Un lieu incertain

I’ll admit: I side-eyed the premise at first. Seventeen feet? *Shoes and all*? It screams gimmick. But Vargas doesn’t just lean into the weird—she weaponizes it. The plot spirals from London to Paris to Iceland, each location dripping with its own brand of unease. Adamsberg, our lead, is a masterclass in passive aggression; he solves crimes by *not* solving them, letting his subconscious (and a lot of whiskey) do the heavy lifting. The supporting cast—especially the prickly pathologist Danglard—adds sharp, dark humor, but the real star is Vargas’ refusal to play by genre rules. The killer’s reveal isn’t just a twist; it’s a gut-punch of historical trauma, delivered with the casual brutality of a fairy tale moral. Janssen’s performance sells it. His Adamsberg is a man perpetually on the verge of a sigh, his voice a gravelly murmur that makes even throwaway lines feel loaded. The pacing, though, *will* test some listeners. Vargas lingers on mood—misty cemeteries, half-remembered myths—and Janssen matches her rhythm, which can make the middle act drag if you’re craving relentless action. And while the translation (for non-French listeners) is smooth, a few cultural references might lose their bite. But the payoff? Worth it. The final act ties together with a logic that’s dreamlike yet oddly satisfying, like waking from a nightmare and finding a single, perfect clue under your pillow. Not for purists who want their mysteries tidy, but for those who like their crime fiction laced with poison and poetry.