0 starsMartina Cole, writer of around twenty books and winner of numerous literary awards. The praise for her work is immense, and it seems that she can do no wrong when ti comes to writing, so you can imagine my delight when I discover a lone Martina Cole novel lying forlornly on the shelf (well, rotating standy thing, to be precise) of my local library. Looking at Faces, the cover - a shot of a fragile looking woman with a trendy bob flanked by two stereotypical gangsters who are reminiscent of a thinner, scarier version of the Mitchell brothers - doesn’t particularly stand out or seem remarkable in any way, and the blurb doesn’t really grab the reader’s attention, but nonetheless, I decide to take a chance due to the glowing accolades I’ve heard about Miss Cole’s work.
Sadly, I was left distinctly disappointed by my first taste of her work and couldn’t even make it to the end - and believe me you, that’s a thing I do often. Faces starts okay-ish, but quickly goes downhill, with far too much talking and not enough action - it’s not executed snappily enough for my liking. Don’t get me wrong - I’m not just all about the fast car chases ad violence, but when I’m only a quarter of the way through and I find myself reading the same story or memory for the tenth time, that’s got to be a sure sign that Cole has gone far too heavy on the reiterating.
Another thing that annoyed me - aside from Cole’s seemingly dense writing manner - was the use of language. I know she was probably trying to authentic in using the proper London lingo, if you’re like me you won’t be able to translate “raspberry” into “cripple” as you won’t know it’s a shortened version of “raspberry ripple”, which can lead t a lot of confusion as the antagonist’s father is repeatedly referred to as a fruit. In addition, I’m sure I’m not the only who has never heard London branded “the Smoke” before, nor ever known a “face” to be anything but two eyes and a mouth. Moreover, there is a distinct lack of likeable characters. I don’t expect everybody in a story like this to be all happy and like skipping round in circles whilst singing a jolly tune, but there should have been more of a balance. Danny Cadogan is portrayed perfectly, showing no remorse and appearing cold and detached, but Mary, who we’re supposed to feel sorry for comes across as desperate and wallowing in self pity. Her brother fairs no better - he obviously disagrees with his friend’s violent ways and yet says nothing. Maybe the later sections of the book saw the arrival of some decent characters, or at least the attempt of some character development, but I wouldn’t know - I didn’t stick around to find out.
The book isn’t all bad - there are a few glimpses of the spectacular writing talent I’d come to expect from her: the scene in which Danny batters a young prostitute and where he “rescues” a teenage Mary particularly shines out as Cole’s pacing is quick, and hr description intense and gritty, so much so that even the strongest of minds will be left feeling slightly queasy and on edge. Bearing that in mind, those with a weak stomach may be put off slightly by Cole’s vivid description of torture and violence - you’ll never look at an apple peeler the same way again and reading about one being use to blind someone. However, these fantastic moments are few in number, and get bogged down by Cole’s tendency to be dense when writing bridges between key scenes.
Martina Cole, the woman who tells it like it really is? Well, if this is how it is, I don’t want to know.
However, after reading several Amazon reviews, it seems that most diehard Cole fans are quick to stress that Faces is by far one of Cole’s weakest books, and that her writing skill should be judged on this alone, so perhaps a visit to Cole’s earlier work is in order.
