen and players got into and how and why the League became what it is today. I may not like all the decisions that were made or the arguments that were launched, but after I finished this book I at least understood why things turned out the way they did.

The NHL was as interesting as it was informative, as I learned how North America’s 4^th Sport was founded and grew and contracted and suffered and thrived and survived. The culture of hockey, the fan base, the history of how the sport came about and developed – these are topics for another book, one I will have to track down.

“I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire”, by P. N. Elrod

 

309 pages, TSR, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1560766704

If you’re not a hopeless geek then much of what I’m about to relate will be simply obtuse to you. Deal. So, I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire by P. N. Elrod is the tale of Count Strahd von Zarovich, the big baddie in D&D’s Ravenloft Campaign Setting, as told by himself (and read by Dr. Rudolph van Richten, TSR’s answer to Prof. Abraham Van Helsing). Within, we discover just who and what Strahd is and how he came to be. Essentially, young Strahd, frightened by his own mortality and driven by jealously of his younger brother, commits a horrific crime to achieve both immortality and his one true love, only to be denied both by the evil powers he dealt with (well, whataya want; they’re evil, aren’t they?). And all told by Elrod, a modern-day master of the fantasy horror genre (circa 1993).

Beneath Elrod’s pen, Strahd becomes more than just a one-dimensional answer to Dracula. We see the young Strahd, powerful warrior and brilliant leader, slowly succumb to the doubts and shadows that plague all men as he proves to be mortal after all. As he relates his tale to us, the Reader, we follow his thinking, relive his agony and share his doubts until, quite surprisingly, one finds themselves sympathizing with the monster and almost urging him on. It is a rare feat indeed to make a sympathetic villain, but Elrod succeeds. Incredible read for any fan and, I would argue, for anyone looking for a fresh vampire story. Yes, yes, yes, I, Strahd plays on every vampire trope under the sun (heh), but there is something to be said on how much this novel encourages one to sympathize with the devil.

If you familiar with Curse of Strahd – perhaps, like me, as the module’s Dungeon Master – you already know how this story ends. But that doesn’t stop you from savoring every scrap of hope Strahd allows himself, and you join him desperately wishing for an impossible happiness.

“The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove”, by Kerwin Swint

 

336 pages, Union Square Press, ISBN-13: 978-1402772016

The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove by Kerwin Swint is about those shadowy figures who lurk in every government, whispering in the king’s ear and all but ruling the kingdom in fact, if not in name (I would love to know the names of the people who did so in the Biden Administration). Swint has subdivided these whisperers into ten distinct types: The Machiavellians, Empire Builders, Kingmakers, Spies, Silver-Tongued Devils, The Generals, The Rebels, The Truly Evil, The Fixers and Schemers; he further provides thumbnail sketches of forty-one examples of men (and some women) to illustrate each type.

Swint’s format should find broad appeal for the novice historian, although I expect that the expert will be rather bored, if not offended by the many mistakes (it was never “The Empire of Germany” but rather “The German Empire” is but one of many examples). But the unique subject matter should appeal to both, seeing as those bright, shiny crowns so easily distracted us poor peons from who were really calling the shots. And, seeing as this is but a primer on the subject, this book also sparked interest in finding out more about these shadowy figures for whom pomp and circumstance were anathema, but who craved power and influence all the more.

These types of individuals are fairly good representatives of the archetypes named in each chapter and, if I may be so bold, I found I was more interested in those I had never heard of versus the more famous names. Swint also doesn’t confine himself to one era, nation or region, but likewise attempts to spread the blame around to all and sundry. The one problem I had with this approach was his inclusion of more modern figures; while many of these persons may, in fact, fit the profiles he has established, it seems to me that he was hurrying things and not allowing the flow of history to sweep them along – perhaps he was trying to be relevant?

Anyway, The King Whisperers works as an introductory work that, hopefully, will whet your thirst for more detailed, meatier faire.

“Child Star: An Autobiography”, by Shirley Temple Black

 

546 pages, McGraw-Hill, ISBN-13: 978-0070055322

Shirley Jane Temple Black was born on April 23^rd, 1928, in Santa Monica, California, the third child of homemaker Gertrude Amelia Crieger Temple and bank employee George Francis Temple after their boys, Jack and George. Black was an American patriot and had a diverse career in public service, first as a delegate to the 24^th United Nations General Assembly from September to December 1969, then as the 9^th United States Ambassador to Ghana from December 6^th, 1974 to July 13^th, 1976 before becoming 18^th Chief of Protocol of the United States from July 1^st, 1976 to January 21^st, 1977, then the President of the Commonwealth Club of California from February to August 1984 before becoming the 27^th United States Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from August 23^rd, 1989 to July 12^th, 1992. In this last role she witnessed first-hand The Velvet Revolution and the end of 41 years of one-party Communist rule in Czechoslovakia that ended peacefully, whence a parliamentary republic was established and the command economy dismantled…

Ah, who am I foolin’? You and I know Shirley Temple as an American child actress, dancer and singer who began her film career in 1931 and continued successfully through 1949. Over that time she starred in over 40 films for Fox (saving the studio from bankruptcy during the Great Depression), Paramount, MGM and Warner Brothers, said films ranking number One at the box office from 1935 through 1938, in addition to her work in television and radio. Temple danced in her films with some of the most famous and accomplished entertainers of her era, such as Buddy Ebsen, Jack Haley, Alice Faye, George Murphy, Jimmy Durante, Charlotte Greenwood, Jack Oakie and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (whom she said was her favorite partner). At the 7^th Academy Awards in 1935, Temple was honored with the first Academy Juvenile Award., while later that same year her hand and foot prints were immortalized in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on February 8^th, 1960.

Much of this and more we learn from Shirley herself in Child Star: An Autobiography – and make no mistake: this is an authentic autobiography written by the woman herself with nary a coauthor or ghostwriter in sight. Technically, this is her second autobiography, the first being My Young Life from 1945, but Shirley has stated before that that book was actually cribbed from past published quotes; this work is the real deal, written by herself alone and ending in about 1954, when she was just 26 years old. And what an autobiography; Shirley’s personality shines through with every sentence, whether describing her family, famous costars, directors, producers or studio heads. Her intelligence, verve and wisdom are all on display and, mores the point, described in her own words. I had never before been a fan of Shirley; oh, I had nothing against her but, under Mom’s influence, had rather drifted towards Margaret O’Brien, instead. But that changed upon completion of Child Star; I can now be counted among the legion of Templeholics.

But if Shirley’s book has any overarching thread it is the relationship she had with her mother and how “[s]he was not only my best friend, but we had a partnership”. I suppose that it’s a good thing that Shirley thought so well of her Mother (and her Father, although George Temple’s influence on his daughter pales next to his wife’s). But it is hard not to realize just how manipulated our little curly-top dynamo was by the parents she so obviously loved and adored, her Mother especially. That Shirley made a great deal of money cannot be disputed; that she could have made so much more if only she had proper representatives who knew how to negotiate and read a contract likewise cannot be disputed. Her parents just weren’t up to the task. Also, Shirley’s adored parents took advantage of their child to advance their worldly ways and ignored others who misused her as well if it boosted her monetary value; but judging by our author’s words, she either didn’t or couldn’t face this fact (the last words of her autobiography are “Thanks, Mom”).

But this is about the worse thing I can say about this book, as Shirley wrote a rambling recounting of her extraordinary life in which the sun seemed to always shine and nothing ever went wrong – well, not exactly. She mentions plenty – the discrimination suffered by Bill “Bojangles” Robinson because he was black, the exploitation of actors of every stripe by the studios, the sexual harassment of female stars and starlets that was rampant under the “studio system” (like her own, when Arthur Freed exposed himself to Shirley when she was 12-years-old; or when she was raped by another, unnamed producer) – but all of it told from her viewpoint and in her own words, with nothing spared us. But she managed it all in ways that newer stars today can’t, because she had a strong, supportive family to back her up. While her parents pocketed much of the money she made over the years, it was used to support the family and not some lavish lifestyle – a small concession, perhaps, but meaningful nonetheless.

Upon coming to the end of Child Star I was a fan and admirer of this cultural icon who, upon the end of her career, did not pine for a life that was over, but instead launched a new career as wife, mother and, later, diplomat (if only other stars would follow her lead, rather than cling to fame like grim death). But I was also left a little vacant, for Shirley had intended this work to be the first of many volumes that would have recorded her service in the State Department, books that were never written. Which is a damn shame, for I would love to have read what she thought of Republican power brokers and foreign statesmen, especially Václav Havel, the leader of the Czech Velvet Revolution with whom she interacted with during the same. But it was not to be. Shirley Jane Temple Black lived an extraordinary life, most of it in the public eye, and she always carried herself with dignity, charm, intelligence and vigor. Would that all stars these days would do the same while showing a basic respect for the nation that made them rich.

God Bless You, Shirley.

“Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey”, by Douglas Hunter

 

408 pages, Triumph Books, ISBN-13: 978-1572433502

William Scott “Scotty” Bowman is the winningest coach in NHL history, with 14 Stanley Cups as a coach and/or executive (behind only Jean Béliveau’s 17) to go along with his 1244 regular season wins and 223 wins in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We here in the Motor City will always be grateful to him for ending our 42 year Cup drought in 1997 and winning 3 Stanley Cups to give the Detroit Red Wings 10 total (upped to 11 after Mike Babcock won in 2008). But in many ways the man is a cypher whom few can ever get close to, especially those of us in the cheap seats. And so when I discovered Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey by Douglas Hunter…somewhere, I picked it up to see what could be learned about this fascinating and maddening hockey guru.

Be warned, however, for this book was written without any input from Bowman at all; indeed, it would appear that several of his past and current players also refused to cooperate, seeing as the book did not have Bowman’s authorization and thus, did not have his blessing (I, for one, would not want to be on Scotty’s bad side, and I don’t even know how to skate). For all that, Hunter still manages to dig deep and uncover all sorts of gems from the life of this most private and inscrutable man, partially by providing such density of information – over 46 years of coaching, Bowman crossed paths with damn near everyone in the NHL – that one can, at times, feel rather buried in hockey tales, statistics, player bios and so on and so forth.

But it is still Scotty who is the subject of this work and, in spite of his subject’s noncooperation, Hunter managers to uncover several hidden gems. Such as Hunter’s idea that Bowman’s playing days were not cut short when that sonovabitch of a Frenchman Jean-Guy Talbot cracked his skull with a flailing stick; rather, it was the impetus Scotty needed to hang up the skates on a mediocre career at best and instead move behind the bench – a fact Bowman new all too well. This revelation says a lot about our subject and his clear-eyed, unsentimental view of things, especially of All Things Hockey. Since he could see that he would never prosper as a player he segued into coaching without muss or fuss; if anything, the frog Talbot did him a favor.

And it was as a coach that the legend of Bowman would take root and grow. While coaches come and go in the league, Bowman thrived and survived when so many around him faltered and fell. As to how he managed to last and succeed for so long, Hunter posits that Bowman, almost alone amongst his peers, could adapt faster than a chameleon to the fluctuating world of professional sports, be it changing tactics, adapting strategies, or massaging the egos of all of those big-name millionaire athletes who have killed many a coaching career. All this, as well as his ability to take advantage of other teams and their struggles on-and-off the ice to advance the cause of whatever club he happens to be with at the time.

I don’t know about other leagues, but hockey is rather notorious for the revolving-door appearance of so many coaching positions, something that not even the Legendary Bowman has been immune to. That he has achieved the success and longevity despite not having a playing career worth talking about makes his many achievements so much more extraordinary. And to think, when this book was published in 1998, Bowman still had one more Stanley Cup to win as the Red Wings Coach, along with three others as senior advisor of hockey operations to the Chicago Black Hawks. While at times rather dense and turgid, Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey goes far in capturing the personality and drive of this man as traditional trailblazer.