I decided that it was time to revisit Dune, especially since, regardless of my recollection or lack of, I never finished the series. But, of course, I figured that if I was going to read/re-read Dune, I was going to reread all of it. And that meant starting at the narrative’s chronological beginning — in other words, starting with the books written by Frank’s son, Brian, and his partner, Kevin Anderson.

Now that I’ve finished the entire five-book run, I can look back with some amusement at how lukewarm my reaction tot he first book was, versus how much I like the series as a whole. This is, at least in part, because each book just barely works as it’s own self-contained story. The series is much more effective when you regard it as a single book that, in deference to considerations about someone’s ability to cart around a sprawling 2,000 page cube, has been split into easier to digest volumes.

Oh yeah, I forgot that I never finished reviewing all the Bond books by Ian Fleming. In a way, that in itself is a fitting review of the final of Fleming’s influential adventures starring international pop culture icon James Bond. There is nothing about The Man with the Golden Gun that I would call bad. But there sure is a lot of it — as in all of it — that I would call unmemorable. Fleming was dying (some people say he even died before he finished, and what remained was polished off by his long-time friend Kingsley Amis). He was sick of Bond. But he’d had the bad fortune of ending the previous, and one of the best, Bond books on a cliffhanger, as he had taken to doing with most of the stories once he realized this was going to be his career. Well, this, and spokesman for cigarette holders.

Fear without Frontiers covers much of the same material that was presented to readers in Mondo Macabro, but with a significantly different approach. The subject matter is horror, fantasy, and phantasmagorical thrillers from all over the world, with essays contributed by a host of different authors. Most of what you expect (if you are a fan of such films) to be present, is: new wave Hong Kong horror films, Italian zombie and giallo films, Takashi Miike, Coffin Joe. There are also chapters about Bollywood horror films from the 1980s, Filipino horror, and the new wave of Korean horror and thriller films. These are all welcome inclusions, and even if the material has been documented to various degrees elsewhere, there is plenty of new material to make the chapters well worth exploring.

At first look, a three-hundred page book, with no photos, exploring the social and historical relevance of Elvis movies might seem daunting. But Brode handles the material in a way that is both intelligent and entertaining — never falling back on slapstick barbs but also never lapsing into dry academic analysis. His writing style is crisp and packed with information, but like I said, he keeps it interesting and never relies on a dry recitation of facts and theories. He proves his point expertly, and it’ll certainly change the way you think and write about Elvis films. He isn’t attempting to convince anyone that these films are unheralded classics, but instead puts forth and brilliantly argues the notion that there is plenty to be understood and learned.

As far as Nick Carter adventures go, this is one of the dumber ones. The entire assignment seems like it could have been wrapped up in about fifteen minutes and as many pages, but that wouldn’t have been much of a book, so instead, everything is drawn out to near excruciating length. It seems to go around and around in a circle, with people doing stupid things simply because the author needs to fill out some additional pages. So it turns out that plans for the U.S.’ Star Wars system have been stolen by a turncoat and sold to the Russians. If the Russian spy who has them makes it back to Moscow, then obviously they will use their knowledge of our new defense system to negate it and launch a massive nuclear strike against America. It is up to Nick Carter, obviously, to make sure the spy never makes it to Moscow.

Together, the two novels weave the origin story of Miles Vorkosigan, who would become the central figure in the author’s long-running “Vorkosigan Saga.” I had a blast reading them, and they’ve gotten me excited about continuing my journey through the saga. next up is another two-novel ominbus, Young Miles. Really looking forward to it. The Vorkosigan Saga is shaping up to be one of my all-time favorites, a perfect blend of expert character writing and two-fisted romantic adventure.

The majority of the book is dedicated to exploring the relationship between humans and Moties as they try to feel each other out, but the lack of physical action never translates into tedium. The exploration is thoroughly fascinating. By the time the action kicks in, we’ve grow to like both sides so much that it greatly intensifies the reaction to the sense of impending doom that hovers over everything. The sequence in which the MacArthur is evacuated and one of the characters, a space trader named Horace Hussein Bury who is suspected of being involved with rebels, makes a terrifying discovery about the spacesuit evacuating behind him is riveting. If you’re looking for a novel that combines thoughtfulness with action, The Mote in God’s Eye has withstood the test of time very well. This is science fiction at its best.

Eventually, Nick gets around to picking up the mission left unfinished by the dead spy, and soon enough, he’s up to his eyeballs in guys trying to kill him. Along the way, he commandeers the car of yet another sexy woman who will look at the fact that he steals her car, holds her at gunpoint, and then gets everything demolished by a train as a good reason to bed him. He also ends up trapped in East Germany after Helga is revealed to be an enemy agent who orchestrated the boat explosion (to no one’s surprise but Nick’s). The plot gets around to revealing that a German megalomaniac is involved in the usual: using Arab money to fund a new war against the Jews. Guys, give it up about the Jews. You’re not going to exterminate them.

Read Under a Lucky Star: A Lifetime of Adventure by Roy Chapman Andrews while on vacation in Mexico a little while back. This is the expedition leader/director of the Museum of Natural History and Science that Spielberg and Lucas based Indiana Jones on. The book, to keep things short, is unbelievably inspiring, thrilling, and poignant, tracing Andrews’ life as he rises throw the ranks at the museum to become one of the great explorers and natural historians of the early 20th century, eventually becoming director of the Museum, then witnessing the death of the golden age of museums and explorations as the Depression and dwindling public interest slowly forces the museum to transform into something considerably less elegant and romantic.

I finished Inca Death Squad in one sitting, in between finishing a particularly sweaty and arduous hike in Dominica and sitting down for rum and grilled chicken in an open-air rooftop bar and restaurant as the sun set over the water. By my side, a black-haired beauty in a swaying white linen skirt and cranberry red silk top. For a brief moment in my life, I thought to myself, “Son of a bitch. I got it better than Nick Carter today.” Of course, Nick was soon embroiled in a threesome with two hot, big-breasted, wanton Cuban sisters, but he was also being kicked in the testicles by a sadistic, blubbery Russian diplomat. All things considered, I came out ahead that day.

I’m a sucker for anything involving spying and the space program, and then also a sucker for anything involving spying and guys running around 1960s Florida. It delighted me when Matt Helm spent some time in Florida, and I figured on being doubly delighted by Carter engaging in shenanigans involving various tacky Florida locations. It’s yet another fast-paced story that can be finished in a single sitting — or trips in to work on the B train for me. There’s also a remarkable level of restraint shown through much of the book. Though our first glimpse of Carter finds him reclining on the beach with a tan Florida cutie, he doesn’t actually get laid until halfway through the book, which must be some sort of a record for a series of espionage novels where, most of the time, the lead character can’t seem to go half a dozen pages without finding himself in between some willing young woman’s thighs.