A blessed Christmas to all you Brandywinians out there. My own plans are to celebrate Christmas in my usual madcap way — a traditional Scrooge Christmas with a lowered thermostat, dim lights, a cup of gruel by the fire, and a chair set out for any wandering ghosts who might appear to accuse me.
Above, a clip I’ve probably posted before — Sissel with the Pelagian Tabernacle Choir, doing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” my favorite Christmas hymn.
It seemed to Ransom that he had never looked out on such a frosty night. Pulsing with a brightness as with some unbearable pain or pleasure, clustered in pathless and countless multitudes, dreamlike in clarity, blazing in perfect blackness, the stars seized all his attention, troubled him, excited him, and drew him to a sitting position.
Yet another book that I love and haven’t read in a while is Out of the Silent Planet, first in C. S. Lewis’ science fiction trilogy. Perhaps the least noted of the three books, because it’s less lyrical/symphonic than Perelandra and less controversial than That Hideous Strength, it is nevertheless one of the great space travel books of the 1930s, and (I believe) a game-changer in the genre.
If you haven’t read it before, we meet our hero, philologist Elwin Ransom, out on a walking tour. Traveling later than he intended due to a disappointment in accommodations, Ransom encounters an old woman, weeping and searching for “her Henry.” Henry is her son, who is a little “simple.” Henry works at a nearby facility run by two rich men, one of them a university don. Hearing about this don, a colleague who might offer a night’s rest, Ransom offers to go look for the boy. He manages to get onto the facility grounds, where he sees two men trying subdue poor Henry, who cries out that he doesn’t want to go “in there.” Ransom interferes, enabling the boy to escape. Then he finds that one of the men is in fact someone he knows (and has always disliked), a man named Devine, once a scholar, now a businessman. He introduces his colleague Weston, a world-famous physicist. After some initial unpleasantness, Ransom is indeed invited in to spend the night.
What he doesn’t know is that Devine and Weston are planning a trip to “Malacandra” (Mars). They’ve been there before, and encountered creatures called Sorns. The Sorns asked them to bring them someone “of their own kind.” Assuming the Sorns want a human sacrifice, they’d intended to use poor Henry. But if Ransom insists on interfering, he’ll do just as well.
So soon Ransom finds himself on a spherical spacecraft, headed to Mars. He finds space (wonderfully) different from what he expected. Once he’s arrived on Malacandra (brilliantly imagined according to the scientific knowledge of the time), he gets free from his captors and soon encounters a “Hrossa,” one of the three indigenous sapient species. Again and again, what he finds confounds his presumptions and expectations. Aliens aren’t what he expects, the universe isn’t what he expects, and at last he even gets an objective look at humanity itself, through alien eyes. Then finally through Eyes even more alien.
I’m not an expert on Science Fiction in the 1930s-40s period, but my impression (reinforced by references in this book) is that the common assumption in the field was that aliens were either hostile super-intellects or primitives. Lewis lampoons this latter view in the character of Weston, who gives a ridiculous, patronizing, “me give-um you pretty beads” speech to an Intelligence infinitely above his comprehension. It’s a brilliant satirical scene, and – I suspect – stories like “Avatar” may be the distant descendants of this seminal book.
It goes without saying that I recommend Out of the Silent Planet unreservedly.
He went out, walked half the distance to the elevators, and retraced his steps. Effie Perine was sitting at her desk when he opened the door. He said: “You ought to know better than to pay any attention to me when I talk like that.”
“If you think I pay any attention to you you’re crazy,” she replied, “only”—she crossed her arms and felt her shoulders, and her mouth twitched uncertainly—“I won’t be able to wear an evening gown for two weeks, you big brute.”
He grinned humbly and said, “I’m no damned good, darling,” made an exaggerated bow, and went out again.
Working my way through books I’ve read and remember fondly, I picked The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammet off my shelf. It’s a fascinating book, and I have much to say about it.
Of course, it’s impossible to contemplate this work without considering the looming image of the classic 1941 movie directed by John Huston, starring Humphrey Bogart and Mary Astor. After I finished reading, I immediately took out my DVD and watched the flick. I also watched a few clips from the original 1931 version, starring Ricardo Cortez, available on YouTube. It’s a much inferior movie, far more loosely paced, and Cortez (physically a better casting choice) plays the role with a constant leer, as if it’s all a joke, even when he’s giving up the girl he “loves.”
The first thing you learn when you read the book is that Sam Spade looks nothing like Humphrey Bogart. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. His face is “made up of v’s,” so that he looks “rather pleasantly like a blond Satan.”
In case you’ve never read the book or seen the movie, Sam is a San Francisco private eye, in partnership with a guy named Miles Archer (with whose wife he’s carrying on an affair). When beautiful, young Brigid O’Shaughnessy walks in and asks them to put a tail on a man who’s holding her sister against her will, they lick their lips (both at the fee and at Brigid) and Miles takes the job. The next morning Sam learns that Miles has been shot to death.
What follows is a complicated dance that goes on for some time before Sam even learns that Brigid is in competition with some other sinister types to get ahold of a figurine of a black falcon, believed to be worth a fortune.
The Maltese Falcon is a seminal book in the history of mystery literature, an archetypal hard-boiled tale. And hard-boiled it is. Sam is a shockingly tough character – he appears utterly insensitive, not only to the woman he’s committing adultery with, but to his starry-eyed young secretary (far more vulnerable in the book than the tough cookie played by Lee Patrick in the 1941 film); with men he’s just brutal. He’s big and strong, and it does no good to pull a gun on him, because he’ll just take it away from you. He appears to have no principles, either – he deals and double-deals on equal terms with the Fat Man and Joel Cairo.
It’s only at the end that you begin to see something deeper. This is a man with a list of certain principles – probably not a long list, but the ones he has he sticks to. At the end of the story, he stands left with nothing, and it’s by his own choice. Which makes Humphrey Bogart, in the end, a better Sam Spade than Ricardo Cortez. Bogart expresses the foundation of the character; Cortez portrays its façade.
There’s a running theme of sacrifice (of a cynical kind) in The Maltese Falcon. The famous scene at the end (spoiler here) where Sam tells Brigid he won’t “play the sap” for her is paralleled earlier by the scene where Gutman decides to sacrifice Wilmer, his catamite, as the “fall guy” for the murders. Author Hammet had it on his mind that there are things more important than being in love. Since Hammet was a Communist, I couldn’t help thinking of Stalin’s callous murder of millions “for the greater good.” But a Christian can also appreciate this, as our Lord told us that whoever loves father or mother, son or daughter more than Him is not worthy of Him. (Communism is, after all, only the most successful Christian heresy.)
In style, Hammet was, I think, a little inferior to Raymond Chandler. You look in vain here for Chandler’s lyrical, epigrammatic descriptive passages. The Maltese Falcon is heavy on description, but it’s punctilious description. Hammet tells you what everyone wears, down to details of style and color. He likes to set a scene, to leave nothing to the imagination. The dialogue, however, is sharp and tight. Read the book and watch the film, and you’ll see that the script writers’ main job was cutting. What you hear the actors saying in the film is almost always straight out of the book.
The Maltese Falcon is a tremendous hard-boiled mystery. Highly recommended.
Meet Me in St. Louis is a hit musical that gave us the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” performed in the video above. The movie was initially released in St. Louis November 1944 and nationwide January 1945. Judy Garland plays Esther Smith, the eldest of four daughters, who falls for a new boy in town, played by Tom Drake.
The context of the Christmas scene is their father having accepted a job transfer to New York, which would uproot the family right after Christmas. Esther is comforting little Tootie about the move and sings the melancholy song. But the songwriters originally leaned into the sadness more than Garland and the movie executives wanted. Classicfm has the story.
Here are some of the original lyrics:
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
It may be your last.
Next year we may all be living in the past.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Pop that champagne cork.
Next year we may all be living in New York.”
The second version, which Garland sang, were revised again for Frank Sanatra, so you may hear the song conclude with “Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow” or “So hang a shining star upon the highest bough.”
Either way, I hope you have yourself a, uh, you know.
I almost liked this book very much. In the end I wasn’t quite satisfied, but there’s a lot to be said for it.
The hero of Dangerous Behavior (first volume in a series) is Dr. David Rothberg, who has recently taken a job as a psychological counselor at an upstate New York prison, for various complicated personal reasons. His first challenge is a big one – he’s supposed to do an evaluation for a parole recommendation on Victor Janko, “the baby carriage killer.” This man was convicted years ago of murdering a young woman while her baby daughter watched. Victor doesn’t seem like the type to commit such a crime – but then, murderers often don’t. Is he a very devious psychopath, or could he possibly be genuinely innocent?
Complicating the evaluation are Victor’s manipulative murder-groupie girlfriend, and a sadistic prison guard whom David knows to be abusing Victor.
I have to say that Dangerous Behavior did a great job of keeping my interest. I actually sat up late to finish this book, something I don’t often do at my age.
However, I thought the plotting was a little forced; characters sometimes seemed to break character in order to make dramatic points happen. Also, the climax was surprisingly understated. In addition, the portrayal of a Catholic priest hinted at an authorial attitude that usually bodes ill for me as a reader.
I don’t know if I’ll pick the sequel up or not. Nevertheless, I have to admit that Dangerous Behavior was a good read overall.
‘The Hitlers and Mussolinis of the picture world,’ said George, ‘What do they do? They ship these assortments of New York playwrights and English novelists out here and leave it all to them. Outside talent don’t get a chance.’
The quote above is self-referential. P. G. Wodehouse was both a New York playwright (in the musical comedy line) and an English novelist, and he had, indeed, been imported to Hollywood in 1929 to work on scripts for a while. He didn’t fit in and left little visible trace on celluloid, but he did mine the experience for comedy in his novels and stories. One of his most explicit Hollywood novels is Laughing Gas (which doesn’t seem to be available as an e-book, or even as a reasonably priced paperback, right now. But the link will take you to an audible book).
Reggie Swithin has recently inherited the title of Earl of Havershot, but he still hasn’t accustomed himself to that status. So he hasn’t the resistance to refuse the family solicitor’s request that he travel to Hollywood, California to disentangle his cousin Egmont from some American girl (who certainly must be inappropriate) to whom he’s gotten engaged.
On the train trip across the American continent, Reggie meets the beautiful April June, a famous movie star, who confides to him that she hates her life of glamor and longs for a simple home where she can be with her books and her flowers and her cooking… why, Reggie’s ancestral manor sounds like just the place!
Reggie is working up his nerve to propose to her as he arrives in Hollywood, where he meets the girl Cousin Eggy is engaged to – awkwardly, she turns out to be Ann Bannister, to whom Reggie himself was once briefly engaged. Then Reggie has an attack of toothache. In the dentist’s office, he finds that another Hollywood star, little Joey Cooley (“Idol of American motherhood”) is having the same procedure done by the dentist’s partner. As they are both under the influence of laughing gas at the same time, some sort of mix-up occurs (“probably in the fourth dimension,” Reggie thinks) and the soul of each transmigrates to the body of the other. Thus Reggie wakes to find himself very small, dressed in knickerbockers, and sporting long golden curls. He’s going to have to figure out how to live a child star’s life – which is made no easier by his guardian, a formidable woman who limits him to a diet based on prunes, to maintain his weight.
We only learn through hearsay what’s happening with Joey, in Reggie’s body, but the boy seems to have a good time. He can get all the sweets he wants now, and there are a lot of people he’s been dreaming of boffing on the nose; Reggie has a healthy young body with a good right arm and boxing training.
And so the story proceeds. Reggie will learn to view April June from a whole new perspective, and will also learn to appreciate ice cream and breakfast sausage in a whole new way. In the end, of course, everything will turn out for the best.
I have to admit I didn’t enjoy Laughing Gas as much as I remembered from my first reading, long ago. It’s not because the story is a poor one; it’s not. It’s just that, for personal reasons, I have trouble with stories about kids in general. It was interesting, though, to see how Wodehouse looked at Hollywood from personal experience.
Recommended, if you can find a copy.
This is the fourth week of Advent. Christmas Day is next Sunday. With many great Christmas carols, I had to choose a song that leans into Christmas today in order to have room for another one next week.
This traditional English carol was written by Luke Wadding (1628–87), bishop of Ferns, County Wexford, Ireland. The third verse appears to have been added to the original at some point, but songs and hymns aren’t particularly set in stone anyway. The tune is also traditional, arranged by the great Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958).
1 On Christmas night all Christians sing,
to hear the news the angels bring;
on Christmas night all Christians sing,
to hear the news the angels bring:
news of great joy, news of great mirth,
news of our merciful King’s birth.
2 Then why should we on earth be sad,
since our Redeemer made us glad:
then why should we on earth be sad,
since our Redeemer made us glad:
when from our sin he set us free,
all for to gain our liberty.
3 When sin departs before Your grace,
then life and health come in its place;
when sin departs before Your grace,
then life and health come in its place;
angels and men with joy may sing,
all for to see the new-born King.
4 All out of darkness we have light
which made the angels sing this night;
all out of darkness we have light
which made the angels sing this night:
“Glory to God and peace to men,
now and forevermore. Amen.”
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
...
The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell
Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.
Two stanzas from John Milton’s “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity“
Obituary: “And I feel so sorry for him, I feel so sorry for this tender man,” Nabokov writes, “that suddenly the line I am writing seems to slip into mist.”
Easy Photo Fakes: With advancing artificially intelligent image generators, creating convincing pics from a handful of social media posts is fairly easy. The better images AI can create, the more dangerous it is to everyone. Maybe we should take our photos offline.
Artificially Created Videos: In a few years, an Israeli company may be able to produce computer generated video avatars that look as real as actual video.
Why Journalists Fall for Hoaxes: “Every hoax in America the past 200 years originated in the news business, or passed through it. When the world moved much slower, hoaxes were publicity stunts carried out by newspapers.”
Not Allegory: “The Twelve Days of Christmas” celebrates the meaning of Christmas and Christianity
Beethoven and Christmas: “If beauty will save the world it must be qualified that love will save the world. Because in beauty we find love. In finding beauty and the love that governs it, we are always directed to the Christ who came into our lives and taught us how to love. St. Augustine said that we often first come to know God (who is Love) through the love of others and the love that others show us.”
And though this is not Beethoven, it’s a good Christmas share.
Photo by Angela Roma/Pexels
I am delighted to be able to announce that King of Rogaland, the sixth book in the Saga of Erling Skjalgsson, is available for Kindle download as of today. Makes a great Christmas present for Kindle readers.
Get your copy here.
‘I mean to say, I know perfectly well that I’ve got, roughly speaking, half the amount of brain a normal bloke ought to possess. And when a girl comes along who has about twice the regular allowance, she too often makes a bee line for me with the light of love in her eyes. I don’t know how to account for it, but it is so.’
I am at one of those points in life where I find it prudent to re-read beloved books from my past, rather than spend money on new ones. Having made that determination, it was but the work of a moment for me to ankle off to the bookshelf and pull a book out of my P. G. Wodehouse shelf. And so I offer my review of Carry On, Jeeves.
The characters of Bertie and Jeeves first appear in a story called “Extricating Young Gussie”, (not in this collection) which was published in 1915. In it, Bertie is dispatched to New York by his formidable Aunt Agatha, because his cousin Gussie has formed an ill-advised attachment to a vaudeville performer. Bertie crosses the Atlantic on this mission, but in the end the whole thing is resolved through a farcical coincidence.
What’s rummy about this story (as Wodehouse himself would have put it) is that, first of all, we’re never told Bertie’s last name (it appears, in fact, to be Mannering-Phipps). Also, Jeeves does nothing brainy at all. He answers doors and takes people’s hats. That’s it. This is a nascent Jeeves and Wooster story. The concept remains in embryo.
It wasn’t until the next story, “The Artistic Career of Corky” (1916), that Wodehouse faced the challenge of solving a plot problem without letting Bertie do anything smart, which would violate his character. It was then that he hit on the idea of making Jeeves a super-intellect. And a wonderful phenomenon came into being.
“The Artistic Career of Corky” is included in the collection, Carry On, Jeeves. But its first story is “Jeeves Takes Charge” (also published in 1916). Here we get the origin story, as “rebooted” (as they say of movie franchises) by Wodehouse himself. The story opens with a wonderful scene in which Bertie, hung-over and temporarily valet-less, opens his door to “a kind of darkish sort of respectful Johnny” who immediately diagnoses his complaint and mixes up his proprietary anti-hangover concoction. Bertie engages him on the spot, and as the story continues, Jeeves contrives to disentangle him from an ill-advised engagement to Florence Cray (“seen sideways, most awfully good-looking”), who had a plan for “making something of him.”
And so it goes on through ten wonderful stories. Sometimes Bertie helps a friend out with a spot of matrimonial trouble. Sometimes Bertie’s Aunt Dahlia enlists him in an insane quest to steal some ridiculous object. It’s all light, implausible, and hilarious.
As I read, I couldn’t help thinking about Heaven (see my review on the book about Near Death Experiences, a few inches below). I think Heaven may turn out to be a lot like a Wodehouse story. We never grow old, and the world never changes (Wodehouse attempts to keep up with the times in a couple stories, but they jar). And above all stands the great God of whom Jeeves is a symbol, who (in this life, anyway) allows us to go our wayward ways, knowing that in the end we have no resource but Him, and no one who cares more for our welfare.
Anyway, highly recommended.