One of the topics sociologists like to write
about is diaspora, and the other is asymmetry.
What is asymmetry? Well, take cultural imperialism
for example. Watch a movie made about Tokyo
by some famous Italian film-maker’s daughter,
and it’s about not understanding the culture,
tradition, history, and not caring. In fact,
there’s more than a tinge of dismissive poo-poo’ing
about how the utterly unoriginal pop culture
in that region blindly accepts and mimics
the West like hallowed counterfeits. (And
that’s fine, because I would have addressed
that myself had I made a movie about Japanese
Mainstream Culture). But what of traditional
cultures? No, says the movie: If it ain’t
in English, I’m not going to make the effort
to understand it. Now you go over there and
watch a movie of theirs made about the West,
and it’s pure mindless obsequious adoration,
love and admiration. Something was lost in
either direction.
Now you combine that with diaspora, and what
you get is my situation. It’s frustrating
that I know more about Western culture than
I’ll ever know about the East. (I’m catching
up as fast as I can, but not nearly as fast
as they are superficially Westernizing over
there!)
I woke up this morning to watch The Girl
Hunters, a 1963 Mickey Spillane movie
about private detective Mike Hammer, played
by Mickey Spillane. I thought it was an excellent
portrayal, possibly the best onscreen job,
trumping even Ralph Meeker’s displaced, LA
-suave reading in Kiss Me Deadly,
and making Armand Assante’s mullet-wearing
Hammer appearing almost martian. Then I went
over to IMDB and read the reviews, and most
people- who proudly proclaim they have never
read a Spillane novel- thrashed it, claiming
it did not live up to film noir standards.
Now a work of art has no obligation to answer
the criteria of mere categorization. Besides,
Spillane has always admitted that what he
wrote was pulp, purely for cash and the entertainment
of the working class. But when a writer plays
his character, we are getting a first hand
translation of his creation. Regardless of
the acting job, the loop between creator and
creation is closed: It’s a rare opportunity
to get inside the mind of the creator. (Sure,
I’ll admit that I found Kubrick’s version
of The Shining superior to King’s
own tv version when it finally did come out,
but you can’t question the originator’s version,
that would be like saying Red Lobster’s version
of Emeril’s Crawfish Etouffee does more justice
to seafood than when Emeril prepares Emeril’s
Crawfish Etouffee. Or Kenny G’s Acknowledgement
is more of a post-bop/free jazz conduit than
Coltrane’s version. The examples fly.)
I liked Spillane playing Mike Hammer. I think
he’s perfect. I think barrel-chested Irish
guys with squinting eyes, a buzz cut and the
ability to recover from a night of boozing,
being jumped on by hoods, and a toss in the
sack with a lady friend- the latter usually
taking place in the blank space between chapters-
all with just a couple of scrambled eggs and
a cup of joe is kinda sexy. The early scene
in The Girl Hunters where
Mike gets cleaned up and renewed in his search
for leads is classic Mickey Spillane. That
sense of hope and the rhythm of the city is
true to the contents of his written work..
I’ve read over three dozen Mickey Spillane
novels as a kid (despite being looked down
the nose at by Raymond Chandler readers).
There are some beautifully romantic and sweet
passages in Spillane’s My Gun Is Quick
that-combined with Walt Whitman’s
Manahatta - came to form my wistful
notions of New York City in my impressionable
years. To this day, Manhattan retained that
gumshoe private dick fancy that I experienced
when I walked along Time Square for the first
time at age nine. Each person’s reading of
Spillane ultimately reveals his or her personality.
John Zorn’s Spillane, for example,
started with the terrified scream of a woman.
That’s because the game-theory composer/experimental
alto saxophonist has a noted fascination with
violent Japanese cartoons (look at the art
work in his Torture Garden records,
for example).But to be fair, Zorn did manage
to capture luxuriantly sentimental passages
in Spillane’s work as well. What I love about
Mike Hammer most is that soft romantic side
that has danger coated on the edges. For me,
it was Spillane’s scenes of dames cuddling
up against the protagonist on bench seats
of cars driving slowly along the boulevards
of Manhattan that I think about when I listened
to Bill Evans ballads, Chet Baker vocals,
Helen Merrill, Rosemary Clooney, and George
Shearing.
And that was when I was just sixteen.
If you don’t like it, let me know, and I can easily revert to the school marm librarian look. Beehive bouffant and all. So enjoy!
