Mickey Spillane (1918–2006)

"You're a deadly man, Mike."
So says Gorgeous Lily, and of course, she's right.
Perhaps I've read too much Hammer lately, having finished six of the Spillane novels in the past few months. Or maybe Spillane was running Mike in the ground by the sixth Hammer installment. Either way, I've had enough of Spillane for the time being. This book was just so over-the-top nonsensical, I couldn't take any of it seriously. It got a little easier to take when I started reading it as comedy. What else show more could I do when Spillane sends our hero off after the Mafia without a rod? This after he was almost killed in the first chapter (anyone else would have been in such a situation). So, I started thinking that maybe Superman is not Clark Kent, but really Mike Hammer. But, that was a big leap over a tall building, too, because I don't think Superman would make all the bone-headed decisions that Mike did, as he ran around without a weapon, making sure the bad guys who were trying to snuff him out, knew exactly where he was. Fortunately for Mike, all of them were dumber than him.
And, what of Velda? Would Superman send Lois Lane on such a dangerous mission? Even if she isn't the absolute dish that Velda is, I wouldn't think so.
OK, forget Superman (even though Mike does seem indestructible).
On second thought, though, Mike does seem to have his own form of kryptonite, which takes the form of the female mouth. He's so obsessed with the lips on these babes, that he has to tell us about it every few pages. I'm on the edge of my seat, wondering if one of these dames is gonna kiss him deadly. Thus the weird title. If this didn't wear me out enough, I also had to hear how perfect and beautiful Velda is, over and over between the rest of the dolls who are falling for Mike, and enticing him with their lips. After six books, that's getting rather old. I'm the farthest thing from a wall-flower you're likely to find, and it still drove me nuts.
The ending was just weird and abrupt, like Spillane got tired of what he was doing. If I didn't know there were more Mike Hammer books, I would think this would be a good place to just let Mike die, and get him out of his misery, and mine, too. If I were in my right mind, I would say I probably wouldn't read any more Mike Hammer, but I'm not, and Spillane's writing is sometimes like watching a train wreck. It's not good for you to see such a thing, but you can't force yourself to look away.
I just reread that weird ending again to make sure I understood it. I did. It was unbelievably stupid. I think I'll stay away from Spillane for a while. But still I'm left with the image of Mike wearing a red cape, salivating over a woman's lips while he smokes a Lucky, and grimaces. show less

One Lonely Night has always been a favorite of mine among Spillane’s novels. That being said, a little of Mick goes a long way with me, so I usually only get around to re-reading him about once a year. When I do, I often return to One Lonely Night, mainly for the opening chapter. It is as atmospheric and splendid example of the hardboiled detective that you’ll ever read. It is a wonderful piece of writing in its own way, Spillane boiling everything down to the bare essentials. Spillane show more is rarely given credit for good writing, but this first chapter will knock your socks off.

On the surface this is a typical Mike Hammer novel. It is about Communists and the NKVD. There is violence so over the top that it begs comparisons with comic book stuff — which is how Hammer was originally conceived. The whole tale is so raw it nearly burns your hands. Mike Hammer and his .45 set out to avenge a girl’s death, and save society from Communism. But there is an underpinning to this one missing in the other Hammer novels. That underpinning begins from the opening moments, one lonely night on a bridge as Mike Hammer remembers what a judge said about him, and wonders if it’s true.

All that rumination takes a detour on said bridge, however, when Hammer comes to the rescue of a girl with his trusted .45. But Hammer is unable to prevent her death, as she goes over the side anyway. That’s when the reader is plunged head-first into a brutal Mike Hammer thriller about Commies in America and the NKVD. At one point late in the book, Velda is hanging naked while Hammer rescues her. One Lonely Night is violent, pulpy, and just raw enough to have a few faint of heart complain. But Hammer’s rumination on that bridge is returned to at the end, and that separates One Lonely Night from some of the others. In essence Hammer is trying to decide if he is as bad as the guys he enjoys taking out. His conclusion befits the character of Mike Hammer, and the persona of Mickey Spillane.

Spillane certainly had something, and he could write — whether people like it or not. It’s ironic that the great Ross Macdonald so disliked Spillane’s work, considering how hurt he was that Raymond Chandler was quite critical of Macdonald’s own early work. Many don’t care for Spillane’s narrative style — some say he didn’t even have one, but they’re wrong. Spillane was a pulp writer, through and through, and long after the other guys elevated the genre, he continued to write pulp. Even here, with Hammer more unhinged than usual, it reads at times like a violent and spicy comic, yet with flashes of some great pulp.

Mike Hammer was rooted in the blue collar, and Americanism. Ayn Rand was a fan, believing Spillane’s Hammer had greater meaning as a statement on the progressive threat to society than Spillane would ever cop to. In fact, he would have dismissed it, saying he just wrote for the bread. Yet the fact that Spillane ran a thread through One Lonely Night about Mike Hammer wondering if his soul was as black as those he fought, is heady stuff when you think about it. One might say it suggests that despite protests to the contrary, Spillane did have an inkling that what Hammer represented was a bit more than he ever let on.

Once accused of writing porn, that argument seems utterly ridiculous in today’s society. The argument that he wasn’t much of a writer can also be dismissed, considering Rand and a slew of modern writers, including Max Collins, greatly admire his work. That only leaves the Conservative tone of Spillane’s Mike Hammer. It is sometimes touched upon when critics discuss why Spillane is so loathed by some, and I think it rings true.

An example in point is how often, when people talk about a Spillane book, or a Richard Prather book, they mention it. It’s interesting to note, however, that Dashiell Hammett’s more subtle communist underpinnings to Red Harvest, and to a lesser degree, The Glass Key, are so rarely mentioned at all, even by the same folks. I can easily understand someone with a dislike of pulp cringing at Spillane’s raw narrative style of storytelling, but I do believe that all too often it is used as an excuse to mask the true reason for such a vehement reaction to his work. I think there is room for either viewpoint woven into a detective story, either along the peripheral edges, or in the story’s underpinnings. As long as it’s a good tale well-told, a great ride, I can enjoy it. If I could not, I'd never read Parker, or MacDonald, or the other Macdonald.

I do understand that Spillane isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and I usually get bombarded with snarky comments about him when I bring him up in some circles, but whether you like him as a writer or not, or dislike his politics or not, for whichever or whatever reason, once you read the opening chapter to One Lonely Night, if you're honest, you’re unlikely to be in the camp that declares Spillane’s incredible success a fluke, or opines that having at one time seven of the top ten best sellers world-wide in this genre, was just luck. I don't do the really hardboiled violent stuff myself, preferring a softer boil, but Spillane found a niche, and no one, and I do mean no one, ever did the thing he did any better. I sort of like it that I share a birthday with this cat, because it means I'm in good company. show less

Published in 1951 and the first of Spillane's novels not to feature Mike Hammer; The Long Wait is a bit of a mess as a crime thriller. This one is all about vengeance as Johnny McBride returns to the town of his birth some six years after the murder of the public Attorney. The town has been taken over by a crime syndicate and McBride suffering from total memory loss finds himself as the number one suspect for the murder when he shows his face on his return. Mike Hammer was as tough as they show more come in Spillane's previous novels, but McBride is even tougher; blows to the head seem to be meat and drink to him which is just as well because he is not adapt at avoiding confrontations. He bulldozes his way across town searching for the criminals in order to take them out as brutally as possible.

This is comic book stuff, some ludicrous plot devices that take this story far from the detective noir world that seems to be the genre it wants to inhabit. Plenty of sex and violence of course, but little point to any of it and I soon lost interest in the story. 2.5 stars. show less

I thought the anachronistic mismatch of Mike Hammer's later years was borne out of the Max Allan Collins collaborations/rewrites, but this is Spillane himself updating the character to a new era, and it shows even the 80s was decades too late for Hammer, let alone the 2000s and beyond. The era of Jack Ryan political thrillers isn't a place for a relic of the 40s. It makes the success of the TV show with Stacy Keach an interesting study object, as they managed to move the setting and keep the show more anachronism charming while toning down the character. Rather, in this novel, it feels like Spillane is chasing book trends with a character not suited for political intrigue. show less