Prologue

Over at this blog's mothership, Cultural Snow, I've discussed a persistent problem that writers face, in a post-canonical universe: how high or low should they pitch their work? Take too much for granted, and readers will feel out of their depth; go in the opposite direction, and they'll feel as if you're insulting their intelligence. Essentially, everyone has their own safety zone, where they feel that they understand what's going on, but they're not being spoon-fed. And, even before the action gets going, The Da Vinci Code falls below my bottom line.

"Louvre Museum, Paris". As distinct from the Louvre in Ashby-de-la-Zouch, you mean? This is the "brain-teasing adventure" that we've been promised, is it? The "blockbuster with brains", as heralded by the Ottawa Citizen? Still, at least he didn't put "Paris, France".

Anyway, we're here now, after 16 pages of background and backslapping. And, like Steve Harmison, Dan Brown screws up with his very first delivery.

"Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery."

There's a pretty good rule of thumb for writers of fiction: where possible, don't tell us, show us. Unless you want to be an omnipresent narrator, hovering over the action like a metafictional Santa, dividing the characters into naughty and nice, just show us what happens, and leave us to infer the value judgements for ourselves. But, no, if we can't be expected to know that the Louvre is in Paris, how can we be trusted to work out that a character is renowned? Or, indeed, a curator? Incidentally, at least two more of Brown's novels introduce a character with the job-name formula, although physicist Leonardo Vetra (Angels and Demons) and geologist Charles Brophy (Deception Point) have to manage without renown. They are, however, murdered in creative and unpleasant manners. Not that Brown is formulaic in any way?

It gets worse. Dear God, does nobody edit anything any more? "A thundering iron gate..." How does a gate thunder, precisely? "A voice spoke..." Voices don't speak, people do. "The mountainous silhouette of his attacker... with ghost-pale skin and thinning white hair. His irises were pink with dark red pupils." If he's a silhouette, you wouldn't be able to see what colour his skin or hair or eyes are, surely? This is dark and stormy night stuff, clunky and inept. And we're still on the first page.

Stylistic and logical quibbles aside, it's a good, arresting start. An old man being pursued through the Louvre by a gun-toting albino monk. Different, to say the least. And we're not handed everything on a plate. What's the lie that Saunière recites? More importantly, what's thr truth it conceals? Who are the sénéchaux that protect it? There's enough to be getting on with, at least until Chapter 1.

But the imbecility of the writing just lumbers on. "The gun roared..." Do pistols really roar? Cannons roar, but pistols? "...his thoughts a swirling tempest of fear and regret." Jesus. "The curator's eyes flew open." Flew? "...smirking calmly..." Is that physically possible? "A collection of the world's most famous paintings seemed to smile down on him like old friends." What the hell does that mean? And, if the poor, stupid reader isn't expected to know where the Louvre is, how is s/he supposed to know what la Guerre d'Algérie might be about? I do like "Pain is good, monsieur", though. Like an albino Gordon Gekko. Intriguing.

Already, a pattern seems to be emerging. Brown has some unusual, interesting ideas. He has the notion of a good story developing. However, he has the writing skills of an enthusiastic twelve-year-old who's read a couple of Harry Potters and thought, "I can do that."

Anyway, let's leave the renowned curator drowning in his own stomach acid with only Caravaggio and that pesky secret to console him. Our hero awaits.