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tildahlia's review
2.0
I want to preface this review by saying that I am an enormous fan of Martin McKenzie-Murray. I routinely dive into his columns in The Saturday Paper, and like many Victorians, enjoyed his eloquent prose via former Chief Police Commissioner, Ken Lay. He is, in fact, one of my favourite Australian commentators on matters of policy and current affairs (this absolutely slam dunk piece on family violence being a prime example: https://www.thesaturdaypaper.com.au/news/law-crime/2015/08/08/the-hidden-politics-family-violence/14389560002224).
So, it is with a heavy heart that I report that this book sucks.
I think when you take on a true crime story without having access to the key players (in this case, the killer, his family and a key witness from the night) you not only face significant obstacles in making your book credible and worth publishing, you also confront significant additional responsibilities to glean absolutely every crumb of information you can to justify your inevitable need to fill gaps with speculation. It demands discipline in maintaining an open and impartial mind and resisting the temptation to warp your interpretation based on the narrow access that one does gain (in this case, the victim's family). I think Martin sadly failed on this front.
To me, this book read as absolute classic 'vibing' drawing disproportionately from Martin's own dramatised adolescence, his brother's (tenuous?) familiarity with the killer and the painfully obvious (albeit unashamed) empathy and rapport he developed with Rebecca's parents. The prose is overwrought but the substance undercooked - with boring tangents, the repetitious drilling of the themes of misspent youths and misdirected masculinity (lest you miss it!) culminating in the painfully embarrassing and inauthentic attempt of Martin to embody the killer's mindset at the end as he lays out his theory of events, which was basically the Crown case with no further insights. Le sigh.
It is a true shame as I believe Martin is a beautiful and incisive writer, commentator and speechwriter. He doesn't shy away from the difficult issues or the things that people don't like to acknowledge or talk about, which is why I was so disappointed to read a two-dimensional rendering of information largely already available on the public record, with a little bit of extra Perth yoof context and justifiable empathy for the family thrown in. His writing, which can be so beautiful and evocative, was overwrought, unnecessarily dense and had all the literary restraint of a sledgehammer. Helen Garner's successor he is not.
Despite this, I will continue to consume everything Martin puts out and hope he'll publish a second book that truly demonstrates his talents. It's a shame that his publisher didn't send him back to the drawing board to ensure his debut was the show-stopper it should have been.
So, it is with a heavy heart that I report that this book sucks.
I think when you take on a true crime story without having access to the key players (in this case, the killer, his family and a key witness from the night) you not only face significant obstacles in making your book credible and worth publishing, you also confront significant additional responsibilities to glean absolutely every crumb of information you can to justify your inevitable need to fill gaps with speculation. It demands discipline in maintaining an open and impartial mind and resisting the temptation to warp your interpretation based on the narrow access that one does gain (in this case, the victim's family). I think Martin sadly failed on this front.
To me, this book read as absolute classic 'vibing' drawing disproportionately from Martin's own dramatised adolescence, his brother's (tenuous?) familiarity with the killer and the painfully obvious (albeit unashamed) empathy and rapport he developed with Rebecca's parents. The prose is overwrought but the substance undercooked - with boring tangents, the repetitious drilling of the themes of misspent youths and misdirected masculinity (lest you miss it!) culminating in the painfully embarrassing and inauthentic attempt of Martin to embody the killer's mindset at the end as he lays out his theory of events, which was basically the Crown case with no further insights. Le sigh.
It is a true shame as I believe Martin is a beautiful and incisive writer, commentator and speechwriter. He doesn't shy away from the difficult issues or the things that people don't like to acknowledge or talk about, which is why I was so disappointed to read a two-dimensional rendering of information largely already available on the public record, with a little bit of extra Perth yoof context and justifiable empathy for the family thrown in. His writing, which can be so beautiful and evocative, was overwrought, unnecessarily dense and had all the literary restraint of a sledgehammer. Helen Garner's successor he is not.
Despite this, I will continue to consume everything Martin puts out and hope he'll publish a second book that truly demonstrates his talents. It's a shame that his publisher didn't send him back to the drawing board to ensure his debut was the show-stopper it should have been.
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