When I think of failed fiction genre I usually think of fantasy and mystery. I find myself unable to think of a class more fortified with fluff and formula, with the possible exception of romance.
That’s depressing, since fantasy and mystery are two of my favorite kinds of fiction. Even worse, when I think of books that have gone terribly and horribly wrong, genre hybrids generally top the list.
As a result, Jim Butcher’s “supernatural noir” series, The Dresden Files, was a bolt from the blue (except it wasn’t like lightning, it was like Prozac. And it wasn’t from the blue, it was from Waldenbooks; but “like Prozac from Waldenbooks” doesn’t sound as zippy).
The series is a first-person narrative recounted by the main character, Harry Dresden. As Chicago’s only professional wizard (check the yellow pages), he is often summoned by the head of the police department’s Special Investigations, Karrin Murphy.
The wisecracking wizard and the pistol of a policewoman work as a team to solve some of Chicagoland’s weirdest and grisliest mysteries, aided by folks like Susan Rodriguez, a reporter for the Midwestern Arcane, and Michael Carpenter, a Knight of the Cross. Together, they manage to antagonize a whole host of villains, ranging from warlocks causing drug wars and vampires running ritzy brothels to deranged queens of Faerie and ancient, evil demons—but of course, I can’t tell you much more than that without spoiling the plot.
That would be a shame, mainly because the plot of the series doesn’t really start to become clear until around book five. As a result, the first few books, while enjoyable, tend to look a little episodic at first glance; and when you’re working with formula fiction, that sometimes lends a cookie-cutter feel.
The writing exhibits one other major flaw of formula fiction by including clunky adult situations. I guess that’s for the readers who wouldn’t pick up a book unless it had sex in it, but I personally think Mr. Butcher deserves better than that.
Those moments are “Safeway Classic”-quality awkward, unfortunately, and while he does a fair job of integrating those into the plot, I still find myself wishing that the material weren’t there. Despite the mostly unneeded and always unwieldy adult moments, this series has a lot of somewhat new stuff to offer.
Mr. Butcher has a talent for surprising even himself (I think) with some of the situations in which Harry lands—I can distinctly recall a giant Chinese monkey demon that flung flaming feces, and something Harry refuses to call a “plant monster” on general principle—but Mr. Butcher’s panache with the pen renders such oddities perfectly believable, mostly through Dresden’s amusing, sarcastic, and incredulous commentary on his own thoughts. In fact, I have rarely empathized so strongly with a character as I have with Mr. Dresden, and aside from one or two of the villains, all the characters are both believable and likable.
It only seems fair to admit to you that I’m very biased. I loved these books, and as cliché as it sounds, I laughed, I was touched, and I even became frustrated and angry a few times. If you’re looking for light, easy reading that is fresh, intriguing, emotionally evocative and even thought-provoking, I strongly recommend you find a copy of “The Dresden Files”. You won’t be disappointed.