Cornell Woolrich, 'The Black Curtain' (1941)

Alfred Hitchcock’s fondness for Cornell Woolrich’s work, most famously evidenced by Rear Window, is well known, and Woolrich’s The Black Curtain (1941) takes for its subject one of Hitchcock’s favorite subjects: an innocent man plunged into a frightening situation, wrongly accused of a crime, and struggling to prove his innocence. Like Hitchcock, Woolrich finds this subject appealing because the situation of the innocent man at the heart of such a scenario resembles so closely (albeit in an intensified form) Woolrich’s view of the human condition more generally: any sense of happiness one achieves is temporary and fragile at best because it is always subject to being destroyed by the forces of random chaos that can sweep away all security, certainty, and knowledge in a moment. That moment comes for Woolrich’s protagonist, Frank Townsend, when he recovers from a three-year bout of amnesia. On the surface, the beginning of the story resembles a happy ending, in that he is restored to his old life, including an adoring wife and his job, but when he starts being hunted by a threatening man whom he does not recognize, Townsend must go back into the mysterious past to find out who he was and what he did that is now threatening his life and security. This being Woolrich, the happy ending is eventually secured, at least in a formal fashion, but is unsatisfying to the reader for a couple of reasons. First, the resolution of Townsend’s problems occurs rapidly at the end of the novel in a manner that (I would argue) is deliberately unconvincing in the sense that it does little to allay the reader’s discomfort. In other words, the vast majority of the novel is dominated by Townsend’s incomprehension and fear, and it is the suspense generated by these emotions that dominates the reader’s reaction to the novel, not the happy resolution. Second, even if we take the resolution at face value, the message of The Black Curtain remains that one’s life can be destroyed in the blink of an eye by a cruel and random chance act; imagine living life with that knowledge at the front of your mind every day and you get some sense of the bleakness of Woolrich’s view of the world.

The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears (2013)

The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears is a 2013 neo-giallo written and directed by Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani. It tells the story of a businessman (played by Klaus Tange) who returns home from a business trip to find his wife is missing. As he tries to find her by speaking to other residents of the strangely opulent apartment building in which they live, he hears some of their stories, and gets dragged into an increasingly hallucinatory series of events in which the border between reality and (erotic) fantasy becomes more and more blurred. Like the classic giallo, Strange sticks to the most basic structure of the mystery (there is a crime and then an investigation) and it is also typical of the giallo in that the mystery is as much a question of perception as it is an ontological fact. In other words, we can’t be absolutely sure that a crime has even taken place, let alone whom the perpetrator might be. It should be noted, however, that this is not at all a weakness in either this film or in the genre as a whole; indeed, it is this mix of the gestural respect paid to ratiocination along with the overwhelming presence of the surreal the defines the giallo. In this regard, those who criticize Strange for having no discernible narrative structure are missing the point entirely. With that said, the vast majority of Italian gialli do contain some kind of resolution to the mystery—it may be outlandish and unconvincing (in fact, all the better if it is!) but it’s usually there. Strange lacks even a weak resolution and no amount of visual style (with which this film is packed) can quite compensate for this absence.

Cornell Woolrich, 'The Bride Wore Black' (1940)

Cornell Woolrich’s first crime novel, The Bride Wore Black, was published in 1940, after Woolrich had already published several jazz-age novels in the style of his literary model F. Scott Fitzgerald, and after he had established a reputation as a prolific and talented writer of stories for pulp magazines. Like so many other crime fiction writers who came to the genre after writing other types of narratives, Woolrich found in crime fiction the perfect means of expressing his bleak view of the world in a manner that is simultaneously lyrical and chilling. Bride is a revenge narrative, with the twist that the avenger is a young woman whose husband was killed moments after they were married. She then devotes years of her life to tracking down and killing the men she holds responsible for her husband’s death, assuming a different identity each time, and always trading on her ability to read the men’s weaknesses. As such, Bride is not only a powerful exploration of the extremes to which melancholic revenge can push one, but also an utterly unsentimental and insightful analysis of contemporary American masculinity. In this regard, the fact that the plot hinges on an incredible coincidence and is filled with various other examples of the unlikely does nothing to diminish its power. Not only is Bride still effective as an anatomization of male vanity and stupidity, but the role of random chance in Woolrich’s fictional universe is the perfect objective correlative for the animating principle of that universe: meaningless chaos.

Marek Krajewski, 'Death in Breslau' (1999)

Marek Krajewski makes good use of his professional training in linguistics and classics in Death in Breslau, the first in a series of novels featuring police detective Eberhard Mock. In Death, Mock has to find a way to work with Nazi officials as he tries to solve a bizarre double murder involving scorpions, strange inscriptions written in blood, and a revenge plot stretching back over seven centuries. The details of the complicated plot unfold gradually and satisfyingly over the course of the novel and also involve an Oedipal subplot that, remarkably, feels entirely unforced. But what really distinguishes this novel is its atmosphere (Breslau and its inhabitants are some of its most interesting characters) and its protagonist. Mock is well-named in the sense that in many ways he makes a mockery of any notion of professional ethics or honor. Although he is good at his job, he is best of all at protecting his own interests, even if that means sacrificing others. And yet, there remains something deeply appealing about his fatalism, something that is doubtless thrown into sharp relief by the context of a Nazi-dominated Europe sliding slowly into the horror of the World War II era. Given that context, the self-serving decisions and compromises Mock makes seem less heinous by comparison. For whatever reason, Mock’s survival feels like a kind of triumph, even though it’s purchased at a high price.

Michael Dirda, On Conan Doyle (2012)

This might be a controversial thing to say about a book that won a coveted ‘Edgar’ award from the Mystery Writers of America, but On Conan Doyle, by Michael Dirda, the long-time book critic for the Washington Post, is a bit of a mixed bag. Its strengths include its opening section, when Dirda memorably recreates the first time he ever read Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles as a child and there is much in this vein in the rest of the book about that most unfashionable of subjects, the love of reading. As a celebration of that love, On Conan Doyle works, and it’s just as valuable in encouraging its reader to look beyond the Holmes stories and novels and take in the rest of Doyle’s broad oeuvre. This is important not only because Dirda writes convincingly of the strengths of Doyle’s short fiction, his historical novels, his memoir, and so on, but also because Doyle himself felt (correctly) that Holmes’ success overshadowed his other achievements as an author. Where Dirda stumbles is when he discusses at (too) great length his participation in the Baker Street Irregulars, an illustrious company of Holmes fans to which he is obviously very honored to belong, as he should be. The problem is that Dirda’s pride at being a member of the club is not infectious and his lengthy descriptions of the group’s social events are self-indulgent and tedious, as is his reproduction of some of the (not very funny) writing he’s done for the Irregulars. Boyish enthusiasm can be charming in a boy, but in a man…not so much. Set that section of the book aside, however, and On Conan Doyle is a very interesting addition to Sherlockiana. 

Guy Boothby, A Prince of Swindlers (1900/2015)

Penguin has just republished Guy Boothby’s 1900 novel A Prince of Swindlers and it’s a must-read for fans of Victorian crime fiction and E.W. Hornung’s Raffles stories in particular. Boothby’s protagonist is Simon Carne, who we first meet living in India but who then moves to London, where he commits a series of daring and outrageous thefts from members of London’s high society. There’s an element of social critique in this conceit, in the sense that Boothby presents the nobility as profoundly gullible and, to all intents and purposes, defenseless against Carne’s charm, his ability to disguise himself, and his meticulous and detailed planning. At the same time, Boothby makes it difficult for his reader to romanticize Carne as a Robin Hood figure, because he is so clearly out for himself. While the plots lack the elegance and ingenuity of Conan Doyle’s best Sherlock Holmes stories, Boothby is clearly indebted to Doyle’s archetypal amateur detective for inspiration, and there is a nice element of self-reflexivity in the fact that one of Carne’s disguises is ‘Klimo,’ an eccentric private detective who investigates one of the crimes that Carne himself has committed! This reprint edition also comes with a very useful introduction from Gary Hoppenstand, who points out, among other things, the continuing appeal of the ‘gentleman thief’ figure in today’s popular culture.

The Babadook (2014)

The Babadook is one of the most powerful and moving films that I’ve seen in years. It tells the story of Amelia, a woman whose husband was killed in a car crash as they were on their way to the hospital to give birth to their first child. Seven years later, she’s a single parent to her son Samuel but it’s clear that she has not recovered from the trauma of her partner’s death. Moreover, she feels deeply conflicted about having to devote her life to parenting Samuel, who has a number of behavioral problems. When Samuel starts complaining that the Babadook, a monster from one of his picture books, is living in the house and tormenting him, Amelia naturally dismisses his fears as a child’s delusion, but as the film progresses, she finds it more and more difficult to deny that the Babdook is real and wants to hurt them. At this point, director Jennifer Kent makes a very important decision that makes The Babdook so much more than a good genre film. Rather than filling the film with hi-tech special effects and thus producing a standard ‘creature feature’ horror film, Kent keeps the Babadook defiantly lo-fi, a product more of the increasingly unhinged imagination of Amelia than a ‘real’ monster. Although the film is genuinely frightening, our fear comes not from sudden jump cuts, copious amounts of gore, or vividly outlandish monsters, but from a close-up and unflinching look at the psychological torment that the lead characters have to endure. Consequently, although the exact meaning of the Babadook remains a matter for debate (and this is one of the film’s many strengths), for me at least it came to symbolize Amelia’s grief, a grief that she has denied for years and thus has never come to terms with, and which is threatening to destroy her life and her relationship with her son. The resolution of the film, in this reading, signals Amelia’s ability to finally mourn the loss of her husband and move on. Crucially, however, this does NOT mean killing the monster: the Babadook still lives, but it is confined to the basement of the house (i.e., the subconscious and/or the past) and although it still needs to be acknowledged, it has lost the destructive ascendancy that it had earlier in the film. The Babadook thus develops a number of complex ideas about the nature of emotional attachments, the difficulties of (single) parenting, as well as death, grief, loss, and memory. But none of this would make the film work in and of itself were it not for the two extraordinary performances that bring these themes to life: Essie Davis as Amelia and Noah Wiseman as Samuel are both amazing and their on-screen relationship is the most miraculous thing about this wonderful film. On a personal note, I also want to say that, as the son of a mother who struggled with depression throughout her life, and was often emotionally abusive, The Babadook made an even stronger impression on me than it might on others, not least because (and I know this sounds like a strange thing to say about this film) it is so true to life.

Berberian Sound Studio (2012)

Berberian Sound Studio is that rarest and most delightful of things: a genuinely original movie. Directed by Peter Strickland, it features the excellent Toby Jones in the lead role as a sound engineer who travels to an Italian film studio to work on what is clearly a horror movie, although the director objects vehemently to that label. Part of the film's strength comes from the fact that we never see a single frame of the film that is being made and that Jones is working on; appropriately, we only hear it. This gives the viewer a lot of freedom to imagine what has been filmed, especially if one is familiar with the Italian giallo tradition of horror film that Berberian is clearly referencing. I hesitate to call it an homage to the giallo, however, precisely because Strickland's film is gore-free (and for that reason might disappoint a certain kind of horror fan). What we are treated to instead is a subtler kind of violence that pervades the whole film and the film-making process, seen most explicitly in the interactions between those who are in control of the making of the film (all men) and their exploited employees (all women). At first, Jones' character seems excluded from this dynamic, partly by virtue of his Britishness and partly because he has never worked on this kind of film before. As the film progresses, however, Jones becomes gradually infected by the atmosphere of violence that not only soaks the atmosphere of the studio but also seems capable of altering the nature of reality (for example, towards the end of the film, Jones' character begins (without any explanation) speaking Italian fluently). With a sense of helplessness, we watch Jones gradually turn into a kind of monster who is as willing and able to torment the women he works with as any of the other men. Most interestingly, Jones' transformation also starts to be reflected in the very texture of the film itself, as scenes repeat, Jones becomes a character in his own film, and the line between reality and illusion becomes ever more blurred. As a reflection on gender roles in horror film, and as a distinctly old-fashioned tribute to and warning about the power of film, Berberian has a lot to offer to viewer who is willing to look beyond the absence of blood.

Under the Skin (2013)

The premise of Under The Skin is simple: an alien visits Earth and preys upon single men. But what director Jonathan Glazer does with this premise is amazingly creative. First, in making the alien female, Glazer inverts the normatively gendered relation between predator and prey that underpins so many other films. Instead of women alone at night signifying as potential victims, now it is men walking alone who are under threat. One might think that casting a glamorous A-list star like Scarlett Johansson as the alien would work against this inversion, and in some ways it does. To the extent that the alien’s victims are so willing to go off with her because of Johansson’s conventional beauty, the film reinforces rather than subverts conventional ideas about sexuality and desire, rather than reworking them. But to leave the analysis there would be unfair to the excellence of Johansson’s acting. She gives an amazingly restrained and controlled performance, saying very little and emoting even less (which is doubtless why she did not win all the awards she deserved for this role). Part of the reason for this technique is to stress that she needs to do very little to ensnare her victims—these men are so cocksure (I choose this term deliberately!) that it never occurs to them that they could be in danger until it is too late. But the main reason Johansson exhibits such a limited range of emotions and facial expressions is to enable us to see our familiar world through the alien’s eyes. Because we receive no cues from the alien about how she is reacting to what she sees, everything familiar is rendered strange, enabling us to see it as if for the first time (although I must say that, as a British ex-pat living in America, I received the images of Glasgow through the lens of nostalgia, and didn’t really experience any estrangement). Were the film to finish here, it would be a very interesting take on some sci-fi conventions (especially as used by Nicolas Roeg’s The Man Who Fell To Earth) but not much more than that. But then the second part of the film begins, and that’s where Under The Skin becomes something extraordinary. The alien picks up her latest victim, who happens to have a facial neurofibromatosis. As one might expect, Glazer plays with the idea that both of these beings are, in a sense, alienated from the environment around them, but fortunately he does not stop there. After taking this man back to her house, where she has delivered her other victims, something happens to the alien, a shift in consciousness that is never articulated or explained, but that makes her let the man go and stop her search for further victims. At this point of the film, several things become clear: the alien has been accompanied by a motorcyclist from the beginning of the film, who appears to assist her, but who in fact we come to feel is supervising or even controlling her; he captures the man she releases and makes frantic attempts to find (hunt down?) the alien when she walks away from what amounts to her job. We also realize that the alien is, in some ways, as much a victim as the men she has been capturing; ever since the opening scene of the film (we realize retrospectively) she has been unable to exercise any free choice about who she is and what she does, and her attempts to ‘fit in’ to the simultaneously human and utterly alien world in which she finds herself are (sometimes comedically) hopeless. This is where the casting of a female actress in the role of the alien begins to signify differently and even more powerfully. If anyone felt that the inversion of the normatively gendered predator-prey distinction in the first half of the film was a little too tidy and glib, one cannot possibly say the same about the closing section of the film. By the time the alien dies, the phrase ‘under the skin’ has acquired multiple layers of meaning and we are left to process the meaning of what we have just seen. To say all this is only to scratch the surface of this extraordinary film—I haven’t even mentioned its moving and powerful score, and the images that feel like they’ve been burned into your head: the crying toddler on the beach, the point of view shot from one of the victims as the alien walks away above him, the simultaneously comic and tragic instance of coitus interruptus, and most of all, the alien’s last moments as she kneels on the floor of the forest: all of these moments and many more will stay with you long after the film has finished.

Rough Trade (1995)

Dominique Manotti's debut crime novel, Rough Trade (1995, Trans. 2001) is astonishingly assured. A police procedural set in the Sentier district of Paris in 1980, the novel has an almost impossibly complicated plot that, remarkably, does not spoil the book at all, for two reasons: 1. the complexity feels absolutely natural as the police uncover an international plot revolving around drug and arms smuggling that starts with their investigation of the murder of a 12-year-old Thai child prostitute; 2. the pace of the novel never flags. The reader keeps track of the course of the investigation by the way the novel is organized according to calendar entries (stipulating the time, date, and place of each chapter) and this gives us the feeling of moving inexorably through time and space at such a rate that we are content not to have mastery over all the details (after all, the police don't have such mastery!) and instead we hang on and see where the ride will take us. Despite the fact that there is so much going on in the book (there is also a major sub-plot involving the attempts of illegal Turkish garment workers to achieve legal status) Rough never feels too crowded; rather, we feel that the complexity of real life is being honored and represented accurately. The other striking thing about the novel is its complete lack of sentimentality--the police officers are not heroes in the conventional sense (some of them being just as, if not more, flawed than the villains) but the best of them earn our respect for their commitment to the idea of retribution, if not justice. Not surprisingly, the results of their efforts are mixed--some are punished, some get away; some questions are answered, but many are not. But that incompleteness feels just as satisfying as every other part of this novel.

The Power of the Dog (2005)

Don Winslow’s 2005 novel The Power of the Dog is an ambitious and sprawling account of America’s involvement in the Drug Wars from the 1980s to the early 2000s. The product of years of research by Winslow, the novel charts with painstaking detail both the structure and the operating procedures of the drug trade, as well as its multiple points of contact with corrupt members of law enforcement and politics in both Mexico and the United States, from the lowest to the very highest levels. In doing so, Winslow of necessity also recaps American foreign policy in Central America over the same period, including the arming of the Contras in Nicaragua, its involvement in Guatemala’s brutal civil war, and its attempts to limit the influence of FARC in Colombia, all of which Winslow portrays as parts of a larger American effort to control the spread of Communism during this period. If this sounds overwhelming, it is, not only because Winslow is trying to cover so much ground in Power, but also because his descriptions of the brutality with which the Drug Wars were fought on both sides are explicit and unrelenting. Winslow does a couple of things to make the impact of the novel a little more manageable for his readers. First, through using a core group of protagonists, he attempts to personalize/put a human face on the complex geopolitics of this time and place. In some ways, this inevitably oversimplifies his subject matter, but it may be necessary to keep his readers with him. Second, and on a related point, Winslow finishes the novel with some sense of closure, and even of hope. Although, on the one hand, Winslow’s DEA protagonist, Art Keller, admits that the drug trade has not even been dented by his career-defining efforts, on the other hand, the main villain is in jail, other villains are dead, and some of the ‘good’ have even survived and may be happy. To Winslow’s credit, this resolution feels deliberately contrived. After all, one of the distinctions that has been most comprehensively destroyed by this novel is that between ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ between ‘innocent’ and ‘guilty’; given this fact, bare life may seem like a victory, but it’s inevitably a hollow one. 

Black Rock (2012)

The last two movies I saw, Starry Eyes (2014) and Borgman (2013) were both quite disappointing. The former, despite an outstanding performance from lead actress Alex Essoe, failed to deliver on its potential to say something interesting about contemporary celebrity culture, while the latter, despite some superficial resemblances to Michael Haneke's classic Funny Games, had neither Haneke's inventiveness nor his film's daring. I fared much better with Katie Aselton's 2012 horror-thriller Black Rock, which was partially funded through a Kickstarter project. The initial set-up is quite simple: three old friends (two of whom have been estranged from each other for some time) have a reunion on a remote Maine island where they used to vacation as children. While there, they meet three men who are hunting on the island. One of the women flirts with and kisses one of the men but when he becomes aggressive, she tells him to stop. He refuses and attempts to rape her. While defending herself, she accidentally kills him. The remainder of the film concerns the women's attempts to stay alive while the remaining men hunt them down to avenge their slain friend. So far, so predictable, one might think. But there are a couple of things that separate this film and make it memorable. The first is the fact that the three men are all Iraq/Afghanistan veterans who have been dishonorably discharged from the US Army and have recently come home. They use the skills they acquired in the military to hunt the women down, but more importantly, their depersonalization and hatred of the women is strongly connected by the film to their experiences with hunting 'Haji.' The film has important things to say, in other words, about male violence on both the domestic and international level, at times of both war and peace. Ironically, considering that the actions of the two remaining men are superficially motivated by their friendship with the man who's been killed, the other distinctive feature of the film is the friendship that bonds the three women. It's this bond that enables some of them to survive their ordeal, but only after  the two survivors come to terms with the past and overcome their estrangement, which was caused, not incidentally, by a disagreement over a man. Friendship, then, can serve as an alibi for violence and as a source of strength. All this, and a reaffirmation of the never-to-be-forgotten fact that 'No Means No,' no matter when the word 'no' gets spoken. Aselton does more in the 83 minutes of Black Rock than most films of twice its length.

The Fall, Season Two (2014)

The closing scene of the first season of The Fall set things up for the second season to revolve around a confrontation between Paul Spector and Stella Gibson and to some extent that’s exactly what happened. When they sit down across from each other in the interrogation room after Spector’s arrest, it feels like the climax of the entire show and it’s a very suspenseful and dramatic moment. Both Jamie Dornan and Gillian Anderson are at the top of their game in this key scene and their long discussion gives the viewer an opportunity to process and try to make sense of everything that happened in the previous episodes and in particular to answer the question ‘Who is Paul Spector?’ So why would I have a problem with it? Mostly because I felt that organizing the drama around the relationship between the show’s two protagonists risked narrowing the focus on The Fall as a whole. After all, one of the things that stood out about the first season was the way in which Spector’s murders and sexual assaults were connected to other forms of male violence in a way that problematized any attempt to see Spector as an aberration with no relation to other ‘normal’ men. I was concerned that we might lose this broader scope through overemphasizing the Spector/Gibson antagonism. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about this as The Fall’s second season worked hard to maintain this aspect of the show. When Stella’s boss tried to force himself on her, when Jimmy Tyler tracked down his estranged wife at a women’s refuge and threatened to kill everyone there, when the paedophile priest who knew Spector as a boy was interviewed, and even when Spector’s ability to be a loving father was mentioned—all of these things made The Fall’s exploration of violence much more nuanced and complex than that of the vast majority of television crime series, even though it still comes nowhere near The Wire in this respect. With this context in mind, the fact that this season continued to show Stella Gibson as a sexually active professional woman reads somewhat differently than it might otherwise do. While I still have reservations about this aspect of Gibson’s character receiving so much attention, and while some examples of it came very close to pandering to the audience (for example, the scenes with Gibson and Reed Smith), I think it is important and commendable for a number of reasons. For example, in the context of a show where male hatred and fear of women play such a large role, it is crucial for Gibson’s character to be assertively sexual precisely because it tempts the audience to judge her in the same way some of the show’s characters do. Moreover, Gibson’s need for these types of physical and emotional connections tells the viewer something important about this character, and this is especially valuable information about a character that is usually rigidly controlled and gives very little away (indeed, if I have any criticism of Anderson’s amazing performance in this role, it’s that she sometimes comes close to emptying this character of all emotion in a way that makes her seem practically unresponsive). This is not to say that The Fall’s second season was perfect—far from it! To start off with, there are major parts of the plot left unresolved, most glaringly featuring the character of Katie Benedetto, who is problematically stereotypical character in all kinds of ways. Even though some of this lack of resolution can be explained away by the possibility of a third season, the fact is that the whole plotline of Benedetto becoming Spector’s disciple and partner in crime basically went nowhere and that was extremely frustrating. Then there’s the way in which the season ended. Trust me, I have no problem with cliffhangers, and I actually very much liked the fact that the show did not end with what would seem like the natural resolution of the action, i.e., Spector’s arrest. My problem was with the fact that Jimmy Tyler could walk right into the middle of an area that had supposedly been cordoned off by the police and apparently shoot Spector to death. I know, being annoyed by implausibility is the most conservative and banal reaction one could possibly have to a scene like this, but this is a police procedural and so generically speaking, plausibility matters and this was so egregiously implausible a development (upon which so much hinged) that it really bothered me. Anderson is reportedly keen for a third season to happen and I don’t blame her. Not only are there a lot of loose ends to tie up but one also feels that the surface of her character has only been scratched. For all its flaws, The Fall is still one of the most interesting shows on television today.

Peeping Tom (1960)

I’ve always thought it’s a little disingenuous when today’s critics say that they can’t imagine why Michael Powell’s 1960 film Peeping Tom caused such an uproar when it was first released. Granted, the critical reaction was excessive (Powell’s career was basically destroyed by it) but it’s anything but incomprehensible. In the first place, this was easily the most explicit film (in terms of both sex and violence) to have received mainstream distribution in Great Britain up to that point, and this aspect of the film is intensified by the fact that it shows its audience a glimpse of the seamy underbelly of London that exists cheek by jowl with the ordinary city (the studio where pornographic photos are taken is both right above and supported by the local newsagent’s shop, after all). But then there are all the other aspects of the film that make it both so powerful and so difficult to forget. For example, Powell goes out of his way to make his protagonist, Mark Lewis, a sympathetic figure, despite his horrific crimes. He has clearly been traumatized and victimized by his sadistic scientist father, and the film reminds us of this fact repeatedly (rather than just mentioning it quickly as a backstory), right up until the film’s closing words. In this respect, casting Carl Boehm as Lewis, although he wasn’t Powell’s first choice, turned out to be a brilliant decision. Not only does Boehm give an amazing performance, but his accent subtly sets him apart from the other characters, heightening our impression of how isolated this character is from everyone else around him. And then there’s the aspect of the film that personally I find most challenging, interesting, and (not incidentally) still relevant, namely, all the ways in which the film makes the viewer self-conscious about the act of viewing. In other words, what we unavoidably share with Mark Lewis is the compulsive desire to watch, a voyeuristic desire to be entertained by the pain and suffering of others. Hitchcock touches on this same theme in his portrayal of Norman Bates in Psycho (also released in 1960) of course, but Powell’s exploration of this subject is infinitely more complex and daring. It’s this aspect of Peeping Tom that contemporaneous reviewers could not forgive Powell for; no one who watches this film, even today, can remain untouched by the experience of being placed firmly, even relentlessly, in Mark’s position. But we can still learn as much from this experience today as the film’s original viewers over 50 years ago.

The Time Machine (1960)

To mark the passing of one of my favorite actors, Rod Taylor, on January 7^th, I went back and watched one of my favorite films when I was a kid, The Time Machine (dir. George Pal, 1960). When I watched it for the first time many years ago, three scenes in particular seized my imagination. The first comes at the beginning of the film, when George’s friends are waiting for him to show up for dinner at his house and then the door bursts open and in he staggers, wounded and exhausted. Watching that scene again now, I think what appealed to me was the collision of two worlds and almost of two different film genres: the adventure film and the domestic Victorian drama. The second scene was when we first see the Morlocks. It’s easy for me to make fun of them now, especially bearing in mind that they resemble aggressive Smurfs who have let themselves go, but they scared the crap out of me when I was a kid, and perhaps my mocking them now is a way of diasvowing any residual discomfort I feel when I see them! The third and final scene comes right at the end of the film when Filby breaks down the door and we realize that George has dragged the time machine back to its original position and gone back to the future. Again, speaking as a cynical adult, it’s easy to mock the sentimentality of the ending, but when I was a kid I loved the romanticism of going back to help the Eloi build their civilization and I still love speculating about what three books George took back to help them on their way. In closing, I have to note how much I hate the 2002 film version of The Time Machine (directed, funnily enough, by Wells’ great-grandson). The special effects in the 1960 version are awful but the film is redeemed by excellent acting, even in the minor roles, such as the actors who play George’s friends. Exactly the opposite is true of the 2002 version: no amount of nifty special effects can compensate for the awful acting—Jeremy Irons as the ‘uber-Morlock’ is particularly cringeworthy.

Joseph Wambaugh, The Onion Field (1973/2007)

Reading Joseph Wambaugh’s 1973 book The Onion Field in the era of Ferguson and Black Lives Matter is a strange experience, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. First off, though, let’s situate this book within the context of the true crime genre. Like any book published after the groundbreaking In Cold Blood, Wambaugh’s book inevitably shows signs of Truman Capote’s influence, especially in the opening section, where Wambaugh begins by exploring the background of each of the book’s main characters while cross-cutting between the detectives and the robbers until the moment of their fateful and deadly meeting. The differences between Wambaugh and Capote, however, are what make The Onion Field such a significant book. Even though In Cold Blood devotes a lot of attention to the police, it is clear that the murderers are not only Capote’s main protagonists but also the figures with whom he identifies most closely. This is not the case with Wambaugh. As a veteran of the LAPD, Wambaugh’s sympathies are squarely with the police and this book marks an important shift in true crime’s tendency to portray members of law enforcement as the main protagonists, and even as victims (this is a tendency that will developed even further by Ann Rule). Let me be quite clear here: I am not claiming that Wambaugh misinterprets the facts of the case by turning the police into victims; after all, one of the detectives is murdered and the survivor has to endure horrific PTSD for years. My point is that this focus represents a significant development in the genre, especially as Wambaugh’s book was originally published a few years after the turbulent 1960’s, when the police were often seen as victimizers rather than as victims. What makes The Onion Field even more significant and more nuanced than some might expect, however, is that Wambaugh’s sympathetic portrayal of humanized and victimized police officers is accompanied by a stinging critique of the insensitivity, even cruelty, of the LAPD as an institution. In other words, both criminals and the LAPD brass are victimizers according to Wambaugh, albeit of different kinds and degrees. This is where, strangely enough, the context of Ferguson and Black Lives Matter comes into play. For obvious reasons (and despite the recent murder of police officers in New York City), many would have difficulty in thinking of the police as victims today. Instead, they are more often seen as aggressors. This is why it’s so interesting that part of the LAPD’s response to the events depicted in the book was to change police policy so that officers would never surrender their weapons but instead aggressively engage criminals whenever necessary. As an excerpt from Patrol Bureau Memorandum Number 11 (written by Inspector John Powers just five days after the detective’s murder) puts it: “Just as the armed forces protect the nation from external enemies, local police departments protect their communities from internal criminals every bit as vicious as our enemies from without. The police are engaged in a hot war. There are no truces, and there is no hope of an armistice. The enemy abides by no rules of civilized warfare” (quoted on pages 236-237 of the Kindle edition of The Onion Field). It is impossible to read those words today and not be reminded of the ongoing debates about the militarization of the American police. Contemporary events, in other words, have given The Onion Field a new but perhaps not entirely unexpected significance.

Fuminori Nakamura, 'Last Winter, We Parted' (2013)

Let me begin with an admittedly bizarre comparison: the crime novels of Fuminori Nakamura are the Goldilocks and the Three Bears of the genre. The Thief (2009, Trans. 2012) is written in a beautifully lean style that I personally love but that for many readers will leave too much undeveloped and too many questions unanswered. Evil and the Mask (2010, Trans. 2013), by contrast, I find to be badly overwritten almost to the point of feeling bloated; it’s filled with characters pontificating about their nihilistic philosophy of the world and the dead weight of this speechifying drags the book down. But Last Winter, We Parted (2013, Trans. 2014) is just right. It’s the perfect balance of the leanness of the first novel and the complexity of the second. It manages to be the most complex as well as the most compelling of the three. It begins by seeming to channel The Silence of the Lambs: a writer is visiting a notorious murderer in prison because he is writing a book about him. The murderer refuses to cooperate until the journalist reveals some things about his own life. After this relatively straightforward and even familiar beginning, the plot rapidly grows increasingly complex. By the time we reach the end of the novel we can be forgiven for not being completely sure about who did what to whom and why. In most crime novels, these would be unforgivable omissions, but Nakamura gets away with it partly because one of his themes is the universality of guilt and partly because he explores so many other interesting issues along the way: the gap between imitation and reality, the representational power of photography (this would be a fascinating novel to read alongside a viewing of Michael Powell’s notorious 1960 film Peeping Tom), the nature of human desire, and the relation between crime and revenge, just to name a few. Add to this a fascinating formal construction that multiplies narrative voices by reproducing various pieces of evidence under the heading of ‘Archives,’ and Last Winter becomes one of the most challenging crime novels you’ll read in a long time. One final note: the other thing one notices when looking at Nakamura’s crime novels in a group is that the lag time between their original publication in Japanese and their translation into English is getting shorter. This is evidence not only of Nakamura’s increasingly impressive reputation, but also of the growing popularity of international crime fiction in general. Both are good news for fans of the genre.

Martín Solares, The Black Minutes (2006)

In a 2012 interview, Paco Ignacio Taibo II, the dean of Mexican crime fiction, explains why he has not written a novel featuring his famous private eye, Hector Belascoarán Shayne, since the current drug war began in Mexico: "The narco war has changed everything in relations between society, crime, insecurity, law and order…These deep changes in society make you as a writer to rethink the whole thing." This is an interesting comment to keep in mind when trying to make sense of Martín Solares’ complex and fascinating 2006 novel, The Black Minutes, which in some ways can be read as charting a path for the Mexican crime novel in the era of the narco cartel. The first thing to note in this regard is that there is no equivalent to a private eye figure in Solares’ work; instead, the closest we come to having a protagonist is a police officer who is less corrupt than his colleagues (which is not saying much). Even with someone as gifted as Taibo, the effectiveness of a principled individual like Shayne is one of the more speculative, fanciful, some would say unrealistic, aspects of his work, and Solares seems to have abandoned this aspect of the genre all together. Instead, Solares focuses on the multiple and contradictory roles that crime plays in the neoliberal state: at once the focus of moral panics that apparently drive both policy and action, it is simultaneously a way for local, state, and national functionaries to enrich themselves and their associates. Given this context, it should come as no surprise that although the murders that focus The Black Minutes are technically solved, justice is nowhere to be found. One of Taibo’s Shayne novels is titled No Happy Ending, and this title would be perfectly appropriate for Solares’ novel, too. But in another sense, concentrating on the incomplete resolution of this novel severely undersells its richness. Combining familiar noir elements with dashes of magical realism, frequent references to a wide range of literary texts, and even a cameo appearance by Alfred Hitchcock, this is not an easy novel to classify. And, of course, both it and crime fiction as a whole are all the better for this fact.

The House of the Devil (2009)

Ti West is a very dependable and knowledgeable maker of horror films and The House of the Devil (2009) suggests why. If the opening credits themselves were not enough of a clue, the early appearance of famous horror actress Dee Wallace indicates that House is something of an homage to the classic era of 1970s/1980s slasher and haunted house movies. It contains a very effective combination of enough of the formulaic elements of the genre (heightened by the film’s early 80s setting) to satisfy the most discerning horror buff along with enough variations to ring the changes. For example, there’s a lovely moment when Samantha, House’s ‘final girl,’ opens the door to the basement and almost snorts in derision at the thought that she would go down there (she does not hesitate, however, to explore the rest of the house!). But perhaps the most distinctive feature of West’s work (we can also see it in The Innkeepers and The Sacrament) is that he’s a master of the ‘slow burn’ horror film: the pacing of the film, its editing, and the development of the plot are all developed deliberately and slowly, so much so that many viewers might find themselves bored. Those who stick around, though, will find The House of the Devil one of the most loving and effective reworkings of (one of) horror’s golden age(s) in recent years.

The Man Who Loved His Wife (1966/2013)

Now that Patricia Highsmith has at last received the recognition she always deserved, it occurs to me that the next female thriller writer whose greatness needs to be acknowledged is Vera Caspary. Thanks to the Feminist Press’ indispensable Femmes Fatales series, that process is well underway. After having brought both Laura and Bedelia back into print, in 2013 they published Caspary’s lesser-known 1966 novel, The Man Who Loved His Wife (1966) and it’s an absolute gem. The title is both deeply ironic and neutrally descriptive. Fletcher Strode is married to the beautiful Elaine, who is nineteen years younger than him. At first blissfully happy together, after Fletcher has a laryngectomy and loses his voice, his sense of masculinity becomes so compromised psychologically that his relationship with Elaine deteriorates and he becomes morbidly suspicious of her. He starts to keep a diary detailing his suspicions and inevitably, when he dies under mysterious circumstances, that diary becomes the focus of the police’s own suspicions about Elaine. Caspary shows a wonderful ability to understand Fletcher’s psychological torment so that he is both pitiful and aggravating to the reader. Courageously, after investing so much time and attention in her lead character, Caspary kills him off in order to devote the final part of the book to her other characters. This allows us to better understand Elaine’s situation (Caspary is scrupulous about examining this relationship from both their perspectives) and to sharpen our dislike of Fletcher’s despicable daughter and son-in-law, who both have their own reasons for wanting to see Elaine convicted of murder, and who may even be guilty of the crime themselves. The fact that so much is left unresolved at the novel’s conclusion shows that Caspary’s interest is not in guilt and innocence as defined by the legal process by rather in the everyday cruelties ordinary people can inflict on each other out of a tangled combination of all-too-understandable motives.

The Descent (2005)

There are several things that make The Descent (2005) an especially effective and interesting horror film. For example, the fact that it has an all-female cast, something very unusual for this genre. This means that motifs that are common in horror film, such as the "final girl," make an appearance here but their meaning changes quite radically. Similarly, although the film is littered with victims, as we might expect, the meaning of the women's deaths is quite different from the standard slasher movie, in that it is neither sexualized nor a result of the women's sexual activity. The other thing that stands out about The Descent is its hybrid nature: as much a thriller as a horror film (although there is plenty of gore), it's a combination of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Deliverance, and even the Alien movies. And then, of course, there's the fact that the vast majority of the film takes place in very confined spaces, i.e., caves. As someone who is mildly claustrophobic, the thought of spelunking has always seemed incomprehensible to me, and director Neil Marshall makes brilliant use of this setting, so that the audience always feel smothered as well as terrified. Interestingly, the original British cut of the film includes a much bleaker ending that was changed for the American release. What is it about Americans that we/they (I speak as a naturalized citizen!) always want to be uplifted?