Whipped: Globe and Mail Review by Margaret Collier
Sex, Scandal, Politics
BY MARGARET CANNON THE GLOBE AND MAIL
Sex, scandal, politics and a sinister New Age guru with the larcenous heart. Yes, we are in the world of Arthur Beauchamp, scion of an old British Columbia family, retired lawyer, raconteur and general gentleman. And, as always, he’s a joy. This time out, Beauchamp’s client is his own wife, Margaret Blake, Leader of the federal Green Party. Margaret is being sued by an MP for leaking a hot little video of him being seriously spanked by a Montreal dominatrix. There’s also a fatwa from the Montreal Mafia. Beauchamp was planning on spending his Golden Years in a hammock on Garibaldi Island but here he is, back planning a defence and wondering if Margaret is really spending all that time working. Or is there someone else? Then there’s the guru. Fans love Deverell for his wit and Beauchamp’s sane Canadian take on the madness of modern life and this one delivers the goods.
And here, from Nick Martin of the Winnipeg Free Press, another review:
Green party Leader Margaret Blake receives a leaked video showing the federal environment minister, an evil climate-change denier, less-than-fully clad with a dominatrix, and being — well, you can speculate about that based on the title of William Deverell’s Whipped (ECW Press, 392 pages, $29).
Am I a failed radical?
A thoughtful tribute to my novel “I’ll See You in My Dreams”
I have, without realizing it, drifted far to the right of where my journey began, writes Jonathan Lomas
CONTRIBUTED TO THE GLOBE AND MAIL, NOVEMBER 14, 2017
Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage? — Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here.
In my younger days, I wrote angry op-eds on topics such as the need to reform our desperately flawed health-care system. For a time, I was one of those go-to left-wing commentators – you can find us in every media’s Rolodex to offer a progressive perspective. I marched in demonstrations, I led reform coalitions and in my late 20s, I even ran for Parliament (an endeavour admittedly doomed to failure from the start – standing as the NDP’s sacrificial lamb in a riding with Canada’s highest per-capita income). I considered myself a radical, a reformer, something of an outsider with ideas of social justice that needed – nay, demanded – a hearing.
George Bowering’s Review of WHIPPED
From a Canadian Literary Icon
He has written 100 books, is a two-time winner of the Governor General’s Award (for poetry and for fiction), has been short-listed for the Griffin Prize, and was the first Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate. Here’s what George wrote about Whipped:
WHIPPED, from Publishers Weekly
Well-Crafted Review from the USA
William Deverell. ECW, $24.95 (396p) ISBN 978-1-77041-390-0
Deverell’s absorbing seventh Arthur Beauchamp novel (after 2015’s Sing a Worried Song) finds the QC valiantly trying to enjoy retirement on Garibaldi Island off Canada’s west coast. Back in Ottawa, Arthur’s unfaithful wife, MP Margaret Blake, struggles to keep her tiny Green Party off life support. When former star political reporter Lou Sabatino breaks a story on mafia dealings at Montreal’s port, he loses his job, his family, and his identity under witness protection, but, via the Russian dominatrix in his building, Lou finds a video of Margaret’s political nemesis, environmental minister Emil Farquist, in a compromising situation—and lets her know.
Review of Whipped by the distinguished novelist Joan Barfoot
These are strange times — strange enough that it’s actually hard to know if a video of a Canadian cabinet minister fervently and nakedly urging a Russian dominatrix to whip him would necessarily cause a career-ending scandal.
But if it’s a question, it’s one best pursued through the mind and efforts of Canadian crime fiction’s most entertainingly skeptical lawyer, Arthur Beauchamp (pronounced Beecham), and his creator, former journalist and trial lawyer William Deverell.
Whipped: Toronto Star Review
by Jack Batten
At one moment in the seventh book in William Deverell’s smart, funny and cleverly plotted series featuring the ace barrister Arthur Beauchamp, Beauchamp says that, especially now in virtual retirement, he experienced “a feeling of being fully alive again” only when he walked into a courtroom. That sentiment somewhat applies to readers as well; they too come most alert in the passages when Beauchamp shows his wonderful forensic style before judge and jury.
Trump’s Final Chapter - a Short Story
From Maclean’s Magazine, August 22, 2017:
The creator of the Arthur Beauchamp series writes a short story imagining the end of the Trump presidency.
I can’t imagine why he chose me, but here I am, in his opulent tropical oceanfront suite, asking myself: do I sell my soul or retreat with honour?
My Struggle is what he proposes to call it—not in some twisted form of irony but because he thinks it’s apt. And I suppose it is. President Trump is in some serious covfefe: He is being witch-hunted by a grand conspiracy of the FBI, the CIA, Congressional weak sisters (his phrase), unknown leakers, and faithless friends, all egged on by the lying liberal media. Foreign banks are foreclosing on the eye-popping loans that have come to light. Even the Russians have turned their backs on Donald Trump. They call him a loser now. They have no more use for him.
Can-Lit: Our National Snobbery Disorder.
This is a piece I wrote some time ago at the invitation of the National Post. More relevant than ever, I believe.
The late Marian Engle once confessed to me that she occasionally enjoyed the “guilty pleasure” of reading a mystery. That sums up a common notion: a properly brought up Canadian is expected to feel guilty about reading a book that claims no pretension but to entertain. (I didn’t feel guilty about reading Bear.)
This priggish attitude toward popular fiction is deeply imbedded within our cultural establishment. By establishment, I mean the literature departments of our universities, the book pages of our journals, institutions such as the Canada Council and provincial arts bodies, the CBC, and the big publishing houses.
The infection may have begun in our libraries, and it found a host in our historic inferiority complex, a belief that our culture was little, provincial, unknown. To cover up our shame, that condition has morphed into a national snobbery disorder.
From the University of Saskatchewan
Press Release October 2016
SASKATOON – He is one of Canada’s best-known novelists, an award-winning crime writer who has also been lauded for his work as a lawyer, journalist, environmentalist and civil rights activist.
On October 22, the University of Saskatchewan (U of S) will pay tribute to alumnus William Deverell when he receives an honorary Doctor of Letters during Fall Convocation ceremonies at TCU Place.
From The Blog / April 1, 2015
Sing a Worried Song is out … and I’m outa here too
“It takes a worried man to sing a worried song. I’m worried now, but I won’t be worried long.” It’s an old folk song that Arthur Beauchamp can’t get out of his head. But poor old Arthur will have lots to worry about, including his possible violent death.
Whatever happens to him is out of my hands now. Sing a Worried Song is out in hardcover and as an e-book as of today. Now I must return to my untitled, half-finished work-in-progress.
I’m on my way to ferry and airport.
I’m going off to commune where there’s no phone, no Internet, no email. For three plus months!
Guess Who Just Hacked Your Blog…
Guest Blog by Bill’s Best Bud / April 2, 2017
That’s your parting shot? “I’m going off to commune where there’s no phone, no Internet, no email.”
You’re off to commune with whom, some hippie muse? Shit, man, we must have missed each other by a crotch hair.
Maybe that was you getting on the ferry as I was getting off. I said to myself, that can’t be Bill. That wild Einsteinian jungle of hair, the cheap sunglasses, the shirt half tucked in. No, couldn’t be you, I decided—you were always a snappy dresser. Back then. In those times of yore.
Don’t bother scrolling down to see who hacked into your blog—yes, it’s me, Bry Pomerantz, faded wunderkind of the big screen, your long-lost, long-ignored side kicker.
The Wild Hippie Lawyer
Guest Blog by Bill’s Best Bud / April 4, 2017
Yeah, I clipped that item from the National Post. I had no idea. The deep end? You may have tiptoed near the edge. But divorce? Shacking up with hippies?
Flashback to this summery scene: I was sitting on a bench in Stanley Park. A bench I hoped to sleep on if it didn’t rain. The Screenwriters Guild had just denied my appeal to get my membership reinstated. I was homeless, hungover, as taut as a stretched condom, exhausted from ranting on the public pathways.
The final blow had just been delivered that morning: Sue announced I was domestically redundant, and gave me my walking papers. (You won’t know Sue, she was after your time. She’s a lawyer. Also, expensively, an afficionada of fine chopped flake.)
Bry’s Blog / April 7, 2017
Good morning, Blogosphere, I’m back. Hey, Bill, in case you stop by an Internet shop—do they exist where you are?—to check your emails, I have sent a couple to your old Yahoo account. No answer. But of course, anything from muy amigo mio, unheard from for thirty-three years, goes straight into Spam.
I was hoping you might at least glance at your website, your blog, and see my entreaties to make contact. Or maybe one of your cult following of good-humoured, nonconforming eco-liberals, or a relative, your agent, publisher, somebody who knows where the fuck you are, will get word to you that Bry Pomerantz has hacked into both your writing studio and your blog.
My Near-Death Experience
Bry’s Blog / April 13, 2017
Just had a near-death experience. I was strolling up your driveway when an old pickup rattled down the hill toward me. My only hope was to cannonball into the second growth. Blue Dodge, crumpled fender, peace decal: I told myself to remember these specifics if I survived.
He that filches my good name
Bry’s Blog / April 22, 2017
Good afternoon, Bill, wherever you are. Still not receiving? Or are you finally tuned in to your blog? I suspect the latter. I see you sitting tight, hoping I’ll go away. I know now why you ran off. Not to escape the horrors of civilization. To avoid me, Bry Pomerantz.
Not just because of the vast guilt and remorse you feel over plagiarizing plot, twists and title of Needles. Yes, the book’s goddamn title—you don’t remember who came up with that? How did I feel when my name didn’t even appear in your acknowledgments? Imagine the sense of being buried alive. But now you have defamed me. You’ll be singing a very worried song if I sue for libel, bub.
You had erased all your files from your computer (or so you thought), but you forgot to clean out your trash, and there it was, Worried Song2.doc, which I took to be an early draft. I got a few hundred pages into it. I appear as your nemesis. I am the literary analogue of the fucked up character who so prominently lurks throughout its early pages. Brian Pomeroy. Way to come up with an original name.
Lust. Thrill. Kill.
Bry’s Blog / May 14, 2017
Okay, on-re-reading your partial manuscript (the copy on your computer ends at page 201), I’m thinking Brian Pomeroy comes off not too bad. Shrewd, edgy, witty, and the island ladies think I’m hot. I am in rich contrast to your Arthur Beauchamp, the emotionally self-abusing yet somehow lovable fusspot.
Sing a Worried Song. I get the title, but I’d have advised something harder. You have a vengeful thrill killer on the loose. What about, simply, Kill Arthur! Or, in the modern style, Lust. Thrill. Kill. (Title of a script I wrote in my noir phase. It’s available.) Or how about Thrill Killer Puzzles Police. Wurtz – that’s the guy you prosecuted, right? Who threatened to get you…
How does it end? Or do you know? Page 201—is that when the muse died of blockage of creative juices? When the walls closed in and you decided to go away somewhere and start life again?
As for your main plotline, let’s see, we have a sadistic, psychopathic killer on the hunt for the prosecutor who sought to convict him. Oh, dear, that’s Needles. We already did that one, didn’t we, Bill?