At year’s end...

Last year, I got The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century, edited by Tony Hillerman and Otto Penzler. It is a collection of mystery, crime, and detection short stories, the first of which was published in 1903, “A Retrieved Reformation” by O Henry, and ends in 1999 with Dennis Leane's “Running out of Dog”. It, of course, doesn't have any Doyle or Sherlock Holmes, but does have Glaspell's “A Jury of her Peers” and a short story by Dashiell Hammett, “The Gutting of Couffignal.” I was reading from this collection when I decided to blog about detective stories, even if I never blogged about anything I came across in this anthology (I was familiar with “Jury” well before I got this anthology).

However, as I bring this endeavor, which was originally just going to be about a few Sherlock Holmes stories, to a close, I want to move from The Maltese Falcon to my experience reading a few of the stories from this collection.

The first is Stephen Greenleaf's 1984 “Iris,” and it doesn't take long to tell this story wanders into some dark territory. It opens as a woman dumps a baby off on our protagonist detective and then drives away. At first, I thought it would be a story about the detective finding the real parents, but instead, he followed the woman – the eponymous Iris – and discovers what amounts to a small illegal kidnapping and adoption racket. It's darker than it sounds. When I read this story, with an ending Doyle would not have written, and that Hammett only might have, I felt like I had definitely hit a point where darkness reigned. I had seen this gradual darkening over the eighty years worth of fiction, but this one went places and did things I hadn't expected. I felt like I was in a place where there was no turning back.

So, braving whatever dark fiction awaited me, I turned to the next story, Sara Paretsky's “Three-Spot Po.” This story is about a murder mystery. And a heroic dog who braves the wintry weather and sea to bring his owner's murderer to justice. It's light, easy going, fun even. Sure, there's a murder, but the same darkness that permeated “Iris” just isn't there to raise the stakes and add a little horror to the situation. And this was also published in 1984.

And then, skipping a story and five years to 1989, there's “Too Many Crooks,” about two thieves who break into a bank while another band of thieves are taking everyone hostage. I laughed out loud while reading it. It's fun and far fetched, the entire story based on an absurd coincidence that juxtaposes two different types of criminals, all while being pretty funny.

My point in addressing these stories is because in moving from the Victorian Era and Sherlock Holmes just a few decades to Dashiell Hammett in Modernism is a massive shift and a loss of idealism to a harsh, post-war realism. However, this isn't to say that all the detective fiction that followed Hammett followed in that same cynical vein. The next major literary detective was Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, a cynic to be sure, but he's easier to trust than Sam Spade, his stories a little more up beat, a bit more hope and light.

I say this in particular because I'm not sure what the future brings for me, personally. This year, I started a Literature PhD program. Suddenly, the time I took writing a few things about literature and composition are being taken up by in depth research, writing massive essays for seminar courses, preparing for presentations, etc.. My life has become so busy that I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep this up or if it will be worthwhile. An idea that makes for a few good blog posts might be better suited for publication in a scholarly journal.

And so, I wrap up this year, pausing for December, and curious about what the next year will be.

Getting the Bird, Part 2: Lead and Modernism

In the Sherlock Holmes stories “The Blue Carbuncle” and “The Six Napoleons”, Holmes searches for something valuable lost or hidden in something mundane. In “Carbuncle,” it's the eponymous gem ingested by a turkey after being stolen (the gem, not the turkey), and for “Napoleons”, it's, again, a stolen precious stone, the Pearl of the Borgias, hidden in a bust of Napoleon after being stolen. Both stories require Holmes and Watson to traipse around London to trace the mysterious appearance of the Carbuncle and why busts of Napoleon were being stolen and destroyed. In both situations, the missing gem is recovered and returned.

The Falcon falls into a similar situation: something seemingly mundane hides something of greater worth, but, rather than precious gems, the falcon is just black enamel over a lead statue. In this regard, the Falcon is less like the the Blue Carbuncle or the Black Pearl of the Borgias and more like Jay Gatsby: a facade hiding something less desirable.

Not all modernist fiction is about misdirection, but a major facet of it is writing designed to obfuscate the reader's own ability to read. Without going into too much detail, modern fiction forces us to realize things aren't always as clear and easy as they seem. Perhaps Hemingway and his bleaker narratives about war typified this the most: the world isn't so easy to categorize or understand and the happy endings we want aren't what we get. This wasn't a time for the beauty of romanticism or the idealism of enlightenment thinking, and the jingoism of colonialism that marked so much of Holmes. It was a time for the harsh realities of life and reevaluating what we had believed. A fine beginning for the century to follow, filled with overturned idealisms and the exposure of the failures and brutalities of life and history.

There isn't always a Sherlock Holmes to right all the wrongs we face. They can hide or don't even understand the oppressive systems their reinforce.

We don't all end up well off like Philip “Pip” Pirrip or Oliver Twist or Jane Eyre. It's harder to move up the social ladder, and harder still to have someone else pay for it.

We don't all get to marry our Mr. Darcys. Sometimes their mansions are funded by bootlegging.

And what better way to represent that than with the Maltese Falcon? An item centuries old made of gems and gold, stemming from royalty, but available to whoever is able to get their hands on it? European aristocratic notions of wealth and superiority and status mixed with American opportunism, the desire to rise to power and eminence: to rival the old families who oversaw their ancestors. And once it's in our possession, the years of toil and effort we've invested in it suddenly seem worth it, right up until we scratch at the surface to go beyond the glossy enamel to the dull lead of reality. No shine, no glimmer.

This is where Spade, again, sets himself apart from Gutman, Cairo, and O'Shaugnessey, and, ironically, aligns him with the violent Wilmer Cook. Gutman and Cairo think they can continue their search for the Falcon and O'Shaugnessey thinks she'll be safe with Spade. Spade even confesses he may love her. Their optimism, their preconceived notions of a better tomorrow makes them romantics, not realists. Spade is a realist and Wilmer, certainly when he's made the fall guy, has realism thrust on him.

Spade, like Modernism, has his suspicion that things aren't as pure and as simple as they seem. Not every ending has a silver lining. Instead, they have the dead weight of lead.

Getting The Bird, Part 1: The Anti-Climax

The Maltese Falcon focuses on the eponymous statue of a black bird, described by Gutman as having an enamel overlay atop gold and gems in the shape of a falcon. However, when Spade, Gutman, Brigid, Cairo, and Wilmer are all together and the bird's enamel is tested by Gutman's knife, they discover it to be a fake, presumably prepared and planted for them by the previous owner.

It's an anti-climactic end. After everything else that occurs in the novel, at least three murders and the destruction of a ship, on top of whatever Gutman and his gang did to swindle it in the first place, the statue is simply lead and enamel, it's disappointing. Gutman laughs it off and characterizes the disappointment as merely another step in his years of seeking the falcon and he and whoever will join him (with an invitation to Spade) will continue seeking it. Gutman assumes the Russian general, Kemidov, they stole the bird from produced a fake to throw them off, not thinking, in the Falcon's long, tortured history, it might be the statue Kemidov had, himself falsely believing it was the real falcon (if so, then why he never removed the enamel is never addressed), or even that this statue is the statute in question, either the one that had always existed or something around which stories had grown and evolved. Either way, Gutman sees himself as the next to possess the bird, even if it seems he doesn't see far enough to understand he'll just be another piece of its history.

But Gutman isn't the protagonist: Spade is. It's easy to forget it's not about finding the falcon but about Spade maintaining his own professional integrity and clearing any doubt about his own innocence regarding Archer's murder. Refocusing our attention on Spade means seeing the revelation of Archer's murderer, a successful identification, as the climax rather than discovering the falcon is a fake.

But that's not as interesting.

The falcon is what's interesting, with its mystique, singularity, and value. Having the falcon means having a piece of history. It's value can be considered in the materials that went into its construction, the artful craftsmanship that brought them together, and the long, sordid past that has seen it hidden. But, as addressed, this isn't the falcon we get at the novel's end. What we do get is, well, worthless.

What would it mean if Gutman obtained the real falcon? For Spade, a payout and having to keep quiet, or still turn them over, but then have to deal with the real falcon. That would be an entirely different story, and likely not one Spade would be interested in (finding the bird means finding Archer's killer, after all: Spade has to deal with Iva next, not statuary). What's more, it would represent, for Gutman, a success after years of searching and whatever nefarious acts he was engaged in, validating crime. Villains victorious, even if they are arrested, and that's not how detective novels end. That story would need to focus on Gutman, not Spade. Spade's role as protagonist almost guarantees Gutman's capture and his loss of the falcon.

What, then, does the false bird represent?

I would argue, something more significant than the false one. As something mundane but believed to be worthwhile, a sad truth where one expects a great treasure, it's possible to see the falcon as representative of those changes, that shift to modernism, that helped mark Hammett's fiction as so different from Doyle's.

Modernism and the Moral Mystery of the Mind: Sam Spade

Returning to the paragon of crime fiction, Sherlock Holmes, we see it’s common for readers to be shut out of the detective's mind. Whatever is there is privileged information, and no matter who is narrating – whether it's a Watson, the detective, or some omniscient narrator, the closer we get to the solution of the case, the more closed off the detective's mind is. For Sherlock Holmes, this is accomplished by having Watson narrate, replete with well-documented and studied instances of Watson's inability to understand what is going on in Holmes' mind.

An interesting result of this is to what extent we can trust the detective to be a moral individual. As discussed in the last post, it isn't much of a stretch for a detective to go the way of his antagonists, especially in the cynical time dubbed modernism. Spade becomes less like Holmes and more like Gatsby: inhabiting a kind of moral no-man's land where they can bend and break the laws and manipulate the information they share with others to suit their own ends: not the law, not the civil or social good, but their own selfish interests.

Holmes we can guarantee is a moral, upstanding fellow because of Watson's own social position and Holmes' interest in mystery and righting wrongs. For Holmes to suddenly turn criminal would be contrary to his character. Even if he has dalliances with criminality, Holmes laughs them off, justifies them for the sake of the case, all while reassuring us of his stalwart nature.

We don't have that same confidence with Sam Spade, in part because the mystery he's investigating is an odd mix of personal and professional (his partner was murdered – there's a sense of professional pride even if nobody cared for Archer) and potentially lucrative: he appears willing to go along and be part of Gutman’s scheme until the end of the novel, only after they discover the falcon was a fake.

We must spend the novel wondering just where Spade falls morally. Of course, come the end, he makes the right decision so everyone will be arrested for their involvement in the crimes: arson, murder, smuggling, etc, and Spade is careful to remain unattached, suggesting his moral dubiousness was for the sake of the case.

Spade is therefore an unsolved mystery in his own right. We receive no resolution as to Iva Archer, and there's always the possibility Spade could have been bought out. As the saying goes, everyone has their price and it's possible Gutman just wasn't willing to pay Spade enough. After all, before Cairo joined Gutman's side, Gutman had offered more to Spade. Without access to Spade's thoughts or a confession on his part, it's possible his scenario about a “fall-guy” was a last minute concoction to get Gutman who had reneged on a previous deal.

So is Spade a man you shouldn't cross, or a man you shouldn't try to buy? Is he moral, or cautious? Does he have a price, or is he too upstanding? If he has principles, then why the affair with Iva Archer? Did Spade do what was right, or did he do what's right merely because it was the safest thing to do?

We like to consider protagonists to be like Holmes: characters of high moral standing who always do right regardless of consequence, and, even better, their right choices yield the best outcome for them. However, as discussed before, Hammett was writing at a particular time in the history of English Literature: modernism. Such a positive ending and depiction of a protagonist doesn't fit with the era and the novel as a whole. There's just too much going on for a Sherlock Holmes style resolution to easily fit. Just as the writing is cynical, we need to approach it cynically: doubting and wondering whether or not we really know just what’s going on in Spade’s mind, if it’s moral clarity or dubious desires. All we can say is Spade, like the enamel lacquer of the Maltese Falcon itself, is hiding whatever is inside.

Powers and Limitations: Polhaus, Dundy, and Bryan

In the course of The Maltese Flacon, Sam Spade periodically has to deal with the official police force; specifically, Detective Tom Polhaus, Police Lieutenant Dundy, and District Attorney Bryan. However, while each character is unique (Polhaus is much more willing to work with Sam than Dundy is; Dundy himself remains quiet and frustrated, and the District Attorney knows he has to save face as a public figure), they appear less often than Brigid, Cairo, Cook, or Gutman, but their roles in the novel are important in ensuring a satisfying outcome by enabling the civil justice Spade cannot.

The generic role of the official force when the protagonist is a private investigator (or really any competing detective) is to follow the wrong track. They provide alternative hypotheses about the case and sometimes even provide relevant information but have a tendency to misinterpret it, but are, never the ones to solve it. Because of this, the detective has a tendency to keep them in the dark about certain things, lest the police interfere in the investigation, especially when it's a private detective versus the official police. In some cases, not only will they compete with the protagonist but they will actively try to impede and harass the detective.

Sometimes, the official detectives' case is tangential to the protagonist’s. The Maltese Falcon is one such case. Once Spade gets caught up in the mystery of the Falcon, solving that mystery becomes part and parcel to discovering who killed Archer and Thursby, and his lack of sympathy makes us almost forget Archer until the very end when Spade reminds Brigid about it. For Spade, finding the Falcon meant finding out who killed his partner. Polhaus and Dundy never seek the Falcon. They don't even learn about it until the end.

Which begs the question: had they known, could they have done anything about the Falcon?

Polhaus, Dundy, and Bryan focus on Thursby's past as a gambler's bodyguard, an aspect of Thursby's background Spade learns from them, but it never directly affects Spade's investigation (that Thursby's Webley had killed Archer, though, Spade does use). Spade, on the other hand, does not reveal any of his investigation, conclusions, or hypotheses to them, As Spade himself says, “Mrs. Spade didn't raise any children dippy enough to make guesses in front of a district attorney.”

Of course, come the novel's end, Spade has discovered the murderers and found (or rather received) the Falcon, effectively doing Polhaus and Dundy's jobs for them while they were looking into Thursby's past. However, Spade can only do their job up to a point. As a private investigator, Spade does not have the power or authority to actually arrest, hold, or try the guilty party, and given Spade's double dealing, it would be difficult to tell whether he's an honest or dishonest man at the end. We may wonder on that point throughout the novel, but the inclusion of Polhaus and Dundy, the official policeman, means Spade has more options than to merely side with or betray Gutman and his gang. Spade has the option to side with law and order.

Polhaus and Dundy take Spade from an extreme and situate him in the middle. Ostensibly, Spade is like Polhaus and Dundy, but the range of his powers are different from theirs. He cannot incarcerate anyone, but can choose his cases. A case the police wouldn't take, he would. Similarly, where the official police are bound by their position, Spade is, like Gutman and his gang, a little freer to move around, engage in some more underhanded dealings, lie a little easier, or even be a little more honest. Spade is obligated only to his license (the revocation of which is threatened) and his conscience and only limited to the investigative powers his license affords him. Spade needs Polhaus, Dundy, and Bryan to ensure the villains' capture and to keep Spade from being one of them.

Taking up Space: The Corpulent Casper Gutman

Of course, someone had to be the first to seek out the Falcon, the one who knows the most about it and employ others to get it and who chases them down when they betray him. This role is filled by Casper Gutman. If not for him, Joel, Wilmer, Brigid, and Thursby never would have come to San Francisco, much less crossed one another's and Spade’s paths or entered one another's offices and apartments. Spade may end it, but Gutman started it. Gutman, initially and briefly, is known only as “G”, with Brigid writing the letter in the air before Spade and Cairo, indicating the mysterious individual behind the shadowed curtain. He dictates where people go, and when someone deals with one of his men or the bird he seeks, they have to deal with him.

However, he doesn't stay in the shadows for long. He doesn't even remain all that mysterious. Most villains evade giving details and information to the heroes. This is what Brigid and Cairo did after all: neither is entirely honest with Spade about what they want and why. Gutman, however, goes out of his way to detail the history of the bird and his efforts to get it. Where others hide their cards, Gutman willingly shows his, or at least some of them. Even when Spade tries to negotiate with him, Gutman is confident he'll make his escape fine, likely because he's done it before.

And then there's his girth and his speech. While it can be easy to forget what the other characters look like and they all tend to keep their lips shut more than open, Gutman, literally and figuratively, stands out. He's fat, with references to his multiple chins, and even his name: Gutman. His size is his most distinct physical characteristic. Similarly, his speech is distinct from his fellow characters. Everyone talks differently, but they tend to do so in hushed tones. Gutman has not only highly distinct speech patterns, but the mere quantity of words exceeds that of those around him. This man loves to talk, and it's a different proclivity than Brigid whose long speeches are pleas designed to get others to help her and make others believe they're in charge.

However, his size and his speech have no bearing on the novel's outcome. Gutman isn't caught by the police because he was too fat to run away, no doors he's unable to pass through, nor is he caught because he takes too long with a speech or reveals something he shouldn't. He's too careful for that. On the other hand, Spade taunts Joel and Wilmer to rile them up and catch them off guard, and Brigid carefully uses her beauty to charm Archer and, presumably, Thursby and Captain Jacobi. But the big talk and big body don’t get such narrative privilege: Nothing suggests Gutman must be the heaviest, most garrulous character in the novel.

So why is he? On the one hand, it's his greed. The space must be his, just like the Falcon, but it's deeper than that. It's not just a need for space, but the ability to reach out and extend himself. He reached out to a Russian General, the Orient, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, crossing the world in search of the falcon, and, it's insinuated, he has the criminal connections to do so, and money never seems to be an issue for him. Nor does escaping the official police. When haggling with Spade over what to do, Gutman insists all will be well, while Spade insists otherwise. Gutman figures all will be well probably because all has been well for him up to this point.

Gutman's physical traits and habits neatly line up with his motivations and actions as a character. Comfortably corpulent, greedy, far reaching, and, as he believes, safe. He is able to be the man pulling the strings and shows his cards because he's sure he can act with impunity and evade detection and capture.

Foiling Spade: Joel Cairo

Disclaimer: I feel I need to point out that I’m discussing a novel that’s almost 90 years old, written in a less respectful time. When I discuss homosexuality, masculinity, and femininity in this post, it is in that time’s context.

Which character in The Maltese Falcon: was brought into the mystery by Brigid O'Shaughnessey, is betrayed by Brigid, forms an uneasy alliance with Gutman, and carries a gun?

At first, it might seem like Sam Spade, but Spade, early in the novel, says he doesn't like carrying a gun (18), and never does in the novel. These characteristics instead describe Joel Cairo. These simple similarities, and this one difference, suggest there are more points of comparison and contrast, more similarities and differences that set these characters in opposition to each other. In other words, the foil to one another. Not in the sense they impede or spoil one another's plans or goals but that the traits of a foil character highlight the traits of another, whether they are similar or different, usually different. If we can look at one aspect of Spade, like how he got involved in the mystery, we can find similarities in Cairo's narrative, and by contrasting these similar situations and how the characters act and are represented in them, we learn more about one character, and the other as well.

Take, for example, their first meeting, when Cairo pulls his gun on Spade in his, Spade’s, office. Spade goes along with it until he's able to attack Cairo, thrusting his elbow at him, knocking him out. Cairo may be the one with the gun, but here and elsewhere, Spade shows he's good enough with his arms and fists he can get by. Even after Spade returns Cairo's loaded gun to him, and Cairo turns it back on him, Spade lets Cairo search the room, confident he won't shoot him, nor find the bird. Spade isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, whereas Cairo is much more of a dandy, right down to the spats on his shoes and the effeminate items in his apartment. Similarly, later in the novel when Wilmer Cook needs to be restrained, Cairo (and Gutman) try to hold him down, Spade uses him like a punching bag, knocking him out and carrying him to the couch. This makes Spade a mix of masculine violence and chivalry against Cook’s more aggressive violence and homosexuality. Once Cook is on the couch, unconscious and after he wakes, Cairo is there beside him, preening over him.

Who does Sam Spade comfort? At one point or another, all the women (all four of them) are comforted by Spade, even if he does, in his late 1920's chauvinism, treat all women more or less the same. He promptly gives them pet names like “angel” and is willing to flirt and kiss them. It doesn't matter whether it's his client, secretary, lover, or someone he just met: for Spade, women are women, and women are for flirting (among other things) and protecting, similar to how Cairo treats Cook. What about how Cairo treats women? We don't know. He only ever interacts with Brigid. When he appears at Spade's office, Effie Perine is on her way out, so they interact only briefly, giving us hardly enough to read into. As for his relationship with Brigid, it's strictly business, which could, in and of itself, be why she abandoned him for Thursby: she couldn't manipulate him like she could Thursby.

While Spade and Cairo are ready foils for one another, this comparison reminds us of one of the main ways we learn about characters and the social spheres they represent: how they interact with other characters. Spade, even if he isn't an official policeman (and is hounded by the police and officials throughout the novel), ultimately does what is right and brings the villains to justice, aligning himself with the officials, in purpose if not in method. Similarly, Cairo, at novel's end, agrees to go with Gutman, literally aligning himself with the villainous criminals. Cairo may not have been the most law abiding of individuals from the beginning, but he only solidifies this standing by going with Gutman. Herein marks perhaps the primary difference and similarity between them: neither is the most honest, both are willing to break laws and rules to benefit themselves, but while they may stand near one another, they both face in opposite directions: one to justice, the other to crime.

Violent, Young, and Lost: Wilmer Cook

Far from the soft, sweet, cooing of Brigid O'Shaughnessey, we have Wilmer Cook, one of Gutman's little gang. It can be easy to lump these characters together because of the novel's homosexual subtext around them, or to forget about Wilmer because he doesn't do as much as Joel. Joel Cairo visits Spade's office and holds him at gunpoint and searches his room, whereas Wilmer, perpetually known as “the boy” lingers off to the side, waiting for his chance to be violent.

Wilmer Cook isn’t just violent. He’s the most violent character in the novel. He is blamed for Thursby's murder, and it's believable given his tendency to skulk around with guns in his pockets, stalks Spade, later kicks a drugged Spade in the forehead, and may be responsible for searching some personal rooms. He is also verbally abrasive. The first conversation between Spade and Cook in a hotel lobby, features this comment on Cook's vocabulary: “The boy spoke two words, the first a short guttural verb, the second, 'you'”, and later, when approached by the hotel detective, Luke, Cook simply says, “I won't forget you guys” (98), a cool statement laced with pent frustration, ready to lash out. Cook is violent. Whether it's a violation of one's physical well being or one's own space and security, it's his way of accomplishing things.

However, we can't just call Wilmer the novel's embodiment of violence. He bears another significant trait: his youth, and, by extension, inexperience. He is almost always “the boy” even after his name is revealed. When he takes Spade to see Gutman, Spade manages to get his precious guns from him and Spade remarks to Gutman, “a crippled newsie took them away from him, but I got them back” (126), insulting Cook's ability. His age is never given, nor is there any exposition to explain his behavior. He could be a teenager, whereas the actors who played him were 38 (Elisha Cook in 1941) and 32 (Dwight Frye in 1931), about as old as Spade himself (7). There's no suggestion he's any blood relation to Gutman (who has a daughter, Rhea, who is mentioned in passing and makes one appearance), or any other characters. It seems he came to San Francisco from New York as part of Gutman's party, but it isn't clear if he was in Europe or Russia before Brigid teamed up with Floyd Thursby to steal the falcon. Cook is vague.

There are some problems in interpreting vague characters. We only have so much to go off of in figuring them out, which means a lot of possibility without much certainty.

For example, Cook could be a product, directly or indirectly, of the Great War, a conflict that turned the world itself violent and detached from its past, struggling in the “modern” world. He could be a veteran of the Great War (If so, I'd expect him to put up more of a fight to Spade) or maybe he's younger and lost his parents in the war or to the 1918 influenza pandemic, making him a long-time orphan who turned to crime and was picked up by Gutman to do the violence Gutman wasn't willing to do himself. Or maybe he's a runaway, or the child of equally violent parents.

Or maybe he's just there because the story needs him. Cook does, after all, fulfill the role of scapegoat late in the novel to benefit more prominent characters. Much of what Wilmer does to otherwise advance the story could have been handled by Joel Cairo. If so, then Hammett endowed him with more unsavory traits to make him unsympathetic. Less a character than a prop. No symbolism, no deeper significance, just an unsympathetic character to get thrown under the proverbial bus.

Wilmer Cook reminds us of an issue we encounter in studying literature all the time: we can't always be certain. Cook could be a reflection on what Gertrude Stein called “the lost generation,” a disoriented youth in a tattered, war-torn world, or he could be a part of the setting, moved from background to fore and endowed with action to fulfill narrative purposes. It's possible to read him either way, and neither reading, while very different, is necessarily wrong.

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Works Cited

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. New York: Vintage Books, 1972. Print. 

Don't trust the Siren's Song: Brigid O'Shaughnessy

When The Maltese Falcon opens, Ms. Wonderly is seeking help from Spade & Archer. Later, Ms. Leblanc moves into a new hotel because hers was broken into, and then Brigid O'Shaughnessy, on several occasions, pleads with Sam Spade to help her. All of these names apply to the same character, who, once she’s known as Brigid, remains Brigid. She uses these aliases to move around and deceive people, so she can, as needs be, appear scared and flighty, weak, and in need of help. These pleas are her siren's song.

In Greek mythology, the sirens were bird-like creatures who would sing their songs to lure sailors to their island, where the sirens would eat them. The myths tell us nothing of the nature of their song, but It's easy to imagine the siren song as sensual, alluring, and seductive. After all, sailors would hurl themselves from their boats despite the bleached skulls on the shore. Odysseus, in the Odyssey, plugged his men's ears with wax and had himself lashed to the mast as they went by so the men would not be tempted but still hear. He wanted to hear and survive what could be so alluring and dangerous.

Using the myth of the sirens, Margaret Atwood offers an interesting interpretation In her poem “Siren Song”. Atwood presents the siren song as a plea for help. It isn't about the seductress who entices, but the seemingly innocent who requests. After all, the sirens themselves aren't interested in sex: they're looking for their next meal. They need to appeal to the altruistic as well as the greedy. Therefore, according to Atwood, the siren's song is a cry for help. This will get the sexually inclined on the siren's island because of their hope for a reward, and the more altruistic will go out of their own willingness. Atwood ends her poem with “Alas/it is a boring song/but it works every time.

But does it work every time?

Presumably, Brigid used the same ploy on Floyd Thursby. We don't know much about their relationship other than it revolved around the falcon, mistrust, and ended with Thursby's death. Thursby was a dangerous, violent man, and so are Gutman’s men, but she survives and thrives in their midst. She survives because she doesn't overtly rely on violence, but rather on her allure.

Atwood's interpretation of the siren song contains the lines, “Only you, only you can,/you are unique.” The siren's goal is to lure in someone unsuspecting, to reassure them that they have the means to help her with her situation. Brigid uses the same ploy on Spade, but come the end of the novel, he refers to Thursby as his “predecessor” (224), showing he recognizes Brigid's scheme. Spade knows that, to her, he isn't unique: he's merely a means to an end. Knowing this, Spade never trusts her and never buys her act or her long-winded pleas. He doubts her, grows tired of her, and even searches her room and has his secretary spy on her.

Sam Spade has an interesting reaction to Brigid’s siren song. Knowing what happened to Thursby, and aiming to solve the case without ending up dead, he plays around with Brigid and her song. He doesn’t plug his ears like Odysseus’ men, nor does he listen and leave as Odysseus himself did. Miles Archer, as previously discussed, heard her song (saw the siren) and went after her eagerly. Spade, in his cynicism, doesn’t trust the siren’s song. Instead, he questions it, peels it back, and examines the words, the singer, and their purpose. Perhaps he was able to do this because he was faced by only one siren, and he saw what happened to Miles because he listened to and chased after the siren’s song.

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Works Cited

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. New York: Vintage Books, 1972. Print. 

Atwood, Margaret. "Siren Song." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d.. Web. 8 Aug 2016. <http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/32778>

We're not sad: The death of Miles Archer

As if the title of this post doesn’t spell it out, Miles Archer, the partner of The Maltese Falcon’s protagonist Sam Spade, dies. It isn’t a heroic or noble death after a novel’s worth of adventures and near misses designed to bring the two into harmony. To borrow a cinematic term, Archer dies off-screen between the first and second chapters.

So, what’s he there for? While there’s an argument to be made about Archer’s death getting the plot going, it would have been easier to just not have Archer at all. Why bother, then? Archer and his death, rather than creating sympathy, remorse, or advancing the plot, are acts of world building: they cue us to the laws and morals we’re dealing with in The Maltese Falcon.

As a person, Miles Archer is a cad. He's flirtatious, “appraising” their client's, Miss Wonderly’s, form, and is quite keen to take her case. After Spade tells him not to “dynamite her too much,” Archer declares, “Maybe you saw her first, Sam, but I spoke first.” Sam is more prudent, but doesn't condemn his partner's actions, remind him about Mrs. Archer (more on that), or point out the client is young enough to be his daughter. These aren’t gentlemen working for the sake of justice or craft, they’re guys.

And then comes Chapter 2, “Death in the Fog”, which opens with a telephone call waking Spade in the night. Only getting what Spade says, we learn someone's dead. The story follows Spade, almost step by step, to the crime scene where we learn Archer is the victim, and through this sequence, Spade shows little emotion, let alone remorse. We get nothing of Spade's thoughts, and he remains stolid and unemotional throughout: he approaches it as if it’s just another murder.

So how was their partnership? What did Spade think about his deceased partner? Two events answer this question. First, Spade instructs his secretary to have the “Spade & Archer” on their door changed to “Samuel Spade”, literally expunging his memory from their offices. Second, when Spade takes the widowed Mrs. Archer into his office, the two kiss like the boat is sinking. Her mourning is rendered superficial and she’s willing to continue her affair with her late husband’s partner, even if he isn’t. Everyone just worries about themselves because they all have something they’re hiding.

The result of all this is, when Miles Archer is dead, no one – not his partner, wife, secretary, or even the reader – is saddened by the tragedy. There's a little anger and frustration, but there's no emphatic eulogizing, remorse or regrets. His brief appearance in Chapter 1 shows an unsavory, albeit not villainous, fellow, so it isn’t much of a loss. We don’t even know how good a detective he was, and Sam and Mrs. Archer benefit from his death. Everyone is too busy looking out for their own safety and keeping track of their lies to care about, let alone mourn, someone’s death.

I find the death of Miles Archer interesting and significant, not just for The Maltese Falcon, but for the genre as a whole: we're given a pair of detectives, little to go off of to understand them, and when there's a death, nothing is done to give us any reason to mourn. I can't even call Archer's murder a symbolic death of the noble private detective, men like Holmes because he's the opposite of that archetype, nor is his death symbolic of the death of these kinds of characters because of Sam's own double dealing with Mrs. Archer and the other characters. Archer's death is an indication of the kind of world we're entering: one where no one is to be trusted, everyone holds something back, no one cares much for each other, and people die; where heroes can be as despicable as the villains and the villains appear as innocent as schoolgirls, blurring the lines between good and bad and pitching the black and white of Holmes' world into a sea of gray.

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Works Cited

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. New York: Vintage Books, 1972. Print. 

Frames, Honesty, and The Maltese Falcon

Most detective stories start out in a similar fashion: a client goes to the detective and enlists their help resolving a mystery or righting some wrong. The Maltese Falcon is no different. It opens with Ms. Wonderly hiring Spade & Archer to help her find her sister who has run off with a man named Floyd Thursby. She pays them generously for their work, generously enough, that Spade doesn’t believe her story.

This places Spade at a disadvantage: as a detective, he’s supposed to fill in the gaps, to complete incomplete narratives. If a detective were told a complete story, there'd be little need for them. In this respect, detective fiction owes something to frame narration.

However, in most frame narratives, there will be a chapter or so introducing the main narrative, only returning to that frame at the very end. Detective fiction takes this and puts it in a blender; or shoots the frame up with a tommy gun would be better. There are two main reasons for this: the first is the presence of many narratives within the main narrative for the detective to sift through, and the second is, like Ms. Wonderly, not everyone is honest.

Narrative Framing: As a detective detects, they seek out clues and witnesses, gathering information from them. The characters that populate a detective story will have different perspectives and experiences that relate to the case, and they will have different things to say and share. It's from these bits and pieces the detective solves the case. Detective fiction is therefore about narrative and narrative construction: it's a story of someone figuring out what really happened and then presenting it to the people involved at the end. Each time they speak with someone and get more information, they'll get a different frame and they need to figure out just how it fits with the main narrative, like a puzzle piece, and lob off whatever is unnecessary.

Character Honesty: Of course, most detective fiction relies on someone doing something dishonest or deceitful. If everyone was perfectly honest about everything, the detective would be obsolete. People don't like admitting to stealing, murder, or any number of other malfeasance, so it's up to the detective to find out who is lying, who is telling the truth. The separate fact from fiction and extrapolate the truth when people actively try to keep them from it.

Returning briefly to Sherlock Holmes stories, It's pretty much taken for granted that the clients tell the truth. They give Holmes a reliable piece of the puzzle immediately. However, in a post-war, cynical era where the author had professional detecting experience and was therefore probably lied to on a regular basis (I bet detectives get lied to much more often than physicians, or at least they'd be more serious lies), it stands to reason more people are going to lie, including those you’re supposed to trust.

Enter the characters of The Maltese Falcon, where the kinship and trust you had for Sherlock Holmes gets left in another century. Now, we have people who lie, cheat, steal, deceive, and it isn't clear what their motivations are: it could be business or pleasure, for personal gain or social justice. They fluctuate based on their needs to avoid bad situations, to get out of a dangerous spots with as little injury as possible to their pride and their bodies. And people get killed.

So, with The Maltese Falcon, we leave a world of black and white morality and enter a much grayer one.

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Works Cited

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. New York: Vintage Books, 1972. Print. 

What influenced Modernism: Detective Fiction Post-War

Dashiell Hammett's being an American and a Pinkerton detective weren't the only reasons he became a successful author with a style so distinct from Doyle's. A lot can happen over a span of 40 years; namely, the first world war, and the stock market crash.

When Doyle wrote A Study in Scarlet, such social threats were far away. The bigger threats were more protecting Britain from outside influences and maintaining an empire. A Study in Scarlet was, after all, about villains from the western United States coming to London where they would face justice. This is not an uncommon trait in Holmes stories: threats come from afar, either foreign individuals or Britains corrupted by what is foreign. For Doyle and Imperial Britain, life was great because it had remained steady for decades and centuries. What need was there for concern? It's little wonder that Holmes complained of Watson romanticizing their adventures.

And then came World War I. The Great War brought conflict and devastation to Europe, and left an artistic reevaluation in its wake. Pretty much every aspect of the arts underwent some kind of change, and while each one was certainly different, the common trend was experimentation. It was as if there had been a constant undercurrent that the arts were good and beneficial, and they made people and the world better. And yet, if so, how could the world come to such strife? Suddenly, the optimism and social progression that fueled authors like Doyle and Dickens were gone. Even Jane Austen (a century earlier) wrote during a time of war, but it was distant, especially to the gentry Austen wrote about. It's almost easy to read Persuasion and forget why Frederick Wentworth had money when he didn't years before, and Pride and Prejudice features soldiers but only uses the word “War” once to describe the War Office, and not the Napoleonic Wars.

World War I made the world a much smaller, harsher place.

In literature, the post-war period was dominated by “modernism,” a period of experimentation and more interest on the psychologies of individuals as they dealt with the world around them: literature turned inward, on who someone is and why they think as they do. Even though modernism's roots predate the war, this conflict shaped the lives and minds of those who lived through and fought in it, culminating in the “lost generation”: a post war generation trying to come to terms with the war, and whatever reprieve was made by the Roaring Twenties was on its way out with the Stock Market crash of 1929. The Maltese Falcon was published around that time, with, I wonder, some of the same cynicism that undercuts The Great Gatsby: an understanding that the current lifestyle of wealth and extravagance was, like Gatsby, problematic and doomed.

In a world that had come back from a serious war and on the precipice of financial ruin, artists were trying to make sense of it, to figure out how they should act, respond, and understand the world. From this time, we gained such great authors as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Ezra Pound, and James Joyce, who showed the Imperial stability Doyle enjoyed was gone, and modernism tried to reconcile an unstable world.

Where then does Dashiell Hammett and the authors of hard boiled detective fiction fit into this?

As far as I can tell, Hammett's never been classified as a modernist writer or a representative of the lost generation. He wrote pulp fiction: not the experimental works of Joyce or the human analyses of Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and much of Hammett’s oeuvre came after many major modernist works were published. I'm not trying to reclaim him or elevate him to their levels, but that doesn't mean his work and the crime fiction authors who would populate the pulp fiction shelves didn't come out of this same era of international conflict and personal strife. Just like the modernists, these authors give us other ways to look at the responses to the world that had to deal with a mass-scale human conflict, the stock market crash, and social issues that couldn’t be ignored.

Socially Distinct: The Underlying influence of Noblesse Oblige

In my last post, introducing Sam Spade, Dashiell Hammett and the evolution of the hard boiled detective, I compared the professions of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dashiell Hammett and how these professions influenced the development of their fictional detectives.

In this post, I want to discuss the cultural climate that surrounded these two writers.

Yeah. Get ready for some serious oversimplification. These are the kinds of things people write books about, and I have 600 words. To help, I’m using a rather simple concept at the center of these distinctions: noblesse oblige.

Noblesse oblige literally means “nobility obliges” and is the concept that the nobility and aristocratic classes have, by virtue of their position and (inherited) wealth, an obligation to help the lower classes. This was generally put into practice by hiring servants and farmers, while the nobility was able to live off of interest, inheritances, and revenue so they could live a life of leisure. The result was a rigid social hierarchy without much social mobility: you died in the station you were born into.

It's kind of like Feudalism with fewer serfs and more servants.

I want to use this concept because it's a principle that gives us a glimpse at broad social and cultural structures. It's an interesting way to look at some of the main differences that crop up in Doyle and Hammett's world building because both lived in societies governed primarily by money: who had, who didn’t, who earned it, who wanted it and what they’d do to get it.

First, Doyle. At the end of the Victorian Era and the beginning of the modern era, when Holmes was gunning the letters VR (Victoria Regina, or Queen Victoria) into the wall of his Baker Street room, there was a rising middle class, but still an aristocratic hierarchy. Doyle, a conservative physician, wasn't interested in strong critiques of this hierarchy: he was interested in maintaining it. In short, noblesse oblige, while not addressed outright in Holmes stories, has left its mark on Doyle and his writing, evidenced in Doyle's tendency to maintain the status quo: people who inherited money and position on top, tradesmen and businessmen in the middle, and unskilled laborers on the bottom, and the less “English” someone was, the lower they sat. As a result, the people Holmes encounters tend to be satisfied with their position and finances. There may be some interest in earning a bit more here and there, but many of the villains Holmes encounters, like Milverton, have or are trying to earn enough money so they could change their social standing. In short, a Holmes villain is usually one who wants more: more money, more prestige, more power.

Then there's Hammett, coming from an American tradition devoid of the noblesse oblige. Hammett’s America was a culture where people earned their money. Industrialists like John D. Rockefeller, William Randolph Hearst, and Andrew Carnegie loomed large, men who came from very little, and became extremely powerful and wealthy. I'm not saying Hammett aspired to their levels of success (Hammett actually quit the Pinkertons because he disagreed with their strikebreaking practices), but he came from a culture where money was earned, not inherited, and where there was not a sense of superiority based on inherited titles and wealth. The result is Hammett and those that would follow him, (Raymond Chandler in particular) would be more critical of social establishments, the wealthy, and inheritances, with greed becoming a more universal vice and more characters who lie, complicating the detective's task.

The result is Hammett gave himself much more leeway, many more shades of gray to explore than Doyle explored. Characters become much more mobile socially, ethically, and even geographically, while station, lineage, and money, either don't mean anything, or do more harm than good. It's harder to pin anything down or identify where it belongs. It's easier to lie and just as easy to doubt. Holmes usually only had to doubt the honesty of the villains. Spade has to doubt everyone's honesty.

In short, Doyle adhered to the concept of noblesse oblige. Noblesse oblige and a rigid social hierarchy kept people in place, and people were satisfied with their social situation because there was little social mobility. Hammett and his hard boiled compatriots dealt with a world without that rigidity, and if honesty and hard work didn't get you a better position, some lies and crime might: people got where they are not through noble virtue and blood, but through questionable and illegal practices.

If you want to see justice meted out and feel like the world is a safe, stable place, read Holmes stories. If you want a world that's more cynical, mistrusting, but arguably more realistic, read a good hard boiled detective novel.

Write what you know: The Physician and the Detective

A common adage among writers is "write what you know"; doing so lends credibility to your work because you're able to write authentically. This is not to say it's impossible for writers to make up stuff or write about professions or lives beyond their own, but a story written by someone who personally knows and understands the subject matter is much more likely to be believed. I write about composition and literature because it's what I study and teach. If I were to try blogging about, say chemistry, I'd need to do loads of research and even then what I'd write would be inferior.

This brings us to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, physician. Doyle had a humble medical practice before becoming an author, with his fiction, Sherlock Holmes in particular, becoming so successful he began writing full time. Extrapolating from his medical training, it's safe to assume Doyle understood the value of symptoms. A doctor's job is to heal the sick, but they first have to identify the condition, with their symptoms: in the same way a physician would look at the type of rash or hear the tenor of a cough, Sherlock Holmes reads people: external signs indicate deeper meaning only to those with the right understanding. In this regard, medical treatment and detective work are both professions that deal with external ailments where the sufferer lacks the skills and knowledge to properly diagnose and treat the symptoms.

This symptomatological approach to detective work is not exclusive to Holmes: the detective's job is, after all, to detect, but where Doyle drew on his medical training to create a detective, Dashiell Hammett drew on his experience as a detective to create a detective. Dashiell Hammett worked for a time as a Pinkerton detective. 

This contrast shows itself in these authors’ approaches to their genres and their characters. Doyle created a romanticized, idealized detective, and not just in literature: within Holmes stories themselves, Holmes is the best of the best, solving cases others are unable to solve, and far more interested in the mystery than any financial gain. Hammett's detectives, Sam Spade, Nick Charles, and the Continental Op, were run of the mill detectives. Sure, they had impressive success rates, but, within the story world, they're just regular, albeit talented, detectives doing a gritty, unpopular, shady job, trying to keep their work private. To ironically quote Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock Holmes, “I'm a private detective; the last thing I need is a public image” (Sherlock “A Scandal in Belgravia”, 2012).

This variation in style leads to variations in how the authors morally approach issues. Holmes worked to maintain social normativity: to return everything to a pre-crisis equilibrium. This leads to a morally black and white, romanticized story world: there are bad people doing bad things, so Holmes is brought in not just to rectify the wrongs in the case, but to set right social situations.

The worlds of Hammett's fiction are not that stark, and people are not simply good or bad: some are better than others and some are worse, but there are many more shades of gray, many of them rather dark, particularly on the part of the detectives themselves. Sam Spade is as stoic as he is devious: his motivations aren't clear until they absolutely have to be revealed, so it isn't clear whose benefit he's looking out for: his own, the common good, or the client’s. This ambiguity is only accented by the range of fraudulent, devious characters Spade has to deal with.

In short, the original professions of these authors shows itself in their writing, resulting in very different detectives. The physician, a man whose goal was to heal the sick gave us the nigh unstoppable detective who healed social wounds. The real-life detective, a man whose job was to snoop and sneak, to investigate where he might not be wanted in places others might not want to go, introduced us to a more cynical detective.

And what’s a cynical detective without a cynical world? Dashiell Hammett gave Spade a much more nuanced, but also much bleaker, darker, world to have to deal with than Doyle gave Holmes; story worlds born not only of the detectives’ or authors’ world views, but of the cultural climates both authors inhabited.

More of that in the next post.

A class of their own: Sam Spade, Dashiell Hammett, and the the Hard-Boiled Detective

Two years after the last Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place” (1927) was published, an interesting new literary detective appeared: Sam Spade, protagonist of Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon. While Sherlock Holmes would remain the quintessential fictional detective, the newcomer Sam Spade would represent a paradigm shift in the genre, turning the literary detective from the unique, virtuous consulting Holmes, to the shady private investigator.

Holmes boasted he's the only one of his kind. He is not a police investigator; he’s a consulting detective: a private individual to whom government and police officials go when their own skills are insufficient. Similarly, Holmes possess a certain classlessness: he is socially mobile, working for the wealthy, the noble, and the poor, demonstrating at varying times gentlemanly and bohemian traits: immaculate in attention to his appearance and yet Baker Street is a perpetual mess (from the few indications we receive); he enjoys attending concerts and, when bored, will generously partake of opium or cocaine, habits Watson openly detests. Holmes is therefore both rarefied and reified: unique, beyond the scope of normal people and minds, yet has Watson and other traits to ground him in reality. With no disrespect, Holmes is almost a cartoon character: the stories represent him in a believable way, until we really start thinking about it.

This is not Sam Spade. The only major similarities that emerge between Sam Spade, the man who looks “rather pleasantly like a blond Satan,” and Sherlock Holmes are their shared profession, and even there, it gets fuzzy. There's little resemblance between the two, and the same could be said for the other hard-boiled detectives who follow in Spade's wake: Spade and his hard-boiled fellows form a class of their own.

The hard-boiled literary private investigators are not the generous gentlemen of Holmes and Watson, liminal figures free to move almost with impunity. They belong in their own social sphere: Spade and his business partner, Archer, formed a partnership presumably not to split the rent but because they both share the same profession, and neither can claim to be its sole practitioner. They’re not anomalous like Holmes, existing beyond and between the societal norms: they’re just representatives of a certain class of individuals, a subculture that pokes its way through other subcultures and those who inhabit them.

Spade, Archer, and others of their ilk inhabit a class of snoops and sneaks, working for their clients and not necessarily for the social good. They’re frequently violent men who carry guns not in case they encounter something dangerous (as Holmes infrequently asks Watson to bring his revolver) but because they will encounter something dangerous. They drink and smoke habitually and are near constant loners. They generally live alone and work alone, a pest to the official forces rather than an aid. Social outsiders rather than social maintainers.

It can be said Spade and his literary compatriots take what Holmes represents and turn it down a dark, cynical, violent path. However, this is not simply an inversion of style or character, but is the result of social changes that set apart the rigid but precarious Victorian world with the more cynical and experimental post war era of Modernism. We can then turn to three different contributing factors that created very different worlds for the 1887 A Study in Scarlet and 1929's The Maltese Falcon to appear in.

• First of all, Dashiell Hammett was himself a Pinkerton detective, as opposed to Doyle's professional life as a physician and occasional police consultant.
• Second, Spade and Hammett are Americans, not British, meaning many of the philosophies about social hierarchy and class distinction that undercut much of Doyle's work are absent.
• Third, the The Maltese Falcon was published in 1929 – after the first World War, and after the Stock Market Crash.

All of these factors, which I'll address in more detail in the coming posts, all converge on the creation of a different kind of detective, and while Dashiell Hammett and Sam Spade may never eclipse Doyle and Holmes in popularity, they nevertheless form a progression in the development and solidifying of a significant literary genre.

Detective Fiction and Social Spheres: Sherlock Holmes and “A Jury of Her Peers”

Detective Fiction has an interesting social potential, something I alluded to in the posts about Sherlock Holmes, but is more pertinent with Glaspell's “A Jury of Her Peers.” Detective Fiction gives us a way to look at the different fears, concerns, and anxieties not just in general, but of specific social groups, and even how different social groups are anxious about one another. The juxtaposition of “A Jury of Her Peers” and Sherlock Holmes gives an interesting comparison.

Sherlock Holmes stories typically deal with a range of nationalities, racial issues, gender, and social classes. It has been strongly argued Holmes himself relies on these different social spheres to make his deductions, and it's his dependence on these that lets Irene Adler get away. Sherlock Holmes is almost always working to get people back where they belong, ultimately reinforcing Victorian standards.

“A Jury of Her Peers” works similarly: relying on social norms and expectations to identify where there's deviance, but to a different end than Sherlock Holmes. Rather than reinforce the social norms, “A Jury of Her Peers” works to criticize the social norms in the way it presents gender, marriage, and household dynamics. The gender dynamic is the main one here because gender determines social roles: men are farmers, attorneys, and sheriffs. Women are housewives. Men work outside the home in the serious business world. Women work in the home and kitchen, surrounded by, to use the men's term, “trifles.”

Bad men in Sherlock Holmes stories fail in their prescribed social roles: they are bad husbands, brothers, and lovers, and Holmes comes to remove the bad masculinity and replace it with Victorian normativity. “A Jury of Her Peers” features a bad husband but the other male characters make no suggestion they see him as a bad husband. If anything, they criticize the way Minnie has run her house, where Martha and Mrs. Peters are able to see how Mr. Wright made Minnie’s life miserable by being a bad husband. “A Jury of Her Peers” doesn't say “Here's an example of a man failing at his social role” but rather, “Here's a woman who suffered because she was caught in a bad situation with a bad husband.”

When we read “A Jury of Her Peers” as not about a murder but about the way women are treated and the bad situations women have, we stop looking just at Minnie Foster and look at how the other women in the story are represented. Martha Hale and Mrs. Peters may not suffer to the same extent Minnie Foster did, but they are more victims of social normativity than benefactors: Martha Hale is clearly more mature and rational than her husband, but she does as he says because he's her husband, and Mrs. Peters, “married to the law” is tacit and nervous, overshadowed by her husband. Martha Hale and Mrs. peters situation is most exemplified by the silence: rather than defend Minnie Foster, they hide the incriminating bird. To a modern reader, this can seem odd, but women in 1917 wouldn't have been listened to.

“A Jury of Her Peers” gives us a unique look of a woman's perspective on social situations from a century ago. Fiction’s ability to transport us to different lives is hardly a secret. Detective Fiction, though, does interesting things with this social dynamic. Specifically, by placing the detective in new, often unfamiliar situations. Doing so requires the detective have an outsider's perspective while still having to understand the culture if they're to solve the mystery. In doing so a detective may have to go from social sphere to social sphere getting a better understanding of customs and anxieties as they see how people behave appropriately and inappropriately in these various subcultures to solve the mystery.

Detecting Sympathy in “A Jury of Her Peers”

Not all fictional detectives are the distant, objective Sherlock Holmes; not all detective stories end with clear, clean solutions like Holmes' does; and not every mystery is rooted in the overtly threatening scandal and conspiracy, bringing to light the evil machinations of villainous figures. Some detectives are sympathetic, amateurs, and their adventures offer more criticism than resolution.

For this, turn to Susan Glaspell's “A Jury of Her Peers,” a 1917 short story that uses a crime and elements of detective fiction in an early feminist critique of the expectation that a woman stays in the home and supports her husband. If that seems like a tall order, it's a major plot point in "A Scandal in Bohemia" and "The Speckled Band". However, instead of the conservative British Doyle and his Holmes who preserve the social order, we're looking at the fiction of an early American feminist critiquing the social order.

Ostensibly, the story is a murder investigation: Mr. John Wright has been killed and his wife, Minnie Foster, claims to have been asleep while he was strangled. She has since been taken away, held for the murder, while Sheriff Peters and County Attorney George Henderson investigate. To help, they bring along Mr. Hale, who discovered the murder, and his wife, Martha Hale, was brought to help the Sheriff's wife gather a few items for Mrs. Wright while the men check out the bedroom – the scene of the murder – and the barn. Martha Hale and Mrs. Peters therefore spend the story in the kitchen, analyzing and commenting on the state of Minnie Foster’s life once she was married.

A traditional detective story would follow those investigating the murder and look for clues about the murder weapon and motive, to prove whether or not Mrs. Wright did or did not kill her husband. Most detective stories make this easy by bringing in outside detectives, like Holmes, or following the police force, like Sheriff Peters, to investigate. Doing so allows for an objective, almost scientific perspective. “A Jury of Her Peers,” however, chooses to go the sympathetic route. Martha Hale was once Minnie Foster's friend, and laments never visiting her old friend, and it's Martha's role as a friend and fellow country housewife that allows her and Mrs. Peters to read the clues that amount to a life and not just to an event.

It becomes clear to the women that Minnie Foster killed her husband, but that she isn't the villain. The story juxtaposes Martha Hale's memory of Minnie Foster, a happy, friendly person who loved to sing, with the dark, hollow, unkempt house filled with half-completed housekeeping tasks, she has occupied for 20 years as Mrs. Wright. The name “Wright” becomes ironic: Mr. Wright is hardly “Mr. Right,” and even suggesting that Minnie Foster, Mrs. Wright, was right to do what she did. This becomes clearest with the death of the canary, a songbird, whose body Minnie kept in a box. Martha reflects on how Minnie used to sing, a comment that symbolically brings the two together: both sang, and singing is a public act. One can certainly sing in private, but singing is often done for the enjoyment of others. Just as Mr. Wright broke the bird's neck, Minnie Foster, literally, crushed his neck and windpipe. A retaliation for twenty years of marriage wherein she was silenced and kept at the house in the hollow.

It can be easy to look at this story and simply say it's interesting because of its use of detective fiction and how it uses personal relationships and connections in ways more traditional detective fiction doesn't. There is still, however, the social perspective: how the characters and events become critiques of larger, real world social issues and concerns.

More on that in the next post.

Too Much Information: Charles Augustus Milverton

“The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton” is a popular story. I think it's popular because it's fun to read about the heroes having to outright break the law. I'm not talking about bending the law or keeping something back from the police on behalf of someone innocent or repentant: I'm talking about burglary, theft, and arson. Oh, and there's a murder.

Milverton deals in information, specifically, scandalous information that he can use to blackmail people. In the story, Holmes is hired by an heiress to negotiate with Milverton on her behalf. Milverton has secured some scandalous letters and he threatens to reveal them just before her wedding. After their interview with Milverton ends without success, Holmes straight up decides to use his own mastery of disguise and people to burgle Milverton's estate and steal only the articles that will be used for criminal purposes. Things don't go quite as planned though, hence the murder and arson.

When people discuss “Milverton,” it's usually about how entertaining it is to see Holmes and Watson on the wrong side of the law, even if they have noble intentions. In this regard, it's a story about how far good people will go to stop evil. Though Holmes and Watson may take the legal system upon themselves on more than one occasion, they are never quite as in the wrong as they are here. 

This, following the spirit rather than the letter of the law, tells us more about the good guys, not the social anxiety the heroes fight against. So what threat does Milverton pose? He threatens personal and private lives with exposure. Accidents or poor decisions, serious or minor, can suddenly be paraded before the world, much to our horror. We like our private lives to remain private and Milverton publicizes all.

So, is Milverton the same as fellow blackmailer Irene Adler, just without the sex?

Hardly.

Adler blackmails, but she is, by profession, an opera singer. Milverton's a professional blackmailer. His position and wealth rely on his ability to blackmail, whereas Adler's was a combination of talent and cunning. Where Adler blackmailed because it was in her interest and typical for her tendency to cross boundaries, Milverton just outright blackmails for his own benefit.

So what kind of a crime and anxiety stem from blackmail itself? As addressed above, it's the threat of the scandal that comes from our secret lives being made public. But there's something more to Milverton, and the fact that he is able to move freely despite his crimes and Holmes and Watson must turn to crime to defeat him only brings the detective and blackmailer closer together, because their work relies on the same commodity: information.

Holmes is a successful detective because of his wealth of knowledge and information and his ability to make significant conclusions from mere trifles. At a glance he can tell significant things about who someone is and where they've been. For the sake of his detective work, this proves useful (especially because it is the gimmick on which the stories hinge). Holmes uses this to discover what remains unknown to everyone else. He deals in hidden secrets: the lives and actions of criminals so he can unravel their schemes and bring their secrets to light for retribution.

Milverton also deals in information and brings secrets to light, but rather than criminals, Milverton punishes the wealthy for their social transgressions. If the victim pays, Milverton returns the evidence. If the victim refuses or can’t, the information is made public and the victim is scandalized. Holmes surprises people with his deductions, but he never uses them to scandalize someone or for personal gain. Both represent the careful use of information but in different spheres and to different ends. Milverton not only shows the power of blackmail, but he shows us the kind of villain Holmes himself could be.

Playing with the rules, not by them: Irene Adler

Where Moriarty's interesting trait was his absence, Irene Adler is interesting because she’s too present. She’s on Serpentine avenue, turning men's heads; singing on the operatic stage; haunting Ormstein's past, present, and future; in the church getting married; in a young man's ulster coat; and, finally, in the infamous photographs (one as a tool for blackmail, the other as a memento). By being present in so many ways and so many places, Adler strains against and breaks the social codes that governed Victorian society.

In “A Scandal in Bohemia,”Adler has a photograph, evidence of an affair between Adler and King Ormstein of Bohemia, which she threatens to reveal shortly before his wedding to a Scandanavian princess. Ormstein gives no details of the tryst, but his association with someone who isn't nobility like himself is scandalous enough. This is more than an illicit love affair. It crosses social class and nationality as well. The social anxieties introduced in “Bohemia” deal with sexual, social, and international borders. If there's a line to be crossed, Adler crosses it.

This was, of course, at a simpler (and I say that with sarcasm, not nostalgia) time, when women were seen in one of two lights: the housewife or the harlot. It's easy to classify Adler as the harlot because of her illicit relationship with a king, whether or not it was sexual. However, there's more to it than that. The housewife, also called the “angel in the home”, was supposed to stay and keep the house in order while men went out into the world. The border-crossing Adler leaves the domestic sphere for the professional one, putting her femininity on display, “turning the heads” of the men on Serpentine Avenue and in the opera house as a professional contralto. Adler's threat is to social structure and hierarchy. Rather than adhere to the rules that maintain order, she toys with and passes right over them, just as she crosses the Atlantic Ocean from New Jersey to Europe or social boundaries by romancing a king.

So why not cross even more boundaries? While Holmes is trailing her, he witnesses Adler's church marriage to Mr. Norton, a lawyer. In doing so, Adler, technically, goes from the scandalous harlot to the domesticated housewife in the eyes of civil law, divine law, and, much to his chagrin, Holmes himself. Holmes changes the way he reads her and judges her behavior. Holmes relies on people to fit in rigid social codes and uses these codes to deduce where people came from and how they'll behave.

While most of the people Holmes encounters adhere to these expectations, Adler doesn’t. So, because she was married in a church, Holmes expects her to be a dutiful Victorian bride and so uses maternal instincts to justify his conclusion for where the photograph is. What Holmes does not anticipate is her crossing the gender barrier to confirm her suspicions she's being tailed by Holmes, Adler disguises herself as a young man by donning an ulster coat to follow Holmes and Watson to Baker Street, and, even though she wishes Holmes good evening, he doesn’t recognize her, allowing Adler and her husband to escape with the photograph.

Adler is pervasive. She appears on many different layers, crossing the finely defined social borders that governed Victorian society (and we're still dealing with today). She's like Moriarty in that people can be more, and even something quite contrary, to what they appear to be, but where we can take Moriarty and decide conclusively that he is a villain, Adler is harder to identify. Her pervasiveness makes her elusive because it is difficult, even impossible to assign labels to her, labels she is perfectly comfortable switching around to suit her needs.

Lurking in Respectability: Professor Moriarty

It's hard to talk about Moriarty or “The Final Problem” without mentioning that Doyle really wanted to retire Sherlock Holmes. Doyle had grown tired of the character: it was all he was associated with. A popular magazine at the time, Punch, actually printed a picture of Doyle fettered to Holmes (pictured below). But Doyle knew merely retiring Holmes wouldn't be enough: he needed to kill Holmes by pitting him against a villain so nefarious, that Holmes would give own life to beat him. The result is both men, locked in mortal combat, plummet to their deaths.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fettered to Sherlock Holmes, from Punch.

From this, you'd expect there to be a wealth of possibilities for study and interpretation, but the stories are a little sparse. Professor Moriarty isn't all that interesting. He plays a role in three stories: “The Final Problem”, “The Empty House”, and The Valley of Fear (he is mentioned in “The Illustrious Client” and “His Last Bow”, but has no bearing on these stories), but in each, his appearances are minimal. In The Valley of Fear, the fourth Holmes Novel, Moriarty is a topic of discussion in the opening chapters and is mentioned at the end, but never appears in the main narrative even though Holmes claims Moriarty was behind the crimes he investigates. In “The Empty House”, which is Holmes' return, Moriarty's dead and the story is about capturing Moriarty's lieutenant, Sebastian Moran. Moran actually has more influence on the narrative than Moriarty did in House, Valley, and even his own story, “The Final Problem”, where Moriarty is, at most, spotted from a distance or unrecognized. Moriarty's primary characteristic is not his resemblance to Holmes, but rather his absence.

By being absent, Moriarty represents what we don't see or understand, and while Moriarty's appearances may be brief, this idea of unseen evil is common in Holmes stories.

In “The Bruce Partington Plans”, Holmes mentions “the thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, ” and in “A Case of Identity”, he states,

If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outr ́e results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.

And, of course, it's Holmes' job to seek out these chains of events and bring the crimes and evils of his society to light as he preserves Victorian respectability. Or as he says in “Copper Beeches” after Watson remarks on the beauty of country homes,

You [Watson] look at these scattered houses and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there...It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

And it's here Moriarty becomes interesting. He doesn’t threaten our property or our bodies, but our very sense of having a secure society, like the picturesque houses that by their beauty hide the evils lurking within. He’s an educated and deeply intelligent man who turned to crime while still maintaining a positive image. Moriarty doesn't correlate with a specific kind of social anxiety, but all social anxieties and crime. Rather than outright committing crimes, he facilitates whatever crime is necessary or requested of him. He represents the idea that crime and evil could be anywhere, especially where it is least expected.

The Social Anxieties of Crime and Detective Fiction

As discussed elsewhere in this blog, fiction is thematic. This is particularly true when dealing with detective and crime fiction because it deals with physical, emotional, and social anxieties. We'd rather see the world, our homes, and our lives as safe, and place the dangers of the modern world at a distance. News does this for us: all the bad things happen somewhere else and to someone else. Detective and crime fiction is a safe way to invite these ideas into our homes and see a safe resolution.

The expectation in crime and detective fiction is simple: something has gone wrong and must be set right. Whether it be theft, violence, scandal, blackmail, or murder, the truth is sought, the wrong party brought to justice and amends made to the victims to return the world to a pre-crisis balance. Each possible crime represents more than itself: murder is a threat to the sanctity of life, theft to property, blackmail to privacy. When we see these crimes in fiction it’s an opportunity to explore the significance of these social ills. Even if it is just a little bit, we get to feel anxious about our own life, property, privacy, etc. Thankfully, the detective represents the social order, through their efforts to discover the evil and set it right.

Take the Sherlock Holmes story “The Adventure of the Speckled Band.” This story focuses on a young woman, Helen Stoner, who fears her life is being threatened by her stepfather, Sir Grimsby Roylott, because her sister died shortly before the sister’s marriage. Roylott is a violent man who keeps a menagerie of exotic animals, and keeps his stepdaughter's bed mounted in a room, so it cannot be moved. Holmes and Watson hide in Helen's room and discover a poisonous snake let into her room. They beat it back, and the snake attacks and kills Roylott himself, giving the story some poetic justice.

Roylott represents a threat to Victorian standards with his violent temper and exotic menagerie: hardly a respectable British gentleman. His step-daughter, not of his historically hot-tempered aristocracy, represents Victorian ideals of womanhood: she is innocent and needs protection, which appears in the form of Holmes. The violent, exotic Roylott not only poses a threat to his daughter but to Victorian decorum, womanhood, and fatherhood, in the name of claiming her inheritance. Holmes comes and fulfills the role of paternal protector, performing the social roles Roylott has abandoned. So this is not simply a crime story about violent men, damsels in distress, and exotic animals, but it's a story about foreign threats and influences, and familial duty, with Holmes to fill the gaps.

The villain represents threats to the social order while the victims represent what is good and wholesome and the detective returns the world to a positive situation.

This means when looking at crime and detective fiction, it is important to consider what the crime and villain represent thematically. To explore this idea, I'm going to take a few blog posts looking at how the classic, archetypal detective Sherlock Holmes deals with some of the major crimes and villains he faces, and, perhaps a few other pieces of crime fiction.

To begin, I will look at the three most famous of Holmes villains: Irene Adler, Professor Moriarty, and Charles Augustus Milverton. Adler is famous because she is the woman who beat him, Moriarty because he is “the Napoleon of crime” Holmes' arch-nemesis, and Milverton with the use of information for personal gain.

Framing Frankentsein Part 3: Developing and Questioning Reliability

Near the end of Frankenstein, Victor admonishes Walton to beware the monster's eloquence. However, in the following pages, Walton describes how Victor's own eloquence buoyed the men of his ship. This creates an inconsistency: if the Monster is not to be trusted because of his eloquence, why should Victor be trusted for possessing the same talent? And from there, if Victor is eloquent and persuasive, can we really believe his fantastic tale? (For what it's worth, while Victor cheered them, he could not convince them to continue on their dangerous voyage.)

This highlights one of the great issues with a frame narrative, especially Frankenstein: reliability. Reliability is a surprisingly complex issue, one literature scholars continually address and reevaluate. It forces us to stop and think about how and why we trust or distrust, narrators, characters and their stories; and because Frankenstein is focalized through Walton, it is necessary to consider his reliability first.

Walton's narration begins with the letters to his sister. Letters are a unique form of writing: they are personal and intimate, which makes it different from novel writing meant to be public. By using letters to initiate the story, Shelley makes it seem more reliable, more realistic because while a narrator may be unreliable, we expect a brother writing to his sister to be honest and sincere. These opening letters establish Walton's reliability so we will trust him when he takes Victor Frankenstein at his word. This is compounded, at the end of the novel, after Victor has completed his narrative, the monster appears to Walton, removing the Monster from Victor's narrative, and putting him in Walton's.

Why have the monster appear? Because we trust Walton more than we do Frankenstein. Reliable narrators need to do more than accurately tell what happened, but also be able to accurately interpret and understand it. This means Walton is necessary to make the narrative reliable because Victor is harder to trust. Victor, in the course of his narrative, is incapacitated several times and experiences deliriums. He is also unsteady: he switches from one perspective to another, eagerly creating the monster, then shunning it and fearing it, and most importantly, misinterpreting what is around him.

The most prominent example of Victor's failure to interpret is when the monster declares he will be with Victor on his wedding night. Victor takes this as a sign that the monster will try to kill him on his wedding night. However, this is not the monster's goal, and there is actually little evidence to suggest it: the monster elsewhere suggests he wants to make Victor miserable as he has made the monster himself miserable, and has already done this by killing and framing for murder friends of the Frankenstein family and the monster's threats come after Victor has destroyed the woman companion the monster commissioned him to make. The evidence is there: a miserable life, murdered friends and family, the abandoned monster-bride, and yet Victor insists the monster targets him despite all evidence to the contrary.

Between Victor's deliriums, his changing perspective, and his inability to interpret, he becomes an unreliable narrator. However, it is only his ability to interpret we can readily call into question. Walton, conveniently stranded in the arctic, has no means to confirm any of Victor Frankenstein's story, and because Walton believes Victor, and we are intended to believe Walton, we therefore believe Victor. The monster doesn't appear to confirm Walton's narration, but to confirm Victor's and his own narration. His few statements align with Victor's narration, which the monster was absent from, so had Victor contorted the story, the monster could not have known.

Ironically, then, all of the reliability hinges on Walton: is this the fantastic story of a man who was in the right place at the right time, or could he be fabricating this story? It's hard to tell: we have Victor and the monster to confirm one another's stories, but Walton has to rely on narrative devices and techniques: the letters, his station as captain, his dire situation, to affect his own reliability.

But this leads to a perhaps unanswerable question: is Walton's frame a narrative device to make himself reliable, or was he really in the right place at the right time?

Framing Frankenstein Part 2: Frames and Focalization

Focalization is, in its simplest sense, a matter of whose perspective the information is coming from. As a concept it was introduced by French literary critic Gerard Genette, in his book Narrative Discourse, as a replacement for saying first, second, or third person narrator. It is a useful term because it suggests that narrators can be read and understood beyond their use of pronouns.

I bring this up in this discussion of Frankenstein and frame narration because focalization helps us to stop and really think about where the information is coming from, not just who is saying it or their relationship to the events being described: each framed narrative cannot be properly read without considering its relationship to its frame, or, how each level is focalized.

Take, for example, fellow horror fiction Dracula. Dracula is an epistolary novel: collections of letters, diary, and journal entries recreated (presumably) faithfully. Within the context of Dracula these narratives were gathered from many sources and lined up in a logical form. In doing so, each piece is put on the same level, in tandem with one another: it's not a matter of how Jonathan Harker met Van Helsing who told Harker about his pupil, Dr. Seward, who told about his experiences with his zoophagous patient Renfield, but how each character relates their own personal experiences. The epistolary nature of such a story even adds to its immediacy: each character presents relevant information as, or shortly after, it was being experienced. Mina Harker and Dr. Seward do not amend their diaries to reflect what they would learn later. This keeps the information up to date and each voice presented in the narrative is unmediated by any others. When Jonathan Harker speaks, it is focalized through Harker and no one else. 

It would be a grave mistake to call Frankenstein’s layered narration “Unmediated”.

It may be easy to see both as a collection of related stories, but it is not that simple. Where Dracula features different narrators taking turns to tell their own narratives, Frankenstein is about Captain Walton telling the story of Victor Frankenstein, which includes his own narrative about how the monster told his own narrative, which even includes telling the story of the French family, which itself includes the Turkish merchant's story. Dracula is many snippets cobbled together to tell one story. Frankenstein is one story telling other stories.

And just as there are framed narratives, there are also framed narrators. Victor and the monster both assume the role of narrator at their respective moments, with the novel funneling down into and up out of its narrative construction. It's just all the information has come through different narrators, who we trust to relate everything the others have said. And Walton's letters, his doubt his sister will even receive them, mixed with Frankenstein's deathbed confession, serves to frame the story to remove doubt: to make this fantastic tale seem realistic and plausible. But this raises a serious issue with narrative reliability, and we must ask ourselves, to what extent can Walton, Victor Frankenstein, and the monster be trusted? After all, Walton could have altered either Victor or the monster's narrative, and Victor could have altered the monster's. Layers of narration create the facade of reliability, but do more to complicate it. More on that next time.

Framing Frankenstein Part 1: Understanding Frame Narration

I was in college the first time I read Mary Shelley's horror story, Frankenstein. Admittedly, the only image I had of the monster was Boris Karloff’s from Universal Studio's horror hay-day, so I was surprised when the monster turned out swift, nimble, and eloquent. It was an enjoying read, but the horror elements weren't what would stick with me. Instead, it was how the work strove to appear reliable and believable. I realized this a few months later while tutoring at a high school, a student came in with a copy of Frankenstein. I picked it up with excitement (a healthy balance to her sighs) and started discussing frame narration.

Frame Narration is an interesting narrative choice because it embeds one narrative within another, it isn’t so much like a picture in a frame, but more like a painting of a painter painting a painting. We see not just the one painting, but all of them, and take all of them into consideration. So, back to narratives we have to understand each narrative within the context of the situation it’s being told, and each frame impacts the way we read the storied being framed and the frames themselves, making it possible to give a piece several different readings based on how these narratives are read and compared. Frame narratives require a different kind of reading because it forces you to think about what the two narratives have to do with one another, in terms of themes, symbols, and even the contexts in which the narratives are themselves framed.

Frame narration is kind of like gossip: one person gained information they want to pass on, but part of passing on that information is describing where that information came from. For example, you found out that a friend just got a new job and you want to tell someone else about it (or even explaining to the person who got the job how you know about it), but rather than just say “Rick got a new job teaching Driver's ed,” You say, “I was having lunch with Laura when a driver's ed car drove by and she wondered if Rick was the instructor. I said 'Rick doesn't teach Driver's ed, and Laura said, 'He does now. He just interviewed for the position. He's going to quit his night job.''”

In the first example, there is a single narrative, with Rick as the protagonist and the focus being his new job. The second involves telling a narrative about having lunch and an event triggering the other narrative. This is a simple formulation, but it's still framing the narratives.

Shelley's Frankenstein goes considerably deeper than this.

It opens with the sailor writing letters to his sister: we get a glimpse of who he is, his motivations and interests, and then, one day, a man is discovered on the ice: Victor Frankenstein. Once Frankenstein is well, he begins to impart his tale to Captain Walton, who is in turn, transcribing it. It is a tale of modern and arcane science and how his studies and a death in his family led him to try reanimating dead tissue. From these experiments, the monster is born and turned loose on the world, who then has his chance to tell his story to Victor Frankenstein, halfway through the book, which includes the tale of the disenfranchised French aristocratic family, all of which is then embedded within Victor Frankenstein's narrative. Once the monster's narration concludes, Frankenstein himself returns to his tale of science and tragedy, before the sailor becomes the primary narrator again, and because he began the narrative, he is able to end it.

This creates an interesting set of questions: Why have the sailor? Why even use these deep levels of first person narration? There are “found manuscript” narratives like The Scarlet Letter, Robinson Crusoe, or Don Quixote, and other frame narratives where the top narrative is the most important, like One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, but Frankenstein doesn't work like these, but this framing device does influence the narrative in primarily two ways: first, it actually establishes a sense of reliability, and second, it develops significant themes, but in order to understand how it does these things, it helps to know just what is going on in a frame narrative.