Book 5: Blackout

Deadline

Mira Grant

And so continues Mira Grant's zombie epic, following the survivors from Feed as they dig deeper into government conspiracies and the science behind their brand of the living dead. Though the book often suffers from its narrator, who's often just a bit too far off the reservation (though understandably so), a (somewhat) new supporting cast allows Grant to probe more deeply into her meticulously thorough post-zombie world. The narrator's newfound psychosis is understandable from a psychological viewpoint, but the asides can sometimes become a bit tiresome to characters and readers alike, realistic though they may be. But the story must go on, and Grant wastes no time launching directly into a do-or-die plot that reintroduces plenty of characters from the previous installment, though a few notable names are bafflingly missing. Like its predecessor, Deadline is often more compelling for the wholeness of Grant's vision more than its plot per se, though there is plenty of conspiracy-chasing and zombie-battling. Here, too, however, are the lengthy explanatory passages that prove Grant's imaginative genius but occasionally belie her writing or plotting. Though the characters occasionally make an appreciated meta remark about the propensity of antagonists to describe their evil plots, their self-awareness doesn't quite excuse the author's dependence on this kind of expository passage. The novel isn't quite as much of a high-octane adventure as a slightly paranoid scientific exploration, but it is strangely compelling. Though the more active incidents seem to be carefully paced, they enliven what is, at its heart, a more contemplative book. More intriguingly, Grant seems to view zombies as a means to explore larger political and moral themes, and this book treats neither with kid gloves. Despite the cast's wishes, there are no easy answers, and the coda opens the door for even more layers of nuanced complexity. Sure, some plot devices are too convenient and sure, there may be too few or too many zombie battles for readers at the periphery, but Grant's work consistently proves that genre fiction, and even extremely stereotyped tropes like zombies, can be an unparalleled testing ground for new ideas and new ways to explore some of the messier issues inherent in the human condition. Deadline doesn't offer as many pleasant surprises as Feed, but it is a worthy sequel and a good pivot point as the series moves from zombie-poking adventures into deep ethical quandaries.

Grade: A-

Book 4: Deadline

Deadline

Mira Grant

And so continues Mira Grant's zombie epic, following the survivors from Feed as they dig deeper into government conspiracies and the science behind their brand of the living dead. Though the book often suffers from its narrator, who's often just a bit too far off the reservation (though understandably so), a (somewhat) new supporting cast allows Grant to probe more deeply into her meticulously thorough post-zombie world. The narrator's newfound psychosis is understandable from a psychological viewpoint, but the asides can sometimes become a bit tiresome to characters and readers alike, realistic though they may be. But the story must go on, and Grant wastes no time launching directly into a do-or-die plot that reintroduces plenty of characters from the previous installment, though a few notable names are bafflingly missing. Like its predecessor, Deadline is often more compelling for the wholeness of Grant's vision more than its plot per se, though there is plenty of conspiracy-chasing and zombie-battling. Here, too, however, are the lengthy explanatory passages that prove Grant's imaginative genius but occasionally belie her writing or plotting. Though the characters occasionally make an appreciated meta remark about the propensity of antagonists to describe their evil plots, their self-awareness doesn't quite excuse the author's dependence on this kind of expository passage. The novel isn't quite as much of a high-octane adventure as a slightly paranoid scientific exploration, but it is strangely compelling. Though the more active incidents seem to be carefully paced, they enliven what is, at its heart, a more contemplative book. More intriguingly, Grant seems to view zombies as a means to explore larger political and moral themes, and this book treats neither with kid gloves. Despite the cast's wishes, there are no easy answers, and the coda opens the door for even more layers of nuanced complexity. Sure, some plot devices are too convenient and sure, there may be too few or too many zombie battles for readers at the periphery, but Grant's work consistently proves that genre fiction, and even extremely stereotyped tropes like zombies, can be an unparalleled testing ground for new ideas and new ways to explore some of the messier issues inherent in the human condition. Deadline doesn't offer as many pleasant surprises as Feed, but it is a worthy sequel and a good pivot point as the series moves from zombie-poking adventures into deep ethical quandaries.

Grade: A-

Book 3: Feed

Feed

Mira Grant

Zombies, as a storytelling device, are a bit hard to pull off convincingly. Thanks to the likes of George Romero and a recent resurgence in all things walking dead, the shambling monsters are associated with a number of tropes, and readers need to be instantly aware of which rules apply and, to a lesser extent, why in a given work. If there's one thing that Mira Grant absolutely excels at, it is more-realistic-than-reality world-building. Though Feed, the first novel in a trilogy, often resorts to expository asides, the depth of the world they reveal is enviable. The zombie-filled intervening years between our present and the novel's are familiar, with plausible social, political, and technological developments littered throughout the story. Too many of these appear in blatant statements to the reader (and, somewhat bafflingly, in reprinted blog posts by the main characters), but they are extremely deliberate and contribute to an enveloping sense of setting, one that can bleed into readers' perceptions of their own world (or at least mine). Moreover, the characters very clearly descend from our own cultural environment- they are aware of current (and past) zombie films and literature, and refer to cult figures like George Romero as societal heroes, a vanguard linking our present to theirs. From the first high-speed chase to the melancholy epilogue, readers are present in every single moment, even those that seem drawn out or far too convenient. Grant expertly draws us in immediately and there is never a compelling reason to leave the narrative world.

Grant's admirable attention to scene-setting detail covers up many of Feed's narrative flaws and makes for a gripping, addictive novel despite a somewhat plodding, predictable plot. Feed never quite effectively balances its exposition and plot, and never quite effectively becomes the political thriller it seemingly intends to be. Plot twists occur to the reader a few beats before the book gets around to them, and while the key deaths do carry an emotional impact, they are telegraphed just too far ahead of time to retain all of their raw power. The characters themselves are realistic and likable, even if the politicos two too easily to easy, established tropes, and the politics, while exaggerated, are not unreasonably simplified. Yet, somehow, the strength of the world makes the novel nearly impossible to put down, not, perhaps, due to a tension that never reaches its full potential, but instead a result of the painstaking attention to small details. Sure, the supplementary blog posts by main characters are often insultingly thin disguises for extra exposition, but the narrator's sarcasm and skepticism make these necessary asides not only bearable but occasionally enjoyable, a cynic's perspective on a world we are meant to feel cynical about. The book takes the zombie trope and, lovingly, runs with it, plays with it, takes a straightforward look at the world we live in now, and synthesizes it into an engrossing, if not high-octane, almost-thriller. Feed surmounts all of the challenges it faces by being compelling and thorough; in the end, the flaws don't matter, and the book is one of the most memorable and enjoyable reading experiences I've had in a long time.

Grade: A

Book 2: The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

Edited by Harlan Coben

As series editor Otto Penzler repeatedly says in his introductions to the annual Best American Mystery Stories volumes, the modern mystery genre is hardly limited to Homes-esque detective stories, matter-of-fact police procedurals, and noir. While it is somewhat disappointing that so few of these stories do appear in the 2011 offering, its examples, Loren D. Estelman's "Sometimes a Hyena" and  Max Allan Collins's "A Long Time Dead," the latter a continuation of Mickey Spillane's notes for an unfinished Max Hammer story, are well-chosen and exemplify the strengths of the sub-genre. Readers need not be familiar with the story's pre-existing central characters to appreciate the plot twists and hard-nosed protagonists. Despite the skill behind these tales and S. J. Rozan's "Chin Yong-Yun Takes a Case," a similar story of detection, the bulk of these stories take a different tack, often focusing on the criminals rather than those who catch them. Among these are some of the best stories among an impressively strong and varied group, each with a unique take on crime and criminality that contributes to a holistic understanding of the genre and, perhaps, a more nuanced look at human nature. These stories range from the sympathetic to the damning as readers take an exhilarating peek behind a hitman's shoulder ("The Hitter," Chris F. Holm), learn why a serial rapist-and-murderer is driven to such deeds ("Clean Slate," Lawrence Block), and watch a complex terrorist plot come together ("Destiny City," James Grady).

These are just a few of the most instantly memorable works from a collection that, impossibly, has no duds. As expected, some stories linger longer than others, but the remarkable variation from story-to-story will leave readers hooked, and the collection functions as an introduction to modern mystery fiction as well as an essential grouping for longtime fans. Far from focusing on traditional plot-driven procedurals (not that there's anything wrong with that), guest editor Harlan Coben has pieced together a group of stories that would, for the most part, fit right alongside any "literary fiction" gems the year should produce (though, shamefully, none appear in the book's litfic counterpart). Genre fiction is misunderstood and, quite frankly, goes places that straightforward fiction cannot and often isn't willing to. By carefully examining some of humanity's deepest and darkest impulses, the authors represented in this collection create compelling and relatable stories that should not be ignored by the mainstream. I am far from a connoisseur of mysteries traditional or new, but this collection had me absolutely hooked from the first line (despite Coben's terrific failure of an introduction, in which intended self-effacing comes off as intolerable smugness) to the final gunshot. I am unqualified to say whether The Best American Mystery Stories 2011 collects the year's most admirable works in the genre, but I feel perfectly comfortable recommending each and every one of these stories for readers of all kinds; the collection is simply fantastic, and there is a lot more variety herein than one might presuppose.

Grade: A

Book 1: Body Piercing Saved My Life

Body Piercing Saved My Life: Inside the Phenomenon of Christian Rock

Andrew Beaujon

The phenomenon of "Christian rock" is unavoidable in certain modern circles.  Take, for example, the very Dutch, very conservative, and extremely religious West Michigan environment in which I was raised, an environment so steeped in the Christian rock scene that I am disappointed in the easy-listening, non-ska qualities of local Christian radio offerings in a much larger market (Detroit). Though my religious beliefs do not generally jive with those who represent evangelical Christianity's most, er, vocal supporters (to keep it vague and respectful), living in an area so sympathetic to the sometimes-genre  that author Andrew Beaujon visited a college about five minutes away from my childhood home certainly influenced my teenage years, and I maintain a fondness for the Superchic[k]s, Supertones, Newsboys, Switchfoots, and other fundamentally religious artists who shaped, and continue to influence, my musical tastes. Though Beaujon worked on this book during my early college years, when I was liberating myself from the closet (and, perhaps not unsurprisingly, the Christian scene with it), I nonetheless hold a not-entirely-grudging respect for Christian music and its makers, and I am glad to report that Beaujon, though not a Christian, maintained the same respect for this easily typecast parallel universe that I do. Body Piercing Saved My Life is an outsider's look at a very fervent movement based almost purely on a specific set of religious values, so much so that a slightly non-sequitur section on anti-abortion protestors found its way into the book. That Beaujon managed to operate with only a limited amount of (usually deserved) snark and skepticism is a testament to his character, and that the book is filled with the utmost respect for the musicians and other industry professionals is both a credit to Beaujon and a subtle reminder, encoded in the book but not plastered upon it, that to paint with a wide brush is a dangerous folly indeed.

That said, however, the book isn't quite a landmark work of investigative journalism or, sad to say, excellent writing. While Beaujon's ability to evoke a setting is truly captivating at times, his parenthetical asides tend toward the distracting, with unrelated passages thrown in at times to shake things up, rarely for the better. The book, like some of its chapters, seems to lack a cohesive sense of direction. For example, Beaujon certainly has the right idea in periodically including discrete interviews with several important industry figures, but these sections of the book seem to jump in at random, without tying into the text at large. Better to bunch them at relevant points, perhaps, than to scatter them and lose a potential story. Yet aside from an early chapter that traces the history of contemporary Christian music in the United States, narrative is difficult to come by in this book, aside from some framing devices and festival stories that read more like a memoir than like journalism. While some chapter distinctions are obvious, such as the industry-heavy section focused on Tooth & Nail Records, much of the book seems nonchalantly organized, a collection of discrete articles more than a single, focused look at Christian music. There are times, as well, where Beaujon's outsider status works against him, and he often leans heavily on a few pivotal figures where alternative options proved difficult to convince

By the end of the book, it is difficult to come away feeling like Beaujon exposed a full range of opinions and views on, and inside, the Christian music industry. He should indeed be commended for scratching the surface of such tricky questions as "What makes Christian music Christian?" and for delving into- and recognizing the uniqueness of- the modern worship movement, but serious exploration seems just beyond the scope of this particular volume, for better and worse. While he discovers doubters and lifts the lid on the extremely diverse types of faith and belief that drive Christian musicians, the books feels repetitive, like a catalog of meet-and-greets instead of a lengthy exposition. In this way, the book feels like a beginning, a timid dip of the toe into an ocean of conflicting musical, political, and religious worlds. Body Piercing Saved My Life only scratches the surface of its subject, perhaps necessarily, but as a brief secular foray into the world of contemporary Christian music, Christian rock, and evangelical Christianity's relationship to popular culture, it is perfectly adequate.

Grade: B+

2012 Year in Review

2012 Year in Review

Despite the date on the post, here I am writing this review in May 2014, in a vastly different place in my life than I was at any point during the year. In the unlikely event that anyone ever reads this (hello, intrepid reader!), I'll offer a quick apology. Things- or my reading habits, at least- seemed to go off the rails a bit in late 2012 (as you'll see from the relative scarcity of posts). I don't know why I stopped reading with as much urgency as I had before, but I never really gave myself an opportunity to step outside of the blog, reconsider, and forge ahead. I'm doing that now.

That said, I have very vivid memories of many of the books I read throughout that year, including several that I might not have heard of were it not for a science fiction and fantasy book club. From Fail-Safe to Channel Zero, it's obvious that my interest in genre works was high, and both of those books are among those that made a strong impression of me. Looking back on the list, however, the titles that strike me the most are Sex on the Moon, Doomsday Book, Fire Watch, and Channel Zero. I remember the first as a fun romp and resolved to read Ben Mezrich's other books, which I have not, as yet, done. The latter title reaffirmed my belief in the power of graphic narrative, and some of its stark images still dance around in my head from time to time. Just yesterday, as a matter of fact, I was attempting to recall the name of the subversive comics I had read as I pored over a shelf of graphic novels at a large Chicago library. I didn't come up with the title at that time, but the memory clearly lingers. It is Connie Willis's works that had the most permanent affect on my reading psyche, however; I almost cannot believe that it has been so long since I first became intimately acquainted with her works. She continues to stun and amaze me, and a copy of Doomsday Book currently sits among my other recently borrowed library books. I'm astonished at the lasting spell that she has cast over me and am forever grateful that I discovered her work in 2012.

These books may have passed through my hands several years and at least two public library systems ago, but I'm grateful that my thoughts, meager as they are, remained on my hard drive. I look forward to revisiting many of these books and, once more, to reviewing many others.

Book 42: Channel Zero

Channel Zero: The Complete Collection

Brian Wood and Becky Cloonan

In Channel Zero, a brief comic series, Brian Wood tells the story of a near-future, heavily corporate America that is as terrifyingly relevant now as it was at the time of its creation around a decade ago. Add a stark, black-and-white landscape, often rendered in numerous gritty styles and complete with hidden messages, and the result is a unified, uncompromising vision. The story itself can be a bit difficult to follow occasionally, with displaced narration and outside news reports contributing to a well-conceived totality of vision, contained in a neat package that ties up its own story but leaves plenty of room for interpretation and expansion. The narrative jumps right into the thick of the atmosphere, successfully setting the tone and setting but making the characters and narrative seem a bit more distant. This distance affects the story throughout, and it is sometimes unclear whether Wood intended the comic as an exploration of a possible future (and, naturally, a criticism of certain elements of the present) or as a character study set within that period. The conflict between these two desires is evident as the side stories, intriguing as they are, interrupt progress through the main storyline and may have readers searching for direct ties that are not necessarily to be found. A number of characters are introduced with brief, factual biographies, only to pop up for only a panel or two in the final pages. While this is part of the ultimate point that Wood makes in Channel Zero's original run, it can be disorienting and distracting rather than empowering and explanatory. In the end, the story is powerful enough to resonate despite some flaws in the telling, and the art is entirely complementary to the narrative, with its convincing, if bleak, vision of a corporate, sanitized United States.

In addition to the original Channel Zero run, this volume contains concept artwork, additional short stories, and a prequel story about the main protagonist. Though the prequel, like the initial run, muddles the timeline and thus confuses the reader, it explains some aspects of the main work without overshadowing it. Becky Cloonan's artwork, again in monochrome, fits the content and Wood's original style for Channel Zero, while providing a more clean look for an arguably cleaner point in the future history. Throughout Channel Zero and its accompanying stories and background material, Wood is nothing if not earnest, and though his stories occasionally seem over-dramatic and alienating, he compromises none of the raw emotion that powers the story and its characters. Each distinct work within the collection contributes unquestionably to a whole vision cut of one cloth, and if some bits are misplaced within Channel Zero, they do cohere to Wood's larger vision, an impressive accomplishment for a first work in the graphic medium. Channel Zero: The Complete Collection makes an immediate visual and political impression on readers, and is presented with an urgency that trumps most of its flaws, like the message (which has its own faults) or not.

Grade: A-

Book 41: Life Goes On

Life Goes On

Hans Keilson

Life Goes On is one of that peculiar class of novels published in Germany on the very eve of Hitler's ascendance, and it dissects the effects of the country's economic unraveling during the Weimar era through the autobiographical lens of Hans Keilson. Though Keilson was Jewish and fled Germany a few years after the Nazi takeover, politics plays very little part in this novel of everyday life, which focuses more on individual lives and reactions than on macroeconomics and international, or even national, politics. Socialists are given a brief cameo, likely make briefer by the book's post-January 1933 publication date, but the story focuses on a middle-class, moderately successful shopkeeper and his small family. The occasional use of "Mother" and "Father" in place of personal names do humanize the story, but often present confusion, particularly in the early pages where readers may struggle to grasp who the main characters are, and how many they are in number. The characters are at once specific and generalized, and though the adult couple will appeal as a stand-in for a certain class of Germans, their son Albrecht is a bit more difficult to pin down. He grows significantly throughout the course of the book, but remains consistently out of reach and difficult to relate to, perhaps because of his frequent apathy and inability to understand the forces at work around him. The novel itself is similarly difficult to digest as the narrative progresses at a pace that echoes the general apathy of the time, which, unfortunately, can make it a bit boring. Time flows at an inconsistent speed, with few pivotal events to serve as guideposts or break the spell, and while this method of storytelling may reflect the times themselves, it hardly makes for compelling, page-turning consumption. In its execution as well as its content, the book is a time capsule, an almost stream-of-consciousness work that explores the tepidness of interwar Germany in both style and content. Life Goes On is most compelling as a product of its times, an intensely personal view of pre-Nazi Germany that may fail to fully captivate or resonate with modern audiences.

Grade: B+

Book 40: The Absolutist

The Abosolutist

John Boyne

The most poignant images of World War I, forgotten as it is, remain with us today, as we imagine young men gearing up for horrors they- and the world- couldn't possibly expect, only to be mown down by the hundreds of thousands while racing from trench to trench in an often futile battle for inches or yards. All wars, and many other situations besides, breed fear, but something about the First World War seems especially suited for the study of fear and its effects on human emotions and behavior. Fast-forward to today's expanding exploration of queer narratives, modern sensibilities about pacifism and non-combatants, and add it to the continuing fascination with the trenches, and John Boyne's novel The Absolutist is one result, a not-quite-revisionist story of love, fear, and the lasting effects of war and associated guilt. The first-person narrative moves seamlessly from past-tense 1919 to present-tense 1916, with each tense lending an appropriate sense of reflection or urgency, respectively. The novel is imbued with a sense of regret and sadness, not unique to war narratives and indeed hardly unusual for a book about World War I, and it becomes obvious from the beginning that this regret will serve as the driving force behind the story, and little clues scattered throughout allow the reader to slowly put the pieces together just before the narrator does, producing a sometimes-satisfying, sometimes-frustrating conversation between the reader and the book. Following the story just ahead of the actual story can help put various pieces into their emotional context, but it also results in some intended big reveals losing the punch that would make this novel absolutely excel. By the time the war story reaches its inevitable conclusion, that conclusion feels not only inevitable but painfully obvious, putting the book off-pace and robbing it of the raw emotional power on which it relies.

That this is followed by an entirely unsatisfactory and utterly off-putting coda does a disservice to the book's characters and readers alike, forcing a particular reading of the novel that may not please all readers. There certainly isn't anything wrong with an author taking a particular view of a work, or indeed a character reacting in an understandably reactive, self-pitying way to a turn of events, but the final lines of The Absolutist seemed to me to be a particular critical reading shoehorned into the novel. This does an enormous disservice to readers, who are thus prevented from honestly reacting to a heretofore ambiguous chain of events and who are instead forced to glean a specific moral meaning to the story, one which I simply did not believe had been there. The narrator (and author, and even many readers) may indeed have believed it, but the way in which John Boyne portrays that realization unfairly casts a stone-hard interpretation on the preceding novel, which would otherwise serve as an intriguing point of contention. By setting a queer story in an overtly un-queer time, Boyne invited controversy and debate, and the war narrative's closing line of dialogue seems to set up a forever-ambiguous point of personal contention for the narrator and for readers alike, only for this delicately balanced nuanced to be blown away, somewhat literally, by a clumsy epilogue. The utterly silly post-facto framework could even be excused if not for this great literary sin, which immediately re-casts the novel, which should be placed in nothing sturdier than sand, into solid stone. It may be difficult to separate my personal (and, obviously, quite unfavorable) reaction from Boyne's intent and actual words on the page, but the effect of reading the final pages greatly diminished the novel in my eyes, turning something beautiful and poetically tragic into self-serving whining. Again, this is not uncharacteristic for the narrator or the book's various genres (war story, novel of mourning, etc.), but its handling seems to unfairly foreclose discussion and debate. Expected sad ending aside, this ending is simply rotten.

Does the poorly executed conclusion sully the entire reading experience? Not necessarily. IT does force readers like me to reconsider their reactions, and it invites re-readings and re-examination, if not in the way Boyne may have intended. It is difficult to erase what was to me a terrible ending, but Boyne does successfully juggle real-time war and retrospective pathos throughout the book. He often tips his hand just a bit too early, but the cards are solid, and the characters are realistic and generally sympathetic, even if they appear a bit convenient to modern readers and contemporary politics. The book feels like, but functions well as, an old war story tailored for the present generation. The Absolutist is, despite a lackluster finish, a compelling story of love and betrayal, life and loss, the First World War and its aftermath for its soldiers and for those they sometimes left behind.

Grade: A-

Book 39: Escape from Camp 14

Escape from Camp 14: One Man's Remarkable Odyssey from North Korea to Freedom in the West

Blaine Harden

North Korea is, by nearly all accounts, a harrowing place to live, where residents are bound by the twin (and linked) oppressors of government and hunger. Society is strictly arranged into the haves and have-nots, and the lowest of all are imprisoned in the country's forced labor camps, where Shin In Geun (now Shin Dong-hyuk) was born and spent much of his early life. Blaine Harden, an American journalist, has written an English biography of Shin, based in part on Shin's previously published Korean autobiography and on extensive interviews. As a well-traveled journalist, Harden understands and acknowledges upfront the difficulties inherent in writing a factual account of torture in the world's most secretive, and closed, society. He calls overt attention to one major revision on at least two occasions, and though he does not attempt to explain the difficulties inherent in relying on human memory, he seems eager to present his story for what it is: a survivor's account, laced with relevant facts and analysis about North Korea and its defectors. While it's clear that Harden feels very strongly about human rights in North Korea (and he goes out of his way several times to remind readers of the fact), he doesn't go through pains to present Shin as a martyr, and the book, while sympathetic to Shin, does expose some dark moments in his history. Harden recognizes the differences between this story and others, and plays to its strengths, drawing on common conceptions and known facts about North Korea to build context, though some of these forays come at the expense of fluid storytelling.

Because the mere existence of the book, and Harden's prologue beyond that, gives away the story's ending, the story isn't played for suspense, which is wise, as Harden resists the urge to insert unnecessary tension. He doesn't, however, always avoid excessive theatrics or moralizations, which can occasionally intrude upon the bare-bones nature of the story and, indeed, most of its telling. His contextual explanations, while helpful, are inserted in the midst of narrative passages, and while the integration makes sense, they often break into (the brief) chapters just after those chapters began, disrupting the flow of the narrative and occasionally presenting more of a distraction than a useful addition. He often takes a big-picture view that conflicts with his laser focus on Shin's experiences, and the tension between them is often unresolved after the mid-chapter interludes. The writing itself is simple and straightforward, and Harden's restraint serves the story well. It is the power of Shin's story, and not Harden's prose, that keeps the reader effectively engaged, as is appropriate. The details themselves are predictably harrowing but are treated with a distance that reinforces the emotionless calculation that Shin relied upon for survival. Despite the obviousness of the eventual conclusion, Harden occasionally tips his hand too early and often, particularly while recounting Shin's travels beyond Camp 14's fence. The photographs are supplemented with a strange, comic-style group of illustrations depicting scenes from Camp 14 that don't quite seem to do justice to the situation. Escape from Camp 14 is a stark, straightforward account of a man's escape from North Korea's prison camps, free of unnecessary embellishments and possessing few, but generally justifiable, distractions.

Grade: A-