David Gustafson's Blog: Bonjour Amigos!, page 28
August 4, 2015
The Postman Always Rings Twice
After my huge disappointment with Dashiell Hammett's "The Thin Man," I knew I could find the antidote with a re-read of James M. Cain's masterpiece, "The Postman Always Rings Twice." Thin is thin and noir is noir and Cain's first person novella stands out as the noirest of them all.
Since we know the perps from the beginning, this is never a whodunnit, not even a how-did-they-finally-get-caught mystery novel. This is Cain's search among the ruins of lust, betrayal, suspicion, confession, love and forgiveness that clutter two human hearts in love with each other before and after they kill another, rather generous human being.
Cain's portraits of Frank the drifter and Cora, the hash house waitress, are as finely etched as any one of Rembrandt's masterpieces that stare back at us from behind those riveting eyes, waiting to have a word with us after all these centuries.
Cain's story was inspired by the real-life murderers Ruth Snyder and her married lover, Judd Gray. They knocked off her husband Albert for his insurance money providing some bonus material that Cain would also use again in "Double Indemnity."
Mrs. Snyder's trial captivated the entire country. Gray testified that it took her seven attempts before she finally succeeded in killing Albert. Apparently, Albert was not a very suspicious sort of victim.
With all of the coast-to-coast publicity, Ruth Snyder would receive over a hundred marriage proposals before her execution in the electric chair that was stealthily captured by a New York Daily News photographer just as the current surged through her body. Her face had been masked to shield the finer people in attendance from any queasy, eye-popping memories. Front page stuff! The raw stuff that noir is made of! Adultery, money, murder and execution.
By the time "The Postman Always Rings Twice" was published, the American audience was properly primed and ready to shell out a little dough for this short read. Ruth Snyder's quivering body was still twitching in their minds and ever since its publication, this has been ranked at the top of the the noir totem pole. Rightly so. This is underclass literature at its finest rather than ordinary crime fiction.
I have seen both movies and much prefer the John Garfield version to the Jack Nicholson one. I hold the minority opinion that Nicholson, like John Wayne, is a one- dimensional actor basically playing himself in all of his roles. Nicholson's performance as Frank pales in comparison to Garfield and let us be honest here, Jessica Lange " just ain't no Lana Turner" whether she is playing Cora or anyone else.
Enjoy this masterpiece and then watch the 1946 movie.
Since we know the perps from the beginning, this is never a whodunnit, not even a how-did-they-finally-get-caught mystery novel. This is Cain's search among the ruins of lust, betrayal, suspicion, confession, love and forgiveness that clutter two human hearts in love with each other before and after they kill another, rather generous human being.
Cain's portraits of Frank the drifter and Cora, the hash house waitress, are as finely etched as any one of Rembrandt's masterpieces that stare back at us from behind those riveting eyes, waiting to have a word with us after all these centuries.
Cain's story was inspired by the real-life murderers Ruth Snyder and her married lover, Judd Gray. They knocked off her husband Albert for his insurance money providing some bonus material that Cain would also use again in "Double Indemnity."
Mrs. Snyder's trial captivated the entire country. Gray testified that it took her seven attempts before she finally succeeded in killing Albert. Apparently, Albert was not a very suspicious sort of victim.
With all of the coast-to-coast publicity, Ruth Snyder would receive over a hundred marriage proposals before her execution in the electric chair that was stealthily captured by a New York Daily News photographer just as the current surged through her body. Her face had been masked to shield the finer people in attendance from any queasy, eye-popping memories. Front page stuff! The raw stuff that noir is made of! Adultery, money, murder and execution.
By the time "The Postman Always Rings Twice" was published, the American audience was properly primed and ready to shell out a little dough for this short read. Ruth Snyder's quivering body was still twitching in their minds and ever since its publication, this has been ranked at the top of the the noir totem pole. Rightly so. This is underclass literature at its finest rather than ordinary crime fiction.
I have seen both movies and much prefer the John Garfield version to the Jack Nicholson one. I hold the minority opinion that Nicholson, like John Wayne, is a one- dimensional actor basically playing himself in all of his roles. Nicholson's performance as Frank pales in comparison to Garfield and let us be honest here, Jessica Lange " just ain't no Lana Turner" whether she is playing Cora or anyone else.
Enjoy this masterpiece and then watch the 1946 movie.
The Thin Man
Although I have always enjoyed the Myrna Loy-William Powell movie adaptions, this was my first reading of Dashiell Hammett's "The Thin Man."
After recently reviewing the noir icons Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain, I find this yarn to be rather thin- thin characters, and a very thin narrative stretched even thinner by the tedious breakfast-to-bedtime cocktail party. Hammett's shallow characters seem unable to begin a conversation without first ordering a drink. Mercifully, the plot line rises from the dead in the final chapters. Maybe it was finally sobering up?
Hammett was not particularly interested in the nuances of the underclass that consumed Chandler and Cain. Those portraits that he does offer up lack the social impact of his competitors. His caricatures of the American overclass seem painfully off key. Binding the thin characters to the thin plot line, is Hammett's threadbare narrative. He is not in the same class with the better educated Chandler and Cain.
No one is disputing the noir ranking of Hammett's masterpiece, "The Maltese Falcon," but after reading "The Thin Man," I feel he was a one trick pony with a literary reputation greatly enhanced by Hollywood and his relationship with Lillian Hellman who was always adored by the influential American critics.
I am usually generous, but when Hammett runs this poorly in the company of Chandler and Cain, he only deserves one star. I added a bonus star for the lollipop curve of the plot line in the final pages.
After recently reviewing the noir icons Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain, I find this yarn to be rather thin- thin characters, and a very thin narrative stretched even thinner by the tedious breakfast-to-bedtime cocktail party. Hammett's shallow characters seem unable to begin a conversation without first ordering a drink. Mercifully, the plot line rises from the dead in the final chapters. Maybe it was finally sobering up?
Hammett was not particularly interested in the nuances of the underclass that consumed Chandler and Cain. Those portraits that he does offer up lack the social impact of his competitors. His caricatures of the American overclass seem painfully off key. Binding the thin characters to the thin plot line, is Hammett's threadbare narrative. He is not in the same class with the better educated Chandler and Cain.
No one is disputing the noir ranking of Hammett's masterpiece, "The Maltese Falcon," but after reading "The Thin Man," I feel he was a one trick pony with a literary reputation greatly enhanced by Hollywood and his relationship with Lillian Hellman who was always adored by the influential American critics.
I am usually generous, but when Hammett runs this poorly in the company of Chandler and Cain, he only deserves one star. I added a bonus star for the lollipop curve of the plot line in the final pages.
July 28, 2015
The Big Sleep
Raymond Chandler's private detective Philip Marlowe makes his world debut in "The Big Sleep." Although Marlowe does not show the slightest twinge of stage fright, neither he nor Chandler are as polished as they will be after a couple more performances together even though all of their winning attributes are boldly on display here.
The year is 1938, a quaint time in American history when the arbiters of what is naughty and what is nice relegated pornography to the underground economy rather than just a click away as it is on today's computer; a time when porn performers sometimes had to be drugged - and not with the recreational sort of drugs, to strut their stuff, a time when crooked cops took their cut from porn and back room casinos like any other respectable tax collector from any other dysfunctional democracy.
That was then and this is now. With its nostalgic sexual shyness, "The Big Sleep" takes place eons away from today's Las Vegas bachelorette parties where the bride-to-be and her bridal party have a few last hurrahs together in the same room with a bunch of hunky-drunky, naked strangers that they will never ever see again before returning home to Mayberry, USA where the blushing bride can faithfully proclaim her lifetime "I do's" before God and family. Believe it or not, in 1938, people got killed over a little porn. Part of the charm of "The Big Sleep" is that this is such a historical time capsule.
Throw in the nymphomaniacal daughters of a dying millionaire, a few blackmail letters, the murder of the local porn mogul, and it is time to call in Philip Marlowe. As with most Chandler story lines, the first murder is little more than an appetizer plate before the entrée is served.
This original Marlowe has yet to fine tune his yummy, smackmouth wisecracks. Chandler, the World War I linguist, is a graceful as ever with his narrative, but has yet to command the full blast of cajun seasoning that his weary cynicism would sprinkle over his later works. His brief chapters unfold as quickly as the scenes from a movie. And do not forget the trademark, surprise ending that has been waiting under our noses all this time.
Although I have never seen it mentioned anywhere, I believe cinema was a major influence on Chandler's style. The only regret about these racing, cinematic clips is that you will rather quickly consume the entire Chandler/Marlowe oeuvre. Therefore, it is to the noir gourmand's delight to look back and sample the origins of this tasty dish simmering and melding its flavors together for the very first time in "The Big Sleep."
The year is 1938, a quaint time in American history when the arbiters of what is naughty and what is nice relegated pornography to the underground economy rather than just a click away as it is on today's computer; a time when porn performers sometimes had to be drugged - and not with the recreational sort of drugs, to strut their stuff, a time when crooked cops took their cut from porn and back room casinos like any other respectable tax collector from any other dysfunctional democracy.
That was then and this is now. With its nostalgic sexual shyness, "The Big Sleep" takes place eons away from today's Las Vegas bachelorette parties where the bride-to-be and her bridal party have a few last hurrahs together in the same room with a bunch of hunky-drunky, naked strangers that they will never ever see again before returning home to Mayberry, USA where the blushing bride can faithfully proclaim her lifetime "I do's" before God and family. Believe it or not, in 1938, people got killed over a little porn. Part of the charm of "The Big Sleep" is that this is such a historical time capsule.
Throw in the nymphomaniacal daughters of a dying millionaire, a few blackmail letters, the murder of the local porn mogul, and it is time to call in Philip Marlowe. As with most Chandler story lines, the first murder is little more than an appetizer plate before the entrée is served.
This original Marlowe has yet to fine tune his yummy, smackmouth wisecracks. Chandler, the World War I linguist, is a graceful as ever with his narrative, but has yet to command the full blast of cajun seasoning that his weary cynicism would sprinkle over his later works. His brief chapters unfold as quickly as the scenes from a movie. And do not forget the trademark, surprise ending that has been waiting under our noses all this time.
Although I have never seen it mentioned anywhere, I believe cinema was a major influence on Chandler's style. The only regret about these racing, cinematic clips is that you will rather quickly consume the entire Chandler/Marlowe oeuvre. Therefore, it is to the noir gourmand's delight to look back and sample the origins of this tasty dish simmering and melding its flavors together for the very first time in "The Big Sleep."
July 26, 2015
The Long Goodbye
Outside of a 1940's Hollywood nightclub, a congenial drunk falls out of a Rolls Royce and his lady friend drives away leaving him on the pavement. Surprisingly, Raymond Chandler's alter ego, the cynical, private detective Philip Marlowe, picks the lad up and takes him to his home to sober him up.
Within the first few pages the window has been opened from the stifling, antiseptic culture of political correctness that is suffocating us and the reader encounters a refreshing noir breeze from a writer who is not afraid to step on someone's toes or kick them in the shins with a little smack mouth:
- The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back.
- "He's just a lost dog," she added with a cool smile. "Perhaps you can find him a home. He's housebroken - more or less."
- She brightened up suddenly, "Oh- Las Vegas? How sentimental of him. That's where we were married."
"I guess he forgot," I said, "or he would have gone somewhere else."
- I caught the rest of it in one of those snob columns in the society section of the paper. I don't read those often, only when I run out of things to dislike.
The drunk is Terry Lennox. The lady is his ex-wife, daughter of a multi-millionaire, reclusive newspaper tycoon. Marlowe helps the badly wounded war veteran make his way to Las Vegas for a fresh start in life where a wartime buddy will give him a job. Shortly thereafter, he gets a letter from Lennox saying that he and his wife have not only reconciled, but have remarried.
A casual friendship develops upon his return. Marlowe feels sorry for the war hero who is little more than a kept man to cover up his wife's promiscuous lifestyle from the gossip columns and her strict father.
Late one night, Lennox shows up at Marlowe's door begging for a ride to Tijuana where he can catch a flight deeper into rural Mexico. He has to get away. His wife has been murdered. Marlowe complies and is no sooner back home than he is taken into custody to be repeatedly beaten and interrogated by the cops. He says nothing and is finally released after Lennox allegedly commits suicide in Mexico after leaving behind a confession.
Shortly after Lennox is buried in Mexico, Marlowe is threatened by the cops, the family's attorney, the District Attorney's office as well as a gangster who shared a foxhole with Lennox in Europe, to keep well away from any further inquiry into this matter. In spite of receiving a $5000 bill from Lennox as a token of their friendship that was mailed before his alleged suicide, what can Marlowe do? Lennox is dead and buried and the case is closed. For your historical perspective, may I add here that a brand new Cadillac club coupe cost $2700 in 1948 and yes, they actually had $5,000 bills back in the day! In fact Benny Binion, that congenial gangster-turned-businessman, had a wall of one hundred $10,000 bills hanging in his Las Vegas casino to inflame the Mom and Pop slots players into dreams of winning their way into a mansion of their own on Easy Street if only they would keep feeding his machines.
Life goes on. Marlowe is finally distracted from his friend's death when the publisher of a best-selling author wants to hire him to find out if his writer is being blackmailed for something from his past since he has gone on a violent drinking binge and cannot finish his latest pulp masterpiece. It is not about the novelist's contribution to mankind. The publisher needs the cash flow. Marlowe is reluctant to take this case which sounds like little more than "intervention" until the author's drop-dead, gorgeous wife gets him aside and explains that not only is her husband a violent drunk, but he has been missing for three days. Will Marlowe please find him? The prescient crime reader will intuit that this new assignment will somehow lead back to Terry Lennox's bludgeoned wife. Just do not expect a straight line across the pages to finger the real murderer. That would take all the fun out of this jaunty noir romp through1940's Hollywood.
Chandler's character etchings are as indelible as his smack mouth language. From cops with varying degrees of violence and inferiority to equally violent gangsters with a touch more of class, from the comfortable, cocktail party carriage trade lacking every component of class except oodles of money to their sultry wives bearing every shade of guile and adultery, from shyster doctors preying on the sick, the vulnerable and the elderly to everyday folks just trying to make a buck before heading home and popping a cold beer, Chandler populates his novels with an aquarium full of colorful, shimmering, unforgettable species.
Let me sprinkle a few more quotes into the aquarium:
- It was so quiet in the bar that you could almost hear the temperature drop as you came in at the door.
- Once in a while in this much too sex-conscious country a man and a woman can meet and talk without dragging bedrooms into it.
- "I have a good idea, Doctor. Why don't you see a good doctor?"
- He had short red hair and a face like a collapsed lung.
And from the femme fatales:
- "I always find what I want. But when I find it, I don't want it anymore."
- "Please be kind to me. I'm no bargain to anyone."
Promise me, promise me, do not, I repeat, do not peek at the ending! There are not many such surprises left on this side of glory.
Within the first few pages the window has been opened from the stifling, antiseptic culture of political correctness that is suffocating us and the reader encounters a refreshing noir breeze from a writer who is not afraid to step on someone's toes or kick them in the shins with a little smack mouth:
- The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back.
- "He's just a lost dog," she added with a cool smile. "Perhaps you can find him a home. He's housebroken - more or less."
- She brightened up suddenly, "Oh- Las Vegas? How sentimental of him. That's where we were married."
"I guess he forgot," I said, "or he would have gone somewhere else."
- I caught the rest of it in one of those snob columns in the society section of the paper. I don't read those often, only when I run out of things to dislike.
The drunk is Terry Lennox. The lady is his ex-wife, daughter of a multi-millionaire, reclusive newspaper tycoon. Marlowe helps the badly wounded war veteran make his way to Las Vegas for a fresh start in life where a wartime buddy will give him a job. Shortly thereafter, he gets a letter from Lennox saying that he and his wife have not only reconciled, but have remarried.
A casual friendship develops upon his return. Marlowe feels sorry for the war hero who is little more than a kept man to cover up his wife's promiscuous lifestyle from the gossip columns and her strict father.
Late one night, Lennox shows up at Marlowe's door begging for a ride to Tijuana where he can catch a flight deeper into rural Mexico. He has to get away. His wife has been murdered. Marlowe complies and is no sooner back home than he is taken into custody to be repeatedly beaten and interrogated by the cops. He says nothing and is finally released after Lennox allegedly commits suicide in Mexico after leaving behind a confession.
Shortly after Lennox is buried in Mexico, Marlowe is threatened by the cops, the family's attorney, the District Attorney's office as well as a gangster who shared a foxhole with Lennox in Europe, to keep well away from any further inquiry into this matter. In spite of receiving a $5000 bill from Lennox as a token of their friendship that was mailed before his alleged suicide, what can Marlowe do? Lennox is dead and buried and the case is closed. For your historical perspective, may I add here that a brand new Cadillac club coupe cost $2700 in 1948 and yes, they actually had $5,000 bills back in the day! In fact Benny Binion, that congenial gangster-turned-businessman, had a wall of one hundred $10,000 bills hanging in his Las Vegas casino to inflame the Mom and Pop slots players into dreams of winning their way into a mansion of their own on Easy Street if only they would keep feeding his machines.
Life goes on. Marlowe is finally distracted from his friend's death when the publisher of a best-selling author wants to hire him to find out if his writer is being blackmailed for something from his past since he has gone on a violent drinking binge and cannot finish his latest pulp masterpiece. It is not about the novelist's contribution to mankind. The publisher needs the cash flow. Marlowe is reluctant to take this case which sounds like little more than "intervention" until the author's drop-dead, gorgeous wife gets him aside and explains that not only is her husband a violent drunk, but he has been missing for three days. Will Marlowe please find him? The prescient crime reader will intuit that this new assignment will somehow lead back to Terry Lennox's bludgeoned wife. Just do not expect a straight line across the pages to finger the real murderer. That would take all the fun out of this jaunty noir romp through1940's Hollywood.
Chandler's character etchings are as indelible as his smack mouth language. From cops with varying degrees of violence and inferiority to equally violent gangsters with a touch more of class, from the comfortable, cocktail party carriage trade lacking every component of class except oodles of money to their sultry wives bearing every shade of guile and adultery, from shyster doctors preying on the sick, the vulnerable and the elderly to everyday folks just trying to make a buck before heading home and popping a cold beer, Chandler populates his novels with an aquarium full of colorful, shimmering, unforgettable species.
Let me sprinkle a few more quotes into the aquarium:
- It was so quiet in the bar that you could almost hear the temperature drop as you came in at the door.
- Once in a while in this much too sex-conscious country a man and a woman can meet and talk without dragging bedrooms into it.
- "I have a good idea, Doctor. Why don't you see a good doctor?"
- He had short red hair and a face like a collapsed lung.
And from the femme fatales:
- "I always find what I want. But when I find it, I don't want it anymore."
- "Please be kind to me. I'm no bargain to anyone."
Promise me, promise me, do not, I repeat, do not peek at the ending! There are not many such surprises left on this side of glory.
July 22, 2015
Double Indemnity
This is a first-person, noir yarn. There is no wise-cracking private eye caught between the criminal element and the corrupt cops trying to unravel the latest murder for the reader. The criminals are the stars of this story and rather proud of it.
Walter Huff is an insurance salesman who calls on the Nirdlingers to remind them that their automobile coverage is about to lapse. The Mrs. says that the Mr. is out so Huff will have to come back another time, but before he leaves she artfully queries him about accidental death policies since hubby has a dangerous job in the oil business.
This murder moves at warp speed. When Huff returns a few days later, he finds himself alone with the sultry Mrs. Nirdlinger. In the blink of an eye, they are in each other arms and before any critical buttons have been stealthily undone to release an urgently pressing prize into a lover's fondling caresses, before they know whether the other prefers an olive or a lemon twist in their martini, before they can whisper to one another that basic building block of any torrid love affair, "Is this good for you, Baby?" they have decided to murder Mrs. Nirdlinger's hubby and collect the double indemnity insurance policy that Huff will write to consummate their lust. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am!
After some strategic planning, careful rehearsals and critical analysis of their plot, the lovers kill Mr. Nirdlinger like a rabbit. From this point forward, the story is all about how the best laid plans of killers become politely unlaid, so to speak. Enter Huff's boss, the skeptical, unrelenting claims investigator Keyes. This is the literary artifice that gives this novella its delightful tension - the murderer working shoulder-to-shoulder with the investigator.
As I have mentioned elsewhere, I am on a long overdue noir respite from history and high octane belle lettres. "Double Indemnity" follows my reading of Raymond Chandler's "The Lady in the Lake" and I cannot help but make a personal comparison between these two giants of the noir genre. Chandler, who was a linguist during WWI, has a much more graceful touch with narrative language as well as the tongue-in-cheek, tough guy smack talk that is the trademark of noir crime novels, while Cain is the more accomplished architect. After this story bolts from the gate like a high strung, thoroughbred filly, "Double Indemnity" unfolds in a most sophisticated manner.
Walter Huff is an insurance salesman who calls on the Nirdlingers to remind them that their automobile coverage is about to lapse. The Mrs. says that the Mr. is out so Huff will have to come back another time, but before he leaves she artfully queries him about accidental death policies since hubby has a dangerous job in the oil business.
This murder moves at warp speed. When Huff returns a few days later, he finds himself alone with the sultry Mrs. Nirdlinger. In the blink of an eye, they are in each other arms and before any critical buttons have been stealthily undone to release an urgently pressing prize into a lover's fondling caresses, before they know whether the other prefers an olive or a lemon twist in their martini, before they can whisper to one another that basic building block of any torrid love affair, "Is this good for you, Baby?" they have decided to murder Mrs. Nirdlinger's hubby and collect the double indemnity insurance policy that Huff will write to consummate their lust. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am!
After some strategic planning, careful rehearsals and critical analysis of their plot, the lovers kill Mr. Nirdlinger like a rabbit. From this point forward, the story is all about how the best laid plans of killers become politely unlaid, so to speak. Enter Huff's boss, the skeptical, unrelenting claims investigator Keyes. This is the literary artifice that gives this novella its delightful tension - the murderer working shoulder-to-shoulder with the investigator.
As I have mentioned elsewhere, I am on a long overdue noir respite from history and high octane belle lettres. "Double Indemnity" follows my reading of Raymond Chandler's "The Lady in the Lake" and I cannot help but make a personal comparison between these two giants of the noir genre. Chandler, who was a linguist during WWI, has a much more graceful touch with narrative language as well as the tongue-in-cheek, tough guy smack talk that is the trademark of noir crime novels, while Cain is the more accomplished architect. After this story bolts from the gate like a high strung, thoroughbred filly, "Double Indemnity" unfolds in a most sophisticated manner.
July 21, 2015
The Lady in the Lake
I have decided to take a break from my usual obsession with history to take a deep plunge into several of the classic noir detective novels by Raymond Chandler, James M. Cain and Dashiell Hammett. A few of these will be re-reads.
Why noir? America is even divided between two fanatical ideologies so I guess the noir genre suits my cynical nature as an outcast, literary hermit who despises the hypocritical dishonesty of both political franchises as well as the obedient myrmidons in the media who defend them.
Another key ingredient to the noir formula is the hard bitten, cynical private eye working against both the criminal element as well as the corrupt cops. I don't know many criminals besides a few upper-level, corporate fruit flies who will never be brought to justice, but I live in Las Vegas where the police force has worked overtime to tarnish its own image to the best of its ability. In coffee shops around town, I have been completely unsuccessful in trying to engage any one of these morons in an intelligent conversation. It is beyond their meager abilities. It creeps me out that these antisocial goons carry both a badge and a gun. That is another reason I am going noir!
No one suits this noir streak better than Raymond Chandler's sarcastic, hard drinking, private dick Philip Marlowe.
In "The Lady in the Lake," Marlowe is hired by a perfume company exec to find his estranged wife who had disappeared from their summer home, sending him a very nice dear John letter saying she was running off to Mexico with another man. That came as no big surprise, but later he runs into his wife'e lover who claims they never ran off together so where did she go? The wife had some bad habits and the husband is more concerned about the possibility of some embarrassing publicity that might cost him his cushy job rather than about the missing lady's well-being. No hard feelings, Dear.
With Marlowe as our wise-cracking guide, interpreter and body guard, Chandler leads us on a twisting, turning roller coaster ride through a 1940's lookingglass from Hollywood to the lake in the mountains where we stumble upon a lady's body, back down again and then back up to the lake again where, much to our chagrin, we meet both the missing lady and her killer.
This is the first time I have read "The Lady in the Lake." It is a 222 page, page- burner that you will not want to put down without a good fight. Whether you are flying transatlantic, across America or taking a meandering, overnight train ride through Europe, may I recommend this novel as an antidote to your temporary captivity.
As a warm-up to get you into the proper 1940's mood for this novel, may I also suggest that you go to YouTube and pull up the 3 minute, 1947 trailer to the movie.
Why noir? America is even divided between two fanatical ideologies so I guess the noir genre suits my cynical nature as an outcast, literary hermit who despises the hypocritical dishonesty of both political franchises as well as the obedient myrmidons in the media who defend them.
Another key ingredient to the noir formula is the hard bitten, cynical private eye working against both the criminal element as well as the corrupt cops. I don't know many criminals besides a few upper-level, corporate fruit flies who will never be brought to justice, but I live in Las Vegas where the police force has worked overtime to tarnish its own image to the best of its ability. In coffee shops around town, I have been completely unsuccessful in trying to engage any one of these morons in an intelligent conversation. It is beyond their meager abilities. It creeps me out that these antisocial goons carry both a badge and a gun. That is another reason I am going noir!
No one suits this noir streak better than Raymond Chandler's sarcastic, hard drinking, private dick Philip Marlowe.
In "The Lady in the Lake," Marlowe is hired by a perfume company exec to find his estranged wife who had disappeared from their summer home, sending him a very nice dear John letter saying she was running off to Mexico with another man. That came as no big surprise, but later he runs into his wife'e lover who claims they never ran off together so where did she go? The wife had some bad habits and the husband is more concerned about the possibility of some embarrassing publicity that might cost him his cushy job rather than about the missing lady's well-being. No hard feelings, Dear.
With Marlowe as our wise-cracking guide, interpreter and body guard, Chandler leads us on a twisting, turning roller coaster ride through a 1940's lookingglass from Hollywood to the lake in the mountains where we stumble upon a lady's body, back down again and then back up to the lake again where, much to our chagrin, we meet both the missing lady and her killer.
This is the first time I have read "The Lady in the Lake." It is a 222 page, page- burner that you will not want to put down without a good fight. Whether you are flying transatlantic, across America or taking a meandering, overnight train ride through Europe, may I recommend this novel as an antidote to your temporary captivity.
As a warm-up to get you into the proper 1940's mood for this novel, may I also suggest that you go to YouTube and pull up the 3 minute, 1947 trailer to the movie.
July 20, 2015
BonjourAmigos excerpt #6
The boob tube bobbleheads were already blowing their party horns over the sudden appearance of Carla's irrepressible lollipop and her contorted connections to a cute rodeo star and that Metro cop, her shackled object of gratification who had just killed an unarmed veteran that very morning. This makes for hours and hours of non-stop, useless noise. Call in a sanctimonious commentator from the bobblehead bullpen. Now, all together, keep the ball rolling, make some noise. Pause for a few bars of haunting fade-out music. We will return with more and more and then a little more after this short commercial break. There are questions yet to be answered. Has Carla spoken with officer Brownie Strait since he shot and killed John Doe III? In all fairness, we do not know whether the Metro officer fired his weapon in self-defense. Is she the reason for the divorce proceedings? Stay tuned; we are expecting a statement from the officer's wife at any moment. Will Carla Flamingo be in attendance next time Zeeter mounts the notorious bucking bull, Pudding Pete? Was this their first rodeo, so to speak? Does that abandoned pick-up truck in Nebraska belong to Zeeter? There are conflicting reports that a shotgun was found on the front seat. Nebraska police have not confirmed whether the truck belongs to the famous rodeo star. We are checking on that one. Who is this mysterious honeymoon couple and where have they taken Carla Flamingo?
The bobbleheads filled in the blanks with conjecture, rumor and insinuation, offering up those specially guarded views that can only be expressed for public consumption by someone officially endowed with the sanctified halo of television. Times like these demand such electronic angels to instruct the boob tube brill at home unable to fashion an opinion on their own. By mutual consent, Carl Rudolph Schlepdinger was only mentioned once in passing. No reason to confuse the folks at home with impure thoughts, after all, a ladyboy is a ladyboy is a ladyboy. What's the big deal?
The bobbleheads filled in the blanks with conjecture, rumor and insinuation, offering up those specially guarded views that can only be expressed for public consumption by someone officially endowed with the sanctified halo of television. Times like these demand such electronic angels to instruct the boob tube brill at home unable to fashion an opinion on their own. By mutual consent, Carl Rudolph Schlepdinger was only mentioned once in passing. No reason to confuse the folks at home with impure thoughts, after all, a ladyboy is a ladyboy is a ladyboy. What's the big deal?
Bonjour Amigos excerpt #5
It would only be a few hours more before the millionaire, boob tube bobbleheads, with their well-practiced, sotto voce bile that bestows sanctimony upon every twiddle-twaddle question nagging the holy secular conscience, began to weigh in on the merriment of this gluttony with all the authority of Church bishops. But in the final analysis, their well-paid pomposity was no match for the boisterous celebration of this parvenu ladyboy by the youthful social media. Carla Flamingo belonged to the ages; to all the ages under thirty where advertisers saw nothing but snow-white opportunity speckled with greenbacks
Bonjour Amigos excerpt #4
The strawberry ice cream was melting under the withering sun faster than the boys could lap it up from the nubile bellies of their sultry teammates. The ogling spectators erupted when a wayward scoop made its escape from Lily's navel, sensually diving downward until it came to rest on the succulent rise where her thighs met.
Kenny Pao, the ever-courteous son, paused to evaluate this perplexing conundrum. The crowd cheered him on. They knew what they wanted. Kenny hesitated, carefully considering his options before politely nudging the pink scoop back towards Lily's navel. The crowd groaned with disappointment.
"Coward!"
With mischievous serendipity, Carla sucked in her tummy so that Barry Toon would face the same test of fire and ice. The kids went wild when Barry pounced on the slippery quarry nestled seductively on Carla's bikini bottom. The circus rewarded his valiant efforts with a screech of primal mating screams. Playing to the pandemonium, Barry Toon paused to look up and pose for the barrage of peeping cameras that would send this immortal scene streaking across the universe of the adolescent vox populi.
His lascivious bravery duly acknowledged by the photographers, Barry returned to the remaining ice cream work at hand only to come face-to-face with Carla Flamingo's irrepressible lollipop that had escaped the girly confines of her bikini bottom by the force of its masculine exuberance. Boys will be boys. This was not in the script.
"Bonjour amigos!" chortled the bemused beauty. Now, she belonged to the world.
Kenny Pao, the ever-courteous son, paused to evaluate this perplexing conundrum. The crowd cheered him on. They knew what they wanted. Kenny hesitated, carefully considering his options before politely nudging the pink scoop back towards Lily's navel. The crowd groaned with disappointment.
"Coward!"
With mischievous serendipity, Carla sucked in her tummy so that Barry Toon would face the same test of fire and ice. The kids went wild when Barry pounced on the slippery quarry nestled seductively on Carla's bikini bottom. The circus rewarded his valiant efforts with a screech of primal mating screams. Playing to the pandemonium, Barry Toon paused to look up and pose for the barrage of peeping cameras that would send this immortal scene streaking across the universe of the adolescent vox populi.
His lascivious bravery duly acknowledged by the photographers, Barry returned to the remaining ice cream work at hand only to come face-to-face with Carla Flamingo's irrepressible lollipop that had escaped the girly confines of her bikini bottom by the force of its masculine exuberance. Boys will be boys. This was not in the script.
"Bonjour amigos!" chortled the bemused beauty. Now, she belonged to the world.
Bonjour Amigos excerpt #3
Looking around the day club, Khalid's heart was gladdened by the spectacle of these carefree partiers. It confirmed the opinions he had drawn from the sampling of poker players he had already met around town and from his studies of this economy and its people. What he saw confirmed his previous conclusions that the American algorithm for success had been ruptured by luxury, excess and inbreeding. The hardscrabble, buoyant immigrants who had arrived with no other choice but to hit the ground running, had been replaced by an inbred generation of entitled children. Math, science and engineering students were disappearing. The culture no longer produced any meaningful literature, poetry, theatre, philosophy or music. Females were outnumbering males enrolled in universities and with a culture unbinding itself from family traditions, where would these newly educated alpha females relegate their uneducated, unskilled counterparts in the coming generations? The old working bargain between capital and labor had been replaced by a cultural stalemate that brokers no compromise. It might be five years or even ten years from now, but Khalid Fasad was convinced he would live to see this strutting empire collapse into the stink of its own exceptionalism.
