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Last summer I said that if Ray Bradbury wrote a collection of grocery lists
that I’d be first in line to read it. Well, I mis-spoke myself. Let’s
All Kill Constance is perfect proof that even the best of authors can write
a dud.
Set in the early 1960s, the premise is that an aging star shows up on a writer’s
door step in a raging rainstorm desperately afraid she’s about to die.
Two phone books with names crossed out in red ink have been delivered to her
and her name has been circled in both. She promptly disappears and the writer,
along with his closest friends, begins a manic search for her. The chase leads
through the forgotten neighborhoods and sewers of southern Los Angeles. Along
the way the reader gets a tour of Hollywood before color films claimed the big
screen.
The plot is full of staggering holes and none of the characters ever really
hit their stride. The attempts at plugging humor into the story all fall flat.
On the up side, the chapters are really short.
Normally, Bradbury is one of the best writers working today. This book just
doesn’t live up to the high standard that the rest of his work has created
for him. I’d recommend you skip this book and get your Bradbury fix with
Something Wicked This Way Cometh.
