Don’t Point That Thing At
Me is an irreverent romp through the seedier side
of London’s art scene with the foppish Charlie Mortdecai as our guide. Written
in first person narrative Mortdecai often speaks conspiratorially to the
reader, including us in in-jokes that we can’t always understand, suggesting
that we would agree with some of his morally questionable opinions. He is cocky, wealthy,
and judgmental – attempting to trick those he does not like into revealing
their ignorance of the finer things in life. What he lacks in physical aptitude
is balanced out by his manservant/live-in thug Jock. He seems to be one of the
few people that Charlie has any lasting affection for and in some scenes their
relationship has moments rather surprisingly bordering on tenderness.
The plot is somewhat all over the place as Charlie crosses
continents in an attempt to deliver a stolen Goya. He proves himself to be
inept and cowardly at times, Jock displaying unshakable loyalty as they find themselves
in rather sticky situations. There is so much that is farcical in their tale
that the moments of sincerity are often mistrusted.
Despite the alcoholic, misogynistic narrator whose belief system
would have been outdated at the time of original publication, you can’t help
but smile at moments while reading this. His brazen behaviour in the face of his
nemesis Inspector Martland and the simple yet cunning techniques he uses to
cover his crimes are amusing. There’s just about enough intrigue to keep your
interest but the story arc is not strong enough to be truly gripping. Humour,
snobbishness, and peril abound in this easy, light read that isn’t likely to
linger long after reading.
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