The Burnt Orange Heresy

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A new paperback edition of the neo-noir novel book critics have called Willeford's best. Fast-talking, backstabbing, womanizing art critic Jacques Figueras will do anything - blackmail, burglary, fencing, assassination - to further his career. Crossing the art world with the underworld, Willeford expands his noir palette to include hues of sunny Florida and weird tints of Surrealism when Figueras takes a job for an art collector who doesn't care how his art is collected, even if it involves murder.

144 pages, Paperback

First published January 1,1971

Places
florida

About the author

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Charles Willeford was a remarkably fine, talented and prolific writer who wrote everything from poetry to crime fiction to literary criticism throughout the course of his impressively long and diverse career. His crime novels are distinguished by a mean'n'lean sense of narrative economy and an admirable dearth of sentimentality. He was born as Charles Ray Willeford III on January 2, 1919 in Little Rock, Arkansas. Willeford's parents both died of tuberculosis when he was a little boy and he subsequently lived either with his grandmother or at boarding schools. Charles became a hobo in his early teens. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps at age sixteen and was stationed in the Philippines. Willeford served as a tank commander with the 10th Armored Division in Europe during World War II. He won several medals for his military service: the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, two Purple Hearts, and the Luxembourg Croix de Guerre. Charles retired from the army as a Master Sergeant. Willeford's first novel "High Priest of California" was published in 1953. This solid debut was followed by such equally excellent novels as "Pick-Up" (this book won a Beacon Fiction Award), "Wild Wives," "The Woman Chaser," "Cockfighter" (this particular book won the Mark Twain Award), and "The Burnt Orange Heresy." Charles achieved his greatest commercial and critical success with four outstanding novels about hapless Florida homicide detective Hoke Moseley: "Miami Blues," "New Hope for the Dead," "Sideswipe," and "The Way We Die Now." Outside of his novels, he also wrote the short story anthology "The Machine in Ward Eleven," the poetry collections "The Outcast Poets" and "Proletarian Laughter," and the nonfiction book "Something About A Soldier." Willeford attended both Palm Beach Junior College and the University of Miami. He taught a course in humanities at the University of Miami and was an associate professor who taught classes in both philosophy and English at Miami Dade Junior College. Charles was married three times and was an associate editor for "Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine." Three of Willeford's novels have been adapted into movies: Monte Hellman delivered a bleakly fascinating character study with "Cockfighter" (Charles wrote the script and has a sizable supporting role as the referee of a cockfighting tournament which climaxes the picture), George Armitage hit one out of the ballpark with the wonderfully quirky "Miami Blues," and Robinson Devor scored a bull's eye with the offbeat "The Woman Chaser." Charles popped up in a small part as a bartender in the fun redneck car chase romp "Thunder and Lightning." Charles Willeford died of a heart attack at age 69 on March 27, 1988.

Community Reviews

Rating(4.1 / 5.0, 100 votes)
5 stars
36(36%)
4 stars
41(41%)
3 stars
23(23%)
2 stars
0(0%)
1 stars
0(0%)
100 reviews All reviews
March 26,2025
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This book is a good mystery, set in the world of high-brow art. But there is also some reflection on creativity, how it can be impacted by fame and fortune, how even when you turn down the fortune it can still affect you.

In the background is the art collector, the man with the money. The artist and the art critic are at the center of this book. They twist themselves in circles, purposely refusing to jump when the collector says jump, yet somehow the collector always gets what he wants, even if it damages the others.

It's a pretty quick read, but also has some depth, some thought-provoking situations. And at the end, after all the chicanery and dodges and deceit, there is a genuine, emotional gesture.

As other reviewers have mentioned, there is a chapter, 18 "pages" long on my kindle, that describes the fictional artistic style "Nihilistic Surrealism". This is espoused by the art critic character in one long burst of cryptic metaphors and meaningless phrases. Unless you find humor in this, it's pretty boring.

Skim this chapter if you must, but don't let it discourage you from continuing with the book. I assure you, the rest of the book is not like that one chapter. Think of it as a taste of the stultifying world these people work in.

3 stars because it's worth reading and kept me engaged. But although it's good, it's not "great".
March 26,2025
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It's truly hard to believe that this story was sold to Hollywood. One can only imagine that the screenplay bears only minimal relation to the book. One literally doesn't know where to start with the criticism. An artist who everyone admires but has had only one poorly attended show in an obscure gallery featuring a single piece of work. He became legendary and universally admired. Huh? So much wrong with the story and the story telling. An obsessed critic, a lost woman wandering Europe far from her teaching job in Minnesota, a cryptic artist, a lustful dealer. It just didn't hold me. And for those reading the book after seeing the movie, as I did, the book is set in Florida, not on Lake Como in Italy.
March 26,2025
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I barely know where to start. Easily my read of the year.

A writer friend got me (finally) reading Willeford, I think they might have seen something familiar in my work. So I went through all the Hoke Moseley books. When I began The Burnt Orange Heresy, I knew I'd be in for some Willeford quirkiness, but I had simply no idea the ride I was in for.

There is a huge caveat here, or a couple. One, Willeford has become one of my favourite writers, and I would pay twenty bucks to read his grocery list. Two, I am a graduate of art college, studying art history, and them become a professional illustrator, and then designer.

Caveat two is of note, as this book spirals deep into a sub-culture that I actually know quite well—or remembered anyway, as it has been years since I studied these art movements. Truthfully, this book might bore the sh*t out of some readers. In one of the Hoke books, Willeford goes off a tangent about Ethiopian dragonflies, or worms, or something. I recall reading it and wondering, "is he putting me on?" In TBOH, he goes one better as he has the main character wax on for pages and pages about Dada, Surrealism, and fictionalize painter whose work somehow bridges the two movements.

Because of my background in art history, I recognized when Willeford weaved in and out of facts. Such as Gauguin's reason for going to Tahiti, or Rothko's use of numbers when naming his paintings. There's also extensive history on underground art movements, Duchamp and Dadaists, Picasso shows up, and many more. The fiction lies in how all these different artists owe a debt to Willeford's creation, Jacques Debierue.

Now this review might have already put you to sleep. But here is the thing, this novel is incredibly gripping. The language skates close to purple prose, but never falls into it. Willeford describes clothing, bodily appearances, cityscapes, and hell, I was even interested in how he described a drab hotel room. I kept asking myself why was this book so fascinating?

Being Willeford, the story begins a slow escalation towards a climax that would make Quentin Tarantino sit on the edge of his seat (QT is a fan of CF.) No spoilers, but let's just say a chase through the dark woods and into an "inky" Florida swamp. Willeford loves words like inky, and I already know I'll be stealing that. Oh, and one of the characters has a ten-inch tire iron, and it isn't be used to change a flat.

So many times I laughed out loud at the outlandishness of the book. The most unreliable, pompous narrator ever, who I wanted to show at, "Listen to yourself talk, GOOD GOD MAN!"

I'll leave it there. I'm blown away, and you might be too. Or you might be bored. I dunno.
I'm sadly running out of Willeford books.
March 26,2025
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I remember reading this book because the poet Michael Weaver (not the well-known poet Michael Weaver but another Michael Weaver from San Diego) spoke so highly of the author.

So I read the book.

Then I too spoke highly of this author.

When a really smart writer takes on a genre populated by mostly cloneish writers, magic happens.

This author makes magic happen...over and over.

Dark. Brill. Great summer reading.
March 26,2025
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01/2020

From 1971
This is a remarkable book. All about art history. With a fictional artist, Debierue, and his fictional movement, Nihilistic Surrealism. This novel is so completely entertaining in every detail, that I forgot to expect there to be a murder. There is.
Willeford wrote many books,from the 1950s to the 1980s. They are rarely the same.
March 26,2025
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Along with Donald Westlake and Agatha Christie, Willeford ranks among my all-time favorite crime writers— but does this, his most compact and most bewildering book, qualify as crime? There’s some shady stuff in it to be sure, but the book is not a procedural nor even a mystery. Instead, it’s a witheringly funny commentary on the nature of conceptual art and art criticism. There are so many layers of meta humor that I suspect a lot of readers don’t even register it as a comedy, at least not at first, but there’s really no better way to take this wonderful pileup of absurdities. It’s also very philosophical— if critics provide the meaning to a piece of art, is the art itself even necessary? That’s just one of the beguiling questions at the center of this rich, strange, utterly readable little novel, nearly as essential as Willeford’s Hoke Moseley books.
March 26,2025
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This is my first exposure to Charles Willeford's work and what I read is not exactly a crime novel. Oh, there's a murder victim here, arson, theft. But what it is is a take on the art world: critics, artists, collectors, and their sphere of existence.

Jacques Figueras is the art critic pushed into stealing from a reclusive painter.

First Willeford, but not likely my last.
March 26,2025
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Been meaning to read this one for a while. It fits in my back pocket, so I thought it would be good to take on my trip to Monterey/Big Sur. Charles Willeford is continually fascinating as a writer. There is nothing flashy about this book at all, but it is fantastic. His characters can always rationalize any ridiculous or insane action. This book's protagonist is no exception to that rule. Perhaps the most interested thing of all to me in Willeford's late writings (say this one and the Hoke Moseley stuff) is his characters' insistence on wearing jumpsuits. I don't know, that's just weird and wonderful to me. Apparently, they are very handy to wear and comfortable. Definitely a great, short read from a master of American fiction.
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