When Private Detectives, Shamuses,
Gumshoes, Key-Hole Peepers Stepped Up In Class-“The New P.I.” Circa 1950s-Ross
MacDonald’s “The Ivory Grin” (1952)-A Book Review
Book Review
By Sarah Lemoyne
The Ivory Grin, by Ross MacDonald, 1952
Well the battle lines are finally
drawn, the dirty underbelly of this cutthroat business can see the light of
day. Sam Lowell, who used to be the official senior film critic in the days
when Allan Jackson, recently returned as a contributing editor or some such
make-shift title pressed upon Greg Green by the Editorial Board conveniently
headed by on Sam Lowell, ran the show, was the site manager which meant that he
doled out the assignments to friend and foe alike, has laid down the gauntlet
or whatever you call it when you are challenged to a no holds barred unto death
duel. It seems Sam, as my good friend and mentor Seth Garth, warned me would
happen, has finally blown his gasket, has in his words “had enough.” Had enough
of being challenged on his “cred,” his term, on the issue of his expertise in
the film noir world. Has taken umbrage, my term, on my continual reference to
his so-called definitive tome on the genre The
Life And Times Of Film Noir:1940-1960 as so much eyewash, so “retro” and
out of date and geared to the hoary Dashiell Hammett- Raymond Chandler-Phillip
Larkin trio who allegedly took the, Sam’s expression, “parlor pink amateur
detective” and made him, and it was solely hims in that world of blood and guts
hard-nosed avenging angels with angles seeking rough-edged justice in this
wicked old world.
Yawn. Yawn to threadbare theory and
yawn, double yawn to a nine hundred, maybe I had better write the number in
numerical form so you too can have your eyes boggled 900, paged volume which by
my estimation could have been done in say three hundred pages. The use of the
word estimation no accident since try as I might I lost interest about the time
I got to 1953 when he dribbled on and on about one Mike Hammer and how despite
his ardent anti-communism and bull in a china shop manner was a hard-boiled
lady’s man of a detective in the mold of
Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe, Hammett’s Sam Spade (notably absent was his
Nick and Nora Charles except by indirection), and Larkin’s Jack Logan.
A reviewer, a conscientious
reviewer, can only be expected to take so much, take a volume loaded with
plenty of book and film reviews allegedly written by Mr. Lowell in his salad
days which formed the bulk of the work so he essentially double-dipped getting
paid, I hear, by the word from Jackson and getting whatever royalties from the
pricey in those days twenty-five dollars from the book publisher Wainwright
Press. (I would be remiss, would be taken to task, and continually chuckle and
continue to write every chance I get as well if I didn’t mention Seth Garth’s
reaction when I asked him if he had read all 900 plus pages of Sam’s volume.
Seth, who has known Sam since Hector was a pup, Seth’s expression, gave me his patented
Seth smirk and said are you kidding nobody, not even Sam could read that thing,
a real snorer was the way he put. Seth also insinuated what is now common
knowledge around here on the question of authorship of his reviews that Sam surely
had not written the whole thing himself given his skirt-chasing drunken revels
in those days and that Seth had written half or at least gave lots of input
into the project.]
I have made it clear for a while
now, at least since I got my own by-line, thanks Seth, after surviving about
six different onslaughts from Sam on noir and young Will Bradley on Marvel
Comic so-called heroes, that I intend to be the diva for the 21st
film noir world. Sam balked at that idea when I first presented it in print-and
Seth said go for it. What has Sam really in a lather is that after he finished
his tome he never updated the damn thing so that all the neo-noir, all the
films that came after those based on his work are sealed with seven seals to
him. Like any good reviewer I saw my spot, my place in the vacant landscape and
I am going to make my mark. I have decided to deal with an expose of Sam’s
omissions and neglect (like as I mentioned given short shrift to Nick and Nora
Charles despite almost two hundred pages on Hammett’s Spade and fifty alone on
his early nameless Continental Op in Red
Harvest) by starting with a classic writer, film adapter, who Sam gave
short shrift to since his career spanned well past the 1960s benchmark, Ross
MacDonald (Ken Millar real name). Sam barely mentions him, barely mentions his
central private detective Lew Archer although Lew had all of the balls of
Marlowe and Spade and about twenty times more psychological insight in what
drove up against the wall “perps” over the edge.
Properly speaking Lew Archer, at
least in this first book, The Ivory Grin, that I picked at random out of the
twenty-plus books in the Archer series, despite the his short height, or at
least that is what is known about his physical stature moves away from the
really bull by the horns, knock heads and let God separate out the guilty from
the innocent at his leisure, skirt-chasing of Spade-Marlowe-Logan trio much touted
by Sam as the epitome of the post-parlor pink detective world. Those guys
except when they actually wrap up a case, beating the public coppers with a
gong while they are still scratching their heads, to take down some cruddy
criminals best gotten off the streets leave me cold, could have better gone
back to key-hole peeping before say Chandler, for example, let them handle cold
cases, got them out of the threadbare offices waiting around sucking up
low-rent whiskey from the bottom desk drawer. Archer used his wits and
deductive powers to bring a little rough justice to the world, what Seth,
citing a guy from his youth named the Scribe, called this wicked old world.
I am sure, well maybe not sure but I
hope, when Sam, or whoever he has read other’s reviews and write his reviews
these days finally realizes that his balloon has been burst he will drag up
some escapade of Marlowe’s saving an old dowager with wild daughters some grief
or Spade busting up a stuff of dreams con or Logan outwitting the dragon king
by stealth to counter my contentions about Mr. Archer. Let him do his best.
Meanwhile Lew, short or tall, chain-smoker or dope head, drunk or sober will by
guile and indirection solves his mysteries without bang-bang and sucker punches
every two pages. Here is how he figured out what happened to Charles Singleton
when he went slumming among the plebes and got nothing but that ivory grin in
the end for his troubles.
Yes, that is the Charles Singleton
of the very, very Singleton family that came over with John and Priscilla on
the merry Mayflower who made a name
for himself in World War II as a pilot, a lady’s man in full uniform and a guy
who after the war knew how to turn a dollar-if he had to. But see Charles, and
maybe it was that too much inter-breeding among too close cousins which
destroyed many old-line families, had a kinky side, liked to go down in the mud
with whores, or as the term was used then maybe now too loose women of no known
address. As long as they were Helen of Troy beautiful and willing to succumb to
his kinky side, to the wild side. That is what tripped him up in the end, what
caused Lew to lose some sleep because Charles picked up some tramp, some
round-heeled beauty with no vocabulary but who gave good head (unspoken but
assumed in 1950s dime store detective literature) in some gin mill out in
California when he was stationed in the Air Force and winning fistfuls of
medals.
This woman, let’s give her a name
beyond her “profession,” Alicia was nothing but a mantrap, was nowhere but from
hunger grabbing onto whatever safe harbor she could grab onto. Problem, very
big problem, whatever her feelings for Charles and all was that she had been a
second level gangster’s moll back in the Midwest, a nice nest but dangerous
especially if somebody else takes something from a gangster-then bang-bang and
no questions asked. Oh, another little problem she was married out West, out in
the California valley to a Walter Mitty-type doctor who was running a low-rent
medical practice which was not giving dear Alicia the kind of life she had
expected. The long and short of it was Alicia had three guys on her string.
That would be the undoing of one
Charles Singleton, he of mansions and Mayflowers, once her gangster man who was
getting a bit screwy came West and found out she was shacking up with a Mayfair
swell. Bang-bang poor Charles. That was where Lew came in first as a
replacement for a corrupt private detective looking for the main chance by
Charles’ blue-haired mother and subsequently by one of those too closely related
female cousins who was in love with her flyer boy. Mission: find out where the
hell Charles had disappeared to. To pose the question was to give the answer.
Along the way a young black woman who was trying to help Alicia got murdered as
did that self-serving private eye. In all three murders and a few twists and
turns.
Here is where human nature as it has
evolved thus far gets a big workout.
Everybody and their sister were trying to cover up the fact that our
gangster with a screw loose had shot and killed Charles. The helpful black
woman, the gangster’s ill-disposed sister, Alicia who in desperation brought
the seemingly mortally wounded Charles to hubby doctor’s clinic to see if he
could survive. He didn’t but not due to
that gangster fusillade. Old Walter Mitty doc loved his Alicia, wanted to
protect her in his own way. Yeah, Doc blew his Hippocratic Oath and did
bleeding from all pores Charles in. Moreover, to cover his tracks he dissected
the guy and left him a skeleton in a closet where nobody but Lew could figure
out what happened. Nice work Lew and the public coppers are still scratching
their heads having been out-classed by a new breed of private eye.
