One of the great things about reading noir is you're never sure if the main character will turn out to have a conscience or if he'll go on his merry evil way. Keeps me turning those pages.

Sahafta tesdüfen görüp aldığım bu eser beni hem edebi hem anlatı yönünden etkiledi. Hikayenin şaşırtıcı değişkenliğinin yanı sıra anlatım başarısı sayesinde kişinin içinde bulunduğu ruh halini ve düşünce yapısını da okura aktarıyordu. Farklı bir şeyler okumak isteyenlere öneriyorum.

Un noir originale e perfetto nella costruzione, ambientato nel mondo dell'arte. Non lesina sarcasmo, ironia e considerazione dotte sul mondo della pittura.
Peccato che questo autore sia poco edito in Italia, è fondamentale per il noir moderno.
Da leggere.

Mein Urteil lautet auch nach dem fünften oder sechsten Wiederlesen im Laufe von bald dreißig Jahren einfach: Wow!
Denn dieser dünne Kriminalroman ist tatsächlich ein Buch über Kunstgeschichte in Gestalt der Malerei des 20. Jahrhunderts, ein Buch über die Kunstkritik, über Männlichkeit und die Sucht nach Erfolg und schließlich über die Bedeutung von Kunst. Und Willeford bringt dies auf engstem Raum in einem handlungsstarken Roman unter, zusammen mit mehreren Verbrechen.
Mehr auf meinem Blog "Notizhefte": https://notizhefte.com/2021/01/25/die...

Recently re-released to coincide with the film adaptation, The Burnt Orange Heresy is my favorite of Charles Willeford's crime novels. Willeford is a crime writer that other crime writers admire and praise, yet his books have been in and out of print for years. The Burnt Orange Heresy is the best entry point for someone who has never read Willeford. All of his trademarks are here; intelligent writing, quirky humor, shifty characters that appear respectable, and a sharp satiric wit. Despite the sour taste in my mouth at the story's conclusion (it felt a bit stale) I still recommend giving this one a try. The book is a quick read, but worth well it.

Not really a four star masterpiece in all respects, maybe, but nonetheless a very interesting novel for my particular tastes, for this turned out to be a Jamesian artist tale filtered through the language and outlook of 50s American pulp literature — the genre Willeford started out in. The story can easily be read as a combination of Henry James’ The Aspern Papers and The Figure in the Carpet. After all, the narrator protagonist is not called James (actually Jaime) Figueras for nothing. He’s a critic and he’s all wild about an admired but very elusive and reclusive aged French painter, just like the characters in James’ artist tales usually are. He’s coveting something that artist has: a work of art, some privileged glimpse into the secret of his art. When he eventually gets what he thinks he wants, he’s… disappointed? Overwhelmed? Revolted? I’ll leave that to the reader to decide. Even the customary Jamesian blend of attraction and revulsion towards a specific female love interest (mirroring the same ambivalence towards the artistic love object) is thrown into the mix, in a decidedly un-Jamesian manner. All to such effect that the entire novel is both a continuation of deeply Jamesian themes and an uproarious pulp fiction send-up of them.
It’s not flawless in the execution. Especially the chapter where the narrator fills in his girlfriend about the merits of the French painter contains rather contrived expository dialogue. But I found the whole conceit very entertaining, and some of it very well done; the portrait of the elderly painter sage is pitch perfect.

The book description, by the way, is ridiculous. It smacks of the pulp blurb and contains what I would consider a spoiler, besides being patently wrong, or at least one-sided.

This was touted as Willeford's best yet, but I liked his earlier works better. This one starts of slow, then gets confusing real quick. Made me grind my teeth. Sort of vaguely written in the old Hollywood film-noir style, it left me with a dark unsatisfied feeling, and I didn't like the Figueras character at all.
The film adaptation was slightly more entertaining, especially with Mick Jagger as the devious eccentric Cassidy and Donald Sutherland as the reclusive artist. This book did give an interesting and informative look at art history and the world of art appraisal and art appraisers.

eh. Willeford sounded intriguing from some review I stumbled upon, and this was described as "his best book." I hope not.

If you skim the endless discourse on art, the rest of the book is OK. The story revolves around a reclusive French artist, Jacques Dedierue, and an art critic, James Figueras. Mix in an unscrupulous art collector, lawyer Joseph Cassidy, and the plot thickens. After I finished the book, I watched the movie, and it was much better, which almost never happens. The locale was changed from Florida to Italy (Lake Como is beautiful!), and his girlfriend (in the book) became more of a one-night stand that lasted a weekend. The story itself was greatly improved, and the cast included Mick Jagger (!) as the art collector and Donald Sutherland as the aging artist. See the movie, skip the book.

In this book Charles Willeford takes us into the world of Art Criticism. His protagonist, James Figueras, is a fairly accomplished, ambition young art critic out to make a name for himself. The story is fairly absurd, (Figueras becoming an authority on the "Worlds Greatest Living Artist" an artist who has no work to speak of!) It could be read as a critique on the ridiculousness of Modern Art (or some modern art "movements"), and more specifically Art Critiscim. IMHO it's not up there with his two other books I've recently read, Cockfighter and The Woman Chaser. I also have vague memories of being very impressed when I read "The Machine in Ward Eleven" many years ago. That's next on my Willeford reading list.

As with the main characters in Cockfighter and Woman Chaser, Figueras is a very self-contained, driven individual, self-absorbed, self-interested and redeemed only by a streak of his own, slightly warped, morality. Mostly, though, Figueras comes across as an arrogant smart alec. A real know-it-all. The story starts off alright, then takes a turn for the bizarre in the last quarter of the book… when you realize just how obsessive and ambitious Figueras – the young art critic on the make – actually is – and the lengths he'll go to fulfill his ambitions. This makes the last few pages of the book extremely frustrating. It's a complete cop-out, where Figueras acts completely against character. A very unsatisfactory final page!

Saying all that, it's an interesting period piece, and I like Willeford's writing style.

Willeford wrote this noir about an art critic trying to advance his career by taking advantage of a hermetic artist. The artist has built a juggernaut reputation on rarely exhibiting his work. The elements are goofy but the tone is dark deadpan. Instead of guns, dames, drugs, and jewels, Willeford's characters jockey for galleries, graduate school grants, art history articles, critical and artistic reputations with the intensity of mobsters and PIs. The book reminded me of Pynchon, though with far less characters; however, Willeford has a formalist determination to play the noir all the way to the end with a straight face without using silly songs as levity to break the tension. The tension persists throughout the book, and art criticism becomes a bleak business.

Reasons why I think the book is currently OOP:

1. dated descriptions of technology: early Polaroid cameras, flashcubes, typewriters. (Note to self, if ever I write, stay away from extended descriptions of new technology).

2. dated clothing: jumpsuits, bell bottoms. (Though I liked the 70s atmosphere).

3. One would have to have a grounding in noir in order to appreciate that Willeford used silly elements and yet stayed true to tone and form. So, actual noir gets printed before joke-noir or meta-satiric noir.

Couldn’t finish. The protagonist is a a horrible arrogant condescending misogynistic jerk. He verbally abuses and demeans His girlfriend Bernese, who is a spineless whimpy woman who should have more sense. Ick. This author was supposed to be so amazing. NOT.