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Showing posts with label Dashiel Hammett. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dashiel Hammett. Show all posts
Tuesday, 4 June 2019
The Maltese Falcon - Dashiell Hammett
This is it, the original US noir detective novel from 1930. Hammett published most of his handful of novels around that time but only this one entered and changed popular culture forever via the iconic movie of 1941. What struck me straightaway on reading the book was how perfect the casting of the movie was. It's as if Hammett wrote Kasper Gutman for Sydney Greenstreet, Joel Cairo for Peter Lorre. They speak in the novel like Greenstreet and Lorre speak on screen. As for Mary Astor as the duplicitous sex siren Brigid O'Shaughnessy - well, perhaps the fairest thing is to say nothing. After all, they were hardly going to include the strip search scene in 1941. Bogart, of course, was never first choice for Sam Spade, yet Hammett gave Spade a Bogart-style lip problem.
The thing that makes The Maltese Falcon so revolutionary in both versions is that Spade is morally conflicted. He generally tries to do the right thing but he's not really bothered when his partner Miles Archer gets gunned down. He's already sleeping with Archer's wife Iva, and doesn't give two hoots about her either. He thinks he might be falling in love with Brigid; the next moment he's slapping her around. He's happy to do a deal with Gutman and Cairo whereby Gutman's 'gunsel' Wilmer takes the fall for three murders, and when Wilmer objects he knocks him out.
I can only recall trying one of Hammett's other novels, The Dain Curse. It was many years ago and I didn't get to the end. I don't remember what stopped me. Anyway, I will definitely be reading any more I might come across. I didn't realise there were only five of them, all written over a five-year period in his thirties, so it won't take me long.
Friday, 13 September 2013
Murder Clear, Track Fast - Judson Philips
Another classic Penguin greenback from my favourite purveyor of classic American hardboiled crime fiction.
It's 1961 and attorney Don Channing is delegated to solve the Fails case, one way or the other. Jerome Fails was murdered last year, shot slap between the eyes. His mother is convinced Jerome's wife did it, but no one else who has investigated the case agrees. Mrs Fails senior says this is because they've all fallen head over heels for the lissom Mrs Fails Junior.
The Fails fortune is at stake - and most of that fortune is invested in the Fails bloodline, stabled at Saratoga.
Channing finds himself caught between two classic femme fatales, both widows, but which one is the black widow? Channing struggles to make sense of the conflicting evidence - until he wakes up, his second day in town, with a dead woman in the bedroom.
Philips unravels his plot with consummate skill. He leads into the bizarre world of racehorse mania without once belabouring us with his research. He tells us this is how things are organised in Saratoga in August and we believe him. I cannot fathom why Philips isn't held in the same esteem as Hammett or Ross Macdonald. He really is of that class.
By the way, isn't Bernard Hodge's cover art frankly superb?
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