TRANSATLANTIC. Fox Films, 1931. Edmund Lowe, Lois Moran, John Halliday, Greta Nissen, Myrna Loy, Jean Hersholt. Director: William K. Howard

   Just lately I’ve been catching up to a lot of films I’ve wanted to see — or see again — for quite some time, films lost or just unavailable for a generation or more. First and best of the bunch is Transatlantic,   which I’ve been keen to watch ever since I saw a still from it in a book on Hollywood Cameramen thirty years ago.

   Made at the dawn (or early morning anyway) of talking pictures, Transatlantic defies every notion you ever had about early talkies; it’s a fast-paced, highly visual thriller, set on a luxury liner with a clever story (by Guy Standing, whose credits include the book for Anything Goes) centered around Edmond Lowe as a shady character fleeing the law, mingling aboard ship with con men, kept women, and the loyal trophy wife (Myrna Loy, back when she usually played oriental temptresses) of a nearly murdered millionaire — who apparently ran a bit of a con himself.

   Director William K. Howard and photographer James Wong Howe take this snappy mystery and serve it up with splendid sets that give the huge ship the appearance of a Byzantine palace or gothic cathedral, jazzed up with snappy editing and a restless, roving camera that follows the action perfectly. All capped off very effectively by a tour-de-force cat-and-mouse shoot-out in the labyrinthine guts of the ship itself.

   Simply dazzling. Not a well-known film, but one I can recommend highly.

KEN FOLLETT – Eye of the Needle.  Arbor House, US, hardcover, 1978. Signet, US, paperback, 1979. First published in the UK as Macdonald and James, London, 1978, as Storm Island. Reprinted many times since. Film: United Artists, 1981, with Donald Sutherland and Kate Nelligan.

   Eye of the Needle is one of the best of the recent spate of World War II espionage novels. Ken Follett combines a very believable plot based on astounding. historical fact with excellent pacing and-a real boon in this type of thriller-well-rounded. sympathetic characters.

   The historical fact is that in 1944 the Allies created a fake army in southeastern England. To Nazi reconnaissance planes. it looked like a huge encampment set to invade France at Calais. But seen from the ground, the “barracks” had only one side and a roof; the “airplanes” were mere carcasses sunk into the ground. with no engines or wheels. It was a hoax of gigantic proportions that convinced the Nazis to concentrate their defenses at Calais instead of Normandy, and it affected the outcome of the war.

   But this outcome would have been very different had there been one German spy who saw the phony encampment al ground level and reported it to Berlin. Suppose there had been such a spy. a master spy, an upper-class German, somewhat of a rebel, who refused to join the Nazi party but still had the ear of Hitler. Suppose such a spy had lived in London long enough to pass as an Englishman ….

   This is the central premise of Eye of the Needle. Here Follett gives us Die Nadel — the Needle — who uses a stiletto to kill anyone who threatens his mission or his cover. He kills as a soldier; he doesn’t enjoy it. In a moment of self-inquiry. he wonders if his personality — the ever-present wariness that keeps him at a distance from everyone else — has really not been foisted upon him by his occupation, as he likes to suppose; perhaps, he thinks, he has instead chosen his profession because it is the only type of work that can make him appear normal, even to himself.

   Such self-doubt (although it is a luxury the Needle rarely permits himself) has us at least nominally on his side for much (but not all) of the novel, even as the British agents — a typically tweedy ex-professor named Godliman and a former Scotland Yard man named Bloggs — match him in intelligence and quickly realize he has discovered their great hoax.

   With this discovery, the chase becomes faster and more desperate. Circumstances lead Die Nadel to a storm-battered island in the North Sea, where a frustrated young woman, Lucy Rose, and her wheelchair-bound husband (he lost both of his legs in a traffic accident) live in bitter isolation and where much of the novel’s action takes place.

   Lucy’s attraction to the Needle, her fear and revulsion when she finds out what he is, and finally her desperate struggle to keep from becoming his latest victim make for some the best edge-of-the-chair suspense writing of the past decade. (The 1981 film version starring Donald Sutherland and Kate Nelligan has its moments but unfortunately falls far short of the novel.)

   Follett’s success with Eye of the Needle led to a number of other best sellers, none of which has the same raw powe1 and tension. Those other thrillers include Triple (1979), The Key to Rebecca (1980), The Man from St. Petersburg (1982), and On the Wings of Eagles (1983).

     ———
   Reprinted with permission from 1001 Midnights, edited by Bill Pronzini & Marcia Muller and published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2007.   Copyright © 1986, 2007 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
   

CALCUTTA. Paramount Pictures, 1946. Alan Ladd, Gail Russell, William Bendix, June Duprez. Directed by John Farrow.

   While definitely not one of the better known films Alan Ladd ever starred in, Calcutta (1946) definitely punches above its weight and is well worth a look. Similar to the other exotic location films Ladd starred in throughout the 1940s and 1950s, Ladd portrays an adventurer who is caught up in a whirlwind of crime and intrigue.

   When Neale Gordon (Ladd), a commercial pilot in post-WW2 India, learns that his colleague and friend Bill Cunningham was strangled in a Calcutta back alley, he becomes determined to solve the case on his own. Along for the ride is fellow pilot Pedro Blake (William Bendix).

   The main problem that Gordon encounters is that everyone he meets could potentially be a suspect, including the lovely Virginia Moore (Gail Russell), Cunningham’s fiancee. And that is what makes Calcutta work. There are layers upon layers of intrigue, suspicious characters with ulterior motives, and men and women with dubious intentions. The film captures the mood of post-WW2 Asia very well. The Japanese have been defeated, but what comes next?

   In some ways, Calcutta reminded me of The Maltese Falcon (1941). No, it’s not nearly as good a film and Ladd isn’t Bogart. But there’s a similarity in the sense that, at some point, the labyrinthian plot doesn’t matter as much as the characters and the atmosphere. That’s definitely true for this John Farrow-directed feature.

BRETT STERLING – Danger Planet. Captain Future #18, Popular Library 60-2335, paperback; 1st printing thus, 1968. Cover artist: Frank Frazetta. Previously published in Startling Stories, Spring 1945, as “Red Sun of Danger.”

   The solar system’s supply of vitron, the chemical giving mankind lengthened life, is being threatened. Captain Future is sent in disguise to the planet Roo to investigate the native uprisings which threaten to bring about the colonists’ open rebellion, And independent government would then control a monopoly on vitron.

   With the help of his Futuremen and several scientists, Captain Future discovers what is upsetting the Roons – imminent release of the monstrous Kangas imprisoned on their moon.

   On page 7, one scientist’s opinion of Captain Future is that he is nothing but a cheap popular hero. Unfortunately not much happens to change the reader’s mind. Obviously a juvenile tale, and it does seem adequate on that level, though bad science and idiot plotting hurt. Actually a detective story, as enough clues are given to discover the evil Lu Suur’s secret identity before Captain Future does.

Rating: *½

   Rex Stout’s 13th Nero Wolfe collection, Trio for Blunt Instruments (1964), contains the previously unpublished novella “Murder Is Corny”; both were the last to appear during his lifetime. “Kill Now—Pay Later” had been serialized in The Saturday Evening Post (December 9-23, 1961), while “Blood Will Tell” was first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (December 1963). In “Kill,” Wolfe must clear the name of his Greek immigrant bootblack, Pete Vassos — not to be confused with Pete Drossos of The Golden Spiders (1953) — who was found at the bottom of a cliff, an apparent suicide, after being implicated by circumstantial evidence when Dennis Ashby plunged from a high window.

   Like “Eeny Meeny Murder Mo” (1962), “Blood” involves a necktie, if neither the murder weapon nor owned by Wolfe; it was mailed to Archie with the stationery of musicologist James Neville Vance, who ostensibly calls later asking him to burn it, yet when visited by Archie, he denies any knowledge of the incident, although confirming that the tie was his. It bears a stain that may be human blood, and when Vance’s tenant, Bonny Kirk, is found bludgeoned to death, Archie gets confirmation from Hirsh Laboratories, also seen in The Mother Hunt (1963). Her estranged husband, architect Martin Kirk, is the prime suspect, but Wolfe accepts him as his client: “That wasn’t only unheard of, it was unbelievable.”

   “Corny” opens with the arrival of Cramer, unexpectedly bearing the weekly carton of 16 ears from Putnam County farmer Duncan McLeod; freelance cartoonist and delivery man Kenneth Faber was found bludgeoned in the alley behind Rusterman’s restaurant, where Wolfe’s trusteeship under Marko Vukcic’s will ends the next year. In his notebook were the names of Archie, Carl Heydt (a couturier to Lily Rowan), fashion photographer Max Maslow, and ad man Peter Jay. All three were rivals with Ken for McLeod’s daughter, Susan — who’d gotten him the job, while Lily, in turn, got her one modeling for Heydt —  giving them a motive, but Cramer arrests Archie, believing that Ken had supplanted him.

   After being gone over by Cramer, Lieut. Rowcliff, and A.D.A. Mandel, and bailed out by Nathaniel Parker for $20,000, Archie learns why: Sue, who’d arranged to meet Ken there and found him dead, explained her presence by stating they were to be joined by Archie, confident that he could prove he was elsewhere. She believes Ken told all four men that she thought she was pregnant by him, so she wanted to kill him herself, stating that she is a virgin and regrets agreeing to marry him in a few years if he could support a family. To clear her and Archie, Wolfe must identify the perp, but before he can see the three suitors he gets a pre-emptive visit from McLeod, asserting that Ken picked the substandard corn.

   Convened at Sue’s request, the suitors say they have no desire to help identify the killer, although Wolfe warns that, if need be, he will focus suspicion on her to help Archie, and has Lila Pinelli notarize an affidavit of their conversation with her, which he must give to Cramer to forestall Archie’s re-arrest. Refused entry by Wolfe when they return, the trio agrees to Archie’s questioning at Jay’s apartment, but all they can agree on is a dislike for him, so he foils their joint attack and leaves. Predictably, the corn turns out to be pivotal, and after Delbert Palmer brings a new batch, picked and packed by McLeod, Wolfe asks Cramer to send the bomb squad — which confirms that it is booby-trapped with dynamite.

   Wolfe reveals having sent Saul to McLeod’s with a list of questions to which he should have acceptable answers ready, based on the “reasoned conclusion” that, also told Ken’s lies, he had killed him and was seen leaving the alley by Sue, who thus was certain that none of the suitors did it, but unwilling to name him. “It must have been something more urgent than [purportedly dynamiting] stumps and rocks that led him to risk losing such desirable customers” as Wolfe and Rusterman’s by having Faber pick the corn. Cramer asks Sgt. Purley Stebbins to have the Carmel sheriff’s office pick up McLeod, then learns that he “sat or stood or lay on a pile of dynamite and it went off,” blowing him to pieces.

   As with “Poison à la Carte” (5/26/02) — another second-season episode of A Nero Wolfe Mystery — “Murder Is Corny” (5/5/02) was directed by George Bloomfield and adapted by the team of William Rabkin & Lee Goldberg, with repertory player George Plimpton in his second of two appearances as Parker. The tone is admirably set with the petulance of Wolfe (Maury Chaykin) at the overdue corn, forcing Fritz Brenner (Colin Fox) to stuff some eggplant instead, and his lecture to Cramer (Bill Smitrovich) about how it should be roasted in the husk, not boiled. Sometimes seen as Lily, Kari Matchett essays Susan with her usual aplomb, explaining to Archie (Timothy Hutton) why she’s put him on the hook.

   Flashbacks show Faber (Troy Skog) pestering Sue with his attentions, the real reason he wanted the job with McLeod (Bruce McFee, briefly seen in “The Silent Speaker” [7/14 & 21/02]), his lies an attempt to force the wedding. Sharing McLeod’s disinclination to nail his killer, Heydt (David Calderisi), Maslow (Robert Bockstael), and Jay (Julian Richings) resort to fisticuffs both among themselves and against Archie — who fends them off in the hall while still holding his coffee cup. The Bomb Squad Leader (Marvin Hinz) examines the carton brought by Palmer (Angelo Tsarouchas) in Wolfe’s office, rather than taking it away, and the scenarists omit a coda between Archie and Sue at a dancing party at Lily’s.

            — Copyright © 2024 by Matthew R. Bradley.
   

Up next: The Doorbell Rang

Edition cited:

      Trio for Blunt Instruments: Bantam (1974)

Online source:

BILLY BUDD. Allied Artists, 1962. Robert Ryan, Terrence Stamp, Peter Ustinov, Melvyn Douglas, John Neville, David McCallum, Lee Montague, and Niall MacGinnis. Adapted by Peter Ustinov, DeWitt Bodeen, and Robert Rossen, from the novel by Herman Melville. Produced & directed by Peter Ustinov.

   I’ve said it before, and it bears repeating: “If you only see one movie in your entire life, it should be… Chamber of Horrors” (Warners, 1966).

   But if you think you could possibly stretch it to Two, you could do a lot worse than Billy Budd.

   Actor/writer/producer/director Ustinov shaped Melville’s ponderous novella into a compelling fable of Good vs Evil, played to perfection by Terrence Stamp as Billy, the ingenuous merchant seaman pressed into the Royal Navy, and Robert Ryan as Claggett, the sadistic Master-at-Arms who sets out to destroy him.

   It’s a film that works on many levels, mostly because Ustinov chose to write it that way. The story of Budd and Claggett plays out against a backdrop of colorfully painted characters, all the way from Ustinov’s cautious Captain, down to Melvyn Douglas’ thoughtful sail-mender, with stops along the way for class-conscious officers, scrappy sailors, squealers, and entry-level killers.

   The conflict that plays out against this background is not so much a clash of personalities as it is one of alternative realities. Budd is so genuinely guileless and decent that he quickly becomes beloved by his crewmates and respected by his superiors. Claggett, on the other hand, lives on hate. He breathes it in and out as decent men breathe air. And when he and Billy confront each other — in a brilliantly imagined and deftly played scene — it’s Claggett who wavers. And Billy who pays the price.

   Ustinov also owes a debt of gratitude to Producer Ustinov for getting most of this filmed outdoors on shipboard (or a reasonable facsimile) with a minimum of fakey process shots. The total effect is to demystify the tale and lend the natural power of the Seas to its telling.

ROBERT REEVES – Cellini Smith, Detective. Houghtono Mifflin, hardcover, 1943. Pony Books #54, paperback, 1946.

   Cellini Smith ain’t doing so good financially. So when the hoboes offer him twenty six dollars and ninety-four cents to find a murderer, he doesn’t have to be asked thrice.

   Somebody’s murdered one of the hoboes’ own. And they demand the perpetrator be handed over to them, for hobo styled justice.

   Turns out the murdered hobo wasn’t any ordinary hobo. The nogoodnik son of a mining mogul, he’d absconded with a map of a hitherto unclaimed, untapped hubnerite mine in California — a good source of tungsten, better than a goldmine in times of war. He’d strike out on his own, and make it rich, out and under from his oppressive daddy.

   But to start the mine running, he needed about $20,000. Who better to get money from than the local mob boss? So he gets the money for the mine, and immediately starts fooling around with the mobster’s moll.

   Real smart.

   And now he’s dead. Big surprise.

   Still, Cellini Smith investigates the thing, laying his life on the line for nickels.

   He solves the thing methodically, calling all the suspects and cops into a room for a presentation of his inductive genius.

         ____

   Middle of the road, done fairly well in a unique voice. But of course, to me, any authentic hardboiled detective novel from the 40’s done fairly well is worth reading. Your mileage may vary.

J. S. FLETCHER – The Middle Temple Murder. Knopf, hardcover, 1919. Reprinted many times.

   Julian Symons, English author and critic, coined a good name for the multitude of middle-rank mystery writers who lacked literary skill and ingenuity — the Humdrums. J. S. Fletcher stood in the front rank of the prolific English phalanx of Humdrums. He wrote over a hundred books on a variety of subjects, and the majority were detective stories. These melodramas are extremely conventional, with the not-too-brilliant central puzzle dominating the story.

   They are a comfortable confirmation of decency and lawfulness for the moneyed middle class. Snobbery descends to racial prejudice (with several Chinese villains), and despicable, evil foreigners have dark complexions and comical accents. Not much scientific detection is involved, and the tenets of the Golden Age arc not closely followed. There is too much reliance on coincidence, detectives missing details, failure to follow up clues, and mysterious figures who appear to wrap up the plot at the end.

   It is a trifling triumph to select one of Fletcher’s detective stories as his best. From The Amaranth Club (1926) to The Yorkshire Moorland Murder (1930), there is not much to choose from, except for The Middle Temple Murder. While the plot is fairly pedestrian, many of Fletcher’s defects are absent. It is one of his earliest works, and attracted the first real notice for Fletcher in the United States when it was championed by Woodrow Wilson.

   The story concerns Frank Spargo, subeditor of the Watchman, who happens to be present when a bludgeoned body is found in the Middle Temple. The hotshot reporter (he’s as bright as any latterday Flash Casey) teams up with Ronald Breton, barrister, to follow the clues in this devious mystery.

   The victim is John Marbury, from Australia, who was struck down on his first night back in London after an absence of many years. This photo=procedural novel is a case of complicated theft, legacy, parentage, and includes a suspected empty coffin. A major motif (as in many Fletcher tales) is railway travel checking timetables; confirming alibis; zipping around to discover clues; getaways and pursuits.

   Fletcher has been praised for his novels set in the English countryside, but the atmosphere in most of these is overwrought and the descriptions dull. Novels such as The Middle Temple Murder and The Charing Cross Mystery (1923) are vivid because most of the action takes place in the streets, byways, squares, stations, and buildings of London, and is reported in factual detail.

———
Reprinted with permission from 1001 Midnights, edited by Bill Pronzini & Marcia Muller and published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2007.   Copyright © 1986, 2007 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY – A Farewell to Arms. Charles Scribner’s Sons, hardcover, 1929. Reprinted numerous times. From Wikipedia:”The novel has been adapted a number of times: initially for the stage in 1930; as a film in 1932, and again in 1957; and as a three-part television miniseries in 1966. The film In Love and War, made in 1996, depicts Hemingway’s life in Italy as an ambulance driver in events prior to his writing of A Farewell to Arms.”

   So after a particularly bad experience at the hands of Travis McGee, I needed to read something good. Something I knew that a lot of very important people, if such a group exists, universally hailed as being a good novel. And of course hardboiled in its prose. Since that’s what I’m into. Crisp, clean words, washing over me like a cold shower shocking me from my malaise.

   A foundational work of the hardboiled school, no less. On my (kill me if I ever say ‘bucket’) list.

   Yet I’ve started the book many many times, unable to make it much past the first paragraph:

   “In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.”

   To me, it reads exactly like the original version of In Our Time published by Ezra Pound in 1924: https://gutenberg.org/cache/epub/61085/pg61085-images.html

   In other words, to me, it sings. It sings a hardboiled poetry like an incantation. It seems strange to call something hardboiled lyrical. Yet there you have it.

   So for years I’ve read that first paragraph. And read it again. And read it again, trying to comprehend it. Trying make literal sense of it. Trying to get into the story from the beginning. But the phrases are too beautiful. I can’t stop enunciating the sounds of the words in the schoolhouse of my mind.

   And further, how could I go on? How can I keep going if I can’t make it past the first paragraph?

   So eventually I’d put it down, and move on to Travis McGee or something.

   But this time I just sat down and plowed right thru. I still couldn’t digest the first paragraph, but I figured my digestive system would catch up with me. Or maybe it would just stay as is, like an unmasticated kernel of corn in the ole proverbial chamber pot.

   And there is a linear, straightforward story. A doomed war story and a tragic romance.

   So it’s World War I and American Frederic Henry volunteered for the Italian army as a medic, rising to Lieutenant, and in charge of some ambulance drivers. He screws around with the local nurses and is generally having a pretty good time of it. He’s really likes this new British nurse Catherine. She’s quite attractive, and they play act at pretending this is some great romantic love story. You know. For shits and giggles.

   Suddenly Frederick is called to the front. He and the drivers huddle in a dugout, trying to score some soup.

   One of the drivers starts griping about the war: “If everybody would not attack the war would be over”.

   Our protagonist responds. “I believe we should get the war over. It would not finish it if one side stopped fighting. It would only be worse if we stopped fighting.”

   “It could not be worse….There is nothing worse than war.”

   “Defeat is worse.”

   “I do not believe it…What is defeat? You go home.”

      …….

   “I know it is bad but we must finish it.”

   “It doesn’t finish. There is no finish to war.”

   “Yes there is.”

   … “War is not won by victory…. One side must stop fighting. Why don’t we stop fighting?”

      …….

   The conversation is interrupted by a huge shell exploding near the dugout. Shrapnel flying everywhere.

   And now many of his drivers are dead. Including the pacifist.

   And Frederick Henry can’t walk. Something’s wrong with one of his legs.

   So he gets sent to the hospital. And he gets reunited with the Catherine, the British nurse. But now they’re not pretending any more. They really do desperately want to be with each other, to love each other, to savor, to protect.

   And then he heals up and goes back towards the front. And it’s bad. They’ve underestimated the Austrians and now the Germans are coming. And now all of the officers are calling for retreat. No. Wait. Don’t retreat. No….. Actually. Yes, on third thought. Retreat.

   So they start to retreat. But there’s only one road. And a huge line of infantry and trucks on the single road. No one is making progress. And pursuit is coming.

   So Frederick directs his charges through the woods. They get stuck and are forced to plod on by foot. All but two of his charges go awol and then one of the two gets shot.

   By the time he makes it close to a safe Italian town, Frederick sees a bunch of infantrymen set up. Stopping every officer. Asking where’s the rest of your regiment? Asking why did you order retreat? Then shooting them. A traitor to the motherland.

   Frederick manages a heroic escape, diving into a river, tearing off his officers uniform, going in search of his love.

   Frederick is done with war. All that’s left now is Catherine.

   And he finds her. And they almost make it.

         ____

   It’s heart rending. To rend, lest we forget, means ‘to tear a hole in, slash from top to bottom, separate in parts with force or sudden violence.’

   The book left me breathless at its magnitude as a work of art.

WITNESS TO MURDER. United Artists, 1954. Barbara Stanwyck, George Sanders, Gary Merrill, Jesse White, Harry Shannon, Juanita Moore, and Claude Akins (uncredited). Directed by Roy Rowland.

   A young unmarried businesswoman (played to sharp perfection by Barbara Stanwyck), unable to sleep one night, happens to see a man choking a woman to death in the apartment across the street from her. Immediately calling the police, she is dismayed to learn that the man (George Sanders, in his most urbane manner) has hidden the body, and the police have no evidence to take the case any further.

   Obviously this comes as a shock to Miss Stanwyck’s character, and while puzzled, the homicide detective in charge of the case (Gary Merrill. as stolid as always) finds himself trying to shield her from accusations of mental non-capability, furthered on by Sanders’ own furtive manipulations behind the scenes (but not to us, the viewer). She ends up spending one or two nights in a crudely constructed mental institution before Merrill can bail her out.

   And while we the viewer know full well the story will end well, the story as told in pure noir fashion is gripping and well told, as if the budding romance will shatter and break at any moment of the proceedings. The ending, though, while predictable, of course – and equally breathtaking – is the weakest link. Over the top, one might say, but still within the limits of credibility, barely.

   It’s all nicely done, though. Nicely done.