The most frustrating thing about James Patterson’s 2022 memoir: James Patterson by James Pattersonis that there isn’t really enough about James Patterson. Serious. The book barely touches on the invention of Alex Cross, the only distinctive and enduring creation of a novelist not known for originality. Cross is also the hero, played by Aldis Hodge, of a new series from Amazon Prime Video, the third attempt to bring the Washington psychologist and detective to the screen after he was played by Morgan Freeman in 1997. Kiss the girls and 2001 A spider came along and by Tyler Perry in 2012 Alex Cross.

Patterson is known for churning out formulaic thrillers – brisk airport time-killers with short sentences and chapters – at a truly impressive pace, including books for which Patterson provides an outline and a co-author provides the actual text. One thing that Patterson does touch on in his autobiography is the importance of outlining, a practice he recommends even to elementary school children. His first Alex Cross novel from 1993 A spider came alongstarted as a sketch. “When I went back to start the novel itself,” Patterson wrote in his memoir, “I realized that I had already written it.”

But while Patterson’s novels lack atmosphere and nuance, A spider came along showed an awareness and sensitivity to the role of race in the main character’s life that you just didn’t see in thrillers in the early 1990s, especially thrillers written by white men. Cross has always been aware of how his race affects his work and life, from his commitment to staying in the neighborhood where he grew up to his acute awareness of the fact that he and his partner are the only black faces in the lobby of a chic private person. school when they arrive to investigate the disappearance of two white children. Above all, Cross complains that investigations into crimes committed against black Washingtonians are given short shrift compared to crimes involving white victims. Inside at some point A spider came alongCross’ grandmother – a very sympathetic character – tells him, “I don’t trust most white people. I would like to, but I can’t. Most of them have no respect for us.” That may sound unremarkable today, but in a mainstream commercial fiction from 1993 it was extraordinary. (Unfortunately, James Patterson by James Patterson tells us nothing about how or why he did all this, except that he had initially conceived of Cross as feminine.)

The best parts of Prime’s Crotch series are the ones that pick up this thread in Patterson’s novel and run with it. Aside from a few senior police executives, all the major characters in Cross’ life are black, and their social world—from family karaoke nights to house parties—feels warm, rich, and authentic.

To this end, showrunner Ben Watkins skillfully uses small details and interactions. In one scene, Cross meets the family of a police brutality activist. They insist their relative was murdered, possibly by the police themselves, while Cross’ bosses want him – one of the force’s most prominent black detectives – to rule the crime an accidental overdose or a suicide. Cross believes the activist was murdered, but by an unknown person. When he asks the dead man’s mother if the victim used a dating app, she says yes, then indicates that he would have used an app to meet men. The victim’s sister gasps. She had no idea her mother knew her brother was gay, and how could their mother have let him sneak around to hide it from her? “I thought he would tell me when he was ready,” the older woman replies. It’s an entire family drama in a few lines, and these characters aren’t even central to the plot of the series.

Unfortunately, the series’ beautifully rendered setting has to play host to a serial killer yarn that’s as lame as anything you’d find in a James Patterson novel, even if it was invented for the show. Patterson’s villains are mostly cackling grotesques whose behavior is so bizarre you’d think they couldn’t order a cup of coffee without the white coats being called in to drag them away. The series’ villain – a smooth-talking, fabulously wealthy blonde, played by Ryan Eggold – is identified in the first episode, as he caresses his scrapbook of famous serial killers and lovingly pastes photos of his own victims, people chosen for their likeness with his idols. As for the motifs, this one is so ridiculous it’s almost campy, as Eggold seems well aware.

We all know how this goes, and Crotch doesn’t hesitate to follow the well-trodden path of previous serial killer thrillers. Cross has the obligatory murdered wife, whose loss haunts him and fuels his quest for justice. He is the first to recognize that a serial killer is at work, and as he intensely ponders the whiteboard covered in photos of victims, his partner (a delightful Isaiah Mustafa, aka the Old Spice man) brings their colleagues into silence and announces: “He’s doing his thing!” That means producing insights like: “He thinks he’s an artist. He wants to leave behind a masterpiece.” Crime fiction has always loved the idea of ​​profiling – even if it is now largely discredited in real life – because it involves constructing an entire character from a handful of gestures and traits, just as novelists and actors do.

Meanwhile, a shadowy and resourceful individual has tampered with Cross, invading his home, hacking into his home security system to talk to his children, and leaving a dress once worn by a defendant he helped convict hanging from a tree above his grave. woman. Maybe it has to do with the serial killer now being dubbed the Fanboy by police, even though they complain that the “media is having a field day” with the nickname? These were worn-out devices when Patterson started using them decades ago, and they feel mighty tired next to the vivid scenes from Cross’s own life.

Into the really interesting mysteries Crotch have nothing to do with the Fanboy or the creep who put a recording of a 911 call into the Cross family’s karaoke machine. Hodge’s soulful performance breathes life into even the tired figure of the grieving cop who refuses therapy, but the series could have done a lot more with this paradox, given that Cross is himself a psychologist. A particularly intriguing moment occurs at a dinner party hosted by Cross’ new love interest (Samantha Walkes), where Cross mutters, “No one wants to defund the police” and is challenged by a stockbroker who has just explained investment strategies. “I don’t understand how a black man can be a cop,” the man said. “It felt like I was selling out my own people.” Cross responds with a joke about the affluent, crime-free, and mostly white neighborhood where the real estate agent lives, a bit of class friction that generates a nice amount of dramatic heat.

These are problems that are less easy to solve than catching a billionaire maniac with a serial killer fetish, and furthermore, unlike the maniac, they are also problems that occur in real life. If Crotch continues: It should more firmly locate the crimes Cross solves in the world it has taken so much care of it.