I just finished Clive Cussler’s latest “Dirk Pitt” novel. I’ve been reading them for decades, pretty much each and every one of them. At least I wait for them to come out in paperback.
Each time I read them, they seem to get lamer and lamer (no mean feat, given some of his recent ones). The same formulaic plot (an ancient mystery mixed with historical adventures from the last century or two followed by hero Dirk rescuing dozens or thousands of people from certain death, especially the babealicious scientist woman. All within the first 60 pages.
Then follows a tortuous plot involving evil mad scientists following an ancient religion, or forgotten civilizations rising again or shadow governments hiring evil mad scientists to make forgotten civilizations rise again, until Dirk has to personally take charge to rescue the aforementioned babealicious scientist woman yet again, drive fancy cars and boats and planes, and physically stomp the evil ones into submission.
But now Cussler has introduced Dirk’s son, Dirk. And now when both Dirk and Dirk are in the room together, one gets called Dirk and one gets called Pitt and I’m never sure which one is called which anymore.
Then Dirk’s daughter, Summer, was described as “rolling her eyes and looking at the floor”. This made me realize how bankrupt the author’s prose really was. Basically he had one or two good stories to tell, and he’s told them about 2 dozen times!
I don’t know why I’m such a slow learner. Why have I kept returning to that dreadful series? It’s not even a guilty pleasure, it’s a nasty compulsion.
Please note that I’m dissing Cussler’s writing, not the man himself. I am somewhat in awe of his real life adventures; if the stories about them actually reflect true events he’s a hell of a guy.
Just had to get that off my chest.