Jonathan Latimer (2) (1906–1983)

Karl Craven believed there were two ways to approach the private detective business; underground or on top. The way he saw it, ”Underground you had the element of surprise on your side, but it was harder to move around. On top you went everywhere, taking cracks at everybody, and everybody taking cracks at you. You had to be tough to play it that way.” Craven was tough. He could stop a lousy moke’s fists with his face or scuff up a gangsters shoes with his ribs. He liked his men manly, show more his Negroes servile, and his sex rough. He was a man’s man with big appetites and I’m not just talking about the 4 lb. steaks and six double lamb chops he scarfed down regularly.

In other words, Karl Craven was not the kind of guy folks would describe as warm and fuzzy. Truth be told, he was an asshole.

But sometimes when you are reading hardboiled pulp fiction, warm and fuzzy just doesn’t cut it. You need someone who reminds you of the ripe odor of the locker room at the boxing gym. This is that kind of book. Written in 1941 and banned from publication until 1988, Solomon’s Vineyard has it all, grave-robbing, religious cults, kinky sex, and whorehouse violence. What more could a guy want? An affordable price? How does 99¢ on Kindle sound?

Bottom line: This book is what it is and what it is is entertaining gritty mid-century pulp fiction. Be warned, if my review so far hasn’t tipped you off that this book is far from politically correct, take it from me, this book is far from politically correct. Karl Craven is not someone whose actions I approve of. If you find misogyny, racism and homophobia in a fictional setting, you may wish to look elsewhere for your reading material.

FYI: On a 5-point scale I assign stars based on my assessment of what the book needs in the way of improvements:
• 5 Stars – Nothing at all. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
• 4 Stars – It could stand for a few tweaks here and there but it’s pretty good as it is.
• 3 Stars – A solid C grade. Some serious rewriting would be needed in order for this book to be considered great or memorable.
• 2 Stars – This book needs a lot of work. A good start would be to change the plot, the character development, the writing style and the ending.
• 1 Star - The only thing that would improve this book is a good bonfire. show less

Solomon’s Vineyard is kind of a cult classic in the noir world. Its publication was suppressed in the United States when it was written in 1941, with only a cleaned-up version published.

This is the “complete and unexpurgated” version. I can’t say it contains especially scandalous or graphic scenes, or subject matter to be unusually squeamish about. But maybe I’m jaded. I’ve read noir novels that pushed against my limits much harder than this one — novels by Jim Thompson and show more James Elroy do that, for better or worse.

That said, it gets pretty gnarly.

The protagonist identifies himself as private detective Karl Craven, although that is probably not his “real” name, just one of the bits of guise he uses to maintain a slippery presence. He will not be nailed down, and “Craven” isn’t an accidental name choice.

Craven has been hired by the wealthy Mr. Grayson to find his niece, Penelope Grayson, and return her to her family. But he is also looking to solve, and maybe revenge, the apparent murder of his partner Oke Johnson, killed in the same town of Paulton. The town’s Police Chief, Piper, appears not especially interested in investigating Johnson’s death. Nor is he helpful in . . . . anything.

Penelope, it turns out, is a “Daughter of Solomon,” a member of Solomon’s Vineyard, a religious cult that dominates Paulton in ways that Craven discovers layer by layer throughout the story.

Craven arrives in Paulton with all the subtlety of a grenade. In fact, that pretty well describes his modus operandi. Explode things, survey the pieces, and pick it all up from there. He doesn’t have a master plan — he’s a master of throwing things into dangerous chaos and then Hail Marying his way out of it.

Solomon’s Vineyard is an especially nasty piece of business. It’s not just a cult, it’s a disingenuous masquerade tied up in a web of deception and crime, protected by local gangster Pug Banta.

Craven and Pug make a great pair — both speak violence as their first language, and they are drawn together not only by Craven’s pursuits of Penelope and of Oke Johnson’s murderer, but also by their not altogether virtuous attraction to Ginger, local potential femme fatale.

There are more characters with various coatings of slime on them. “The Princess” appears to be in charge of the cult, but not really, and she certainly doesn’t believe in it as much as she sees profit in it. Another potential femme fatale.

And there’s Thomas McGee, local lawyer. You’ll have to read the story to figure out McGee. He’s not hard to find — he’s lurking around every corner of the story.

The whole thing is fun, but only if you’re willing to take on the genre. There’s “action” on just about every page, and most of it has a kind of matter-of-fact violence about it that is certainly common in the noir world, but maybe not yours or mine. It’s hard to like anybody, including Craven — he’s about as blasé about beating people up as they come. It’s almost comical that he has qualms about committing murder at a critical point in the story.

Maybe we could like Penelope — she at least has the innocence of youth, brainwashing, and other types of control.

Then there’s the thing that probably was behind the suppression of the book’s initial publication. There’s sex, there’s misogyny — again, you have to know you stood a good chance of getting that when you walked into the genre. But there’s also masochistic sex, although thankfully without much if any graphical description — just words of dialogue.

So, no, it’s not for the squeamish. And it does fall into that category of story where you wonder if we should be normalizing this kind of behavior and these types of characters. Artistic distance is my own response as a reader, and it worked this time. But be warned.

As for the writing, this is worthy of its status as a “classic” noir novel. The dialogue is thick and chewy tough. And the world that Latimer conjures doesn’t have a clean and healthy spot on it. Again, don’t go here if you’re not very genre-friendly. show less

“Why are you Paul's friend?” — Veronica Lake
“Because he's on the dead up-and-up. Why don't you try it sometime?” — Alan Ladd

Dashiell Hammett’s story of crime and politics got a second filming with this glossy Paramount production starring Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. Ladd had deservedly shot to stardom like a rocket opposite Lake in “This Gun for Hire” but he set the tone for the type of character he would play in the majority of his films with this one.

A good screenplay by show more Jonathan Latimer and some fine photography from Theodor Sparkuhl complement Stuart Heisler’s crisp direction. Oddly enough, Victor Young, known more for his romantic scores, was picked for this project but he does an outstanding job. Lake, whose cool blonde beauty was a perfect fit for Ladd’s quietly tough screen persona, is also a perfect fit in every creation by costume designer Edith Head.

Brian Donlevy has a good role as political boss Paul Madvig. Ladd is his right hand, Ed Beaumont. Paul is all brawn and not a lot of brains, but Ed is loyal because he is genuine. When Madvig falls for Janet Henry (Veronica Lake), the daughter of the reform candidate, he swings his political machine his way and angers the crooks he’s been protecting.

Joseph Calleia is one of the crooks unhappy with Paul and not quiet about it. William Bendix is excellent as his off-kilter muscle, Jeff. When Janet’s wayward brother, Taylor (Richard Denning), who was secretly seeing Paul’s little sister, Opal (Bonita Granville), winds up dead, Nick (Calleia) will use the newspaper he has in his pocket to implicate Paul in the muder.

Ed knows Paul didn’t do it but also knows he’s hiding something. Ed can pretend to distance himself from Paul, but he can’t distance himself from the growing attraction between he and Janet. Even when she tries to enlist his help he is leery of her; he tells her: “You're slumming, and I don't go for slummers. You think you’re too good for me. Well sister, it just so happens I think I’m too good for you!”

Frances Gifford shines in a small role as the nurse taking care of Ed after a sadistic beating from Jeff. It is Bonita Granville who steals every scene she’s in, however, in a rare adult — sort of — role. Ladd calls her Snip throughout the film, sort of reminding her she isn’t all grown yet. While it is a tad too glossy to have the bite it should have, it is very entertaining, and has a great cast. The ending is terrific and just what the viewer had hoped for. Ladd and Lake fans will love this one. show less

How something first published in 1938 ended up on my kindle is quite possibly the biggest mystery here. But my sunny, hot vacation seemed a perfect time to read a mystery set in sunny, hot Florida, you know, really immersing myself in the mood. Perhaps not the best of ideas; the frequent complaints by the characters (not me), mopping of brows (also not me), and dips in the ocean (definitely me) only reminded me how hot it was in real life (94F, if you were wondering). It was, perhaps, too show more much. Too much heat, too much time period, too much early noir.

Latimer describes his characters in terms of physical details and clothes, and as per the time, one is supposed to gain insight into their characters.

"The Irishman looked very fine in a Burma-colored dinner jacket, black trousers, a white silk shirt with a dark green bow tie, a dark green cummerbund and dark green silk hose."

Women get the added descriptive bonus of fuckability:

"Her figure, small, sharply breasted, slender as a lotus plant, was virginal."

Much is made of the continual drinking habits of Bill Crane, PI, and Doc Williams, his sidekick.

“'How are you going to spend it?'
Crane thought for a moment. 'I think I’ll go on a bender.'
'I’d like to know what you’ve been doing for the last six years.'
'Just warming up.'”

It actually reminded me a great deal of early Robert B. Parker's Spenser series with the meticulous description of clothes and body structure. Very concrete, very visual. The dialogue, however, is completely cavalier, and if you take Crane's words at face value, you'd assume he was the worst detective ever.

"He always preferred to pursue his occupation as a detective in luxurious surroundings among rich, congenial people. One of the troubles with crime was its prevalence among criminals."

It does have moments of dazzling beauty:

The water was luke-cold; the morning sun was warm. Where it was deep there was no surf and the waves came in like great wrinkles in a bedspread, gently lifting them on rounded bulges, then lowering them into hollows."

"They cruised across a crème-de-menthe ocean under a sky so brilliantly blue it hurt their eyes."

Which, yes. The mystery is confusing; they are hired to find out who has been threatening a millionaire playboy whose interests consist of women, fast cars, and gambling. The approach to solving this issue is languid, almost indifferent, and it isn't until another event happens that things really seem to get underway. When someone is killed, the characters--and plot--finally gain focus. Ultimately, it was interesting, and probably would have been much more enjoyable without the casual and frequent -isms. As it was, I'll probably stick with more modern versions, including a needed reread of [b:The Last Good Kiss|523795|The Last Good Kiss (C.W. Sughrue, #1)|James Crumley|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1333578437l/523795._SY75_.jpg|1114323].

Two and half gin and tonics, rounding up because who drinks a half? show less