Tom Clancy has died
at age 66, which means that the shelves of “military thrillers” that he pretty
well pioneered is going to be left to lesser writers, of the
testosterone-infused cookie-cutter variety. Clancy had a style and a
verisimilitude to his writing that I expect will not be easy to replace.
I read his debut
novel, The Hunt for Red October, when
it was in galley proofs and being shopped around Hollywood. Pretty heady stuff
for a first effort, and for something coming out of the Naval Institute Press.
It’s not really my cup of tequila, but Clancy completely grabbed me with the pace.
Seriously—it was indeed a page turner.
I have to say that
the film eventually made (not by my employer) was a disappointment; for one
thing, it never really was a hunt at all, the way it was in the book. The
suspense factor was considerably lower. Plus—well, I like Connery fine, but his
Scottish accent as Captain Ramius was just distracting. (Well—maybe that was
just their way of showing that he was a Lithuanian amongst Russians? No,
probably not.)
Clancy kind of
disappeared up his own stealth propulsion system as his career progressed, but—fair dues—he was a storyteller
of style and verve.
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