Il gioco degli specchi

I’ll admit: *Il gioco degli specchi* frustrated me at first. Camilleri doesn’t just hide the ball here—he makes you question if there *is* a ball. The opening act throws so many red herrings (a lovers’ spat, a baffling explosion, a corpse with no clear killer) that I wondered if the plot was spinning its wheels. But by the midpoint, the genius of the setup hits you: this isn’t sloppiness; it’s a deliberate fog, and Montalbano’s confusion is *your* confusion. The payoff, when it comes, is deeply satisfying precisely because the journey feels earned. Venturiello’s narration is the glue holding it together. His Montalbano isn’t just a detective—he’s a man perpetually two steps behind, and Venturiello’s delivery sells that exhaustion without ever making the inspector seem dull. The real treat, though, is how he handles the ensemble. Augello’s smarmy charm, Fazio’s dry competence, even minor characters like the weaselly journalist—each gets a distinct vocal signature. My only gripe? The production occasionally lets background noise creep in during quieter moments, a minor but jarring flaw in an otherwise polished listen. And while the Shakespearean subplot adds texture, it sometimes feels like Camilleri’s showing off rather than deepening the mystery. Still, for fans of cerebral crime fiction where the *how* matters more than the *who*, this is Montalbano at his most deviously clever.