This is the oldest trick in the book, so to speak, playing on the reader's knowledge of Cromwell's eventual fate; I like to think of it as fiction's Titanic moment, when a proud mother bursts into her family's humble home with the news that Our Billy has got himself a job on this famous new ship. Such clunky devices deflect attention from the genuine horrors of Henry's reign, which has parallels with 20th-century dictatorships, including the use of torture and networks of informers. If it seems unfair to view the early 16th century through this prism, it has to be said that's exactly what Mantel does, combining period slang with some snappy and very modern-sounding dialogue.
And while her fascination with Cromwell has been widely remarked, it's also the novel's greatest weakness.
In C.J. Sansom's superior Tudor crime novels, Cromwell is distant and scary. But then Sansom is a political writer and he displays a much more sophisticated grasp of power.
Mantel's Cromwell is wry and self-exculpatory, able to justify anything by recalling his early life in a rough area of south London.
He's also a crashing snob. And Mantel creates an enormous problem by placing the amoral - to put it politely - Cromwell at the heart of the novels. The reader is asked to put judgment aside and like the unlikable.
It has already been remarked that the success of Mantel's novels says a great deal about the present state of publishing. The books are safe, unchallenging and flatter the reader, who starts to feel like an instant expert on Tudor history.
But there's also the wider cultural context: in a climate where every Olympic gold medallist has to have an honour as well, why should novelists be the exception? The public loves prize-winners, and two Man Bookers and a Costa are perfect symbols of a culture of excess.
- Independent
