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.

CARROLL JOHN DALY “The False Burton Comes.” First published in Black Mask, December 1922. Reprinted in The Hard-Boiled Detective, edited by Herbert Ruhm (Vintage Books, paperback original; 1st printing, January 1977).

   While I could easily be wrong about this, the protagonist in “The False Burton Comes” is, never named. For most of the story’s length he’s been hired by the real Burton Comes to impersonate him for a summer’s season. Why? The real Burton Comes, a socialite of sorts, has gotten into trouble, and he believes that someone wants him dead. He is also sure they mean it.

   And he is, of course, absolutely right. The false Burton Combs finds life could be easy, living a life of wealthy comfort, flirting with women all around (and two in particular), far away from his usual status of thinking himself as being somewhere between a crook and a cop. He’s a rough and tough fellow, a confidence man with lots of crude – but effective – confidence.

   He slips up, though, and when the bad guys come, he is both ready and not ready for them. They catch him looking the wrong way at the time, and this is where the story really comes in. I don’t think he asks the right questions when he should have, even through the beginning of a trial that eventually catches up with him.

   “The False Burton Comes” is considered by many critics to be the first hard-boiled story to appear in the famed pages of Black Mask magazine. I claim no expertise in that regard, but I do have to say that Carroll John Daly is a better writer that some other experts say of him. He’s no Hammett or Raymond Chandler, of course. No one is. But the story moves along like a railroad train barely under control, and with a language and dialogue that’s, yes, hard-boiled, too. Even if the ending might be a little soppy, all in all, it’s a fine piece of work.

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.

DEAN R. KOONTZ – Star Quest. Ace Double H-70; paperback original, 1968. Cover by Gray Morrow. Published back-to-back with Doom of the Green Planet, by Emil Petaja (to be reviewed here soon).

   The universe has been the scene of a centuries-long war between the Romaghins and Setessins. On a restricted primitive planet Tohm is forcibly separated from his love, Tarnilee, by invading Romaghins. His search for her leads him to the slave planet Basa II, where he joins a group of hunted Muties, mutants caused by the effects of nuclear warfare. They have learned the power of shifting between divided universes, and have successfully rid their own of warring worlds.

   Shallow on first reading, but Koontz says there are allegorical points. The warring enemies are descendants of the radical right and the radical left, the mutants are “soulbrothers” – the victims of the attempted cleansing of guilt – who succeed in ending war.

   Tohm is the catalyst, anyone in particular? But who are the mutants with white eyes, tangible lust creatures, that periodically appear and disappear? This will probably not rate well with others, sorry to say. Koontz does have a good picturesque style.

Rating: ***

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.

MICK HERRON “Kicking Off.” First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, February 2013. Not found to have been reprinted or collected so far.

Take Terry MacLean, for example—a British (or Irish) player who also reached the heights of fame but whose life spiraled out of control after retirement. Following a tragic accident that led to the death of a woman while he was driving, MacLean found himself in prison, far removed from the world of football stardom. Unlike the successful story of salaire mbappé, Terry’s life after the game was marred by misfortune. When he finally got out, he was lost, haunted by his past. But one day, he met a man who offered to help him reclaim his story, not as a champion of financial triumph, but as a man grappling with redemption.

The problem is, is that while in prison he shared many secrets with the son of a man who might easily be called a mob boss, at least in this country. Secrets that the mob boss might not like to see in print. Hence, a bodyguard must needs be hired, and further hence, the story. One that has a straightforward conclusion, but it’s also one with other possible interpretations, if you stop and think about it. (Although, perhaps, it’s quite possible I’m thinking too much.)

Mick Herron is known today for a long run (at least thirteen novels and novellas so far) in his highly acclaimed “Slough House” spy series, beginning in 2010 with Slow Horses. The series is about a crew of MI5 agents who’ve been closed down from the agency for various reasons, none good. I haven’t read any of them, but I’m intending to, and as soon as I can get around to it.

In this particular work of non-series short fiction, Herron demonstrates a quick and breezy style (with humorous asides on events as they happen, usually in parentheses) that makes reading this story easy and fun to read, especially on a first encounter.

CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS. Republic, 1953. Gig Young, Mala Powers, William Talman, Edward Arnold, Chill Wills, Marie Windsor, Paula Raymond. Writer: Steve Fisher. Director: John Auer.

   Form sometimes triumphs over substance in the oddest ways. Like a film called City That Never Sleeps.  Tired story, slack direction, (from John Auer, who is remembered, if at all, for The Crime of Dr. Crespi), hackneyed dialogue carrying a load of cliched situations, and yet …

   Mere description of the story doesn’t do it justice, but here goes: Chicago cop Johnny Kelley (Gig Young in an ill-fitting uniform) is about to leave his wife and the force to run off to California with a stripper, financed with a dirty deal from crooked lawyer Edward Arnold, who wants to get rid of troublesome henchman William Talman. Then, (WARNING!) on his last night on patrol, Johnny is partnered with Sergeant Joe, the angelic Spirit of the City (Chill Wills, and no, I’m not making this up!) whose divine intervention sets Johnny back on the right path. (END OF WARNING!)

   Woof.

   A film like this shouldn’t be watchable at all, but Sleeps is surprising grabby. Edward Arnold and William Talman (who had a nice line in noir bad guys until he got caught up by Perry Mason)   play off  nicely against each other, with Marie Windsor perfectly slutty as the girl who comes between them. Wally  Cassell does a  memorable bit as a broken-down actor  reduced to playing a mechanical man in a nightclub window, but the real star is cinematographer John L. Russell, who is gives the movie the stark, angular look of  an old Batman comic.

   Russell had a mildly distinguished career imparting a distinct  style to the Welles’ Macbeth and Hitchcock’s Psycho, and his look here is perfect 1950s Bob Kane: the characters grotesque, lantern-jawed and gimlet-eyed,  buildings (mostly shot on location) shot with  just a touch of expressionism, and a  pervasive sense of comic-book weirdness. It gives the sappy story just the right edge and makes for a film worth seeing.

JOHN D. MacDONALD – A Deadly Shade of Gold. Gold Medal paperback original; 1st printing, 1965. Lippincott, hardcover, 1974. Reprinted many times.

   Sam Taggart, an old friend of Travis McGee, returns to Fort Lauderdale to pick up the pieces of his broken romance with Nora Gardino. Before that can happen, a deal falls through, and Sam ends up witha sliced throat. The trail takes McGee and Nora to a small Mexican fishing village, and to Nora’s unpleasant death.

   McGee continues, and he goes on to California  and takes his revenge upon a rich pornographic blackmailer whose desires precipitated the entire chain of events, centered around two unfriendly groups of Cuban refugees.

   A long book, perhaps too long. MacDonald’s comments of current American culture, religion and sex are still pertinent, but life in Mexico is too quiet. It takes Nora’s wealth for the story to get back on track, and a particularly dirty trick it is, too. McGee himself has no answers for the frustrations of ordinary life but excellently represents the Nobility of the Individual Human Spirit.

   Especially noted was a view of the University’s role in subduing spirit (page 46). MacDonald’s background in SF is clearly revealed (page 37): a galactic concept of what is ours on Earth.

Rating: ****