Real live death

           Having just posted an appreciation of Agatha Christie and her flavor of classic cozies, I want to stumble back into the world of the hardboiled, with a five o’clock shadow, a stiff bourbon and a dame in the waiting room. 

I’m prompted by death.

            I noticed on several re-reads of Agatha Christie and similar authors, that side from all the other signposts of what I’d call classic mysteries, the works have an odd relationship with the matter of death, an event usually at the centerpiece of the action.  Often a number of

events, since there’s usually a pretty high body count, with members of the cast dropping like flies throughout the proceedings, closing out chapters and twisting plots into pretzels.  What struck me, was that in the standard British model, there’s remarkably little grief and anguish at each passing, even when the departed is a fiancé, brother-in-law or lifelong friend (though never a cat, as we all know). 

            “I’m sorry to inform you, Lady Cavendish, but your husband has just been discovered with a ceremonial Khurkuri sword protruding from his chest.”

            “Oh, dear.  And I just served him breakfast not an hour ago.”

            Being mostly of British heritage myself, I understand personal restraint, especially in matters of life and death.  With the balance of my cultural foundations apparently German with a dash of Scandinavian, I'm used to family members who've married one of us murmuring, "You stoic Knopfs."  But I think there's more to it when contemplating the Agatha worldview.

           

           I suppose it's a necessary sanitization meant to maintain a lightness of narrative, minimizing the emotional encumbrances.  It provides plenty of room for comic interludes, tours around dilapidated English country estates and brisk, lighthearted dialogue.  I like all these things, especially the absence of existential despair.  If I want brooding over the inconsequentiality of human life in the face of an indifferent and unforgiving universe, I know where to look.  And since my books are firmly in the hardboiled camp, I can write it myself.

            But still, it’s hard for me to suspend the belief that violent death is more than an important plot element.  I also prefer a certain economy in the number of murders that follow in quick succession, especially when our protagonists are fully engaged in their investigations.  Most murderers like to space these things out, or at least pick a nice quiet moment when he or she doesn’t have to shed bloody clothes and navigate various corridors and secret doorways in time for the first toast of an elaborate dinner party. 

            Holmes, Poirot and Nero Wolf aren’t immune to the human consequences of the deadly puzzles they solve, yet we have little access to their deeper personal examinations.  Not so with Spade, Marlow or Lew Archer.  These guys are nothing if not tortured by the moral and metaphysical implications of every untimely, tragic demise.  They aren’t yapping about it with every piece of dialogue, but you know it’s what’s driving their actions and defining the purpose of their quests.  And unlike their classic cousins, they express little in the way of intellectual arrogance, since the puzzle isn’t the point.  They have their clever insights, but mostly solve their cases though dogged determination and self-sacrifice, often losing a few teeth and much of the promised compensation in the process.

             This is what I think Chandler was mostly getting at in his essay, The Simple Art of Murder.  We’ve come a long way since he made his argument, and the culture is well-schooled in the ugly alleys and byways of realism and moral ambiguity. What goes on under flickering streetlights and on dusty, impoverished back roads has become mainstream.  Meanwhile, the classic mystery is living in comfortable retirement, well financed by annuities and fresh income from a steady production of successful cozies and less philosophically demanding fare.

            What unites the hardboiled and cozy worlds is a satisfactory conclusion.  The books open with a disordering of the universe through some wretched, anti-social deed.   It’s evil rising from the depths, chaos threatening the fragile equilibrium.  The puzzle-solvers and dark angels are called upon to put things back into balance, to cleanse the collective of foul corruption and treacherous instability.

            These are satisfying destinations, but how you want to get there is a matter of taste.  Sometimes you want Spielberg with a side of Frank Capra, sometimes full-on Scorsese.  It’s all fine with me.