The Sentence is Death (Hawthorne #2)

It was probably a mistake to read The Sentence Is Death immediately after finishing The Word Is Murder, which I enjoyed immensely. Though Horowitz is a highly literate craftsman, I sensed that in this follow-up novel he was already slipping into easy formulas, both in plot construction and in the characterizations of his protagonists. What was fresh and original in The Word now often struck me as contrived. There’s needless repetition in The Sentence along with some tiresome minor characters who add little to the story. I’ll be sure to take a break before I return to this series. Perhaps Mr. Horowitz should do the same.

If you like Anthony Horowitz this book will not Disappoint, I would Recommend reading the other hawthorn book before this one

Let’s just say it upfront, lest the one-star rating didn’t tip you off: “The Sentence Is Death” is a terrible book. Yes, I see the abundance of four and five star reviews here so make of this what you will. In the meantime, I’ll say it again because it bears repeating. “The Sentence Is Death” is a terrible book.

Anthony Horowitz distinguished himself as one of the writers of the original episodes of “Midsomer Murders”, as well as being the creator of “Foyles War”. Both are highly entertaining, much-loved and well deserving of their longevity. Not having read Horowitz’s children’s books, I can’t speak to their contents but they also seem to be well-regarded. However, I have read “The Magpie Murders”, “The Word Is Murder”, and now, “The Sentence Is Death”. And it is obvious that what sparkles and thrills onscreen falls flat on the page.

I got through most of “Magpie Murders” fairly quickly on a flight to Spain, although I almost immediately forgot what I’d read once I finished. Later, “The Word Is Murder” proved to be a tougher go since it was apparently the beginning of a new meta-mystery series featuring the author, himself (or some variation thereof) and a new detective creation who was distinctly underwhelming.

I finished reading “The Sentence Is Death” a couple of nights ago and I have to say that, when I finally got to the last page, I felt like a life sentence had been commuted. Some books require a small celebration once a challenging journey is satisfactorily concluded. The works of Alain Robbe-Grillet or Borges immediately come to mind. Make no mistake, finishing up “The Sentence Is Death” leaves one yearning for something far stronger than a simple glass of Miss Marple’s sherry.

The problems with “The Sentence Is Death” are amplified (seemingly tenfold) from Horowitz’s previous problematic effort. The characters are paper-thin and never seem to be anything other than constructs that fail to come alive. Horowitz seems intent on presenting himself as the bumbling assistant to the “brilliant” Detective Hawthorne, but neither of them are remotely believable or even all that interesting. Hawthorne’s homophobia and sexism, among other abysmal characteristics, are much-discussed but there’s scant evidence to back any of this up. To be sure, the detective is completely awful, but awful in the way of a despicable character in a second-rate TV show or cartoon: there’s no depth, and what few slim hints we’re offered regarding this man’s inner life don’t really add up to anything substantial. Hawthorne should be larger than life, he should leap off the page. Instead, he irritates and grates in the least gratifying ways for a reader, because he’s just a composite, an idea, a congregation of words splayed across far too many pages to sustain a novel, much less a series. And by making himself appear to be such a nimrod, Horowitz hasn’t done himself any favors, either.

The supporting characters in the book don’t fare any better, although, by necessity, they appear with much less frequency than the star players. Some of these characters have great potential, and the best are all suspects in the murder of a celebrity divorce lawyer that sets the (admittedly intriguing) plot in motion. Unfortunately, the drama-prone poet, her wealthy ex, a noted designer and the dead man’s husband are yet more examples of squandered potential, of characters who never seem real.

I could probably be okay with all the above had the author presented these people and the central mystery in an entertaining or lively manner. The problem is he doesn’t. The book doesn’t move; it’s stifling and dull, and Mr. Horowitz exhibits a writing style much akin to watching whiskers grow. Reading this book made the minutes fly by like hours, and I’m certain I felt the grey creeping into my hair as time seemed to stall and dawdle.

Anthony Horowitz is obviously an extremely talented and accomplished individual but, for me, his skills do not translate well to the page. This will be my last fling with a Horowitz novel but I’m happy that he has his fans who are untroubled by negative reviews.

Anthony Horowitz is a clever writer and never more than with this little gem where he inserts himself into a novel as the Watson to Hawthorne, a fictional ex-detective with a mysterious past. Or, conversely, Horowitz combines his own life with a fictional one – a situation that might be confusing left in the hands of a less talented writer. The author is on the set of a real television series for which is the real writer, Foyle’s War. Along comes Hawthorne who whisks him away from a real television set about a fictional detective to accompany him to the set of a fictional crime. A divorce attorney has been bludgeoned to death with an expensive bottle of champagne and Hawthorne has been called in to investigate by higher ups who do not trust the detective in charge, Cara Grunshaw. Grunshaw is a blustering overweight bully with an equally incompetent assistant. If this book series ever becomes a television series, Roseanne Barr or Rosie O’Donnell would be great Grunshaws. The suspect pool, at first rather small, grows rather large and, of course, the author leads the readers through his own conclusions (always well thought out but wrong), his blunders as he tries to keep both Grunshaw and Hawthorne happy, failing at both. It’s loads of fun with more plots than a cemetery. At the end of this whodunit, it appears Horowitz threw a dart a board with the suspects’ names on it and whoever he hit was the one as every suspect had the motive and opportunity. Woven into the novel are references to Sherlock Holmes, Japanese haiku, expensive wine collections and where they are kept, and lots of other amusing details. Also, of course, Horowitz throws in some scenes from real life. A delightful read.

While a fairly well paced whodunit, Im still sort of put-off by author Anthony Horowitz putting himself as a character in his own book. As I wrote about in the first book in this series, The Word is Murder, I find it a distracting element. Again, he sometimes puts himself in a position of looking like an idiot.

As all books in this genre, The Sentence is Death has many twists and turns, a few red herrings, and everyone with a motive for murder. Daniel Hawthorne, the ex-cop that Horowitzs hyper-reality version of himself tags along with, remains somewhat of an unlikable character. His sexism, his homophobia appears to be justified and accepted, if only because hes brilliant detective. He, and fellow cops Cara Grunshaw and DC Mills, are fairly awful people, but not in a creative, realistic way; theyre awful because the story requires them to be terrible human beings (I mean, why are Mills and Grunshaw so hostile theres never a reason given). We also get a few drips and drabs of Hawthornes personal life, but in the end, they dont add up to anything. I know the British writers have a tendency to put unlikable heros front and center because it makes them flawed individuals, but it also has a tendency to make them look like two-dimensional cartoon characters if not done right. And at times all three detectives come off as jerks, with again- no reason given for their personal flaws. So they grate on ones nerves which a reader should not be put through.

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