Rating: 
Summary: Review
Review: This is, said to be, the last in a long line of thrillers from author Dick Francis. This story centers around a middle-aged glassblower living in England. He is, early in the book, troubled by the death of his friend Martin. The jockey dies in a freak accident right in the middle of a race he was shore to win. MArtin leaves behind family, friends, and an entire community of race-goers only days before the turn of the second millenium. But to Gerard Logan's suprise he i sleft a mysterious package that is, within one night, stolen from him along with a large sum of money.
Francis offers us an array of multidimensional characters. Most fit into the typical "thriller" genre mold. Throw in a couple of nice, seemingly innocent people, with a love intrest and a gang of criminals and you have Shattered.
most of the characters are not without their faults, even the main character Gerard Logan has an air of confidence that can easily come off as arrogance. Let's just say some of them wouldn't make it through the final cut of a Walt Disney rendition.Gerard Logan: Main character, has a nack for doing a little investigating on his own Martin Stuckley: A jockey who dies leaving behind a mysterious videotape that a lot of people seem to want. He has an attractive wife that pleads for the attention of Gerard throughout the bnook. Catherine Dodd: A rugged street cop who quickly becomes Gerard's love intrest. Rose: A pretty bitter woman out for only her own good. Watch out for this one. The plot is nothing you've never seen beofre, Gerard finds a clue, cracks it, and finds another one, it's basically one long search for a videotape, but inbetween there are some good plot twist that keep you reading.All in all the book was an exciting escape, but I would only recommend it to those who find themselves with too much time on the weekends. Other than that I'd leave this one to the self.
Rating:
Summary: Not His Best Work
Review: To start, I should say that I've been reading Dick Francis for twenty-five years, give or take a couple. I think I've read each and every one of his forty or so books, and have read most two or three times. Francis started out writing strictly horsey mysteries--jockeys, trainers, stablehands, owners, then moved out further and further into other professional and personal worlds, all the while maintaining some link to British horse racing. The clump of books in the sixties, including Nerve, Enquiry, Dead Cert, and Forfeit really pulse with that best of the writer's creations, a world, a walk of life, fully realized. Clearly, Francis was writing from his own knowledge of a world he'd known intimately as a jockey in the fifties, and of which he was still a part. In the Seventies, Francis did a wise thing--with able research assistance from his wife (I apologize for blanking on her name at the moment--she has recently passed on, by the way), he linked other occupations (inventor, photographer, hostage negotiator, portrait painter, accountant) to racing in a seamless way that made us feel we were now walking through two worlds. By the time he wrote Reflex in the early eighties, he had added intricate plot twists (always a feature, actually) and strong, complex character development and interaction (a bit more than his classic stoic loner who stood the test through so many of the first two decades of novels) to his repertoire. The Eighties books--Reflex, Break-in, Bolt, The Danger, Hot Money, Banker, Twice Shy, etc., are the work of an author maintaining his peak for a surprising length of time. But now we have seen the nineties and are into the two-thousands. Second Wind and Shattered represent the decline of a real craftsman. The villains have cruder, less plausible motivations-Francis was never one for subtle villains (except, maybe Risk), but now they are cartoon characters, full of obsession and menace. The technical writing skill is there but there are outlandish plots married to it (especially Second Wind!). The twists are less sophisticated, the romances too easy, the main character's inner conflict not as palpable. And the classic Francis ingredient, horses, is barely there. Shattered is not worth your money--but go back to the sixties and seventies and eighties, and feast on a master. Or buy Field of Thirteen, his collection of short stories, which show a more subtle witty side of Dick Francis--a wonderful showcase for some other talents he held back in his more mainstream, blockbuster work. For thirty-five years, Francis was a true craftsman, capable of real inspiration at times, and always a satisfying read. I'm afraid I can't say that any longer. Everyone slows down; I give him thanks for a wonderful body of work.
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