In The Moving Target Ross Macdonald shows a knack for planting an odd initial scenario hook with a far different truth behind it. In this case, the weIn The Moving Target Ross Macdonald shows a knack for planting an odd initial scenario hook with a far different truth behind it. In this case, the wealthy but unreliable opportunist Ralph Sampson appears to be the gullible kidnapping victim of a California cult. In truth there are two separate crimes with no clear connection, multiple love triangles and a racketeering crime ring riddled with piratical treachery.
Not only is the plot interesting and complex, but Macdonald's style has artistic, reflective moments with memorable and pithy noir aphorisms. On the rationalizing criminal mind:
"I'm a realist, Archer. So are you. Sampson's no loss to anybody."
His voice had changed, become suddenly shallow and flat. The whole man was shifting and fencing, trying out attitudes, looking for one that would sustain him.
The evil is in people, and money is the peg they hang it on.
I'd seen such smiles in mortuaries on the false face of death. It reminded me that I was going to grow old and die.
The pianist's fingers moved in the keyboard mirror with a hurried fatality, as if the piano played itself and she had to keep up with it.
Lew Archer reflects on one of the societal impacts of war:
They went out of high school into the army or the air corps and made good in a big way. They were officers and gentlemen with high pay, an even higher opinion of themselves, and all the success they needed to keep it blown up. War was their element, and when the war was finished, they were finished. They had to go back to boys' jobs and take orders from middle-aged civilians. Handling pens and adding machines instead of flight sticks and machine guns. Some of them couldn't take it and went bad.
Title itself is a short brush-stroke about destiny:
Her reaction was surprising. "You make me sick, Archer. Don't you get bored with yourself playing the dumb detective?"
"Sure I get bored. I need something naked and bright. A moving target in the road."
The hard-boiled style (along with plenty of the early genre's sexism, reader beware!) stands among the high-grade writers like Hammet and Chandler:
He stabbed an egg and watched it bleed yellow on his plate.
The girl came out then, wearing a black-striped dress, narrow in the right places, full in the others.
"Where in hell did you come from?" I said to Taggert.
"Out of the everywhere into the here."
I was tired of waiting, of following people down dark roads and never seeing their faces.
I was halfway out of the chair when the gun went off. [He] was listless when I got to him. The gun slid out of his hand.
Another gun had spoken.
Of course he includes the dark humor that makes noir most attractive:
"You telling me my business?"
"Apparently."
You'll probably have to look (just as I did)!
"I couldn't stand podex osculation."
An "I'm asking for a friend" moment...
My memory struggled in the red gloom and found the comparison it wanted: a Neapolitan-type bordello I'd visited in Mexico City -- on a case.
The similes are awkward at times, but no worse than when Chandler's fail to land. It hurts the writing a bit, but they're mostly not too far-fetched:
A few pairs of headlights went north through the fog like the eyes of deep-sea fish.
A moment of silence stretched out like membrane on the point of tearing.
Walt Longmire is a father-figure stereotype, with many of the positive paternal aspects. He is sensitive to the feelings of other characters, has genuWalt Longmire is a father-figure stereotype, with many of the positive paternal aspects. He is sensitive to the feelings of other characters, has genuine feelings and concerns for them, yet defends himself from those who oppose him. He also embodies many of the negative aspects. He's a distant, lone-suffering, brooding alcoholic who likes to (humorously) avoid the petty details of his work.
When his phone line is busy, Walt thinks: “I stared down at the blinking red light; I had to get a different color."
She had tried to get me to get call waiting, but I figured I got interrupted enough during the course of a day and didn't need to pay for the privilege at home.
Mary tried to stifle a laugh, and the girl looked to her, then back to me. Rarely do you get those glimmers of unadulterated love and, if you're smart, you pack them away for darker days.
He had taken life on, and life had kicked his ass.
Walt has a jabbing sense of humor:
The fact that [Judge Selby] made life and death decisions on peoples' lives was only slightly diminished by the fact that he never knew what day of the week it was. "Isn't it Tuesday?"
"Monday, Vern."
"I guess I lost a day in there somewhere."
I wondered where, between Sunday and Monday, he had lost it.
Craig Johnson provides Walt with a Cheyenne sidekick, Henry, but he's careful to detail Henry’s unique character and puts him on equal footing with Walt. Then Johnson raises the bar, casting doubt on Henry as a person of interest in a murder investigation, toying with that dynamic and how Walt’s professional mistrust shadows a history of racism older than both of them:
[Longmire] "You think you're an enemy?" [Henry Standing Bear] "I am trying to find out if you think I am."
Walt has an ingrained detective's point of view. Sausage grease splatters transform into blood spatter patterns:
The sausage popped, sending a small splatter to the plywood floor. I looked at the splatter mark; it was relatively contained, with a few scalloped edges due to the height of trajectory, ray-emitting tendrils reaching for the center of the room.
The story blurs into mystical themes at times. Henry describes a haunted Cheyenne "Rifle of the Dead” a malignant relic with a fictional history. Spirit guides and ghosts from the past are real to the observers and there is never any effort to explain them away nor to prove them any further. They're simply fleeting events.
Johnson's prose doesn't always land, but problems are rare. In this odd slip the narrator hears drums (in his head? Cinematically?) as he watches Henry stalk off: "I listened as the drums began a low rhythm and watched as the broad shoulders picked their way carefully down the trail."
Johnson is praised for his depiction of nature. I didn't find any particularly breathtaking examples. They're fairly prosaic.
I could feel the warmth of the setting sun on my back as I negotiated the clumps of sage, buffalo grass, and cactus, and I scared up a few western cottontails as I went. Just at the foothills, there was a small band of pronghorn antelope.
The clouds were dappled like the hindquarters of an Appaloosa colt, and the beauty kicked just as hard.
That said, Johnson pays careful attention to the weather (snow, wind fair clouds) and wildlife in a way that prominently sustains the setting and mood.
Walt is erudite. He sporadically raises musical, literary and philosophical references. It fits his introspective character, and his role as Sheriff, who should be a step above the common law officer. Unfortunately these references are not particularly provocative, and they come off as shallow or opinionated. More like name-dropping:
"I think that Jacob and George Esper were supposed to meet somewhere. That Jacob came up and spent the night, started his truck yesterday morning to go and meet his brother, and instead incurred a consummation devoutly to be wished." "Romeo and Juliet?" "Hamlet. All the death ones are Hamlet, at least the contemplative death ones."
It's striking is how emotionally dark things get. Johnson is adept at raising his audience’s concern—and even fears—for Walt as he struggles to find emotional balance. It's visceral, believable, and therefore all the more horrific:
I've developed a tactic for dealing with these drive-by visits. No matter what time of day it is or what I might be doing, whenever I hear somebody coming up the driveway, I just step off the deck and start walking toward the hills.
Champagne for One uses a more traditional framework: a poisoning at a rich widow's party, a literal listing of suspects. There are filler chapters witChampagne for One uses a more traditional framework: a poisoning at a rich widow's party, a literal listing of suspects. There are filler chapters with little plot advancement, along the lines of—what did Fritz serve for breakfast?—that seem to take more space than the usual gourmet peppering found in other Nero Wolfe stories. One chapter features a dull rehashing of events from earlier chapters. One unusual aspect is how few of Archie's quips are memorable this time around.
While Archie's typical wry humor might be rare here, Stout gives him excellent powers of description; for Mrs. Robilotti:
Whoever had designed her had preferred angles to curves and missed no opportunities...
Here he describes Austin "Dinky" Byne:
He was tall and lanky and loose-jointed, with not much covering for his face bones except skin.
This serves as an example of the humor (and this is one of the better ones):
A man who would never see eighty again came hobbling over...
On the other hand, Nero Wolfe's quotes are more interesting:
"Then it was a remarkable coincidence. In a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but any one of them must always be mistrusted...."
When Wolfe clashes with Archie:
You are headstrong and I am magisterial. Our tolerance of each other is a constantly recurring miracle.
All said, it's still a light, entertaining read. It just might not be as riveting as others in the Nero Wolfe series. The plot is a russian doll of illegitimate pregnancies, with a large cast of suspects (the murder happens at a party, after all!).
The murderer’s method is imaginative and subtle, relying on a creature of habit, with room to evade should a slip occur.
One of the suspects has to unsuspectingly insult Wolfe to goad him forward out of the very rut that the police doggedly pursue. The snub and Wolfe’s reaction contributes to a well-rounded character, and shifts the comial irony from Archie to Wolfe.
Likewise Wolfe's top operative, Saul Panzer, rouses some thinly veiled jealousy in Archie -- though Archie seems to acknowledge that the esteem Wolfe holds for Panzer is well-earned. The rivalry may even contribute a bit to Archie threatening to quit! These dynamics, though subtle, tend to overshadow the mystery itself....more
The Golden Spiders explores the dynamic of the private investigator and the detective involved in a publicized case. To a lesser degree it also expandThe Golden Spiders explores the dynamic of the private investigator and the detective involved in a publicized case. To a lesser degree it also expands to high-level police officials running for public office and even a relatively new FBI looming, ready to take the reins. The clear advantage in this case goes to the private investigator. When the case begins there are few clues to follow with little hope that they'll bear fruit. As events unfold, the trail manages to grow colder rather than opening up. As expected, the police and Nero Wolfe both have cards on the table but keep their own hands close to the vest, and bicker about withholding information from each other.
Although the PIs must stay within the law in order to keep their license and stay out of prison, they still enjoy the ability to use shady methods to rekindle the cold trail. One of those methods is Archie posing to sell Wolfe's trade secrets. It's made clear that while it isn't a blackmail scheme, it's definitely a shady ruse. Another comes later with physical torture of a couple of racketeers after a well-written rescue scene. These are the means by which Wolfe holds the winning hand, the police having only corroborating information. Wolfe sums it up for Inspector Cramer:
By now you have tens of thousands of words of reports and statements, and I admit it's possible that buried somewhere in them is a fact or a phrase I might think cogent, but even if you cart it all up here I don't intend to wade through it.
Also included: Archie in a car-tailing scene. It's not the most exciting example, but a nice touch from Rex Stout. The result is that Archie uncovers a secondary crime that ultimately ties back to the murder investigation. Wolfe has a wealth of contacts beyond the irreplacable Archie Goodwin: he has a team of experienced assistants and, through Archie, a contact in the Press who needs regular feeding of breaking events to maintain the relationship.
The Golden Spiders has plenty of humor to make it a fast, enjoyable read that never really sags too much. Archie's dry but accurate observation of Wolfe:
Nero Wolfe is investigating the murder of Mrs. Fromm with his accustomed vigor, skill, and laziness. He will not rest until he gets the bastard or until bedtime, whichever comes first.
A cagey exchange between Wolfe and Inspector Cramer:
"Yeah. I'll try to frame this right. Except for newspaper or radio items connected with his death, had or have you ever seen or heard of him?"
"Not under that name."
"Damn it, under any name?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Have you any reason to suppose or suspect that the man found dead in that alley was someone you had ever seen or heard of in any connection whatever?"
"That's more like it," Wolfe said approvingly. "That should settle it. The answer is no. May I ask one? Have you any reason to suppose or suspect that the answer should be yes?"
Archie's surly relationship with police Lieutenant Rowcliff:
If there were twenty of us, including Rowcliff, starving on an island, and we were balloting to elect the one we would carve up for a barbecue, I wouldn't vote for Rowcliff because I know I couldn't keep him down; and compared to his opinion of me, mine of him is sympathetic.
If you think you're not a mystery fan, maybe you haven't found the right style yet? I thought I wasn't until I finally realized they're not all Holmes or Poirot; while both are excellent, they’re only a sample of what's available...more
The Doorbell Rang has a light, fast, easy pace. Its subject is the FBI's abuse of power which adds an interesting dimension (though Stout doesn't explThe Doorbell Rang has a light, fast, easy pace. Its subject is the FBI's abuse of power which adds an interesting dimension (though Stout doesn't explore it very deeply). Stout offers a ready-made position in the story based on recent exposés. The characters are directly harried by the agency without any clear reason, other than retaliation for being publicly criticized--in itself that’s enough to make a simple, effective statement and sufficient backbone for a mystery.
Rex Stout's particular strength is in his well-rounded characters. Each has bountiful quirks and idiosyncrasies to make them personable, even the cranky ones! It naturally leads to great character interaction. Archie is an atypical "sidekick" who has a strong role. He has been compared to Dr Watson, but unlike Watson, Archie is a fully-fledged PI who finds his own way (within the bounds of Nero's authority). Stout gives Archie a wry, practical personality:
In all my experience of Wolfe's arrangements of circumstances I had never known him to concoct anything as tricky as the program he was going to rope Lewis Hewitt in for, and I should have been there. Genius is fine for the ignition spark, but to get there someone has to see that the radiator doesn't leak and no tire is flat.
That's not to say the plot suffers! While Archie puts together pieces of the mystery to report back, the rarely-present Wolfe lurks in the background, dreaming up an overarching intricate snare. At times he directs Archie to dig deeper, yielding surprising vital clues.
The story's resolution didn't quite stick it to the FBI the way it seemed to promise, but it's still a satisfying conclusion.
The style suffers from time to time. Awkward parenthetical commas build run-on sentences, but there aren't enough to damage the overall experience:
When I showed the hallman, who was expecting me, my private investigator license he gave it a good look, handed it back, and told me 10B, and I went to the elevator.
Light, sarcastic humor helps contribute to the light tone!:
By the time the cab stopped in front of the old brownstone my mind had run out of reasons and I was facing the fact that it wouldn't improve with age.
It would be easy to 'chain-read' these Nero Wolfe stories. Luckily there are somewhere around 70 of them to help with that!...more
Bitter: Philip Marlowe looks out for his clients more than they deserve. He hands back Orfamay Quest's meagre $20 retainer to continue the search for Bitter: Philip Marlowe looks out for his clients more than they deserve. He hands back Orfamay Quest's meagre $20 retainer to continue the search for her brother Orrin on his own even after he finds more proof that Orfamay isn't being honest with him (eventually uncovering her bold greed and treachery). He gives Julius Oppenheimer, a Hollywood big shot, an offer to hire him on in order to clear up a blackmailing scheme for Mavis Weld, one of Oppenheimer's rising stars. Marlowe covers up for Weld after she admits to a murder, sticking his neck out to tamper with the crime scene because he believes her. All through The Little Sister Marlowe navigates a sea of corruption, bending his own moral rules as far as he will allow, professionally and personally.
There was never a point where I could do the natural obvious thing without stopping to rack my head dizzy with figuring how it would affect somebody I owed something to.
California, the department-store state. The most of everything and the best of nothing.
The motion-picture business is the only business in the world in which you can make all the mistakes there are and still make money.
Marlowe asks himself...
Who would you like to call now? You got a friend somewhere that might like to hear your voice? No. Nobody.
As the body count rises, the victims are either on the "stabbed with an icepick" list, or the "shot with a pistol from a matching set" side. The icepick perpetrator must have the anatomical knowledge; the gunner is tied to Weld and Orrin. The police know Marlowe tampered with a crime scene, but they’re content to look the other way when the victim is a crime boss.
The key piece of evidence is a photo that Orrin took which threatens to connect Hollywood celebrities with organized crime, a partnership only severed by a crime of passion. The plot of The Little Sister isn't much easier to trace than any of Chandler's other works, but oddly there is enough here to appreciate it a little more. It's marked by the expected sardonic, jaded tone associated with Phillip Marlowe, and Chandler continues to demonstrate an admirable command of style:
He stopped and stared down at the table. His eyes came up to mine rather slowly.
Describing sexpot Dolores Gonzales, another movie starlet:
She was exquisite, she was dark, she was deadly.
The air got cooler. The highway narrowed. The cars were so few now that the headlights hurt. The grade rose against chalk walls and at the top a breeze, unbroken from the ocean, danced casually across the night.
The laconic humor is a little more sparse, contributing to the overall tone of bitterness, but it's still there to enjoy:
... He flicked a finger at me airily. "Maybe we meet again some day soon. When I got a friend with me."
"Tell him to wear a clean shirt," I said. "And lend you one."
He wetted his pencil without bothering the cigarette that lived in his face.
On the smooth brown hair was a hat that had been taken from its mother too young.
To be fair, Dolores continuously throws herself at Marlowe after he already told her 'no':
"... What is the urgent matter we have to talk about? Going to bed with you is not urgent. It can be done any day."
In The Little Sister Marlowe is constantly acted upon. His action are defensive. He still knows where to look to finds the truth of the case, but it lacks the active command the better Phillip Marlowe novels offer....more
After a somewhat lackluster experience with The High Window, Chandler is back in form with The Lady in the Lake. The writing is a more even effort thaAfter a somewhat lackluster experience with The High Window, Chandler is back in form with The Lady in the Lake. The writing is a more even effort that feels less forced.
One difficulty reading The Lady in the Lake is the time dilation. The setting switches between the city where events are fast-paced, and the country where character background and a trail of clues slows things down appropriately. However the time frame for the disappearance of Crystal Kingsley, and the events behind the investigation, stretches over several weeks, while Marlowe's investigation itself happens within a few days. At times it's difficult to match them up.
Many aspects of the plot should require extremely careful deliberation on the part of the criminals, but end up being unlikely coincidences. This is exactly what any Chandler reader should expect though. The plots are never airtight. They leak. For example, why is there an anklet in the confectioner's sugar?
"What do you make of it?" "Nothing much..."
"Why is that?" "Because it's a woman's hiding place."
Not particularly pertinent and lamely answered.
Chandler repeats a gibe from High Window, breaking the fourth wall by attacking whodunnit cliches:
"I've never liked this scene," I said. "Detective confronts murderer. Murderer produces gun, points same at detective. Murderer tells detective the whole sad story, with the idea of shooting him at the end of it. Thus wasting a lot of valuable time, even if in the end murderer did shoot detective. Only murderer never does. Something always happens to prevent it. The gods don't like this scene either. They always manage to spoil it."
While the passage isn't as long in The Lady in the Lake, it does predict the action all the same, dulling the irony.
Typically it's up to Chandler's captivating style to save the balance, which doesn't disappoint and accumulates quickly.
The humor tightens up, along the lines of The Big Sleep and Farewell, My Lovely:
"It would take more than a private dick to bother me," he said.
"No, it wouldn't. A private dick can bother anybody. He's persistent and used to snubs. He's paid for his time and he would just as soon use it to bother you as any other way."
I gobbled what they called the regular dinner, drank a brandy to sit on its chest and hold it down, and went out on to the main street.
A wizened waiter with evil eyes and a face like a gnawed bone...
The prose is more thoughtful and resonates:
I kept my eyes on the blue water of the tiny lake. Under an overhanging rock a fish surfaced in a lance of light and a circle of widening ripples. A light breeze moved the tops of the pines with a noise like a gentle surf.
I sat very still and listened to the evening grow quiet outside the open windows. And very slowly I grew quiet with it.
Here he captures the self-consciousness of a listener 'in the moment,' for the speaker's very personal tale:
I moved a little to show him I was still there, but I didn't say anything for fear of breaking the spell.
Other likeable and relatable lines include:
He ground the heels of his hands together. His misery had a theatrical flavor, as real misery so often has.
"I'm all done with hating you," I said. "It's all washed out of me. I hate people hard, but I don't hate them very long."
After a long time his words came. They came through tight teeth and edgeways, and they scraped a little as they came out.
Here Chandler injects a comment on police brutality:
[Dr. Almore] knew his shots in the arm the way you [Lieutenant Degarmo] know how to rough up a bum that hasn't any money or any place to sleep.
The description of the victim is dark and eerie:
The thing rolled over once more and an arm flapped up barely above the skin of the water and the arm ended in a bloated hand that was the hand of a freak. Then the face came. A swollen pulpy gray white mass without features, without eyes, without mouth. A blotch of gray dough, a nightmare with human hair on it.
The High Window is not ultimately dull, but it has a milder, more shopworn tone compared to the previous Philip Marlowe novels. Elizabeth Murdock hireThe High Window is not ultimately dull, but it has a milder, more shopworn tone compared to the previous Philip Marlowe novels. Elizabeth Murdock hires Marlowe to retrieve a valuable coin, suspecting her daughter-in-law stole it, summed up here:
Something of considerable value has been stolen from me. I want it back, but I want more than that. I don't want anybody arrested. The thief happens to be a member of my family--by marriage.
Chandler uses unique, descriptive and visual prose:
... two open windows with net curtains that puckered in and out like the lips of a toothless old man sleeping.
There was nothing much in her expression now except that I didn't really think she realized that I was there. I was a voice coming out of somewhere, but rather impersonal. Almost a voice in her own head.
His eyes had almost disappeared into the back of his head. They were doomed eyes.
On the air of the room a rather heavy perfume struggled with the smell of death, and lost. Although defeated, it was still there.
Dry, sarcastic humor is still in the arsenal:
From thirty feet away [Mrs. Morny] looked like a lot of class. From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away.
"Is all this on the level--or are you just being smart? I mean about all the important guys you don't know?"
"It's on the level," I said. "But the way I am using it is smart."
Yet in many cases it falls short with bombs like these:
I was about as much use as a hummingbird's spare egg would have been.
He was about as excited as a hole in the wall.
In the chapter that provides the reveal, Chandler takes an ironic jab at detective fiction cliches that only manages to self-consciously limp along:
"Sure. Taking the evidence piece by piece, putting it all together in a neat pattern, sneaking in an odd bit I had on my hip here and there, analyzing the motives and characters and making them out to be quite different from what anybody--or I myself for that matter--thought them to be up to this golden moment--and finally making a sort of world-weary pounce on the least promising suspect."
Worst of all a key clue is repeatedly telegraphed all in the same space. It's reinforcement that Chandler doesn't need to offer, when his limited approach to a tight plot fails so often in his body of work:
... A man leaning out of a high window. A long time ago.
... A man leaning out of a high window. A long time ago.
... A man leaning out of a high window. A long time ago.
It's not unusual for Chandler to include a certain level of political commentary, as he does here. His approach is light but effective.
"The trouble with revolutions," he said, "is that they get in the hands of the wrong people."
Here he gives a nod to the up-and-coming noir genre:
... The man in the black shirt and yellow scarf was sneering at me over the New Republic.
"You ought to lay off that fluff and get your teeth into something solid, like a pulp magazine," I told him....
The end result is that The High Window leaves a very neutral impression. Much time and effort is devoted to physical description of the setting. Rooms are fully furnished, people methodically light cigars. The violence is toned down. Chandler seems a bit trapped by his own success, unable to surpass his earlier achievements. Luckily there are more novels to follow that are much more rewarding....more
The storytelling in Farewell, My Lovely is less riveting, than The Big Sleep. Farewell, My Lovely is less convoluted, but also lags painfully during lThe storytelling in Farewell, My Lovely is less riveting, than The Big Sleep. Farewell, My Lovely is less convoluted, but also lags painfully during lengthy segments describing a doped-up hallucination, and another couple of chapters that go into Marlowe sneaking aboard a casino ship.
The focus starts with the fate of a necklace, which is ultimately a dead-end. No crime happens prior to Marlowe's investigation of the suspect to even warrant one. Nothing during Marlowe's initial investigation warrants a criminal response from the to-be villain either, and all indications suggest that the villain is a reasonable and rational character, guilty of liking sex. This is why the villain's subsequent criminal reactions to being investigated are difficult to understand or believe.
It's stunning how consistently incapable Chandler is when it comes to following through with a main plot. Germs of ideas sprout but never take root. In the end the criminal is only guilty of leaving behind an undesirable, but not especially threatening, past. They become a criminal by overreacting when their past resurfaces. It's as if Chandler was working toward a blackmail story, but nobody’s particularly embarrassed by it. Weak plot doesn't have to be a deciding factor in good writing, but not having one is reckless for crime novels. Chandler's writing is style over substance, absolutely good enough to fake it, but it falls short of higher artistry. Too bad... shrug it off, grab some popcorn and settle in for the entertainment. Try not to dwell on it if you feel a little cheated when the threadbare reveal is laced with “maybe’s.”
At times Farewell, My Lovely is horribly (but illuminatingly) racist: an early murder case is publicly ignored because the victim is black. Later, after a white woman is killed, "It's not just a shine killing any more." Chandler treats racism ambiguously, a little like Conrad in Heart of Darkness. Since race isn't the focus of Farewell, My Lovely however, it's much easier to treat the ambiguity as a shrug, rather than witness to an outrage. The result raises the fact of racial injustice, regardless of how the subject is ultimately handled, as is the case with other noir stories past and present.
Quotable lines are integral to Chandler's style. It defines his success, and it has directly influenced authors for almost a century now:
I walked along to the double doors and stood in front of them. They were motionless now. It wasn't any of my business. So I pushed them open and looked in.
Thick cunning played on her face, had no fun there and went somewhere else.
"This man may not be dead." "He's dead all right. With his brains on his face..."
How much style does it take to create substance? Chandler has a way of creating substance using extreme doses of negative space, similes, gangster jarHow much style does it take to create substance? Chandler has a way of creating substance using extreme doses of negative space, similes, gangster jargon, gallows humor, wisecracking, and a wealth of references and devices from Hollywood and literature. A footnote summarizes it in this annotated edition,
... [Marlowe's] solution to the mystery (that everyone else knew the solution to and which wasn't being investigated) has been accomplished entirely offstage, with virtually no friendly clues from the author for the reader to play along.
Philip Marlowe is determined to discover the truth, regardless of personal cost. He's hired by the old "General" Sternwood to settle with a blackmailer, but he's also intrigued by the old man's sadness over his son-in-law, and dear friend, who disappeared without saying goodbye. The annotations repeatedly draw attention to Marlowe's 'knight-like' personal moral code, and he takes on the old man's quest without being explicitly asked, like an Arthurian grail quest.
Marlowe carefully maintains his integrity -- representing the only line he will not cross in a world of crooked police and likeable grifters.
There are recurring moments of metafiction and witty description:
I snicked a match on my thumbnail and for once it lit.
She gave me one of those smiles the lips have forgotten before they reach the eyes.
There's a generous peppering of idioms…
See if this bird is wearing any iron.
Descriptions engage the senses:
... as if somebody had been waiting for the cue, three shots boomed in the house. There was a sound that might have been a long harsh sigh. Then a soft messy thump.
It was going to rain hard. The air had the damp foretaste of rain.
Blonde Agnes was sitting up on the floor with her hands flat on the carpet and her mouth wide open and a wick of metallic blond hair down over her right eye.
Her dark parted hair was part of the darkness of the night. Her eyes too.
It all adds up the way energy is matter: even if the plot construction isn't particularly grounded (a widely-known and founded criticism of Chandler), all of these other traits, having literary and cultural depth, easily make up for it (also widely-known and founded praise for Chandler).
======================= Regarding this Annotated version: as with most Annotated editions, this one is like having a know-it-all friend constantly interrupting with facts. Some are annoying, some are obvious, some are interesting but only vaguely relevant. Many are truly helpful. You'll have this type of intrusive redundancy:
Mrs. Regan waved the empty glass at her and she mixed another drink and handed it to her and left the room, without a word, without a glance in my direction.
The annotation:
The maid (later named Mathilda) is rather a cypher in TBS, as in the homes of the wealthy generally. She has no lines of dialogue and little personality beyond subservience. Vivian doesn't even speak to her, imperiously waving the glass for another drink.
Most important, the Annotated version is very informative in regards to the noir landscape in general. It covers how the contemporary audience would have perceived symbols. For example it describes the now-obscure effeminate connotations behind the 'du lac' symbol, and eastern furniture. Other helpful examples...: "ritzing me: To be ritzed was to be treated with condescension by someone from the upper classes" "Brody": "To take a chance and lose; stupid." It derives from a saloon-keeper who in 1886 allegedly jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge to win $200. Hence, "doing a Brody" (or "Brodie")
This would be a very valuable edition for anyone with a budding interest for Noire. It provides background for the business, touches on other famous and influential writers in the field, Hollywood adaptations and those reciprocal influences, and outlines applicable contemporary Los Angeles history for richer context....more
Michael McDowell is best known for his horror novels. He favors strong women characters for both villains and hero roles, often Southern. His unique bMichael McDowell is best known for his horror novels. He favors strong women characters for both villains and hero roles, often Southern. His unique brand of dark, wry humor is prevalent.
McDowell's bibliography can provide a thread leading to this movie novelization. He also co-authored screenplays for Beetlejuice and Stephen King's Thinner: he's at home in the horror-comedy spectrum. For a while in 1985 this Clue paperback would have been on display at supermarket checkouts to promote the movie, and I'm sure it helped McDowell pay the bills while it unceremoniously ran out of print.
Jonathan Lynn and John Landis wrote the story for the Clue film, and even though McDowell is confined to their fundamental dialog and action, fans will see enough of his skill to enjoy the book. McDowell's strength is dialog (something he obviously couldn't pursue too freely here), but his narrative voice is just as engaging. It carries excellent visual description, and dishes up an ironic gossiping tone.
The screenplay is set in the 1950s, which is coincidentally McDowell's favored era in his own novels. McCarthyism holds sway, homosexuality is shunned and soon to be made illegal. Like Mr. Green's character, McDowell was gay; a fact that might slightly enhance your reading if you observe the subtext of what's said about it, what isn't.
McDowell successfully transfers the best qualities of the Lynn-Landis film: fast-paced, chained action, and snappy dialog:
"But seriously," said Professor Plum, who'd evidently been thinking for a few moments, "I don't see what's so terrible about Colonel Mustard visiting a house of ill-fame. Most soldiers do, don't they?" he asked Miss Scarlet, at the same time--as if by accident--dropping his hand upon her knee.
Miss Scarlet quietly removed Professor Plum's hand. With an admonitory finger, she directed the Professor's attention to Wadsworth, who was studying yet another page of the typewritten notes.
McDowell's dry, sniping humor drives the narrative:
Yvette's accent was on a level with her costume. It was the expected carried to the extreme. Beyond parody, it was a thing unto itself.
The kitchen of Hill House was vast and old-fashioned, having been equipped in a time when the only real labor-saving device was a full complement of servants.
... a moment later the rumble of thunder, like a warning to look out that comes after the blow is struck.
Mrs. Peacock once again, squeezed past the body on the floor... [she] was a Washington hostess, and perhaps was more accustomed to ignoring little embarrassments, like corpses.
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