Bringing Out the Dead

It usually takes me a while to warm up to new books when I first pick them up; getting used to the author's writing style and familiarizing myself with the setting and the beginnings of the plot takes time, and usually half a chapter (if it's a longer chapter) or two (if the chapters are shorter).

This "rule" even applied to Harry Potter books, even though I followed the series obsessively (I picked up each new book at Barnes and Nobles after midnight from the fourth book onward), which was why I was so surprised when I started thumbing through the first pages of Bringing Out the Dead, by Joe Connelly, while I was at the end of the very long line at Groundwork Books at the beginning of the quarter, and felt myself being instantly drawn into the story.


After reading three pages, hanging onto each and every one of Connelly's words, I knew right then and there that I was going to love this book. For me, that kind of snap judgment of a book is a very rare occurrence.

And it wasn't wrong.

Every time I picked up the book, I would not be able to put it down again until I read about a hundred pages in one sitting, and even then, I only stopped because my cell phone would ring or I would catch a glimpse of the time, freak out about how much time I had spent reading, and then force myself to put the book down and go do all the other things I needed to do, thinking the entire time that I would much rather be reading than doing whatever I was doing.

I stayed up until about three in the morning last night finishing the last hundred or so pages of the book, gasping and burying my face into my hand, with the fingers strategically placed so I could still read the words on the page, while my mind reeled with horror from what was being depicted in Connelly's words. There are some pretty brutal scenes in the book that are not meant for the weak of heart.

Overall, the book was depressing, but the plot unfolded so perfectly and was so full of realistic characters who were just about ready to jump out of the pages that it was still an enjoyable read. It's not a book you will be likely to forget soon after reading it though; hearing the blaring sirens of an ambulance rushing off into the dark of night will probably never make me feel the same way again.

After finishing the book, I watched the movie adaptation starring Nicolas Cage:


I thought the movie adaptation sucked. Most of the supporting actors and actresses who portrayed the minor characters in the plot were dead-on in their characterizations of their parts, but I was very disappointed by the movie version of Mary Burke and the fact that Mona, Frank's (ex-)wife was not included in the movie at all. And what was up with getting rid of Rose's yellow raincoat? That, along with all the mental anguish the situation with Mona added to Frank's already stressed out mind, was key in the original plot.

Being able to see the mental back-and-forth tug-of-war that was tearing Frank apart tied the original plot together and allowed the reader to understand each incident on a more-than-just-the-surface level in the book, and all of that was lost in the movie. Everything else stayed pretty true to the novel, but the story just didn't flow as smoothly on the screen as it did in words.

Bottom line: always read the book! The movie is never as good.