A lot of ink has been spilled in the debate about whether genre fiction and literary fiction are mutually exclusive terms. High-brow types like to relegate mystery and crime fiction to the commercially popular-criticially reviled ghetto, while writers of mysteries and their fans decry the second-class citizenship accorded works that focus more on plot than character.

John Banville's pseudonymous novel, Christine Falls, offered the opportunity for those on both sides to chime in. Having finally gotten around to reading the book, I can safely say it seemed more sound and fury signifying nothing to me than anything resembling a groundbreaking work. It was a fairly plodding, at times boring stab at a thriller from a writer whose books are often characterized as being about nothing. It's going to take more than writing under the name Benjamin Black and adding a bit of a plot to make Banville a mystery writer worth reading.

The book is set in 1950s Ireland and Boston, and tells the tale of a Catholic society that takes babies from disadvantaged Irish families and places them with families in Boston. The plot is more nefarious, of course, but suffice to say that's the long and short of it. Banville's protagonist is Quirke Griffin, the adopted son of a wealthy Irish family. Quirke is a pathologist, and he comes across the woman who gives the book its name after she's already dead, finding her on a slab in his office. Malachy Griffin, his brother of sorts and the hospital's top obstetrician, is somehow involved, and Quirke's attempt to unravel things leads him to uncover the larger plans and get himself and others into a great deal of trouble in the process.

While Banville is clearly a gifted writer -- his descriptions of people and places are at times breathtaking -- his attempt at mimicking the verbal sleights and shadows of the best thrillers, never mind the pace, show just how difficult it is to write a gripping pageturner. Sure, the characterizations in many genre novels pale in comparison to the richly drawn, three-dimension people who populate literary fiction. But Banville proves that the plotting and pacing of such books can't hold a candle to that of even middling mystery novels. Whether Banville's folly was his way of showing how easy it is to write such books is for him to say. If so, he failed.

That's not to say the book isn't entertaining in spots, and it's subject is one ripe for further exploration. But in terms of writing a book that bridges the gap between literary and genre fiction, many others have already accomplished what it seems Banville set out to do: write a compelling novel with real characters that happens to have a mystery at its core. Banville would do well to read the work of Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos or Ian Rankin to get an idea of how this should be done. He promises further adventures for Quirke, though I'll be hesitant to tag along. Reading this did make me move Banville's Booker-winning The Sea to the top of my to-be-read list. Without the need to jam a plot into his story, I'm sure Banville's prose is rewarding.

Labels: crime fiction, criticism