Timothy J. Lockhart wrote:
Bill is the author of "Saint with a Gun: The Unlawful
American Private Eye," an excellent nonfiction book about the
PI genre.
***************** Glad you liked it. I thought he started out
with a false assumption and everything that proceeded from it
was suspect. If I recall correctly, the following review of
it didn't get posted back when we did the criticism month. It
needs reworking, but it's probably not going to happen.
SAINT WITH A GUN, by William Ruehlmann
Aaron Stein writes in the foreword to Saint With A Gun,
"William Ruehlmann has done a penetrating analysis of just
what it is that this public wants and has come to interesting
and chilling conclusions about what the want indicates of the
character of that huge public." The book, then, is not
primarily a literary critique, but instead a social critique.
Rather than concentrate on the literature itself, his main
concern is the debunking of what he perceives as an erroneous
noble image that the reader has of the PI character. More
accurately, his thesis is that the American reader of
hardboiled detective fiction is suitably represented as a
beer-drinking beer-bellied slob in a sweat stained
undershirt, only occasionally putting down a well thumbed
Mickey Spillane to rise from the couch to get another beer
and perhaps beat the wife or sexually abuse the
daughter.
When Ruehlmann takes a break from demeaning the hardboiled
reader, he is capable of producing an intelligent and
perceptive summary of the history of the genre. Traditionally
Poe has been granted the honor of the first detective story
with Murders in the Rue Morgue in 1841, and Ruehlmann does
not deprive him of this, but he takes a step back in time to
mention the influence that Vidocq and his detective
Memoirs
(1828) had on Poe's writing. He notes that Vidocq's influence
was not limited to Poe, but also extended to Victor Hugo,
Balzac, Charles Dickens, and Arthur Conan Doyle. Besides
serving as a long-standing template for the classic
locked-door mystery, Poe's story established themes that are
still seen in current day mysteries, such as a smart and
eccentric detective, incompetent police, and the detective's
lesser assistant.
In a nutshell history of detective literature, Poe's Dupin is
usually followed by Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes but
Ruehlmann points out that, as Vidocq's nonfiction Memoirs
preceded Poe, so Pinkerton's nonfiction preceded Holmes.
Allan Pinkerton is better known for his famous detective
agency, but starting with The Expressman and the Detective in
1875, Pinkerton put out a series of detective books that
would later form a firm foundation for the hardboiled
detective genre. Twelve years after Pinkerton's first, Doyle
published his first Sherlock Holmes story in 1887. Ruehlmann
notes some of themes in Doyle's work that both follow
tradition and establish a new paradigm. Like Poe's Dupin,
Holmes is eccentric and celibate, with his escapades
documented by an admiring accomplice. Holmes is far more
active, and far more colorful. Unlike the dispassionate
Dupin, whose interest in the mystery goes little beyond the
solution, Holmes exhibits a controversial concept of justice
which introduces a new theme into the genre, sympathizing and
sometimes protecting the criminal from discovery or
prosecution.
Van Dine's first Philo Vance novel was The Benson Murder Case
(1926). Ruehlmann notes that Philo looks like Sherlock
Holmes, thin and tall, and shares his elitism. Vance is an
expert in oriental prints, tapestries, and ceramics. Like
Dupin and Holmes, his cases are relayed in the first person
by a lesser colleague. Stout's Nero Wolfe appeared on the
scene a few years later in Fer-de-Lance (1934). Wolfe does
not share Holmes gaunt frame, but he does have a strong
leaning towards the eccentric. When Wolfe came on the scene,
the hardboiled tradition was firmly rooted, and Wolfe has a
hardboiled assistant Archie Goodwin as counterpart to his own
effete personality.
Ruehlmann observes that although neither Van Dine nor Stout
are commonly associated with the hardboiled genre, there is a
dark side in their writing that reflects the ruthless
vigilante spirit of the more hardcore hardboiled. Both Philo
and Nero show an open disregard for the law in collecting
evidence, and a more ominous habit of choreographing deaths
of undesirables. This happens through allowing or encouraging
suicide or else setting them up to be murdered by another
criminal. For most readers this introduces a satisfying level
of ambiguity that blurs the lines between the detective and
the criminal. Ruehlmann finds this disturbing, evidently
preferring literature with a more definitive line drawn
between those wearing the white hats and the black.
The chapter "Kid From Cyanide Gulch" plays a key role in the
book. In it he discusses several of the classic hardboiled
detective authors, their influence on the genre, and the
themes that they invoked. He begins by crediting Black Mask
magazine with the birth of the genre with stories by Carroll
John Daly and Dashiell Hammett in 1923. Daly's writing was
poor, and he is unknown beyond a small circle of hardboiled
fans, but his stories were very popular, and his ultra-tough
detective Race Williams summed up the hardboiled creed
perfectly: "Right and wrong are not written on the statutes
for me, nor do I find my code of morals in the esays of
long-winded professors. My ethics are my own."
Ruehlmann is at his best when discussing Hammett. This is
because they both share a deep-rooted cynicism, not just for
the world the detective inhabits, and not just for the degree
of change the detective can hope to effect, but also for the
morality of the detective himself. He makes his case by
referring to two of Hammett's most powerful novels, Red
Harvest and The Maltese Falcon. In Red Harvest an unnamed
detective often referred to as the Con Op, short for
Continental Operative, is called to a small Western town
where his professionalism disintegrates into a bloody
personal vendetta. In The Maltese Falcon, Ruehlmann
rightfully questions an overwhelmingly strong current of
uncritical admiration for the integrity of detective Sam
Spade, suggesting that this is not the reading that Hammett
intended. Ruehlmann recognizes that a refusal to succumb to
sentiment allows Spade to triumph over Brigid, but his
suggestion that this leaves Spade empty misses the mark. Also
dubious is his statement that in the end, Spade's hardboiled
philosophy fails him.
In a fast drive-by of Hammett and Chandler, there appears a
lot of similarity, tough detectives operating in a tough
world populated by tough criminals and tough women. But under
closer inspection, Ruehlmann points out some significant
differences. First, he notes, that where Hammett's detectives
are professional, Marlowe is idealistic. This is a little
vague, but his comment that Chandler's writing has an element
of redemption is on target. He cites Ralph Partridge's
comment about Chandler's detective Marlowe: "He is the
perpetually crucified redeemer of all our modern sins."
Second, although Hammett's detectives are loners, Marlowe
goes beyond this, suffering from a profound sense of
alienation. Ruehlmann notes that Marlowe is alienated from
the poor by eccentric tastes. He smokes a pipe, quotes the
diaries of Pepys, and listens to classic music. He is
alienated from the rich by his lack of money. This alienation
is distilled into a bitterness that increases from novel to
novel, reaching a shrill peak in The Little Sister.
Ruehlmann's analysis of Chandler has its high points, but it
has gaps, too. He declares that The Big Sleep is not a
romantic novel, but after several pages of commenting on what
it isn't, he can't seem to decide what it is. He either
chooses to ignore or overlooks the important themes
concerning sexuality.
More so than any other hardboiled writer, Spillane has
invoked the hatred and invective of the critic for the pure
mythic rage of Mike Hammer. After all the self-righteous
pontificating in the beginning pages of the book, it is
surprising that Ruehlmann is able to rationally describe and
analyze Spillane's Mike Hammer novels. Ruehlmann even goes so
far as to say that in
"Hammer there is the same strong moral line," with its roots
in "Bible Belt fundamentalism." Ruehlmann continues to amaze
by comparing Spillane's work with the Bible: "The powerful
rhythms of Spillane's recorded rage show a stylistic debt to
the King James text." He continues to heap on the praise with
"...it would be a mistake not to call him a craftsman; he
writes with a sense of pace and a breakneck style." It
appears to be a complete turnaround from his earlier stated
mission as vilifier of the detective image. A footnote to the
chapter includes a personal interview that Spillane granted
Ruehlmann. Only the lowest of sceptics would suggest that
Ruehlmann would compromise his high morals in trade for an
interview.
The saga continues with the haunted families of Ross
Macdonald. Ruehlmann breaks no new ground here, but he does
have a curious response to Lew Archer's pessimistic and
cynical question: "Was this the promised land?" Ruehlmann
answers: "It used to be, but things happened." This tracks
with the rather thoughtless cliche that the human condition
is becoming progressively worse. When, one might ask, were
things better? During the World War of the 1940s? The
Depression of the 1930s? Maybe the lawlessness of the
Prohibition years? World War I? Sinclair Lewis's meat packing
plants of the turn of the century? Maybe Ruehlmann longs for
the nostalgic peace of the pre-bellum South.
In Saint With a Gun, Ruehlmann is able to occasionally
deliver the goods, but he always stops short of a solid
understanding. His commitment to cliche, weak critical
reckoning, and logical fallacy do nothing to improve his
stance. Although this can be found in the details throughout
the text, it is also well reflected in his main thesis, that
the particular character of the American public can be judged
by the detective literature they read. The first weakness
that becomes obvious is that all the assumptions of what the
American public derives from detective literature are made by
critics who consider themselves well removed from the
unwashed masses. Maybe he didn't take the trouble to consult
with the actual public he maligns because of the noisome
nature of the task, or maybe he just couldn't get them to
come to the phone because they were busy working on junk cars
in the backyard or were in town for some recreation, drinking
at the local Dew Drop Inn, shooting stop signs, and beating
up queers.
Ruehlmann spends the majority of his book pointing out
defects in the character of the fictional American detective,
but the problem with this is that its significance in the
support of his thesis is based upon a faulty premise that he
glosses over early in the book. It is one of the valued
pleasures of literature that one can place oneself in the
shoes of someone else and view the world through their eyes,
and fiction that cannot develop this empathy is less than
successful. Ruehlmann's premise that reader empathy with a
character implies tacit approval of his actions extrapolated
out into life is ludicrous. If this was true, then any
literature with characters of less than pure motive and
action would be immoral. As absurd as this seems, it comes
very close to Ruehlmann's thesis, and Ruehlmann makes an
ironic full-circle swing back to roost on a prudish branch
right next to the fundamentalists that he shows so much
contempt for.
miker
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