Michael Connelly and The Little Sister

 

I like to watch You Tube videos of author appearances, especially interviews. I recently saw Michael Connelly mention he regularly returns to Chapter 13 of Raymond Chandler’s The Little Sister for inspiration when he wants to be sure he’s getting LA right.

The Little Sister was published in 1949 so I wondered how what Chandler wrote serves Connelly today, as it obviously serves him well. I opened my copy to Chapter 13 and saw right away what Connelly is talking about. I suspect you will, too.

One small bit of context: private detective Philip Marlowe has had a rough day.

Now, in Chandler’s words: 

I drove east on Sunset but I didn't go home. At La Brea I turned north and swung over to Highland, out over Cahuenga Pass and down onto Ventura Boulevard, past Studio City and Sherman Oaks and Encino. There was nothing lonely about the trip. There never is on that road. Fast boys in stripped-down Fords shot in and out of the traffic streams, missing fenders by a sixteenth of an inch, but somehow always missing them. Tired men in dusty coupes and sedans winced and tightened their grips on the wheel and ploughed on north and west toward home and dinner, an evening with the sports page, the blatting of the radio, the whining of their spoiled children the gabble of their silly wives. I drove on past the gaudy neon and the false fronts behind them, the sleazy hamburger joints that look like palaces under the colors, the circular drive-ins as gay as circuses with the chipper hard-eyed carhops, the brilliant counters, and the sweaty greasy kitchens that would have poisoned a toad. Great double trucks rumbled down over Sepulveda from Wilmington and San Pedro and crossed toward the Ridge Route, starting up in low-low from the traffic lights with a growl of lions in the zoo.

Behind Encino an occasional light winked from the hills through thick trees. The homes of screen stars. Screen stars, phooey. The veterans of a thousand beds. Hold it, Marlowe. You're not human tonight.

The air got cooler. The highway narrowed. The cars were so few now that the headlights hurt. The grade rose against the chalk walls and at the top a breeze, unbroken from the ocean, danced casually across the night.

 I ate dinner at a place near Thousand Oaks. Bad but quick. Feed ‘em and throw ‘em out. Lots of business. We can't bother with you sitting over your second cup of coffee, mister. You're using money space. See those people over there behind the rope? They want to eat. Anyway they think they have to. God knows why they want to eat here. They could do better home out of a can. They're just restless. Like you. They have to get the car out and go somewhere. Sucker-bait for the racketeers that have taken over the restaurants. Here you go again. You're not human tonight, Marlowe.

I paid off and stopped at a bar to drop a brandy on top of the New York cut. Why New York, I thought. It was Detroit where they made the machine tools. I stepped out into the night air that nobody had yet found out how the option. But a lot of people were probably trying. They'd get around to it.

I drove on to the Oxnard cut off and turned back along the ocean. The big eight-wheelers and sixteen-wheelers were streaming north, all hung over with orange lights. On the right the great fat solid Pacific trudging into shore like a scrub woman going home. No moon, no fuss, hardly a sound of the surf. No smell. None of the harsh wild smell of the sea. A California ocean. California, the department store state. The most of everything and the best of nothing. Here we go again. You're not human tonight, Marlowe.

[He thinks about the case for a couple of paragraphs.]

Malibu. More movie stars. More pink and blue bathtubs. More tufted beds. More Chanel No. 5. More Lincoln Continentals and Cadillacs. More wind-blown hair and sunglasses and attitudes and pseudo-refined voices and waterfront morals. Now, wait a minute. Lots of nice people work in pictures. You've got the wrong attitude, Marlowe. you're not human tonight.

I smelled Los Angeles before I got to it. It smelled stale and old like a living room that had been closed too long. But the colored lights fooled you. The lights were wonderful. There ought to be a monument to the man who invented neon lights. Fifteen stories high, solid marble. There's a boy who really made something out of nothing.

Then he goes to a movie he doesn’t like.

 

I see how this helps Connelly but there is a downside: very little had actually changed over the past 75 years.

Bosch

Amazon Prime is through its third “season” of Bosch, their series based on Michael Connelly’s wildly successful books about LAPD homicide detective Hieronymus “Harry” Bosch. It’s a good show—sometimes an outstanding show—but it doesn’t quite push me over the edge of enthusiasm the way Amazon’s Goliath did earlier this year. There are definable reasons for this.

First the good stuff. The producers had the good sense to stick as much within the universe defined by Connelly’s books as possible, unlike what Netflix did with the Longmire series, which has shown wear the last couple of years. No one comes up with better stories than Michael Connelly, and his depictions of police procedure and cops’ lives are unsurpassed.

The casting and acting also express Connelly’s books well. I’ve been in the tank for Titus

Welliver even since he made his first appearance in Deadwood, no matter how badly he needed a haircut. He absorbs the role of Harry so much that when I read Connelly now I think of Welliver in my mind. It’s also nice to see Wire alumni Jamie Hector and Lance Reddick again, though Reddick plays essentially the same role as he did in The Wire, with a little more connivance. (It would be nice to see him walking around without that rebar up his ass, though.) The dynamic between Harry and his daughter (Madison Lintz) always works, and the relationship he has with his ex-wife (Sarah Clarke) is authentically awkward, as opposed to inexpertly done. The overall production values are excellent.

My lack of total enthusiasm comes, in part, from the strengths of the show: how close it relies on Connelly’s books. No one tells better stories than Michael Connelly, but he doesn’t tell them with much flair. Sometimes the books read as if he’s still too closely wedded to the ethos of his journalistic roots. The dialog rarely sings. It’s a talented corps of actors; give them things to say that take advantage of their gifts.

The other problem is Harry himself: he’s an asshole. If not for his obvious affection and concern for his daughter, he’d be an unlikeable asshole. He’s sullen, rude, and always Right, and fuck you if you disagree. That’s okay once in a while as a way to show a character with backbone, but Harry’s like that all the time. As someone pointed out to me (I wish I remember who, but I forget. Sorry.) Harry’s an asshole in the books, too, but the internal monologs help us to understand his thought processes better, so we can at least rationalize some of his more holey conduct. A visual medium loses that, so it might be of value to back off it a little.

Is Bosch a good show? Absolutely. Will I watch Season 4? No doubt. Does it reach the elite level of The Wire, The Sopranos, or Deadwood? Nope. I’d place it about even with Ray Donovan, though better in some ways and not as good in others. A good show well worth one’s time, but not to be included in the conversation when the classics are under discussion.

December's Best Reads

What can I say? The year went out with a bang and I haven’t even gotten to the Christmas gelt yet.

The Reversal, Michael Connelly. Mickey Haller and Harry Bosch working together. What’s not to like? Great story, expertly told. The only problem I have with Connelly is his journalism roots show in each book, as the writing rarely sings.

The Four Last Things, Timothy Hallinan. Reaching back to Hallinan’s original series featuring PI Simeon Grist. He could start writing these again and I’d pick right up on them. I think the whole series is now available for cheap on Kindle, which is how I scored the first three. Well worth the time.

Unloaded, Eric Beetner, editor. All anthologies—all of them—have the curse of unevenness. Combining different authors guarantees some stories aren’t as good as others. (I often fill this role.) Having acknowledged that, this is as well-conceived and well-rounded an anthology as I can remember—including some of the “Year’s Best” efforts—with no story containing a gun. Proceeds go to a gun control organization. Even if the motive was pure, unbridled avarice, this is a worthy collection that has earned all its accolades.

Dove Season, Johnny Shaw. I finally broke my Johnny Shaw cherry after falling in love with his work at Bouchercon Noirs at Bars. Not as wacky as his readings there, Dove Season is a remarkably diverse book that runs the gamut. The first half is borderline goofy in a Carl Hiaasen way, Jimmy Veeder tasked with finding a particular Mexican prostitute for his dying father. (The story of his first reconnaissance mission to Mexicali is worth the entire price of the book.) The story takes a couple of hard turns after that to remind me more of Lou Berney’s The Long and Faraway Gone in its ability to mix drama and comedy. Shaw’s in the rotation for sure now.

Fields Where They Lay, Timothy Hallinan. I try to spread my reading of a single author out more than this, but it’s a Christmas story, and it was Christmas week and it was on my shelf and so what I’m an adult and can read whatever the hell I want. The newest Junior Bender has Junior almost on the right side of the law—almost—working security for a disreputable, run-down mall at Christmastime. All the things you’ve come to expect from Junior, with a holiday twist.

Once Were Cops, Ken Bruen. Bruen’s one of the authors I have to be sure not to let fall through the cracks, as he’s so uniformly good it’s easy to take him for granted. This is no exception. Not a Jack Taylor story—though he makes a cameo appearance—this is the tale of a Galway cop who dreams of moving to New York and has his wish come true. That it comes true in no way implies the wish is altruistic, as Shea is as mean and sick a fuck as you’re likely to encounter. Bruen’s work is Irish through and through and gives a wee hint of what James Ellroy might have sounded like had he come of age across the sheugh.

Bosch

(This review is rated PMS for Possible Minor Spoilers.)

The Beloved Spouse and I watched the Amazon series Bosch over the past week, with mixed emotions and responses. Not mixed between us. We agree on pretty much everything. We have mixed feelings about the show.

First, full disclosure: I am not a huge fan of Michael Connelly’s writing. I like his books, and I like him personally. (Never met him, but everything I’ve seen and heard of him implies he’s a mensch.) No one tells better stories, or weaves two unrelated stories together better than he. His characters are solid, and Harry Bosch has become damn near an archetype, and deservedly so. It’s the writing itself that doesn’t move me, and that’s on me. My tastes run toward dialog in the style of Elmore Leonard and George V. Higgins, and narration that’s terse yet stylish. (Think Ed McBain or James Ellroy, for two disparate examples.) Connelly strikes me as too down the middle, too rarely writing something I want to turn to The Beloved Spouse and say, “Listen to this.”

We both wanted to like Bosch. We’ve loved Titus Welliver since his mother fucked that monkey on Deadwood. The other casting is, by and large, excellent. The production values are first rate. The problem is, the TV show seems to overplay Connelly’s weaknesses and underplay his strengths. There are too many subplots that don’t go anywhere. Why bother telling us Harry’s boss is having a lesbian affair with another detective who works for her? There’s a workable subplot there, but they didn’t do anything with it.

The political aspects also seemed more like decals than infrastructure. Connelly’s books do not shyThe Wire did politics very well in a cop context. We ought to do that, too.” There are multiple problems with this, not the least of which are 1.) The Wire wasn’t really a cop show, and b.) The Wire invested the time and effort to do it very well. (Comparisons to The Wire may not be fair, but they can’t be helped when the most political cop is not only the Deputy Chief for Operations, but he’s played by Lance Reddick, whose character who was both made and unmade by politics in The Wire.)

away from the political aspects of police work, but the whole Deputy Ops vs. the DA running for mayor thing came off too much like, “

The plots weren’t up to Connelly’s usual standards, either. The serial killer thread served to hit all the usual serial killer angles, including—but not limited to—the young woman in distress and lots of seemingly disjointed plot development that could be rationalized as, “Well, he’s a serial killer. He’s nuts.” (Jason Gedrick was superb as said serial killer, which made this element much more watchable.)

The other main story, about solving a twenty-year-old murder, was better, but still had weaknesses. Everyone knew the reformed child molester was going to be innocent, and that he would kill himself. Bosch also had a bad case of House syndrome, where Harry had to be sure, yet wrong, half a dozen times before they actually got the right guy.

It may seem unfair to crush Bosch for some plotting issues when I just gave Justified a pass,  but Justified made up for its plotting weaknesses in so many other ways. It was a fun show to watch, engrossing on many levels. Bosch lacked that, so it had nothing to fall back on when the plot came up short.

The Bosch character is a prime example. In the books he’s driven and always in trouble, but he’s presented as someone who’s sincerely trying to the right thing as he sees it, confounded by bureaucracy or ineptitude. The bureaucracy and ineptitude are there in the TV show, too, but Harry is less the gallant warrior beset on all sides than an asshole. He’s a terrible father, and his motions toward concern don’t play when viewed against his actions. (Which are also too predictable. Everyone knows when he tells his daughter he’ll be back for Christmas, he won’t be, and that he’ll ditch her at some point when she comes to LA.) Even when other cops have the cold case killer under control, Harry has to be there for the finale. Yes, the medium demands that one, but more effort should have been made to set it up.

There are a lot of things to like about Bosch. Harry comes off as an asshole because of how he’s written, but through any failure in Welliver’s performance. The show just needs to pick its spots better, and play more to Connelly’s strengths. Amazon has already committed to a second season, so there’s hope.

November's Best Reads

Lots of good stuff read since last time, and more news on the way, but work still needs to be done. So, without further ad, my favorite November reads:

Every Bitter Thing, Leighton Gage. Leighton Gage’ death a couple of years ago was a great loss. His series featuring Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Brazilian federal police has many of the best elements of Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct, writ large across a nation. The rapport—not always without edge—between his cadre of cops is spot on, and the political reactions to the cases ring true. This is the first in the too-short series I’m re-reading from the start. After refreshing my memory here, I can’t wait to get to the next. If you haven’t read any of these books, you’re missing out. First rate stuff, right down the line.

The Drop, Dennis Lehane. Read this in two days during free time at NoirCon, which gives you an idea of how I blew through it. True, it’s not a long book, but it’s damn near perfect. Lehane is a master at making narrative flow like dialog, while writing dialog George V. Higgins would be proud of. Appropriately funny in spots, dark in spots, and with a twist that made me want to see the movie even more. Highest marks.

Cottonwood, Scott Phillips. Phillips never disappoints. Asking which of his books is my favorite will return a different answer, depending on whether I’ve most recently read: The Ice Harvest, The Walkaway, or Cottonwood. Right now it’s Cottonwood. I toy with the idea of writing a Western someday. If I do, this is exactly the tone I want to take. Scott can start lining up his legal team now. (The book appears to be out of print. Amazon has several links. The one provided is not a recommendation, just the first one listed.)

Queenpin, Megan Abbott. Great period read. It’s easy to see how this put her on the map. Her females are as tough as any man without being caricatures and their predicaments are realistic, as are the resolutions. Reminded me of The Grifters in the mentor-protégé relationship, though is derivative in no way. Sets up well for a sequel, if she ever chooses to. The period patter was a bit much, at times.

Black Rock, John McFetridge. I read a pre-release e-book and had trouble getting it onto my Kindle; the formatting didn’t come out right. I read it again in paper to have a little more of a pure reading experience and liked it even more. Kindles are great, but they can get between the author and reader in ways books do not, and this is a book you want nothing to be in the way of. (That’s called license, when a writer makes up grammar on the fly like I just did. Look it up.) McFetridge never received the public acclaim his Toronto series deserved. Let’s hope Constable Eddie Dougherty does, and that he doesn’t have to get old and cranky to do so.

Sucker Punch, Ray Banks. Working my way through the entire Cal Innes series, happened to read this one on the plane to Bouchercon, completely unaware Innes spends most of this story in LA making a mess of chaperoning a young boxer. Banks is as pitch-perfect a writer as I can name. Uses no more words than necessary, but no fewer, and exactly the right ones. His plots are as complex as they need to be, and his characters are alive the instant you first meet them. Grade A stuff.

Kill Clock, Allan Guthrie. An author/agent/editor/publisher polymath of a writer, Guthrie knows how to leverage the flexibility available in e-books to write stories only as long as they need to be. Pearce is the perfect anti-hero here, not looking for shit, but not going to put up with any, either. When he finds himself in a bad situation he had nothing to do with—and wants nothing to do with even more—he’s more than capable of bringing it to a head on his own. Guthrie doesn’t back away from his ending, which some won’t like, but is exactly what the story needed. The wry little coda at the end is a nice touch.

Breaking Point, Gerard Brennan. Another novella. Brennan, along with Guthrie and Banks, may have the best understanding of the benefits of the form. A sequel to The Point, Breaking Point picks up the story with some scores settled, but some still outstanding. Brian Morgan only wanted to buy some grass, but his dealer’s unrealistic ambitions suck him in a classic “wrong place/wrong time” scenario. Brennan isn’t as dark or hard edged as Guthrie, but his anti-hero is someone you can root for, while Kill Clock’s Pearce is someone who causes you to fear for the other guys.

TheLincoln Lawyer, Michael Connelly. I read for style as much as for anything else. This is why best-sellers rarely appeal to me: too bland. I live for books where I can read a particularly nice bit to The Beloved Spouse, or pause and sit back with the ultimate compliment: I wish I’d written that. Connelly rarely does that, so it’s a tribute to how well his plots and characters are drawn that his books envelope me as they do. His research is so well done, I use his books as research for my own. And I can’t put them down. I didn’t think I’d like the premise for The Lincoln Lawyer, but found it in a discount bin for six bucks. Once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down.