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All you have to know about ANGEL IN THE HOUSE is that absolutely nothing happens for the first 100 or so pages and that it's not quite as clever as it thinks it is. The book is generally too wordy, too clunky and with too much explanation. Devoting the first page of a chapter, just when the action should be hotting up, to the minutiae of Trabant cars, is self-indulgent writing, to say the least. Having said that, the second half of the book is an improvement on the first, with some mildly amusing bits, and if you've followed the series to date, you'll no doubt enjoy this latest addition. I have a vague memory of reading earlier books long ago and far away, but they obviously didn't grab me enough to keep up with the series. And maybe these earlier books explain the tiresome relationship between hero Roy Angel and his wife Amy May, which in this one seems to be based on her nagging and him swinging the lead. I apologise now for the UK-centric reference, but reading ANGEL IN THE HOUSE is like watching the Benny Hill Show. Humour based on sending up nagging wives, dim blondes and gays went out with the ark, though. So if you like slapstick humour and sexism, you'll do fine with this book. There's no little bald bloke being slapped round the head, though -- you'll have to make do with some rather violent Russians instead. The plot's flimsy, not surprisingly, as Ripley seems more interested in being a smart-arse. Angel becomes a reluctant PI when his pregnant wife sends him out to work for the firm she owns. His first job is tracking down who's smuggling botox out of a seemingly secure factory. He then ends up careering round Paris with half the Eastern bloc in tow, as you do. And he has a weird family lurking in the background to cause him more grief. The book's saving grace is some sharp lines buried amidst the waffle, and one or two engaging characters. I liked Jane Bond the Aston Martin-driving estate agent, and Misha the jolly Russian with a penchant for Trabant cars. But after a while you start to realise that Ripley can only write men. Now, don't get me wrong -- a lot of the blokes are prats as well -- but the constant portrayal of women as airheads, psychos or shrews gets old very quickly.
Reviewed by Sharon Wheeler, August 2005
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Contact: Yvonne Klein (ymk@reviewingtheevidence.com)
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