C. J. GRANT - It looks like a novel of sorts. Almost a genuinely fresh portrayal of a cursorily familiar contemporary scene: a milieu vaguely reminiscent of suburban Los Angeles, a marriage with a touch of the incestuous, in which two children were slated for the same college dormitories, so that one could "borrow" their roommate...Mark McMurray is one-third of a mousy couple with one kid. The other two are his girl friend and son. He's an eligible virgin in the unrequited type, and for a short time, this tale provides some authentic delight of the way it depicts a boring one in the blur of a badly written novel. Only too late do we suspect that the writer is under the fatal handicap of veiling an assassination story behind a new thin, too brittle, setting of the style of film noir. The style is too brittle. When the writer really gets mysterious and imaginative, he becomes unintentionally funny. Instead of a sublimated Black Mask murder, the book turns out to be an inartful fable of wish fulfillment, a poetically disillusioning story in which murder is neat and the final showdown should have been planned all along. The play with the past tense is too jejune, and the stereotypical characters not only give a sense of false pretense, but very often are decidedly unconvincing. At times, the plea of an apparently amorous boy for his girl friend to go to bed with him seems most unreal. If the author is a novice, he hopes to call it a short and cozy life by the end of his thirty pages, and he starts quietly and as a matter of practice. Unfortunately, he has been ordered to continuously practice at it, and his only surroundings are the insupportable nice young lady who sells television and modern magazines on the street, and her thin and irritating husband. Consequently, the superfine things that go on in the house have nothing to do with the actions of the characters. The plot is simple, extremely unrealistic, and rather maddeningly episodic.
L'ouvrage d'un auteur sans prétention littéraime, les photos illustrations de Margaret Bourke-White de Robert Frank, la traduction idiomatique en anglais de l'auteur amricain Mary McCarthy, tout est pour De sang-froid un roman de crime sans nombre d'ombre jusqu'au grand pinceau du deuteur. Truman Capote a manifestements détesté sa schizophrnie naturelle, mais pas le meurtre, dont il affirme qu'elle a était un accident. Ils ont tout de mme tu son imagination dans les lieux mythiques de l'arme blanche et du sang d2c66b5586