Classic heroes

I put this picture up because it's Sean Connery, at his most cool (though I suspect he's actually holding an air pistol) and for me he'll be the definative Bond.

However, there's a new version that's been out and about, the Young Bond series, written by Charlie Higson.

They're based on the books rather than the films and take place in the 1930's, when Bond's a boy and just started Eton and living with his aunt, soon after his parents death on a climbing accident.

Then we've got Young Sherlock Holmes by Andrew Lane, which I'm just reading right now, and last week a new tv series started on BBC, called Sherlock, which takes our two interpid heroes (Sherlock and Watson) and imagines what they would be like if they operated in the modern day.

Firstly, the question is WHY?

These are classic heroes who work perfectly as they are. Fleming purposefully kept Bond's background obscure, and I'm sure he had his reasons, the man's enigma is part of his appeal. Ditto Holmes. He's barely sufferable as an adult, as a kid you'd imagine the whole school lining up to slap him one for being such a smart arse.

But, but, but...

Young Bond is brilliant. What appeals to me is Bond's innocence. Granted, I've only read the first few, but he's noble in a way he isn't in the Fleming books, but there are subtle hints to how he'll turn out, a blunt instrument serving the government. There's a modern sensibility in the YB books, especially his attitude towards the female characters (remember as an adult he'd treat them as disposable pleasures) that's a necessary change and reflected in the movies too, where the women stick up for themselves a bit more than they used to (and, of course, I'm all for action heroines!).

I'm only half-way through Young Holmes and the Death Cloud and Holmes is smart, but learning from two unlikely mentors, an American and a street urchin. The principles of deduction are steadily forming as the story progresses and there's a healthy dose of straight action too, plus a suitably macabre mystery. What's interesting is (so far) it's not set in London, Holmes's natural stompim ground, but we'll see how the rest of the story develops. Check out the interview with the author at BookZone.

The new tv series I expected to HATE. But it works. The guy who plays Holmes is perfectly suited, smart and arrogant and excitable, very much like Jeremy Brett, the actor who defined Holmes back in the 1980's and 1990's. What's brilliant is Watson. In the original books he's a Afgan veteran, so is a man of action far more than how he's been protrayed in most Holmes' sagas. I think this is the masterstroke, the appealing Watson. Guy Richie did something very similar in the movie last year (which despite everything else, worked because of the chemistry between Downey and Law).

I suppose what I'm saying is that I approached these stories as a bit of a snob, not wanting to like them. We have the classic originals, but with the right writer and right team, they can be seen afresh, allowing you to fall in love with them in a new way. The fundamental character remains, it's clear the writer loves the template he's working from, and what's done is done with love and passion, with wit and a lot of style and charm.

Wot I have read this year

We're half-way through the year so I'm going to look back at books I've read and see if there's any trend developing, or not.
So in no particular order:
1. The Winter King, Enemy of God and Excalibur. Bernard Cornwell's take on the Arthur legend. Cornwell is still THE MAN.
2. S**t My Dad Says. Hysterical and strangely moving.
3. Path of the Warrior by Gav Thorpe. Some of you may know I'm into my WH40K and especially eldar (space elves, basically). This is so cool and I wish they'd made it into a trilogy, rather than a very condensed single novel.
4. The new Darren Shan about Crepsley. Managed to get an ARC of this one and Shan's story is very readable BUT it's the beginning of another long series so not a huge amount happens.
5. The Thin Executioner by Shan. Brilliant and a self-contained book. Shan ventures into Middle Eastern fantasy and a story about a boy finding his purpose in life. Which is to chop off heads, or not.
6. Carter Beats the Devil. Fantastic story sent in 1920's America about a stage magician.
7. Demon Covenant and the first Morganville Vampires book. You know what, they're the ONLY YA books I've read this year!
8. Skeleton Key, Furnace, Witchfinder, Curse of the Gloamglozer, Percy Jackson and the Battle of the Labyrinth, PJ and the Last Olympian, Double or Die, Eagle Strike, Warrior Heir, Mortlock. Basically I went through a burst of mid-grade fantasy books to get me in the zone for writing my India book. Very helpful and very confusing. I've an issue re: YA v. mid-grade division and might discuss this later. In a nutshell I think it makes no real sense at all.
9. Build a New Kingdom. Templars, nuff said.
10. Let the Right One In. Now that's a vampire book.
11. The Gladiator by Scarrow. I love historical fiction and Scarrow's Roman series staring Canto and Macro is great fun.
If there is a trend it's defined by ACTION. Nothing too high-brow or literary and certainly no soppy romances in that bundle, is there? Maybe as the evenings draw in I might move into cosy tales of forbidden love and lingering looks and the such, but I doubt it.

The Hood, Part 2 (spoilers if you haven't read Devil's Kiss!)

“Where’s Johnny?” she asked.
Robin watched Billi sly-like, his dark eyes twinkled in the lamplight. “What says I brought him?”
Billi laughed. “Come on out, Johnny.”
A shadow broke from the corner of Middle Temple Lane. The light caught on a shiny bowler hat and the guy stepped out, his hands tucked deep into his overcoat.
“M-m-miss SanGreal,” he said with a bow. He wiped his round face with a yellow handkerchief and tucked it away in under the hat. He looked like a clown, Big round waist and baggy trousers held up with red and white striped suspenders. The jowls wobbled as he walked and his hair, two tufts either side of his ears, seemed to slid across his face as they formed a pair of archaic mutton-chops. Johnny Little’s face was simple and open, except for the eyes. Small, sharp and darting, something unpleasantly ratty.
“Come in,” said Arthur as he leaned out the upper window. “But guns by the door, alright?”
“I am unarmed, Art,” answered Robin.
“I was talking to fat boy.”
Anyone else would have been collecting their guts off the floor. It amazed Billi, even now, how her dad got away with it.
“Of, of, of course, Mr Arthur.”
Billi took their coats. Robin slid his umbrella into the waste bin beside the door and Johnny unholstered a pair of Berettas hanging from shoulder holsters. He reached around his back and unclipped a shiny Smith and Wesson revolver. Then he lifted up his right trouser leg, he wore suspenders on his socks, and a small antique Derringer came out of the band around his thick chubby calves.
“That it?” asked Billi.
Johnny smiled shyly and took off his bowler. A Glock 26. He peeled off the tape and handed it to her.
“A girl’s gun,” said Robin. “You keep it, Billi.” He sighed. “Lord knows you should update your training. How many times have I told you father? All these swords and axes, it’s all very traditional, to be sure, but where’s the efficiency?”
“Swords don’t jam.” But it was more than that. Guns attracted a lot of unwanted attention. They were noisy and left a lot of clues. You brought a sword, you left with a sword. No shell casings lying around. No smell of cordite. No bullet holes in the wrong places, or the wrong people. You couldn’t fight the Bataille Tenebreuse with guns.
The three men settled around the dining table while Billi put on the kettle. Billi was more than aware how they were arranged. Arthur let Robin sit at the head, with Johnny opposite him. Johnny was going to regret that.
“Any Redbush?” asked Robin. “I’m trying to cut down on my caffeine.”
“Getting the jitters?” asked Arthur.
“My life is exciting enough, Art.”
Billi leaned against the worktop, watching the silence.
Robin, ganglord of Nottingham, rarely came south. But he still knew everyone and everything of interest in London. Johnny and Robin’s cousin, Much, kept tabs on the underground activities of the capital. A lot of people made the mistake of taking Johnny’s stutter as slowness. But his guns spoke like heavenly choirs.
Robin drummed his well-manicured fingers on the plastic table covering. “I see you’ve done up the place. You know, I do have a beautiful set of Chippendale tables and chairs I could have –”
“Not interested.”
Robin looked over at Billi, shaking his head. “There’s a truck not far from here that ... strayed en-route to Stella’s on King’s Road. Billi, why don’t you go with Johnny and have a look, while I talk to your father?”
“Billi will stay and listen,” replied her dad.
“Money, Arthur. Where is it?” snapped Robin.
“What money?”
Robin leaned forward, the humour gone. “Don’t be facetious, Art. You are much in arrears. I’ve let it go for old times’ sake, but I have my reputation to think of.”
“We had a deal, Robin. Payment for information.” Art didn’t move, but his voice fell flat. Not good. Billi glanced at Robin but he didn’t pick up the change in tone. Maybe he’d been out of London too long. “You didn’t deliver, Robin. And I lost good men.”
“That was unfortunate.”
Billi stiffened and her fingers tightened on the wood. Unfortunate. Kay’s death was unfortunate. Somehow her hand found the heavy ceramic jug. She forced herself to put it back down.
“No more until you demonstrate you’re value for money.” Arthur laughed. “Anyway, isn’t robbing city boys keeping you green? Or is the market’s flooded with stolen Rolexes?”
“It’s the credit crunch, Art. The city boys have taken to wearing Hong Kong knock-offs. It’s a sad day when you can’t trust a banker.” He looked cautiously at Arthur. The gap between then was about a metre. It wasn’t a wide table. “I appreciate that I was late in delivering, but you know that isn’t how it works. You owe me.”
“I beg to differ.”
“That’s a shame. A terrible shame.” Robin lifted his hands. “I’d hate to think what might happen if I lifted my guardianship. The dangers lurking out there, you know all too well. But without my eyes keeping look-out? Well, I don’t fear for you, Art. But Billi.” He held out a hand. “Poor Billi has lost so much already.”
Arthur smashed the stool across Johnny’s forehead. Robin leapt up, knife springing to his hand but Billi buried her boot in his guts. Her knee followed through into his nose and she swung the jug across his temple. Robin dropped, gasping. Arthur whacked Johnny again, to be sure.
“Never threaten me and mine. Ever,” he whispered. He leaned down and lifted Robin up by his hair. “London is my city. It always has been, always will be.” He wiped Robin’s face with his hand, making sure the man saw his clearly. “You’re not a fool, Robin. You’re a business-man. Think what it will cost you to drag this out. We fight to the finish, remember that. To the finish.”
He straightened up and pointed to the door.
“You’re dripping all over the new vinyl. Get out.”
THE END

It's the losing that matters

Losing. You will. I will. I have and so have you. In fact, I've lost far far more than I've ever won, and that's probably true for most.
Last week I lost the Branford Boase award to Lucy Christopher.
I know, I couldn't believe it either! After all, her book, Stolen, doesn't have a single Templar in it at all!
The truth is, while it was an honour to be nominated, it would have been a greater honour to win. Obviously.
But what can we, the losers of the world, do? A few months ago I attended a young writers award ceremony and the same thought occured, what becomes of the losers? Would they give up writing? Have a little cry and soldier on? Throw a tatrum? Or rationalize why they lost? This wasn't fair, nor was that, etc.
Things to remember:
1. There's always someone more talented than you.
2. And it doesn't matter.
What matters is getting up, dusting yourself off, picking up the pen, tennis racket, football, bat, whatever, and carrying on regardless. Losing is a far better test of character than winning could ever be.
So, I'd like to celebrate some of the greatest losers of the world, and my heroes.
1. Napoleon. Died on a lonely island in the middle of the ocean. But did he rock the world and defined an age.
2. Hector. The loser in the big fight in the Iliad but the paragon of what a loyal, dedicated soldier should be. The perfect HERO.
3. Wild E Coyote. You could do much worse than model your attitude towards defeat than by following his. The same applies to the Vulture Squadron.
4. Dracula. Comes back from the dead time and time again. He's been staked, burnt, drowned, beheaded, drilled full of garlic and he's still at it. Learnt nothing, the poor bloke, but nevertheless, I salute his tenacity.
5. The 300 Spartans. Slaughtered to a man, but never lost their cool nor the pithy one-liners.