My house is full of books. I sometimes think I should put signs up, like a bookshop: crime section along the outside wall downstairs; general fiction and travel upstairs; plays, poetry and non-fiction between dining room and kitchen; various assorted children’s books up in the loft. Not that I need to draw attention to the books, exactly. They’re pretty much the first things people see. Which is exactly as it should be.
I can’t recall a time when I wasn’t a book person. At infants’ school I ached to be allowed to progress faster through the reading scheme which was meant to enrich our vocabulary and teach us pronunciation, and get on to the real books. Later, my friends pushed doll’s prams or played football with the boys, while I curled up in a chair with Heidi. I joined the adult library when I was twelve, having exhausted the kids’ section’s stock of boarding school tales and science fiction.
These days, a day without reading time is a bleak one, and if I reach for a book and there isn’t one there, my hands don’t quite know what to do. During our recent three-day visit to my Welsh homeland, I misjudged: I packed the book I was reading at the time, finished it on the first night and had to go in search of a replacement the following day. Not that buying a book causes me any distress or difficulty – rather the opposite. But since my to-be-read pile already had nine chunky volumes in it and was about to be expanded by a further four, words like overkill and excessive come to mind. Though not for long. It’s not possible to have too many books. Ever.
Given the above, it’s hardly surprising that the freelance life I’ve built for myself revolves around the printed word. If I’m not writing it, I’m editing it, and when I’m doing neither I’m reading it, sometimes for review, sometimes purely for pleasure. Take this week. It’s only Wednesday, and already I have:
- researched and written two 300-word features for a local newspaper;
- researched a third feature, to be written later today;
- started to give a book I’m editing its final read-through, a task I’ll probably complete tomorrow;
- reviewed the book I finished that first night in Wales;
- read the first of the four new additions to the pile, which were in Monday morning’s post, ready for
- reviewing it, which will probably happen tomorrow, along with the editing.
After that, doubtless other book- or print-related tasks will appear in my in-box. If they don’t, there’s a novel in manuscript which a friend has asked me to give an opinion on; I made it to halfway last week, before the paid and deadlined work kicked in again.
All this and the Sunday papers and general knowledge crossword too...
But then words are essential. They’re part of the warp and weft of life. They’re the way we humans communicate. Stating the obvious, maybe, but since there is a manifest determination to devalue what writers do by cutting book prices to the bone and putting publishers in the position of paring their costs likewise, I think it’s an obvious that needs to be stated now and again. That way, writers maybe feel a little more valued and their very real skills are properly appreciated.
And if I’ve done my bit to make that happen, my work for today is done.
Scenes from last night’s event with David Shafer and Lev Grossman at Community Bookstore in Brooklyn. The conversation was so insightful; I learned something new about both authors’ novels.
Curious about where David will be next? Check out the dates on his Whiskey Tango Foxtrot book tour.
The Shanghai Bund Murders
I admit it. I bought it because of the cover, too.
During the past few days, there have been two interesting developments that are worth noting, and thinking about if you are a book person and deal at all with the digital world.
The first thing, which happened over the weekend and broke Twitter, was that an author, Kathleen Hale, felt that she was being trolled by a reviewer who gave her latest book one star. She described what she did to engage in an article for the Guardian (UK), which may be found Here. All hell then broke loose, with writers and bloggers and readers taking sides (or at times specifically NOT taking sides) as to whether a writer should engage with a reviewer. Some of the best discussions were written in Jezebel and on Smart Bitches Trashy Books and on Chuck Wendig's blog. For the record, I think it's a very bad idea for an author to engage with a reviewer for many of the reasons that will be apparent if you read all of these articles.
The second thing that happened is that Simon and Schuster and Amazon reached an agreement to stave off an Hachette-like stalemate over ebook pricing. Is this agreement (as well as a few smaller publishers' agreements over the past few weeks) the signs of the dominos beginning to fall in a quasi agency-model fashion (details as to what that means can be found most clearly on Publishers Marketplace), or is this an aberration? For myself, given that the biggest series I represent is coming out in April from Little, Brown--of Hachette--I at least hope we are inching toward industry peace.
THE GHOST BREAKERS. Paramount Pictures, 1940. Bob Hope, Paulette Goddard, Richard Carlson, Paul Lukas, Anthony Quinn, Willie Best, Virginia Brissac, Noble Johnson, Tom Dugan, Paul Fix, Lloyd Corrigan Screenplay Walter DeLeon, based on a play by Paul Dickey Director: George Marshall.
If you asked me to list the ten best comedy-mystery films of the Golden Age of Cinema there are certain films that could not be left off the list, The Thin Man, Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back, The Cat and the Canary, My Favorite Blonde … But there is only one film that could be in the number one spot, the perfect blend of comedy, mystery, and scares, The Ghost Breakers.
It wasn’t a new story then. It had been filmed twice before in the silent era and was based on a play that had also been novelized (it’s available as a free e-book), and it would be filmed again with Martin and Lewis as Scared Stiff (1953), but when you find the perfect cast, directors, and script — helped along to no small extent by Bob Hope’s army of gag writers — familiarity is a small problem.
Bob Hope is radio star Laurence (Larry) Lawrence in this one. His middle name is Laurence too: “My parents had no imagination.” Larry does a radio show in which he uses his contacts in the underworld, namely Raspy Kelly (Tom Dugan), to get the inside dope on racketeers. When he reveals gangster Frenchie Duval (Paul Fix) is running a diaper service racket and not cutting his men and partners in on it, Frenchie is unhappy and invites Larry over to ‘talk.’
It’s the night of a spectacular thunder storm (“Basil Rathbone must be having a party.”) that keeps knocking the power out which will further complicate things, but the station assures Bob they have auxiliary power and the show will go on.
Receptionist to Bob: “You were great tonight, in your own opinion.”
Bob, taken aback with no comeback: “I’m working on it.”
Larry was going on vacation after the show, but not as far as he fears Frenchie will send him.
Staying at the same hotel is Mary Carter (Paulette Goddard), who has inherited an island off Cuba known as Black Island on which stands the old slave castle Castillo Maldito once owned by her ancestor Don Santiago — who doesn’t care to vacate the place it seems. Anyone who goes there save the old black woman caretaker (Virginia Brissac) and her zombie son (Noble Johnson in terrific makeup) dies.
Paul Lukas is Mr. Parada who wants to buy the place for $50,000, but when Ramon Mederos (Anthony Quinn) calls and warns her against selling she pulls back. She’s sailing for Cuba that night and might as well see what she owns.
Larry and his man Alex (Willie Best in one of his best roles) show up at the hotel with Larry packing Alex gun, and on the 14th floor Larry, Mederos, and Parada come together. Mederos is killed and Larry thinks he did it so he ducks into Mary’s room and she takes pity on him.
Larry hides in her trunk and ends up in her stateroom sailing for Cuba when the police search her room and her trunk is loaded to take to the dock.
There is a classic bit on the dock as Alex hunts among the myriad trunks for the one Larry is in.
To policeman: “I used to be a porter, I just love trunks.”
It gets even better when a drunk becomes convinced Alex is a ventriloquist when he hears Larry in the trunk.
Once on board Alex informs Larry he couldn’t have shot Maderos because the gun is the wrong caliber, but by then Larry notices Goddard is in trouble and despite himself he decides to go to Cuba with her to investigate Black Island; though he might regret that a bit when someone tries to drop a fire bucket full of sand on his head on the foggy deck.
Ghosts or not, there is a very real killer lurking in the shadows.
In short order they end up in Cuba where Goddard meets an old friend who lives there, Geoff Montgomery (Richard Carlson), and he joins the quest to help her, but that night when he takes Goddard to a local club she realizes Larry and Alex have gone to the island ahead to protect her. She determines to go too, but before she can leave meets the threatening Francisco Mederos (Quinn playing twins). Once he is gone she decides to swim to the island despite the sharks and see for herself leaving a note for Geoff that Mederos spots and reads as well.
And once on the island, they are all in for a surprise or two.
The film moves at a clip, joke on top of scare on top of clever line on top of intriguing mystery. It never stops to breathe or let you, or let you worry if any t’s are left uncrossed and i’s undotted. (Lloyd Corrigan keeps appearing running into Mary but we never find out who he is or what his role was.) Hope and Goddard had previously starred in the hit The Cat and the Canary (another remake) which is why Ghost Breakers got made in the first place.
A word has to be said about Willie Best in this film, because without him, much of this would not work. I suppose to be politically correct it must be mentioned the role is a common stereotype of the era as is Noble Johnson’s part as the zombie. I can understand why that might interfere with some people’s enjoyment of the film, but beyond that, and making no apologies for the prejudices of the time period, Willie Best, one of the best light support comics of his era, is every bit Bob Hope’s equal in this exchanging quips and punch lines as brightly and cleverly as Bob. He is no more cowardly than Bob, and his reactions are just as funny. Compare this to the more offensive similar role he plays in The Smiling Ghost, and you will see what I mean.
It really is a pleasure to watch them playing off each other in this. They are much more a team here than the usual black supporting character of the era is in other films. He may play a servant, but he is every bit Bob’s equal in every scene, and the two characters show real affection and respect for each other while exchanging smart lines and gentle barbs. Even the few racial jokes are less offensive than most.
The scenes at Castillo Maldito are the film’s highlight, and Marshall milks them for all they are worth, with specters, an organ that plays itself, secret passages, cobwebs on cobwebs, and one stunning moment when Goddard descends the staircase dressed in her ancestors black gown to the shock of zombie Johnson. There are some genuine frissons in these scenes of a type that won’t be seen again on screen until The Univited, a serious ghost story.
You know this will all work out, the mystery of Black Island and Castillo Maldito will be solved and the killer revealed, and as you have to expect from the beginning there is at least one final kicker, but this is easily the best of a great tradition, and one of the rare perfect films ever made. There isn’t a single false step in it. No gag falls flat, no scene plays false including a punny bit where Bob and Goddard are trying to unscare each other with phony British airs while dancing and exchanging awful puns and word play. This would not work at all with almost anyone else, but these two have it down pat, and you can see the mischief in both their eyes. You have to know that scene was broken up numerous times by Bob and Paulette getting more risque than the censors would allow on screen.
The Ghost Breakers is funny when it is supposed to be funny, and it is scary when it is supposed to be scary, and it sometimes manages to be both at once. There is even a pretty good clue which hadn’t been quite so over used in film then, though it was pretty old hat in books long before that.
I first saw this around age ten and I recall it was pretty scary then. Less so now of course, but I still appreciate the art that goes into it, and every time I watch it I see something new in the three main characters performances: Hope, Goddard, and Best are the reason to watch this film and the three divide the pleasures surprisingly equally. They are reason enough to watch this one, even if it wasn’t the perfect model of its type.
But don’t misunderstand, I am saying unequivocally that The Ghost Breakers is the best comedy mystery Hollywood ever made. There is everything else and then there is The Ghost Breakers.