Is It Noir? Native Son by Richard Wright

Recently, I listened to Richard Wright's Native Son on audio. There were a number of reasons, not the least of which being it's on a list of banned books I made two years ago. I did read up on the book ahead of time because it could easily have ended up on a list of classics.

The book, published in 1940, is a treatise on racism at the tail-end of the Depression. Little mention is made of the coming war. Instead, it depicts public relief as a trap as many of its recipients are not permitted to climb out of poverty. They're broke and less-than-citizens, and forever they will stay that way.

That's where Bigger Thomas finds himself. Living in a single room with his mother, brother, and sister, Bigger is idle but restless. He and some friends plot a robbery of a deli which falls apart when one of them provokes Bigger into a fight. Instead, he relents to his mother's pressure and takes a job chauffeuring for the Dalton family. On his first night, he is to take their daughter Mary to a lecture at the university. She has other plans, mainly meeting up with her boyfriend and going to see how those people live. Meaning Black people. Mary and her boyfriend are communists. They know Black people are being kept down and want to help. But Mary, the daughter of rich white parents, is absolutely clueless. They go back to Bigger's neighborhood and insist he dine with them at a diner where everyone knows him. They think they're doing him a favor, but Bigger is humiliated. 

The real trouble begins when Bigger brings Mary home. She's so drunk she can't walk, and Bigger accidentally kills her. Now we get into noir territory. Bigger covers up by burning Mary's body in the family's enormous coal furnace and taking her luggage to the train station as she was leaving on a trip the next morning. When the luggage is returned, and people in Detroit call asking where she is, Bigger convinces his girlfriend to help him fake a kidnapping. But she panics, and he kills her, too. He's found out when one of the reporters crowding the Dalton home helps change the ashes in the furnace, and Mary's charred bones fall out.

Once Bigger is arrested and in the system, Wright seamlessly moves to making his case about systemic racism, how uncomfortable whites of the day are in acknowledging it, and how monumentally stupid the Red Scare is. But in prison, from the most evil people (Think Germany in the late 1920s) to most noble (Henry David Thoreau in jail for not paying his taxes in protest) have a lot of time to write out their grievances. Bigger doesn't write them, but he talks them through with his lawyer, who in turn interprets them for the court, sparing no one. 

But is it noir?

Richard Wright said it was. In fact, he saw that as the best way to get his point across, something more than one crime writer has stated once their books have gotten meatier. Wright's work usually centers on the Black experience in the mid-twentieth century and life in Chicago of the Depression. But he also said this book was "fun" to write. He's clearly a fan of writers like James M. Cain, who delighted in how badly he cold screw over an everyman protagonist. And Wright is definitely taking sadistic glee in throwing every available roadblock in Bigger's way. Plus, at a lecture, Wright said he liked the motif of a modern (for 1940) crime novel. This from a writer who produced mostly short stories and essays. So, like Shakespeare's bewildering attempt at a blockbuster, Titus Andronicus (or... What Happens When George RR Martin actually finishes Game of Thrones), Wright is stretching himself. Naturally, some of his contemporaries, most notably James Baldwin of Go Tell It on the Mountain fame, didn't like it. Baldwin called it a protest novel, which it very much is. But so is Ellison's Invisible Man. Scratch the surface, and Baldwin likely didn't like that kind of work being done as what he considered a dime novel. 

One can imagine the reactions of various readers to Native Son. Love it or hate it, you can't deny it stays with you. And it is noir as hell.

Next column, I revisit The Merchant of Venice, in which the movie version has Al Pacino stealing every scene he's in.

Morpheus is Overrated

March 9^th is my grandmother‘s birthday. It is also my sister-in-law‘s birthday.

And now, and forever more, for me, it will also be the day I got sick.

As I mentioned the last time I posted (and it’s been a few weeks), I wound up in the hospital for nearly a month. Long story short, I had an infection (as I mentioned before, it was cellulitis in my right leg below the knee), and it got into my bloodstream and then my kidneys shut down.

The pain in my leg was unlike anything I had ever felt before, and something I hope never to feel again. And as I mentioned previously, my saviors at the hospital treated my pain by doping me to the gills. Mostly with oxycodone.

Oxy. The stuff of dreams. And not just during my sleep-which is saying something, because those first couple of weeks I slept about eighteen to twenty hours a day-thanks to all of the oxy I was getting pumped into my veins, I experienced all manner of waking dreams, as well.

During this time I couldn’t help but recall the descriptions of drug-induced “trips” in all manner of literature, from classic to crime, and the analytical, always there author in me began to compare notes between what I was experiencing and what I had read.

I gotta say, if my oxy-fueled hallucinations are any indication, I must possess the id of an accountant. My hallucinations were, well, you be the judge:

1. I saw flaming writing scrolling across the ceiling tiles in my hospital room. If you’ve ever seen that scene in Cecil B. deMille’s The Ten Commandments where God carves out his commandments for Moses using heavenly fire, it sort of looked like that.

But the writing was too small for me to read. So, kinda lame.

2. Across from my bed was a wash basin with a mirror above it. Looking into it from my bed gave me an excellent view the drawn blinds on the window over my head. Oxy made this reflected set of blinds seem like the kind of big rolling door you see on loading docks. And my could even make out the blonde guy standing right to the side of the “door” and working the controls that caused it to rise and fall.

3. There were a number of nights where it seemed to me that my hospital room had morphed into the back room at a tattoo parlor, and the nurses and support staff were all tattooists who came in to check on me every half-hour or so.

Oh, and of course the mirror showed me the guy across the street, running that loading dock door up and down then, too.

So my oxy dreams were just kind of…weird and pointless.

And as soon as I could stop taking the oxy, I did.

And I don’t regret it. I don’t miss it, or the banal, beige dreams it brought me, waking or sleeping.

And I’m positive this experience will influence my fiction, going forward.

But I’ll be damned if I know how!

And that’s it for me this time! See you in two weeks!

Speak Nothing but Good of the Dead

 

I don't like to write bad reviews.  They serve a purpose  but somebody else can do that work, thank you very much.  There is a reason that every week I review the best short story I read.  What would be the point of attacking a story which will probably be gone from memory in a month or two?

I bring this up because of a novel I read recently.  It is actually a good book and I will probably say some nice things about it at a later day.

But, boy, is the text a mess.  I am talking about the Olympic prize for typos.  

A friend had warned me in advance so I actually started counting them from the beginning.  I counted 114 errors in 296 pages.  That's a typo every 2.6 pages.  And I was being conservative.  For example, when two characters spoke in the same paragraph ("Hello," Larry said. "Hi," Barry said.") I didn't count it.  

But what kind of goofs were there? Well, there were the typical homonyms that Spellcheck can't catch (you/you're, vile/vial, etc.) Once or twice a character changed their name and then changed back.  But what really freaked me out was a brand new type of typo, one that was clearly connected to a glitch in some automated system.  Look at the box to see an example I made up.

See what happened?  What I assume was an editing program occasionally and randomly decided that a capitalized word in the middle of a sentence indicated a new paragraph.  Rather disturbing.

Now, I am happy to say that the author of the novel got the rights back and has found  a different  publisher.  I trust the new edition will be a lot cleaner.  

I am not going to name the author or the book but I did intend to mention the publisher. I see no need to protect them.  But as it turns out they went out of business last year, so we go back to the title of this piece.

So let me wish you all typo-free reading and publication.

  

Murder, Neat is on a Roll!

In February of 2024, I had the good fortune of having my turn to post here on SleuthSayers fall on the very day that our first anthology, Murder, Neat, was released. The book has twenty-four short stories, all written by members of this blog. Michael Bracken and I edited it, stepping in after our original editor and fellow SleuthSayer, the late Paul D. Marks, fell ill.

Every anthology editor has high hopes their baby will be well received and that the individual stories in it will be beloved. (The authors with stories in the book hope that too, of course.) So you can imagine the smiles we all shared when Murder, Neat was named one of the six finalists a few months ago for the inaugural Derringer Award for Best Anthology. Those smiles turned to grins on May 1 when we won the Derringer, especially because the competition was stiff. (Hats off to the editors and authors of the other five anthologies. You can find a list of the finalists here.) 

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Murder, Neat was named a finalist for this year's Anthony Award in the Best Anthology category. Talk about icing on a delicious cake. So this is a good time to remind you about the anthology and, if you haven't read it, entice you to do so. (I also hope you will check out the four other anthologies nominated for the Anthony Award. Bouchercon attendees, please read before you vote. You can find the names of the nominated anthologies, as well as the finalists in all the other categories, here. One of those other anthologies was edited by Michael Bracken (him again!), working with fellow SleuthSayer Stacy Woodson.)

Back to Murder, Neat. Every story takes the reader to a location where drinking happens. Bars--be they regular, college, dive, or gastropub--make an appearance, of course, as do restaurants and even a winery. What also happens in those locations? Crime, of course!

When the book came out, Art Taylor, a retired fellow SleuthSayer with a story in the book, hosted four other of our bloggers on his personal blog, The First Two Pages. There they each wrote about--no surprise here--the first two pages of their stories. I invite you to click here to read the first of those essays, by Melodie Campbell. Near the bottom of that screen, you will be able to click to read the next essay by one of the Murder, Neat bloggers, Lawrence Maddox, followed by one by David Edgerley Gates, and finally, one by Leigh Lundin.

If you haven't yet read Murder, Neat, you can purchase it in trade paperback and ebook. We all hope you enjoy it. Cheers!

Finally, before I go, a little more news: I'm honored to have been named a finalist for this year's Anthony Award for Best Short Story for my tale "A Matter of Trust," which appeared in the anthology Three Strikes--You're Dead! The other nominated authors are James D.F. Hannah, Curtis Ippolito, Gabriel Valjan, and Kristopher Zgorski. I hope you will take the time to read all of their nominated stories. You can find the names of those stories by clicking on the link in the third paragraph of this blog. And you can read my story here.

Quis custodiet ipsos custode?

             I like democracy.  Churchill famously noted that it’s the worst form of government other than all the other forms that have been tried.  Yet there’s no better way to decide who should be in charge, since people are constantly trying to undertake that responsibility all on their own.  Everywhere you look, there’s some new effort by individuals and their affiliates to impose their ideas and prescriptions for behavior on everyone else. 

            Plato, who admittedly had some pretty interesting concepts, thought philosophers were the ideal rulers, since they knew a lot, which he believed meant they possessed greater honor and virtue.  Okay Plato, you might be right about the first part, but not so fast on the second.  While I had some excellent philosophy professors, nothing distinguished them as particularly virtuous.  I mostly recall bad haircuts and idiosyncratic choices in clothing.  Moreover, they hardly ever agreed on anything, and could easily come to blows over the relative merits of Apollonian vs. Dionysian principles.  Partisan battles pale in comparison.  

Some believe fervently that the government should stay out of the bedroom, which I think is a fine idea since it’s hard enough to get a good night's sleep without sharing the space with a bicameral legislature.  But there are lots of conflicting opinions about who should be doing what behind closed doors, and so far democracy has done a pretty good job sorting that out. 

          Many, like Jefferson, believe the best government is one that governs the least.  Except for those things they think should be governed.  George W. Bush told us he was “The Decider”, a chilling thought.  Much better to throw it open to everyone for a vote.

Since this forum’s pre-occupation is writing and publishing, it’s important to note that readers are the constituency.  They vote with their eyeballs and wallets.  Naturally, there are plenty of editors and publishing outfits who believe there are books that people ought to be reading, and would love nothing more than to enforce their preferences.  Worse, there are politicians and advocates who are heavily invested in what ought not be published.  They believe they are doing this to guard us from harmful subject matter or points of view.  Well then, who is going to guard us from them?

It's only relatively recently that the complicated, frustrating and messy democratic process has delivered us a reading culture that encompasses Mein Kampf, The Communist Manifesto and Tropic of Cancer.  But it’s no time to be complacent, because that could all disappear if we let it.

If you’ll permit me to paraphrase a line misattributed to Voltaire, I may think your writing stinks, but no one should stop you from writing it.  You might believe this a noble thought, but it’s also the height of practicality.  Censorship, either political or commercial, is the slipperiest of all slippery slopes.  Freedom of expression protects all of us from the biases and preconceptions of some theoretical decider.  To me, this is such self-evident genius, it’s breathtaking that anyone would argue to the contrary.

I know for some it’s a professional responsibility, but I will never give a book a bad review, at least not publicly.  To paraphrase another bit of wisdom, if you can’t say something nice, put a sock in it.  Mind you, I think the world would be a better place if everyone loved my books.  It would certainly be a better place for me and my self-esteem.  But aside from questioning a reviewer’s taste and good sense, a one-star review is the price of doing business.  I just don’t want to do such a thing myself.

       As Churchill said, democracy isn’t perfect.  Mistakes happen.  Hitler, Hugo Chavez and Hamas were democratically elected.  But I agree with William Buckley that “I'd rather entrust the government of the United States to the first 400 people listed in the Boston telephone directory than to the faculty of Harvard University.”  Or for that matter, The Christian Coalition of America.  I also don’t want them to decide what we should write, read or publish.  Same goes for The Association of Nobel Laureates in Literature (if it existed), or the head of the National Endowment for the Arts.

Libertas perfundet omnia luce.

Pecking Order

In the final hours of preparing today’s article, I discovered my resource material had been removed from the web, having violated ‘Rule 6’, whatever that is. As I was feeding Valentine, my goffin cockatoo, I struggled to come up with a quick replacement.

I recalled a crime from some time ago in Dallas. Normally, I would tell the story myself, but a YouTuber called Mr Ballen has told it in an entertaining way I would find hard to beat. Here is his short presentation:

Pass the Popcorn

I watch a lot of movies. So many, actually, that I often run out of current and recent movies and wind up re-watching those I've seen many times before. At least those are easy to find: I have three dozen boxes, each holding 26 DVDs, scattered around the house, plus God knows how many more DVDs on and underneath the bookshelves here in my home office. It's enough to make my wife scream. Thank goodness I'm a great husband in all other respects (he said modestly).

Anyhow, I recently rewatched The Quiet Man, a lighthearted John Wayne/Maureen O'Hara movie set in Ireland, which on the one hand is not my usual kind of movie and on the other hand is one that I always enjoy. And it occurred to me, when it was finished and the credits were rolling, that this well-known and award-winning film was adapted not from a novel but from a short story, first published by Maurice Walsh in The Saturday Evening Post in the early 1930s. Whoodathunkit?

That, of course, got me thinking about other film adaptations from the short stuff. And since I had an upcoming and uncompleted SleuthSayers column that needed to be completed . . .

Here are my highly-biased (and always changing) picks for the ten best movies adapted from short stories:

1. It's a Wonderful Life -- from "The Greatest Gift," Philip Van Doren Stern

2. Rear Window -- "It Had to Be Murder," Cornell Woolrich

3. High Noon -- "The Tin Star," Mark Casper

4. Bad Day at Black Rock -- "Bad Day at Honda," Howard Breslin

5. The Quiet Man -- "The Quiet Man," Maurice Walsh

6. Hondo -- "The Gift of Cochise," Louis L'Amour

7. The Killers -- "The Killers," Ernest Hemingway

8. The Swimmer -- "The Swimmer," John Cheever

9. 3:10 to Yuma -- "Three-Ten to Yuma," Elmore Leonard

10. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button -- "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," F. Scott Fitzgerald  

Five runners-up: The Birds ("The Birds," Daphne du Maurier), Stagecoach ("The Stage to Lordsburg," Ernest Haycox), The Tall T ("The Captives," Elmore Leonard), The Secret Life of Walter Mitty ("The Secret Life of Walter Mitty," James Thurber), Million Dollar Baby ("Million $$$ Baby," F.X. Toole)

Continuing with this idea of short fiction to screen, the following are my picks for the ten best movies adapted from novellas:

1. The Shawshank Redemption -- from Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, Stephen King

2. Stand by Me -- The Body, Stephen King

3. The Thing -- Who Goes There?, John W. Campbell, Jr.

4. The Mist -- The Mist, Stephen King

5. Apocalypse Now -- Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

6. Silver Bullet -- Cycle of the Werewolf, Stephen King

7. Hearts in Atlantis -- Low Men in Yellow Coats, Stephen King

8. The Old Man and the Sea -- The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway

9. The Man Who Would Be King -- The Man Who Would Be King, Rudyard Kipling

10. The Snows of Kilimanjaro -- The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Hemingway

NOTE: Yes, I like Stephen King.

Five runners-up: A River Runs Through It (A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean), Minority Report (The Minority Report, Philip K. Dick). The Fly (The Fly, David Cronenberg), Breakfast at Tiffany's (Breakfast at Tiffany's, Truman Capote), Shop Girl (Shop Girl, Steve Martin)

Breaking news: I was reminded, by SleuthSayer Joseph D'Agnese's column yesterday, of several more good movies that started out short: Arrival, All About Eve, Brokeback Mountain, etc. (Joe, do great minds think alike, or what?)

Okay, which ones, Faithful Readers, did I leave out? Which do you think shouldn't have been included? Have you writers had any of your short stories or novella-length fiction adapted for the movies or TV? (For me, no.) Anything pending or promising? (No.) Any near-misses? (Yes.) Sold any film options? (Yes.) Do you have cinematic hopes for future projects? Who knows, right? 

Who knows, indeed. If you're like me, and none of your fictional creations have made it to the big screen, don't lose hope. Hold steady, stick to the plan, maintain the course. 

Anything's possible . . .