When I read my first hardboiled detective novel, The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler, I wrote…
“I’m probably biased, but I don’t consider the detective genre great literature. I consider it more of a guilty pleasure.”
Looking back, I really meant, more specifically, the “hardboiled detective” genre, which is not precisely the same as “detective” or “mystery” novels.
Regardless, I took a little heat for that, which is fair. There was some respectful and intelligent discussion in the comments, but I stuck to my guns (pun intended). However, after reading a second sample from the genre and with apologies to Raymond Chandler, I will dial back my critique. (That should make one reader of this blog happy. Yes, Rachel…You )
I don’t think it’s fair to critique a genre anyway, with a few exceptions. The hardboiled detective novel may not have the broad appeal of romance, sci-fi, or other genres, but it still requires skill and can be done either poorly or masterfully. And brother, let me tell you, Chandler and Hammett are masters. I have yet to read Spillane or Macdonald, but I’m also looking forward to reading about the exploits of Mike Hammer and Lew Archer. (I only exclude Walter Mosely’s antihero, Easy Rawlins, because the series is so recent it probably cannot be considered “Classic” just yet, but still on par with the others.)
Enough about the genre. The Maltese Falcon is a brilliant bit of mystery writing. It’s impossible to read it without imagining Bogey speaking every line, which is good and bad. Good because Bogey was perfect and added substance to my mind’s eye while reading. Bad because I’d seen the movie before reading the book, thus eliminating the mystery and suspense.
The mystery is the stupid
black bird. The description of the simple black statuette doesn’t account for
the growing frenzy over its whereabouts. The bird has a secret only the fat man
knows, and people are dying because of it. Spade is as confused as the reader,
but you’d never know it by looking at him or listening to him. And then...the bird has another secret that even the fat man doesn't know.
I’d still say it’s something of a guilty pleasure, which despite the literal contradiction, there’s nothing wrong with a guilty pleasure.
My rating: 4 out of 5 stars
This novel satisfies the Mystery/Detective/Crime classic category in the Back to the Classics 2022 Challenge.
Film Rendition: I’ve already alluded to this. The 1941 film starring Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade is nearly perfect. It was nominated for three Academy Awards, including Best Picture.
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Lol, even before I read your review, I thought, I can only read this in Bogart’s voice.
ReplyDeleteI know, right?
DeleteOr Sydney Greenstreet's voice when Gutman says “That's an attitude, sir, that calls for the most delicate judgment on both sides. Because as you know, sir, in the heat of action, men are likely to forget where their best interests lie and let their emotions carry them away.” I should spray paint these words on a wall in a lobby at work.
ReplyDeleteIndeed
Delete:-D
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you've seen that not all hardboiled detective stories are pulpy and forgettable! Chandler and Hammett in particular are marvelous. You don't read them and forget them, you read them and savor them and then reread them to see what you missed.
I haven't tried Spillane or MacDonald yet myself, but I've read a couple of Mosley's and they're a cool addition to the subgenre. I just read In the Heat of the Night by John Ball recently, and it was not quite hardboiled, but kinda. I want to try James M. Cain too. I gave James Ellroy a try once, but he was really graphic and I lost interest.
And I'm glad you read Mosely. They're all really good reads.
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