Harry Bosch likes jazz, paying cash, and eating in places that would scare off the most liberal cardiologist (his daughter, who has been adamant that he eat something that will reduce his risk of heart attack, comments, looking through his pantry: “Well, Dad, here are carbohydrates, fats and sugar, your three basic food groups”). He also drinks, as some character from Ropea gothic of whiskey from time to time. It is served in a house that is perched on a cliff overlooking Los Angeles. A house that is falling down, because it does not respect the urban regulations and it is not insured. He does not smoke, although he drives cars without an eco-label.
Bosch was a policeman, but in this season of his television version (on Amazon Prime) he is a private detective. His current mission includes an elderly billionaire who hires him to find a daughter he had 70 years ago. The old man lives in a Spanish-style mansion, which sums up all the winks: Connolly’s character has become a 1930s detective, a Sam Spade.
There are no more commonplaces of the genre in Bosch. In general, I only drink the topics if they come shaken and not mixed in a cocktail of irony. I’m not even a crime novel reader (a topic of sir fat and with a beard that I do not comply with), but in this series it seems to me that everything is fine. I am fascinated by the portrait of Los Angeles, I believe the desire for revenge and justice, and I am even moved by that elegant way of putting on classic detective quotes. “Do as I say, not as I do,” she tells her daughter in a fit of mansplaining. In Bogart it would sound indecent, but if Titus Welliver pronounces it, you thank him for the advice.
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