”Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death” (John Murray Publishers, 2008) is the second book in Gyles Brandreth’s series of murder mysteries featuring Oscar Wilde as detective. It is one of the most entertaining books I have read this year, fueled by Mr Brandreth’s impressive understanding of the Wilde witticism and the affairs of the turn of the century. It is almost like Mr Brandreth having romped through London at that time with Oscar Wilde himself, and then living to tell the tale.

In the book, Mr Wilde is the toast of London’s high society. His “Lady Windermere’s Fan” is a critical and box-office success, and his popularity is unmatched amongst the cognoscenti. One evening, at an exclusive “Sunday Supper Club” dinner with such friends as Arthur Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker, and Robert Sherard (who also narrates the story), Wilde introduces a parlor game involving a list of people that his guests would secretly like to kill. From the next day onward, each person on the “hit list” dies mysteriously, in the very order with which his or her name showed up during the dinner. Wilde, Conan Doyle, and Sherard begin to investigate independently, especially after failing to enlist the help of Scotland Yard . . . and especially since Wilde’s name itself appears on the “hit list!” Their ensuing adventures are as jolly as they are thrilling.

Mr Brandreth’s characters stay with you throughout the reading of the book. I like the way that he imbues beauty in every character, even those who Oscar Wilde considers “ugly”(“He is grotesque. Speak to him, Robert. I cannot”) and who Robert Sherard abhors (“He was too charming, too intelligent, too well- and widely-read”). The sensual characters coexist with the virtuous, and they all stand out.

But it is in his profound knowledge of Oscar Wilde that Mr Brandreth shines. I am not sure of any other novelist who can match his ability to drop this much Wildesque one-liners (“It is sweet to think that one day I will serve to grow tulips”) and add-on information (“It’s called parsley.” “Correctly known as ’petroselinum’”). Mix that with terrific wit and story-telling shrewdness, and you have an entertaining writer and a sensational book.

I do not think that ”Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Fire” is necessarily part of a series you read in order. I picked up the book from Kolkata’s Starmark Bookstore with no prior knowledge of Mr Brandreth and his murder series, and I did not notice the need to read the prequel. However, I shall move on to the other books. Oscar Wilde and Gyles Brandreth are certainly worth the time.

Yet another gods-coming-down-to-Earth-to-meddle-with-mortals fantasy, Maria Aragon’s “Deus Ex Machina” is all about five warring Olympian divinities tasked with changing the fortunes of an adult man in a span of a weekend. The man lives with a fifty-something, sex-crazed mom and two older brothers who are either egotistic or smart-alecky. I still can’t figure out why the gods chose this man, whose misfortunes pale against those of millions of other hapless creatures on earth. Worse, I’m at a loss why the book is subtitled “A Divine Comedy” because it’s not at all a funny story. Ms Aragon has written the tale poorly and mixed it with implausible twists and unremarkable turns. I take Marie Phillips’ “Gods Behaving Badly” anytime.

I’VE NEVER laughed this hard while reading Greek mythology! In her first novel “Gods Behaving Badly”, London-bred Michelle Phillips (b.1976) brings together ten Olympian gods to exist in dingy circumstances in modern-day north London. And being gods, they also interfere with the lives of humans—in this case, a nondescript engineer in a star-crossed love affair with a meek house cleaner. With egos the size of the universe and clout the size of an atom, the immortals are forced to eke out a living and struggle to revive their ancient vainglories while getting the star-crossed lovers back in each other’s arms. With hilarious results, Ms Phillips succeeds in talking about man’s mortality and blind faith without moralizing. Watch for that colorful episode about a trip to the underworld.

Mr. Fozdar’s “The God of Buddha”, first released in 1973, is a well-researched exposition on the importance of the message of Buddha in the context of Hinduism and the Baha’i Faith.

Shamelessly style-centered and very entertaining to read.

Barbra Streisand has succeeded in producing a rare “motion picture soundtrack” in The Movie Album, one of the most consistently polished of her sixty albums. Its true beauties lie in its ability to allow us to re-experience the tonal and mood structures of the original movies and revisit them with a fresh, new perspective.

Natalie Cole’s recordings since 1991’s Unforgettable with Love form a well-orchestrated songbook on love: all of them revisit the jazzy vocal tradition of her father, the late, great Nat King Cole. Ask a Woman who Knows is the new chapter to this thrilling songbook. It also certifies Miss Cole’s full-circle move into jazz music: it is her first under the strictly jazz catalogued Verve Records and has copped several jazz nominations at the 2003 Grammy Awards.

WHEN Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code became one of the most widely read novels in recent years, it is clear that millions of readers have become riveted with Mr Brown’s knowledge of spiritual truths wrapped in fabrics of fantasy.

This is where my problem lies. Mr Brown’s fantastic fiction writing is simply terrible. In one singular tome, he sets forth mind-blowing conspiracy theories with relentless passion because a third installment of protagonist Robert Langdon’s encounters, adventures, and idiosyncrasies cannot wait. And he begs for understanding. Fast. Witness how we learn what we can about the grandeur of phi, amongst others, because we need to understand—fast— that phi is as hunky and brainy as Langdon is.

Graham Greene’s novel of the implications of cross-political involvements in 1950s Vietnam offered Mr Noyce a potential wealth of historical action for cinematic correlatives. However, Mr Noyce aimed at Mr Greene’s allegorical drama instead and told the symbolist story of the nonchalance of the French army, the complacence of the British journalist (Mr Caine), the manipulations of the American collaborator (Brendan Fraser), and the resigned ways of the colonized (the lovely Do Thi Hai Yen).

Despite its colorful metaphors, the emotional development of Quiet American is slow and the climactic resolution obvious. Mr Noyce spends so much time building up the relationship between the British and Vietnamese characters that the subsequent scenes appear rushed. I am not aware of the full breadth of Mr Caine’s acting canon, but the nuances of his performance here are exceptionally strong. Miss Yen ’s character does not allow her to show the conflicts of the colonized native; nevertheless, her screen presence is a statement to the nobility of the Southeast Asian. True to form, Mr Fraser’s acting is uninspired, but perhaps he is simply being a quiet American.

Pedro Almodóvar’s Hable con Ella tells the intense story of friendship and communication. Watching it was like playing the matadora role of Lydia. You are clothed in layers of garments, each one wrapping around you tight with patterns, colors, and textures until they blend into one full splendor of textile work. And then you face the thorny issues of the bull, swing to the dance, and meet an unexpected ending.