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Post by alfromni on Mar 22, 2019 19:33:09 GMT
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Post by Nalkarj on Mar 25, 2019 18:38:55 GMT
My comments on Van Dine the other day got me thinking of the connections between surrealism and the detective story, a relationship few critics have ever remarked on, if they noticed it at all.
But it’s there from the beginning, with Poe: gloomy Dupin, living in squalor and looking like a madman, who can make extraordinary deductions about what his friend is thinking and who proves the killer who escaped a locked room is an escaped orangutang! Unsurprisingly, it’s in Hawthorne’s forays into the genre as well (“Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe” most notably).
It’s the central theme of Doyle’s Holmes, who solves not ordinary murders and robberies but cases about leagues of redheads, snakes on bell-ropes, governesses who are forced to cut their hair, serial killers who are obsessed with busts of Napoleon, and so on. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.” Is it Stevensonian? The New Arabian Nights, a major Holmes influence, is pure surrealism.
And, after all those dry-as-dust, un-surreal Holmes imitators (Arthur Morrison, early Freeman, et al.), it appears with a vengeance in Chesterton: invisible men, gardens that kill, fairy tales coming true, flying daggers, ad gloriam. And from Chesterton to Carr, Van Dine, Queen, and the others.
What’s curious about this schema is that, while two of our pioneering surrealists here are Brits and there’s a grand British surrealist tradition (exemplified by just about every ’60s TV show), surrealism in the detective story tends to be an American phenomenon. British detective fiction, on the whole, seems to have followed a different path, perhaps inspired by R. Austin Freeman: straightforward sleuthing, checking alibis and ABCs and measuring footprints. For all of Carr’s superficial Englishness, for example, he was always a very American writer, with twist on top of twist, fast pace, cliffhangers, etc. Not for him the leisurely detective story of Freeman Wills Crofts or Ronald Knox.
What’s behind this? A surrealist streak in the American soul? We see it in not only Poe and Hawthorne but also in Herman Melville (Moby Dick, of course, but also “Benito Cereno”), Washington Irving, Edward Everett Hale, Frank R. Stockton, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, O. Henry, Mark Twain, and many more I’ve forgotten—and they’re all “literary,” not genre-writers!
Mystery and science-fiction seem closely linked in this regard—it’s no surprise that we have people like Asimov, Boucher, and Bradbury writing in both genres. They are (or were) both surrealistic, concerned with imagination and breaking the tedium of the commonplace (“…there is a higher thing in fiction than the realistic thump of the janitor’s mop,” as Carr put it). The connection between detective-fiction and such initially disparate subjects as songwriting, comedy, animation, and surrealist painting then becomes clear.
One little-known figure who may be important in understanding why is Jacques Futrelle. He wasn’t a particularly great writer, but he knew how to milk an outré scenario for all it was worth, with cars that disappear around corners and women who want to have perfectly healthy fingers chopped off. His stories, even more than Chesterton’s, seem the ur-text for the Van Dine school: Van Dine and Queen, of course, along with Stuart Palmer, Craig Rice, Rex Stout, Anthony Abbot, C. Daly King, Rufus King, Kelley Roos, Helen McCloy, Edward D. Hoch, and a whole ton of others. It’s basically the predominant American mystery school other than hardboiled fiction—though there’s even a touch of surrealism to that (Marlowe’s startling metaphors, for one thing).
It’s also, in my opinion, one of the best things about detective-fiction and (with, of course, exceptions) one of the elements most lacking from modern crime fiction.
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Post by alfromni on Mar 26, 2019 0:59:33 GMT
Nalkarj - All story-telling, regardless of genre, has to contain mystery and the element of the unknown. It's essential. Without it the story becomes flat and uninteresting. This holds even with tales of romance that the ladies so love.
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Post by Nalkarj on Apr 5, 2019 21:57:44 GMT
Anyone like Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe books? I’m fairly mixed on them myself, but I’m watching the pilot of the A&E TV show based on the books. (I’d already seen a few episodes, but not this pilot.) Comments on the books first: I don’t think the novels are particularly good. They’re too long, formulaic, and ponderous: padded novellas, with weak mystery plots (hardly any clues—Wolfe orders Saul and others to do detective work, but we never find out what they’ve discovered until the solution) and poor characterization for everyone outside of the regulars (Wolfe, Archie, Insp. Cramer, Lily, etc.). For all of Wolfe’s pomposity, too, he’s not all that smart, sometimes failing to make basic logical connections, and he’s often terribly irritating; we’d hate him if Archie weren’t there. Need it be said that, of the great but pompous sleuths, Holmes, Roger Sheringham, and Philo Vance are infinitely more likeable? The most redeeming aspect of these books is by far Archie Goodwin, perhaps the greatest of all Watsons, and his witty, Chandleresque narration. Stout also had a talent for repartee, and the stichomythia (counterpointing dialogue) between Archie and Wolfe is wonderful. Of those novels, the best are Too Many Cooks, which is uncharacteristically fair-play, and Some Buried Caesar, which does not suffer from the longueurs of the others. Far superior are Stout’s novellas—the format at which he was the most adroit. They’re usually more fair-play than the novels, and, even better, they don’t get bogged down about halfway through. Some have clever plot ideas, and as Bob Schneider points out here, at times the plot points recall other mystery authors (e.g., the Ellery Queen-esque dying message and mathematics in “The Zero Clue”) while not coming off as pastiches. “Black Orchids” is particularly good and may be the best thing Stout ever wrote. The A&E television show is excellent and deserved more than one season. In particular, Timothy Hutton’s Archie Goodwin is the definitive portrayal of the character and may be even better than his father’s Ellery Queen, and Maury Chaykin humanized Nero Wolfe. The plots are as weak as in the books, but the cast, sets, and lovely ’40s setting are first-class.
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Post by mikef6 on Apr 6, 2019 1:27:12 GMT
I read most, if not all, of the Nero Wolfe novels when I was an adolescent and loved them all. Re-reading a few three or four decades later, I came to the same conclusion as you: “They’re too long, formulaic, and ponderous: padded novellas, with weak mystery plots (hardly any clues—Wolfe orders Saul and others to do detective work, but we never find out what they’ve discovered until the solution) and poor characterization for everyone outside of the regulars (Wolfe, Archie, Insp. Cramer, Lily, etc.).” But I still remember much of what I loved all those years ago: Wolfe’s NYC Brownstone with three stories, first floor are the Front Room (where Wolfe often stashed clients when the police came to visit), Wolfe’s office, the kitchen and dining room (he employs a full-time gourmet chef). Second floor are three bedrooms for Wolfe, Archie, and the occasional overnight client. One the top floor is a greenhouse where Wolfe grows prize winning orchids and where he employs a full-time gardener. Wolfe’s schedule is precise. After breakfast in his room, the hours of 9-11 in the morning are spent with the orchids. 11-1:15 are office hours. From 1:15 to 2 he eats lunch. From 2 to 4 he is back in the orchid room. From 4 to 6 are office hours. Then dinner, followed by variable office hours in the evening. For guests, there was one red leather chair and any number of yellow straight back chairs. Other things I loved: Wolfe only left the house under extraordinary circumstances. Archie (who narrated the books in the first person) did all the footwork and questioning. He could repeat to Wolfe, verbatim, a 2-hour conversation with a suspect. When Wolfe was doing his summing up and the identity of the killer was becoming plain, Inspector Cramer would silently move to behind the murderer. All these things were as real to me as 221-B Baker Street. It was a real disappointment for me, in my age, to realize that the mysteries did not to the almost tangible reality Stout had built up for Wolfe and Goodwin. You probably know this bit of trivia: renowned Sherlockian William Baring-Gould (1913-1967), author of “Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street” (1962) and “The Annotated Sherlock Holmes” (1967), also wrote a biography of Nero Wolfe, “Nero Wolfe of West Thirty-Fifth Street” published posthumously in which he theorizes that Wolfe is the son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, conceived during the time Holmes was thought dead. Wolfe, however, resembled physically Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft who also carried the Holmes family trait for corpulence.
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Post by dirtypillows on Apr 14, 2019 20:29:22 GMT
Agatha Christie is myfavourite, she is way ahead of everyone else. I like the Hildegarde Withers books by Stuart Palmer, which I don't think are very well known nowadays.The Blackboard Murders is my favourite one. Yes, I totally agree. Nobody can touch Dame Agatha! I think maybe "The ABC Murders" is my favorite Hercules Poirot and "A Murder is Announced" is my favorite Jane Marple.
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Post by dirtypillows on Apr 14, 2019 20:30:44 GMT
Agatha Christie, more or less, invented the murder mystery.
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Post by Nalkarj on Apr 17, 2019 21:06:52 GMT
I read most, if not all, of the Nero Wolfe novels when I was an adolescent and loved them all. Re-reading a few three or four decades later, I came to the same conclusion as you: “They’re too long, formulaic, and ponderous: padded novellas, with weak mystery plots (hardly any clues—Wolfe orders Saul and others to do detective work, but we never find out what they’ve discovered until the solution) and poor characterization for everyone outside of the regulars (Wolfe, Archie, Insp. Cramer, Lily, etc.).” But I still remember much of what I loved all those years ago: Wolfe’s NYC Brownstone with three stories, first floor are the Front Room (where Wolfe often stashed clients when the police came to visit), Wolfe’s office, the kitchen and dining room (he employs a full-time gourmet chef). Second floor are three bedrooms for Wolfe, Archie, and the occasional overnight client. One the top floor is a greenhouse where Wolfe grows prize winning orchids and where he employs a full-time gardener. Wolfe’s schedule is precise. After breakfast in his room, the hours of 9-11 in the morning are spent with the orchids. 11-1:15 are office hours. From 1:15 to 2 he eats lunch. From 2 to 4 he is back in the orchid room. From 4 to 6 are office hours. Then dinner, followed by variable office hours in the evening. For guests, there was one red leather chair and any number of yellow straight back chairs. Other things I loved: Wolfe only left the house under extraordinary circumstances. Archie (who narrated the books in the first person) did all the footwork and questioning. He could repeat to Wolfe, verbatim, a 2-hour conversation with a suspect. When Wolfe was doing his summing up and the identity of the killer was becoming plain, Inspector Cramer would silently move to behind the murderer. All these things were as real to me as 221-B Baker Street. It was a real disappointment for me, in my age, to realize that the mysteries did not to the almost tangible reality Stout had built up for Wolfe and Goodwin. You probably know this bit of trivia: renowned Sherlockian William Baring-Gould (1913-1967), author of “Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street” (1962) and “The Annotated Sherlock Holmes” (1967), also wrote a biography of Nero Wolfe, “Nero Wolfe of West Thirty-Fifth Street” published posthumously in which he theorizes that Wolfe is the son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, conceived during the time Holmes was thought dead. Wolfe, however, resembled physically Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft who also carried the Holmes family trait for corpulence. Sorry for not responding sooner, but I’m much the same way, Mike. I too love the details of their lives, which feel as real and lived-in as Baker Street. And Archie Goodwin remains one of my favorite characters in the genre, along with Holmes and Marlowe. Stout’s one of those authors, like Ngaio Marsh and Josephine Tay, who I wish wrote in a different genre. He was a good prose-stylist, as Marsh and Tay were, but I think (for him) the form encouraged the padding and the poor characterization. (Marsh was good at characterization, but her investigations are interminable; Tay was a gifted writer, but she’s terrible at the mystery format.) Curiously, I think Gladys Mitchell’s style and imagination fit the genre—or, perhaps more accurately, made the genre fit her style and imagination—in spite of the fact that she didn’t often write Christie-esque whodunits. Ditto for early Michael Innes. I still like Stout’s novellas, for the most part. They have all the good aspects of the novels but lose many of the bad aspects, particularly the padding. And Stout could turn out a neat plot if he set his mind to it—“Black Orchids” and “Instead of Evidence” come to mind. I also quite like Archie’s romance with Lily Rowan. Yes, I definitely know Baring-Gould’s theory! Wolfe’s much closer to Mycroft, yes (also including the not-going-outside-except-when-absolutely-necessary thing)—if there’s any Holmes brother who can claim Wolfean paternity, I’d say it’s Mycroft!
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Post by Nalkarj on Apr 17, 2019 21:30:40 GMT
Continuing with the “Salzmank rants on little-known mystery writers” series.
Another very intriguing writer is H.C. Bailey, who is a major influence on not only Gladys Mitchell but also several famous modern mystery-writers, including the late Ruth Rendell. There’s a trace of Chesterton to Bailey, with bizarre plots and social commentary, but Bailey’s prose style—strangely proto-Hemingwayesque, with staccato dialogue and clipped descriptions—is completely different. Bailey usually let his plots do the talking for him: they often involve abnormal psychology, uncommon (needless to say) in the late ’teens and early ’20s, combined with British Evangelicalism and liberal social conscience. His short stories are, for the most part, far superior to his novels.
Characteristic of Bailey is “The Unknown Murderer,” perhaps his masterpiece, in which the murderer kills to experience the suffering of their victims. Sometimes you have to have a strong stomach for the tales, but they’re worth it—wise and thoughtful. His detective is Reggie Fortune, surgeon and avenging angel against wickedness, both individual and societal (as Lord Peter Wimsey, Mrs. Bradley, Philo Vance, and Ellery Queen will all later imitate): is his vigilantism right, or is he as wrong as the killers in his cases? (“Mercy—that’s not my department,” Fortune tells us. “I work for justice.”) Bailey leaves the answer for us to decide.
Like Doyle and Holmes, you never know quite what you’ll get with Bailey: at times he’s in the above mood, psychology and philosophy, and at times he’s in a light, jokey mood in which Mr. Fortune has an island adventure and would fit in with Algy Moncrieff. Sometimes a story even starts one way and ends the other.
Perhaps too idiosyncratic for widespread popularity, compared to Christie or even Carr, but for the Rendell or Mitchell fan, a must-read.
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