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Book Review: CONFESS, FLETCH (1976) by Gregory McDonald

1/3/2022

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To start off the New Year, I wanted to revisit a book I had read and greatly enjoyed just a short while ago: Confess, Fletch, Gregory McDonald’s second entry in his amusing and energetic series featuring journalist Irwin Maurice Fletcher. In many ways, Confess, Fletch improves on the eponymous first book: the crime story is twistier, the plot doesn’t signal its destination before arriving, and McDonald provides two memorably engaging supporting characters for his quick-witted antihero to joust with.

The author wastes no time in holding his protagonist’s feet to the fire. On Page One, Fletch arrives in Boston from Italy and finds the body of an attractive but dead young woman in the apartment he has been loaned for his visit. The victim was a stewardess from the airline Fletch had used and the murder weapon turns out to be a whiskey bottle, one that sports Fletch’s fingerprints due to a post-discovery drink as he waited for the police. The journalist, incidentally, uses the precinct’s business number to report the murder, much to the desk sergeant’s irritation. Their exchange offers an excellent example of why McDonald’s writing is so consistently enjoyable. Fletch, who should be feeling nervous as a murder suspect, shows a likeable grace and humor under pressure:

“This is the Police Business phone.”
“Isn’t murder police business?”
“You’re supposed to call Emergency with a murder.”
“I think the emergency is over.”
“I mean, I don’t even have a tape recorder on this phone.”
“So talk to your boss. Make a recommendation.”

Note too that Gregory McDonald, a career journalist himself, pares his writing down to the bare minimum, with short, staccato sentences and snappy dialogue runs that keep the reader zipping through the short chapters. The lines above are representative of the text to be found throughout the Fletch books, with much more white space per page than your typical crime story. Such brevity has its rewards, and despite its multiple plot threads and incidents, Confess, Fletch is remarkably lean yet feels paradoxically rich as a genre reading experience.

As it turns out, the body in the apartment is just the beginning. I.M. Fletcher has a fiancée back in Italy, Angela, and her father, Count Clementi De Grassi, has been abducted and held for ransom by kidnappers. Months earlier, the family’s art collection was stolen, and Fletch has been tasked with trying to track down the missing paintings. One artwork, a presumed Picasso nicknamed Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle (“What else would you call it?” asks Fletch) has shown up for sale through a Boston broker named Ronald Horan, and this prompts Fletch to investigate whether the art collection is intact and who might be holding the paintings.

Enter Boston police inspector Francis Xavier Flynn, a deceptively benign man with the Irish gift for turning a phrase and a keen interest in others, both the guilty and the relatively innocent. Flynn is a wonderful creation, his quietly poetic outlook on life serving as a perfect complement to Fletch’s more obviously ironic worldview. Flynn tows around a long-suffering sergeant he calls Grover (but whose name is not Grover) and asks Fletch, gently but persistently, whether he is ready to confess to Ruth Fryer’s murder. And yet Flynn doesn’t arrest I.M. Fletcher, even though the evidence is stacked against him. A few too many details – not least of which being Fletch’s counterintuitive actions if he were actually a murderer – just don’t add up.

Starting with a book called Flynn published in 1977, McDonald featured Francis Xavier in four stories of his own, and I will certainly track down these titles and enjoy the continuing adventures of this unique Boston homicide detective. It’s not just the droll dialogue that makes F.X. Flynn so memorable; even as a supporting player here, the author gives his humble cop opportunities to surprise and charm the reader. In Confess, Fletch, two scenes stand out as moments that humanize and define a character who, in less artful hands, could have easily been a tired Irish stereotype. Frank’s surprising story of his teenage years spent as an enthusiastic youth in Nazi Germany and the charming moment when Fletch attends a family music concert in the Flynn living room are true highlights, the scenes atypical perhaps but organic and perfectly pitched.

(One exchange I especially love occurs between Frank and his son after completing the rather arduous string quartet: “Da?” Todd said. “That should never have been in anything other than F Major.” “We all make mistakes,” said Flynn. “Even Beethoven. We all have our temporary madnesses.”)
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The other character to make a memorable splash – for different reasons – is the larger-than-life Countess de Grassi, who descends upon her stepson-to-be in Boston and commandeers the apartment. Fiancée Angela can’t stand her stepmother, and both claim a right to the art collection despite a contested estate and the still-missing works. Sylvia is brash and manipulative, out to seduce Fletch – or, in her pronunciation, Flesh – so he can do her bidding. She is a lively comic creation, but that seduction and Fletch’s comic(?) defense that he was raped and powerless to refuse her advances lands uncomfortably, to say the least.

Indeed, the Fletch books are often problematical regarding the portrayal of women characters, whether it is the two alimony-hungry ex-wives he is constantly dodging in the début book or the protagonist’s willingness to use and discard a woman for a newspaper story, as he confesses to here in Confess, Fletch. Gregory McDonald may be writing characters for a male-driven (and presumably male-reading) mid-‘70s era, but the stereotyping is regrettable, considering the author is certainly capable of creating surprising people when he wants to. There is one female in the book who is written with sympathy and insight; surprisingly, it is Lucy Connors, the ex-wife of the man who owns the Boston apartment. Lucy recognized her lesbianism only after their disastrous marriage, and Fletch’s interview with her and her partner – in the guise of writing a discreet article for a tony magazine detailing her awakening while keeping her identity a secret – is handled perceptively. So the author can elevate women past comic harpies when he chooses to.

As I write this book review, the Internet tells me that a film adaptation of Confess, Fletch is in post-production and likely due out later this year. It is directed by Greg Mottola and will star John Hamm of Mad Men fame as the title character. The book offers an excellent story ready for the screen, so as long as the adaptation isn’t messed up thoroughly – with Hollywood, one never knows – it should be an enjoyable incarnation. Speaking of adapting the books, Chevy Chase was a logical choice for the pair of mid-‘80s movies, although the Fletch of McDonald’s stories is less shticky and more rounded (and also a more interesting person to be around). As for John Hamm, he seems miscast to me. At one time, Jason Sudeikis was rumored for the role, and I think he would have carried the perfect mix of general handsomeness, ingrained quick-wittedness, and most importantly a talent for comic line deliveries that would have fit Mr. I.M. Fletcher like a glove.

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Book Review: FLETCH WON (1985) by Gregory McDonald

1/12/2020

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The eighth book published in Gregory McDonald's series featuring journalist Irwin Maurice Fletcher, Fletch Won (1985) rewinds the clock to deliver an origin story of sorts. Here, Fletch is a rookie reporter languishing in the Obituaries section: his destined-to-be long-suffering editor Frank Jaffe chews him out for reporting that one recently deceased woman did nothing with her life, a detail that, after talking with her relations, turns out to be accurate, if indelicate. Fletch is shuffled to the Society pages and his first assignment there is to write a puff piece on Donald Habeck, a lawyer planning to donate five million dollars to a museum. But his subject appears to be so shady that the phrase "criminal lawyer" seems appropriate in multiple ways. When Habeck is found shot in his car in the News-Tribune parking lot, Fletch gets reassigned once more, far away from the dead man. But he knows a good story when he stumbles into one, and soon he is on a search for the killer.

Fletch Won continues the buoyant spirit of the previous books, and its aspirations as a prequel are admirably grounded. It's a lean story that avoids franchise indulgences, even as McDonald has fun shaping the fractious courtship of his hero and Barbara Ralton, first introduced in 1975's Fletch as one of his two ex-wives. There is also mileage gained from jodhpurs, an overstocked item Barbara is tasked to sell at the clothing shop where she works, and of Fletcher's official assignment for the paper, going undercover to infiltrate a bordello disguised as a health spa.

The mystery of the murdered criminal attorney is set up as a traditional whodunit, and the author sketches Habeck's estranged family with colorful and surprising details. The lawyer's wife is a sympathetic eccentric whom Habeck had committed to an at-will mental institution years previously; his son lives in a monastery and his daughter is married to a man who writes celebratory poems of violence. Past clients bearing a grudge are also potential suspects. With a compelling cast of characters from which to uncover a murderer, it is a bit disappointing that Fletch Won falls short of fair play. Motivation and circumstances of the crime are only revealed in the second to last chapter, as the guilty party explains them to Fletch and the reader. The journey is still breezy, witty, and enjoyable, but the puzzle's resolution – just as with the first series novel published a decade prior – feels a little incidental and anti-climactic. Luckily, both books deliver post-confession final scenes as codas that punctuate the narrative and provide a satisfying full-stop for that tale.


It looks like Fletch Won has been in development as a feature film for a couple decades already, variously attached to actors like Jason Lee and Jason Sudeikis. A quick browse of Internet message boards shows lots of speculation about how another actor could possibly launch a new screen version of I.M. Fletcher after Chevy Chase's two films from the 1980s. Anyone who actually reads Gregory McDonald's books and tracks the character's curiosity toward others, professional tenacity, and quick-wittedness as a genuinely resourceful reporter will probably answer: easily.
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The Last of 2018 - and Looking Ahead from Here

12/31/2018

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Do I dare define 2018 in one word? If I were to be so bold, that word would probably be busy. Not chaotic, really, or exhausting – although it was a little of that – but just plain-and-simple busy would work best. It was this year that I moved from multiple adjunct teaching jobs to one full-time, office-hours academic advising job, which meant less grading but far more paperwork and student appointments. And I still teach an online class here and there, which further takes time away from personal projects.
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Nevertheless, 2018 proved a very good year for writing, with three stories published (and/or e-published) and available to all. My new tale "The Last Ferry", which I wrote in February, appears in Landfall: The Best New England Crime Stories of 2018 from Level Best Books. And I was delighted to learn that "The Widow Cleans House", my first published short story in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, was chosen for reprint in the anthology Terror at the Crossroads, released in October by Penny Publications/Eris Press.

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Also débuting this year was my first long-form effort, and my first LGBTQ romantic comedy to boot. Knights Erring, available from Less Than Three Press, follows three friends who bet each other that they can't uphold the tenets of chivalry (including poverty, chastity, and obedience) for two weeks. The story made it through multiple drafts and grew considerably, and I'm very happy with the current version.

My Reading List – an annual compulsion that I started in 2005 when I decided to note every book, script, or story collection I finished from that point forward – tells me that I read 64 titles this year, which is less than in previous years, but still surprising given the sheer busyness of 2018. (See Paragraph One.) I would note the following items as standouts:

  • Beartown (2016) – Fredrik Backman's unsentimental exploration of a small northern town that lives - and almost destroys itself - for its high school hockey team
  • The Moving Target (1949) – Ross MacDonald's first Lew Archer mystery
  • Exit, Pursued by a Bear (2012) – Lauren Gunderson's darkly comic play about a woman taking revenge on her abusive husband
  • The Teapot Dome Scandal: How Big Oil Bought the Harding White House (2008) by Laton McCartney – why would this story of a corrupt president and a Republican congress trying to hide and bury illegal dealings seem familiar?

Honorable mentions go to Bodies from the Library (2018), a fun collection of lesser-known stories by famous classic mystery authors edited by Tony Medawar, and Gregory McDonald's buoyant sequel Confess, Fletch (1976), which is twistier and more satisfying than his solid earlier effort.
And it was great to return to a book by Gladys Mitchell. I haven't spent much time in her company lately, so I made the excuse to remedy that by launching the Mitchell Mystery Reading Group. I spent a wonderful (and busy) November discussing and dissecting the 1929 Mrs. Bradley whodunit farce The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop. I loved all of the topics and conversational roads that I likely would never have traveled if I had revisited the book on my own, and I am looking forward to the next group reading event, probably in March or April of 2019. I'll choose a 1930s title and announce it the month before; I already have some suggestions from fans, and there are a lot of solid tales to choose from in that decade!

Finally, I will end by offering a version of the familiar New Year's Resolutions. In addition to hosting another Mitchell Mystery Reading Group event (two if I can manage it), 2019 will be the year I finally submit an entry for the Black Orchid Novella writing contest, sponsored by the Rex Stout appreciation club The Wolfe Pack. Before that, I should deliver a completed Act Two (currently in progress) for a stage comedy that I'm writing for a regional theater company. I'd like to also push myself to complete two new crime-themed short stories next year. And I want to keep my eyes open for new writing and contest opportunities, something that I don't always look for as rigorously as I should.

I hope everyone has a 2019 that rivals, nay exceeds, the success and joy that 2018 (hopefully) provided. And if your 2018 was less than you wanted it to be, you have every reason to be optimistic as we flip the calendar and turn the page together!

Peace and best wishes,
Jason Half
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Book Review: FLETCH (1974) by Gregory McDonald

10/19/2018

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The premise is immediately engaging: the acting manager of a highly profitable aviation company picks up a drifter on the beach, brings him back to his oceanfront property, and states that he’s dying from cancer. He wants the stranger to break into his house in the near future and shoot him with his own gun so his wife can collect the insurance money. The man agrees, and then promptly begins to investigate the rich man’s life. The drifter, it turns out, is a journalist who is working undercover, trying to find the source of a drug supply at the beach that never seems to ebb. (Don’t be concerned over spoilers with this paragraph; the reader learns as much in the first 40 pages of the book.)

Thus begins Fletch, the first of Gregory McDonald’s nine novels featuring quick-thinking, smart-talking News-Tribune journalist Irwin Maurice Fletcher. (The series expands to eleven when you count Son of Fletch (1993) and Fletch Reflected (1994), which spotlight Fletcher’s son Jack.) There’s a lot for fans of noir and comic mystery to enjoy here, and it’s worth noting that the original on-the-page Fletch is more adult – and his story more sophisticated – than his cinematic incarnation in 1985’s Chevy Chase vehicle of the same name.

One difference is that the world McDonald creates for his journalist protagonist has dangers and tragedies large and small; it is a real world with realistic consequences, a place where end-of-the-line junkies are an overdose away from death and the ideas that justice will prevail and the guilty will be punished are not certainties. Another detail is that the humor is not merely there to provide a superficial layer of entertainment akin to a television sitcom or Saturday Night Live sketch, but it is used to define Fletch’s personality and his attitude toward the editors, interview subjects, and ex-wives with whom he must interact. As the reader experiences the story through the third-person limited narrative perspective of Fletch, the reporter’s sarcasm and amusing role-playing ties us to the character and makes it easy to root for him.

McDonald controls the pace nicely, and the “A” story involving Alan Stanwyck and the murder proposition and the “B” story, the search for the beachside drug supplier, alternate smartly before coming together in the final chapter. Frequent readers of contemporary crime and noir novels will likely guess the answers to both story threads before they’re provided, but the journey is still highly enjoyable. 

For me, the most innovative technique in the Fletch books is the journalist variation on the whodunit suspect interview: often using an alias and playing a character – insurance adjuster, property management representative, lawyer – Fletcher questions a person to tease out information about someone else. Often they are phone calls, and McDonald presents these conversations as spare, dialogue-centered exchanges in keeping with an investigative reporter’s transcripts. No adverbial flourishes here, of the “he admitted reluctantly” or “she said with a breathy sigh under her words” variety, and that streamlining of talk is both effectively focused and feels aligned with the spirit of contemporary journalism.

The book does carry more than a whiff of of-its-time sexism and misogyny, as some of the supporting female characters here include clingy ex-wives squeezing Fletch for alimony while still begging for another bedroom tumble with him and women with an axe to grind who are sleeping their way up the ladder, as with Fletch’s newspaper editor and supervisor. (On another note, one alimony lawyer is a homosexual who wears “pants with no pockets” and considers the notion of looking the other way on collection in exchange for sexual favors from the tanned and lean beachcomber.) The most intelligent and sympathetic woman character, Stanwyck’s wife Joan, also winds up sleeping with Fletch, so it’s difficult not to be reminded that this 1970s plotline is very much driven and defined by the male characters that populate it and profit by its schemes.

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Fletch won an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for Best First Novel, and deservedly so. It employs a likeable and quick-witted (and truly active) reporter as its detective protagonist, its style and plotting are solid, logical, and satisfying, and this story has a coda (after the mysteries have concluded) that strikes the perfect endnote. The book could have easily rested as a great stand-alone crime story, but Gregory McDonald soon returned to his charismatic character, delivering Confess, Fletch two years later. I look forward to reading more stories that carry the I.M. Fletcher byline.


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