There is a commercial featuring a little boy, baseball hat sitting backwards on his head, bat across his shoulder, baseball in his hand, loudly proclaiming himself the greatest hitter in the world. Then he tosses the ball into the air, winds up, and takes a mighty hack at the ball that would make Casey proud. And misses. Strike one. Not deterred, he tries again. Same routine. Proclaims himself the greatest hitter in the world, tosses up the ball, swings. And misses. Strike two. Can you see where this going?
On to the third try, he pauses, lowers the bat, spits into his hands and rubs them together, turns his hat around, before yodeling his mantra of being the greatest hitter in the world. Another toss, another big swing. And another miss. Strike three. Mighty Casey has struck out. He pauses, looking down at the ball, a cowhide-covered reminder of his batting ineptitude. Then, an epiphany; his face brightens. There is joy in Mudville. He’s not the greatest hitter in the world; he’s the greatest pitcher in the world. A fact he now loudly trumpets to an empty baseball diamond, birds trilling a happy song in the background. End scene. Fade to black.
And the point of this commercial? It’s summarized by the tagline that follows, Optimism: Pass It On! Really, I’m not joking. It’s an unusual pitch (pun totally intended), because commercials normally sell cars, and radios, and Bagel Bites. Not optimism.
So if we need commercials promoting optimism, what’s that say about our world? Maybe that reality is mostly Hobbesian-nasty, ugly and pessimistic. Anyone who watches the parade of evil featured on the evening news will reaffirm that conclusion. People can try to sell optimism, but there aren’t a whole lot of people buying. (Bagel Bites are another story; stores can’t keep those stocked.)
Which leaves us with a world with little optimism, where hope’s as rare as a wet mummy fart, and promise comes before the knife in the back. What kind of world is that? Well, that’s Joe Abercrombie’s world. Thankfully, he’s kind enough to let us visit. Just don’t touch anything.
Calling Abercrombie’s latest novel Best Served Cold pessimistic totally understates the brutality and depravity found within, the evil that lurks in its literary heart. The novel goes beyond pessimism, this is nihilistic fantasy. And by being nihilistic, it seems closer to our reality than other epic fantasies, a truer reflection of the ugly emotions and attitudes found in everyday life. Life in Best Served Cold isn’t simple; it isn’t good versus evil. Life here is shades of psychotic and indifferent gray fighting each other for immoral supremacy, and no side appears to be winning.
Sociopaths run rampant in Abercrombie’s world, killing, backstabbing, and destroying anything even remotely honorable. Emotional connections are rare, and trust is generally non-existent. Having these social misfits get together like a misguided Marvel superhero team-up comic is a huge part of the novel’s delicious fun. It’s guaranteed that if you put sociopaths together and make them interact with each other, mayhem and crazy things will happen. And by mayhem and crazy things, I mean massive amounts of murder, betrayal and wanton destruction. So it should be no surprise that mayhem and crazy things do happen in Best Served Cold. Lots of crazy things.
Revenge. Monza Murcatto wants it. And for good reason: she’s not a big fan of being betrayed; it ranks high on her That Sucks meter. Seven men tried to kill her, tossing her down a mountain, leaving her for dead. Those seven men failed. Now seven men must die. No matter what the situation. No matter what the circumstances. Determination, thy name is Monza; she’s more pugnacious than an amphetamine popping bulldog. And colder than the Angel of Death eating a Popsicle.
Following up on his wonderful First Law trilogy, Abercrombie proves two things with Best Served Cold. One: that he has cut out his own unique niche in the genre, namely dark, nihilistic fantasy that loves itself some gratuitous sex and violence. And two: he’s only capable of writing incredibly entertaining books that are so enjoyable they snugly dwell in the realm of awesomeness. If he’s written a bad book, Best Served Cold ain’t it. Better luck next time Joe.
Abercrombie steadily matured as a writer during the First Law trilogy, and Best Served Cold represents another jump in his maturation process. His characterizations, which have always been incredible, have significantly improved. Characters feel emotionally fuller, something necessary if you are going to believe in the entire revenge angle. I wouldn’t care about Monza lopping heads off, if I didn’t buy her burning desire to have her revenge. The chapters, which play out much like film scenes, are tighter and more focused than previous novels, to the point of being nearly self-contained. And that’s important since Best Served Cold resembles a film more than an epic fantasy, a spiritual sibling to Charles Bronson or Quentin Tarantino movies. It’s a posturing, sneering, murderous book with only wickedness on its mind that struts around like a serial killer through Gen Pop. You don’t know whether to read it, or to stay away, worried that if you don’t it’ll shiv you in the shower.
Occasionally the book drags, as it struggles with the simplicity of its story. Keeping a plot line centered around revenge fresh and interesting for over six hundred pages is a mighty task, one which Abercrombie mostly succeeds at, but there were times when I wished the pace would quicken.
Every one of Joe Abercrombie’s books I’ve read, I’ve loved. The darkest of the subject matter greatly appeals to me. See, gratuitous sex, violence and pessimism is my cap nip, which then has not surprisingly placed Joe in the upper echelon of my favorite fantasy writers. So I’m incredibly biased. But I’m also optimistic. Optimistic that, given the chance, you will love this book. Now isn’t optimism grand?
Optimism: Pass It On!
Book Review - Best Served Cold by Joe Abercrombie
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