Reading California Fiction

NOW AND ON EARTH

     In the last couple decades Jim Thompson (1906-1977) has come to be regarded as one of the masters of noir fiction. Most of his thirty-odd novels from the 1950s and 1960s are back in print. Thompson began writing stories of crime and violence in the 1930s, but he hoped to create serious, mainstream fiction. So it was that his first novel, Now and on Earth, focused on ordinary people facing typical problems. The book, which is strongly autobiographical, got good reviews but made little money. It was only after a second attempt failed to dent the market that Thompson returned to crime writing. His first novel in the genre appeared in 1949.

    Now and on Earth by Jim Thompson. Modern Age Books (1942), 306 pp.
    Jimmie Dillon’s life is falling apart. His hopes for continuing his writing career have crumpled, and he’s just taken a job in a San Diego aircraft plant. He works in the stockroom, where he’s learning the names and functions of hundreds of small parts. He’s not yet sure how to cope with his colleagues: Moon, his enigmatic boss; Gross, the bullying bookkeeper; Vail and Buskin, the mean jokesters; and Murphy, who might be a Mexican. Things are no better at home. Cash is tight, and everyone is feeling the pinch. Jimmie’s wife, Roberta, has just spent the rent money on shoes for their children. His increasingly absent-minded mother helps out with the food, but only one dollar at a time. His married sister, Frankie, avoids responsibilities. In addition, Jimmie’s mind is often clouded with thoughts of his unhappy childhood, especially experiences with his now institutionalized father. All of this is leading Jimmie to drink heavily.
    Readers will need to begin by discarding most of their preconceptions about Thompson’s work. As in his later crime novels the protagonist and narrator feels alienated from those around him. But the sources of Jimmie’s unhappiness -- frustrated ambition, brainless job, oppressive family -- are clear and specific. And his responses are ordinary and understandable. Jimmie is a decent and responsible guy, someone not all that different from millions of other people whose hopes for a better future are crashing against the realities of American life. Thompson not only gets the reader into Jimmie’s head but into his environment as well. Scenes at work and at home are vivid and painfully familiar. Ancillary characters are plausible and well rounded. Some readers may find the book’s flashbacks confusing and its viewpoint too bleak. Even so, the novel deserves a wide audience.

THE CHASED AND THE UNCHASTE

    It happened occasionally that fictional series detectives from other parts of the country would take a case in Hollywood. Thomas B. Dewey (1915 - 1981) had featured Mac, the protagonist of The Chased and the Unchaste, in a half-dozen novels, mostly set in Chicago, before sending him west. (I’m not actually sure of this, since Dewey’s Every Bet’s a Sure Thing [1953] opens on a train for California.) Dewey wrote more than two dozen mystery stories altogether, beginning in the 1940s and ending in the 1970s.

    The Chased and the Unchaste by Thomas B. Dewey. Random House (1959), 185 pp.
    Mac, the Chicago detective, goes to Hollywood at the request of film producer Julian Porter. Someone has sent Porter a note threatening to kidnap his adorable young daughter, Linda. Mac’s job is to protect the girl and find the culprit. He moves into Porter’s house and begins looking for potential kidnappers. Many are on the list: Porter’s gorgeous but unhappy wife, Carol; his dedicated business manager, Bernie Wolf; his disgruntled ex-wife, Gen Richards and her boxer brother, Paulie; his housekeeper, Louise Reilly, once an actress, and her wannabe writer son, Garwood; Linda’s spinsterish governess, Alice Rummel; and some of the household help.
    As mystery stories go, this one does not quite make the grade. Mac is pretty tough, all right, but less than exciting. He doesn’t make wisecracks, he doesn’t objectify women, and he’s violent only when necessary. In short he’s a sensible guy - - appropriate to hire but not so much fun to read about. The novel’s structure is routine. Suspects are presented one by one; eventually Mac finds the right one. Most important of all, the story’s premise doesn’t really make sense. Kidnappers rely on surprise. They don’t send warning notes. The book has several well-written scenes of menace (though the one that opens the story seems irrelevant). Otherwise, it’s a disappointment.

A VIEW OF THE BAY

    It’s pretty typical today for novelists to be college professors. But that was not true fifty or sixty years ago. English professors taught undergraduates, fiction writers scrambled to find outlets for their work, and the two groups seldom crossed paths. As far as I can tell, this began to change in the 1940s. In the vanguard of California’s academic novelists was Richard Scowcroft (1916-2001), who had a Ph.D. from Harvard and arrived at Stanford in 1947 to direct (with Wallace Stegner) the writing program there.

    A View of the Bay by Richard Scowcroft. Houghton Mifflin (1955), 218 pp.
    Leonard Shaw, a thirty-something San Francisco businessman, discovers he’s been bequeathed a large sum by Craig Robertson, a former prep-school roommate who has recently committed suicide. Also named in the will is Robertson’s small literary magazine, which will now continue under the auspices of his assistant, Audrey. Soon Robertson’s sultry sister, Nora, shows up to challenge the will. All this brings to Leonard’s mind his previous experiences with Janet, his now pregnant wife, and with the Robertson family.
    Well-crafted prose proves insufficient to bring this book to life. The portrait of the main character, Leonard Shaw, lacks precision. The reason for his unhappiness, the hopes he has for the sister, and his problems with his wife are all vague. Even the nature of the inheritance is unclear. The other characters are presented more sharply, but none is sympathetic. It’s possible that fifty years ago stories of men (or at least of veterans) coping with women, money, and careers automatically sparked interest. That is not the case today. So modern readership is likely to be limited.

THE SELF-ENCHANTED

    Spoiler alert! I try to avoid revealing any information about a book that might be considered a spoiler. My general rule is to limit my discussion of plot to the first 15 percent of the book. The idea is to encourage readership rather than present thorough analysis. But rules are made to be broken, right? There’s no better candidate for spoilers than The Self-Enchanted. First, the full flavor of the book can’t be appreciated from the initial forty-five pages. And second, the number of prospective modern readers is very, very low. The book, incidentally, was never published in the United States.

    The Self-Enchanted by David Stacton. Faber and Faber (1956), 304 pp.
    Christopher Barocco, a dangerous and self-contained man from San Francisco, decides to build a house on the eastern slope of the Sierras south of Reno. He hires an architect, Curt Bolton, and a crew of local workers to do the job. He has contempt for most people but makes friends with Sally Carson, the twentyish daughter of the project's mason. Neither he nor Sally cares much when her father falls from a ledge and dies. Christopher goes to Santa Barbara to visit his dying mother, whom he hates. She demands to see his new house but dies before they arrive. He then decides he must marry Sally to forestall loneliness. Their marriage is a series of trips, none of which diverts attention from his impending death from cancer. Christopher dies, but his spirit will live on because Sally is pregnant.
    Stacton is trying to concoct a modern-day Gothic melodrama. He throws in a house on a cliff, an isolated village, a mysterious stranger, a naive young woman, and an evil mother. Characters are always in turmoil. Emotions, which run from hatred to loathing, constantly burst forth. Unfortunately, Stacton has little ability to elicit sympathy for his characters or probe their motivations. It's unclear why Barocco and his mother are so vicious and why Sally decides to marry a man who despises her. And it’s less clear why anyone should care. Readers are likely to find the whole thing pretty silly.

SOMETHING WONDERFUL TO HAPPEN

    Darwin Teilhet (1904-1964) is one of those under-the-radar novelists who for decades turned out book after book. Teilhet’s career extended from 1931 to his death in 1964. During that period he published some two dozen novels under his own name and two pseudonyms. He wrote several more books with his wife, Hildegard Tolman Teilhet. He’s best known for his mystery stories, especially those featuring Baron von Kaz. But Teilhet also published at least ten non-genre novels, of which Something Wonderful to Happen is the only one I’m sure is set primarily in California.

    Something Wonderful to Happen by Darwin L. Teilhet. Appleton- Century-Crofts (1947), 275 pp.
    Barney Higgs, publisher of the local newspaper in a small town south of San Jose, seeks to provide security for his family. He invests in a shady real estate scheme concocted by well-connected developer Arthur Slinker. Barney’s wife, Sally, is outraged but might be mollified if the couple were officially married. As communist students in the 1930s, they had casually ignored convention. Now with four children they are more worried about their reputations. The kids have their problems as well, especially thirteen-year-old Saraphine, who needs Barney’s help to complete a poster for school. Resolving these issues turns out to be more complicated than Barney expects.
    This is a mildly amusing look at family life in the period just after World War II. The story is told from Barney’s point of view. With the lightest touch possible, the author wants to scrutinize Barney’s belief that the welfare of his family can be divorced from the good of society as a whole. Barney is no ideologue here -- just a well-meaning bumbler with bad judgment. If he drank less and had nothing unusual in his background, he might have been the prototype for a 1950s sitcom. The book probably dwells too much on Saraphine’s poster. The comic moments are perhaps not funny enough. And the crucial drunk episode with Slinker’s wife drifts into the incredible. Even so, the novel is sufficiently ingratiating to attract modern readers.

THE VISION OF ELIJAH BERL

    Novelists at the turn of the last century were often fascinated by the changes in women’s behavior created by the modernization of American society. But they seem to have had a lot of trouble giving their unmarried female characters plausible sex lives. Extramarital sex -- sometimes even thoughts of it -- either wasn’t mentioned, was allowable only for actresses, or led to death. The Vision of Elijah Berl deserves some credit for at least acknowledging the issue. The book, incidentally, has been reissued in paperback and is also available for free download.

    The Vision of Elijah Berl by Frank Lewis Nason. Little, Brown and Co. (1905), 290 pp.
    Citrus grower Elijah Berl has finally discovered God’s plan for him. He will build a dam in the San Bernardino Mountains and bring water to irrigate the nearly worthless land below. Orange groves will flourish, and Berl will become rich and admired. He’s selected a crack engineer, Ralph Winston, to be his partner. Winston isn’t worried so much about the feasibility of the project as the prospect that his values of rationality and fair play will conflict with Berl’s fanatical desire to succeed. Even less supportive is Berl’s loving but unimaginative wife, Amy, who fears any change in their lives. Winston signs on despite his misgivings. More enthusiastic is Alice Lonsdale, a beautiful but tough-minded stenographer whose determination to get ahead may match Berl’s own.
    This novel gets almost 200 pages on the way to greatness. Nason successfully humanizes iconic characters: the willful entrepreneur with big dreams, the self-confident engineer whose skill can make the desert bloom, and the New Woman eager to break free of social constraints. Through the use of convincing detail, the author makes their world completely credible. Even the interlocking romantic triangles are plausible. Then (that is, p. 187) the story enters a bog of Victorian moralism. Alice, previously notable for her independence, business acumen and drive for success, is now distinguished by her “strong, sturdy sense of honor.” Ralph is suddenly offended by Elijah’s shady business moves. And Berl himself suffers a strange attack of guilt that threatens his entire project. It’s easy for modern readers to see the characters having normal problems in chaneling their sexual desires. If Nason had been able to take this view, the book would be important rather than merely interesting.

BLUE MURDER

    It may be that I’ve missed the joke with Blue Murder. The author was one of those pulp fiction writers who could type as fast as he could think. He published some 3,000 short stories in his career, many in Spicy Detective. Several collections of his stories have recently been reprinted. His fans today appreciate his over-the-top use of Chandleresque prose. But there’s a question whether he was engaging in parody or just writing badly. I’m guessing the latter.

    Blue Murder by Robert Leslie Bellem. Phoenix Books (1938), 256 pp.
    Duke Pizzatello works as an investigator for Joe and Steve Kohlar’s detective agency in Los Angeles. He’s told to find evidence that Nelia Mason’s husband has been cheating on her. Nelia is interested in a more permanent separation than divorce. When she arranges an incident in which Duke shoots the husband in his wooden leg, Duke wants off the case. But then Gertie Kohlar, Joe’s wife, tells Duke that she’s pregnant, he’s the father, and she needs money for an abortion. Nelia is his only source of ready cash. Dixie Parker, a secretary for the agency, urges Duke not to get involved with Nelia again. But he does – and soon discovers her husband’s dead body and the hacked up remains of an unidentifiable woman. Duke becomes the prime suspect in the double homicide.
    This is a tough-guy novel that relies almost completely on plot twists. Duke, the protagonist and narrator, is neither sympathetic nor perceptive. At best he’s amusingly irresponsible as he bounces from one episode to another. The women in the story are notable primarily for their flimsy outfits, though Dixie adds a ridiculous determination to keep Duke out of trouble. The male characters are hardly developed at all. Bellem might have been able to get all this to work if he had kept the plot under control. But too much of what happens just makes no sense. The book was perhaps mildly titillating seventy years ago. Today it’s likely to appeal only to less discriminating fans of noir fiction.

MY FACE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE

    There seems to be a general agreement that the two best Hollywood novels are The Day of the Locust (1939) by Nathanael West and What Makes Sammy Run? (1941) by Budd Schulberg. The number three spot is still up for grabs. I’d like to nominate My Face for the World to See, which produces a greater emotional impact than either of the top two. It got wonderful reviews when it was published but seems to have faded entirely from view in the past fifty years. I am, incidentally, casting Campbell Scott and Katherine Heigl in the movie adaptation.

    My Face for the World to See by Alfred Hayes. Harper and Brothers (1958), 183 pp.
    A New York writer is on one of his annual stints in Hollywood. He’s repelled by the superficiality and pretentiousness of the movie business but relishes the high salary and respite from his unsatisfying marriage. At a typically boring beach party he sees one of guests, a beautiful young woman, walking into the ocean with a cocktail glass in her hand. When she stumbles, he races into the water, gets her back to the beach and revives her. He ruminates on the meaning of this event until she calls a couple days later to thank him. Then he asks her out to dinner, hoping to assuage his loneliness one way or another. He gets much more than he bargained for.
    Hayes takes two familiar Hollywood characters, the cynical writer and the aspiring actress, and turns the stereotypes upside down. Beneath the writer’s air of detachment is not incipient idealism but a deep fear of involvement. And below the actress’s game determination to succeed is not an admirable spunkiness but the compulsions of a tormented soul. Hayes depicts their relationship in a series of powerful scenes that lead to a shattering conclusion. The writer narrates the story in a tone of mild self-criticism that often smacks of rationalization. The actress’s version of the tale would be much different. Some readers might find the book too concerned with psychological explanation. But even they are likely to be won over by Hayes’s acuity and sensitivity. This is a terrific novel and deserves a wide audience.

HOSPITAL NOCTURNE

    What intrigued me about this book was its publisher. I’m not talking about the paperback publisher, which labeled it a “Dell Romance” and put some smooching medicos on the cover. I mean the original, hard cover publisher, Vanguard Press. Vanguard put out a lot of left-wing books in the 1930s, both fiction and non-fiction. It published James T. Farrell’s Young Lonigan, a Marxist critique of the lower middle-class, in the same year as Hospital Nocturne. So I figured I needed to check it out. (Note to the eagle-eyed: Dell actually did misspell the author’s middle name.)

    Hospital Nocturne by Alice Elinor Lambert. Vanguard Press (1932), 306 pp.
    Carol Maitland is about halfway through her nurses’ training at a large hospital in San Francisco. Sincere and unsophisticated, she had trouble at first trouble fitting in to the constrained institutional environment. Now Carol likes the work and takes particular interest in two patients, one an old codger who sides with the nurses against their supervisors, the other guilt-ridden rich kid who suffers from debilitating seizures. She also enjoys the companionship of two fellow trainees, Enid and Sheila. Carol does not, however, share their enthusiastic involvement with the opposite sex. As her time in the hospital continues, Carol learns more about work and life.
    The author seems to have something more complicated in mind than simply recounting the romances of some nurses. She wants to portray their everyday lives without any false glamour. As she portrays it, the hospital is rule-bound and hierarchical. The patients’ treatment is seldom individualized. The nurses go for days without ever leaving the hospital grounds. Their supervisors are petty and distrustful. The doctors, like all men in authority, are constantly on the make. Many of the nurses are happy to respond. Only Carol, the protagonist, refrains from love affairs, and she does so not for moral reasons but because she fears emotional damage. The story is made up of episodes, most of which are focused on work. In one Carol breaks the rules to reenergize an elderly patient, for example; in another Enid tries to understand a botched abortion. So the novel seems to step out of character when it concludes by neatly tieing up all the subplots. Hospital stories are much more familiar today than they were in 1932. Even so, some modern readers are likely to enjoy the book.

LOVE AFTER FIVE

    I suppose there are statistics on this somewhere, but from what I’ve been reading I’d say middle-class people in the 1950s did a lot of drinking. Five cocktails before dinner were nothing. A couple of bottles of wine during the meal had no impact. A few more shots afterward produced only a pleasant glow. In Love after Five the protagonist, a business executive, at least dimly understands that he sometimes drinks too much. No one faults him for it, presumably because that's exactly what everyone expects.

    Love after Five by Raymond Mason. Fawcett Gold Medal (1956), 160 pp.
    Tony Albertson is only thirty-one and already vice-president in charge of marketing for a successful San Francisco paint company. His boss, Mort Custer, is about to retire and apparently favors Tony to be his successor. Tony is pretty sure he wants the job, but he’s less certain about his love life. Ann, his girlfriend, provides no spark, while Penelope, the boss’s wife, keeps propositioning him. Then Zoe, the girlfriend from high school about whom he daydreams, shows up hoping to make up for lost time. Meanwhile, Tony has come to notice that Stella, his longtime secretary, is not only loyal and efficient but extremely attractive as well.
    This book might be considered Gold Medal’s answer to Executive Suite or The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit. Tony works hard, appreciates his success, but is growing tired of the corporate rat race. Loveless bachelorhood is the problem, and Tony must endure episodes of self-doubt and hard drinking before he finds the solution. (The reader will be way ahead of him.) Unfortunately, neither he nor the other characters in the book are especially sympathetic or compelling. The exception is Zoe, whose partying and gay friends raise Tony’s defenses against the unconventional. The story ends implausibly though not surprisingly. The book reads easily but is today probably of more historical than literary interest.