Black Gate

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Surely it cannot be controversial to say that the idea of inherent evil is just terribly lazy writing, right? The broad strokes and decidedly absent nuance that the idea of inherent evil necessitates is just that – broad and without nuance. No one has to think too hard about it. Why did that person do that? Well, because they’re evil. That’s all the explanation and motivation required for a character. Why did the orc attack the elf? Well, because orcs are evil. That’s just what they are, and it’s behind everything they do.

Yawn.

It’s dull, overplayed, and it’s terribly lazy.

The idea of an entire people/culture/race being inherently evil is equally as lazy. Why did that character do something? Well, because they’re part of a race that is everything despicable. No other reason or motivation required. [Insert race] is just evil. End of. You can also see that this kind of narrative construction is exceptionally racist, too, right? World and cultures written in SFF might truly be made-up, but they do reflect real world ideas and modes of thinking. And the idea that an entire race is evil by virtue of their race is, well, racist.

And lazy.

And, happily, changing.

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“You’re the second guy I’ve met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail.” – Phillip Marlowe in Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep

(Gat — Prohibition Era term for a gun. Shortened version of Gatling Gun)

Today it’s a look at All Through the Night – one of my five favorite Bogie films, but not one that makes too many Top 10 lists. In 1940, Bogart’s career really started its climb, with They Drive By Night (Ida Lupino was fantastic!) followed by High Sierra (same comment). The forgettable The Wagons Roll at Night was up next, and then it was The Maltese Falcon. That was three very good movies out of four. And after The Falcon was All Through the Night. I think it kept his streak going, but that’s not the general perception.

Picking Iron (Trivia) – Lupino and Bogart had not gotten along well during They Drive By Night, and she didn’t want to work with him any more (though she did in High Sierra). He was originally cast as the lead in Out of the Fog, but she balked and he was replaced by John Garfield. Bogart complained to Harry Warner about Lupino’s action, to no avail. Much later, Lupino and Bogart said they got along fine.

In 1941, Hollywood was starting the transition from gangster flicks to war movies. One approach was to have the gangsters fight the new bad guys. And this movie is a gangster/espionage comedy. I think it’s great. This essay takes a different approach to movie reviews, taking advantage of the excellent cast.

Humphrey Bogart

The Maltese Falcon was a rocket strapped to Bogart’s career, after a long run of B-movie leads, and being the crook gunned down by James Cagney or Edward G. Robinson. In this one, he’s Gloves Donahue, a self-titled promoter who is a mobster in New York City. He seems to primarily be a gambler. When the baker of his favorite cheesecakes is found murdered, it leads Donahue to a group of Nazis plotting to blow up a ship in the NYC harbor.

Bogart is a likable tough guy – not like his role in Dead End, Bullets or Ballots (one of my Top 10), or The Roaring Twenties. Circumstances make it appear he murdered a rival, and he’s working to solve the murder, which draws him deeper and deeper into the Nazi plot. I think he plays the part well.

Conrad Veidt

We would see Veidt a few years later as Major Strasser in Casablanca. Here he is Ebbing, leader of a Nazi spy ring in NYC. He’s smooth and snake-like. I enjoy the scene where he is an auctioneer and Donahue is bidding. It’s the typical role for the situation: respectable on the surface, conniving Nazi underneath.

Picking Iron – In Casablanca, Rick advises Strasser that there were certain parts of NYC that he wouldn’t recommend invading. That’s an in-joke to this movie.

Picking Iron– Veidt fled Germany with his Jewish wife. In Hollywood, he refused to play a part in which a Nazi was sympathetic.

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“You’re the second guy I’ve met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail.” – Phillip Marlowe in Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep

(Gat — Prohibition Era term for a gun. Shortened version of Gatling Gun)

My favorite Erle Stanley Gardner series is the one featuring Bertha Cool and Donald Lam. I’ve written three posts here at Black Gate about the series: they’re linked at the end of this article. Under the name A.A. Fair, Gardner wrote 30 novels about them from 1939 to 1970 (one of them was published long after his death).

In the series, Bertha took over her late husband’s detective business after he died. Donald, an ex-lawyer, is hired in the first book, and soon becomes so good at making money for the business, he pushes his way into a partnership. Bertha hates to spend a dollar. She loves accumulating money. Not so much for spending; just to have. Donald is smart and shifty. He’s also pint-sized and is no threat as a fighter.

Raymond Burr’s successful Perry Mason television series ran from 1957 to 1966, covering 271 episodes. Burr was so popular in the role, he continued appearing as Mason up to the year he died. The books, of course, are among the best-selling in the world, having sold over an estimated 300 million copies.

In 1958, with Perry Mason on the airwaves, Gardner authorized a pilot for a Cool and Lam series. He even taped an introduction, which was filmed on the Mason set. Unfortunately, the pilot didn’t get picked up and Cool and Lam on the screen was abandoned forever more.

The casting choices seemed…curious. Billie Pearson had a total of four screen credits in his career; which equaled the number of his marriages. The same year he filmed this pilot, he appeared in an episode of Perry Mason. Only 5’-2”, he was a jockey (one of his four credits was as a jockey). Having watched the pilot over a half-dozen times now, I can see him as Lam, though a couple more inches wouldn’t have hurt. But he certainly had zero star power.

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Ursula Pflug’s fiction demands to be savoured. Her new collection, Seeds And Other Stories, holds 26 short fictions ranging in length from flash fiction to short novelettes, each marked out by precise language and fantastic happenings seen edge-on. They’re not linked by plot but by threads of imagery: portals to other places; hallucinatory new drugs named for colours; gardening, and plants sprouting from the earth or human bodies. Each individual piece on its own carries a powerful emotional weight. Together it becomes difficult to read more than a few in a sitting, and that is no bad thing.

The stories in Seeds all can at least be read as having some element of the fantastic, though often it’s very slight. “Myrtle’s Marina,” for example, follows a man ambling about the run-down marina he owns and thinking back to moments that might have been magic. “A Shower of Fireflies” is an enigmatic two-page story about a mother reflecting on her life and her children. In the final story, “My Mother’s Skeleton,” a woman speaks to her daughter, remembers her mother, and meditates on art.

Most tales push reality further. “Mother Down the Well” opens the collection with a story about a woman in rural Ontario whose well holds a magical portal and her magic-touched mother. “Judy” is a short science-fictional tale with a post-apocalyptic feel, about a woman who loses a friend among a raging plague. “The Lonely Planet Guide to Other Dimensions” follows a writer who finds an alternate world in a mundane setting, and along with it a power to rewrite existence.

All these stories, and all the stories in Seeds, are intensely focused works. When not told in first person, they submerge themselves in a very tight and limited third-person point of view. Details of description are rarely given, only what matters to the character at any given moment. There’s an implied irony in this approach, insisting on the limitations of a character’s perspective, and it works. These are stories about absences, about things that once were and whether they may be regrown.

They’re also stories about emotionally intense subjects: family, lovers, visions (artistic, psychedelic, or both). Pflug illustrates these themes with an approach to the fantastic that borders on the surreal whether the fantastic or science-fictional elements are overt or not. There’s an allusiveness to them, and a willingness not to explain them. These are not comfortable knowable worlds with clearly-elaborated systems of magic or technology. These are worlds bigger and plainer than the characters we follow, who deal plainly with odd events: there’s little awe here, and where it does exist it’s often an awe of the natural world and not of magic.

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