Hammett: The Titular Monsieur

Brian Wallace keeps the drumbeat going for the January 14 premiere of Monsieur Spade on AMC.

He just popped me a link to an advance review from the AVClub, which digs around a lot on the casting of Clive Owen as “the titular monsieur.” Check it out if inclined.

I believe Terry Zobeck has accepted the challenge of reviewing the six episodes here on These Mean Streets. A little more Hammett-centric, a touch more authoritative for the hard-boiled specialist. Don’t know if Terry will call it as soon as he’s seen the first installment or wait for the run to finish.

In either case, the wait is almost over.

Is the titular monsieur really Sam Spade or are they just calling him Sam Spade for fun?

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Hammett: The Scotland Dashiells

Steven Meikle from Edinburgh just popped in a note, not to pinpoint any specific scion of a movie star named Dashiell but to survey the Dashiells of an entire country.

“Your interest in noticing people named Dashiell piqued my interest.

“I searched on People’s Scotland (which has all the public records for Scotland) and only 14 people have ever been named Dashiell, the earliest being 2008.

“I thought that was disappointing. 

“Lots of Hammetts, though, but only one record for a Samuel Hammett — which was on the 1841 census.” 

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Hammett: A Title for The Glass Key

Our pulp expert pal Will Murray recently put up another article about Hammett, this time the story behind the title of his novel The Glass Key.

Not thunderous material like when Will figured out that Hammett did not write “The Diamond Wager.” But any hardboiled fan ought to enjoy it. Features a cameo by Hammett’s fellow Black Mask pulpster Fred Nebel.

I rate Will’s The “Diamond Wager” Caper in a select class with the dazzling research where Warren Harris discovered the true identity of The Midget Bandit. Warren unveiled the dope right here on These Mean Streets.

Got an entire Midget Bandit Week out of it, and barely squeezed it all in.

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Hammett: Chalk Up Another Dashiell

Minding my own business, I stumbled across another offspring named Dashiell — part of my decades long and quite casual survey of the name surfacing in the population. I’m sure someone in the right studies program could make something out of it all, maybe even nail down a degree, but it won’t be me.

I report, and move on.

This time I was poking around IMDb and noticed that C. Thomas Howell has a son named Dashiell Howell. Born January 2, 1997.

And I had no clew that C.T. was a child rodeo star. They ought to stick him in one of the Yellowstone-esque shows. Anyone who can ride a horse. . . .

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Sinister Cinema: Some Action on the Hammett Front

Not all that long ago I dutifully reported that a TV series — or mini-series — was in the works, where Sam Spade has moved to France. Cue some crime. Roll cameras.

You can punch up the trailer for Monsieur Spade on YouTube. Due to run on AMC in January. Clive Owen as Sam Spade. And based on the trailer, Clive Owen’s butt as Sam Spade’s butt.

Looks to be well made, but whether it needed to have Sam Spade in it remains an open question for the moment. The most disturbing detail in the preview is that some of the plot involves a young kid Spade seems to be protecting.

Publisher Vince Emery once read all of Hammett and worked up a list of distinct Hammettisms — almost always referring to a car as a machine, that sort of thing. Pretty long list.

As far as I know Vince may have been the first person to ever notice that Hammett’s crime stories never have children in them. Think about it. You might find a couple of older teenagers, but some little kid? Nope.

Guess the filmmakers wanted a little kid in it, to be like every other movie being made at the moment. Hell, maybe they’ll kill him off.

It’s Hollywood, Jake — they had a kid playing Nick Charles Junior running around on the MGM lot years ago (none other than Dean Stockwell, who was better in Blue Velvet).

I also spotted a couple of casual news items about a new Thin Man flick, to star Brad Pitt and Margo Robbie as Nick & Nora. Could be good, but then again, with the atmosphere today they might make them teetotalers or tragically limit the martini consumption to one per hour.

Of course that one I’ll believe when and if it all shakes out. Johnny Depp had an option on Thin Man for a few years, but it came to nothing finally.

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Hammett: Beware “The Diamond Wager”

The noted book and pulp collector Kevin Cook just mentioned that the issue of Detective Fiction Weekly featuring the story “The Diamond Wager” by a “Samuel Dashiell” is offered in an e-catalog this week from a well-known pulp dealer for $700 — because it features a Hammett story.

I guess the word hasn’t reached the dealer as yet that Hammett didn’t write that story. Will Murray, an expert among pulp experts, revealed the truth in a June 30th article. I agree with Will’s deductions completely. Read his article, and pass the news around to the still uninformed.

Yes, a couple of the early, creaky Hammett bibliographies list it as a Hammett yarn. And unfortunately it got picked up in the 2013 collection The Hunter and Other Stories (no previous collection snapped it up — Frederic Dannay had at least 8 or 9 chances to paperback it, but you know, I’ll bet he knew that Samuel Dashiell was another writer altogether, which pretty much is the summation of Will’s thesis).     

Kevin Cook states, “Believing in capitalism and all that jazz, I still would not sell — and rip someone off — my copy of the Detective Fiction Weekly issue with ‘The Diamond Wager’ — for $700, or even far less.

“What is the pulp worth now? $25 perhaps? I plan to just keep it in the collection as a curiosity rather than disposing of it.”

So, read Will’s article and spread the word, while keeping the time-honored dictum always in mind:

Caveat emptor, suckers.

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Rediscovered: Zobeck Zips Up the Watts Auction

Terry Zobeck kept an eye on the huge auction of books from the library of Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts. He even tossed in a bid himself, getting in on the action.

With prices paid and the gavel now quiet, Terry sums up the highlights of the crime scene bidding for anyone gumshoeing into These Mean Streets:

The auction of Charlie Watts’ rare books realized a whopping $4.7 million, including a 26% buyer’s premium.

Two of the books set world records. Charlie’s inscribed copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles went for $261,000, the highest price paid for any book by Doyle. His copy of Agatha Christie’s Thirteen Problems, the first to feature Miss Marple, brought $73,750, smashing the previous record for a Christie book by more than $15,000.

The auction had several Hammett items. The one that originally caught my eye was the corrected typescript for the story “The Hunter.”

Initially offered in the first part of the sale on September 27 and 28, focused on the premium items, it did not sell at that time and was moved over to the online sale that ended on the 29th.

The typescript sold for only $2,900 — I should have bid on it, but I had my eye on a multi-item lot on the 29th that included three extremely rare books by Hammond Innes. That lot ended up selling for more than three times my high bid. Oh well.

Charlie owned all five of Hammett’s novels, in dust jacket. His copy of The Maltese Falcon came with a price-clipped jacket with only a few chips. It went under the hammer for $37,780.

His signed copy of The Thin Man fetched $21,500, while Red Harvest, with some significant restoration to the jacket, sold for about $20,000. The Dain Curse and The Glass Key did not sell initially and so were moved to the online sale the next day, where they sold for $20,000 and $2,600, respectively.

He also owned a second copy of Red Harvest, which lacked the dust jacket, but with a nice inscription from Hammett. This copy went for $20,000. If I were Charlie, I would have married this copy to the dust jacket from the other copy. I know this practice is objectionable to purist collectors, but the hell with them. (In fact, the Christie’s description of Charlie’s copy of The Thin Man suggests the jacket may have been “supplied.”)

Charlie also owned all seven of Raymond Chandler’s novels, including an inscribed UK copy of his final novel, Playback. Signed to his agent and fiancé, Helga Green, to whom the novel is dedicated, it went for $38,400!

He also owned a copy of Chandler’s story collection, The Simple Art of Murder, inscribed to Chandler’s agent, Ray Stark. That book realized a price of $30,700.

Of most interest to me, however, was the set of all eleven issues of Black Mask with Chandler’s stories. The set sold for just under $20,000. (It’s odd that Charlie didn’t have a set of Chandler’s appearances in Dime Detective. I’ve always considered those stories superior to those from Black Mask.)

Charlie Watts was one of the finest rock ‘n’ roll drummers of all time. He also had excellent taste in books. I’m certain he would be pleased to see that his library brought in a tidy sum for his family and ended up in the hands of happy collectors — many of them hardboiled — throughout the world.

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Rediscovered: The Weather Channel c. 1888

Mostly in connection with the Texas writer Robert E. Howard, I’ve been in and out of the Lone Star State several times and got to deeply savor some of the storms. Tornadoes even hit a couple of towns over from where I stood.

I’ve never been in one of the big hailstorms, though rolling in with Rob Roehm from his home in the Mojave Desert we followed one in by a few hours and I saw something I’d never seen before: large mobile hail stone centers, driving around doing repairs.

Damn. I got the idea. I’d still like to see a Texas hailstorm — if I was huddled under a metal roof or at least a tree and not caught flatfooted in a car being torn apart on the road.

They had weather back in the days of cowboy Charlie Siringo, too, as Nathan Ward acknowledges in his recent book:

“The open beauty of the plains became terrifying in springtime lightning storms; feeling a charge in the air, those men who carried pistols might toss them out of fear, while on some nights, electricity would flash on cattle horns, brims of men’s hats, or tips of their horse’s ears before striking nearby. Hailstorms, too, were more violent on the plains, forcing cowboys to jump off and uncinch their saddles for cover from the pelting stones.”

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Rediscovered: “Wild Bill, I Presume?”

In building up his history of the Old West in his new book, Nathan Ward naturally brings in Wild Bill Hickok.

Couldn’t leave him out, in my opinion. It’s like the IMDb Top Four Known Fors.

Right now I think the Wild West is best known for Wild Bill, Buffalo Bill Cody, Geronimo and Billy the Kid.

I wouldn’t argue that you might squeeze in Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse instead. The top names are the top names, and I have nothing against Kit Carson or Joaquin Murietta but let’s stay real here.

And as part of the coverage of Hickok I was pleased to see Nathan stick in some info I can’t recall reading about before now.

One of my favorite side hobbies is the Who Was When? game, where you bring together people you wouldn’t associate with one another — and my absolute favorite was tumbling to the info that the 12 year old Benjamin Franklin knocked off a poem and sold copies on the streets of Boston about the Last Stand of Blackbeard the Pirate, which took place in a whirlwind of blades and musket balls November 22, 1718 on Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks.

Apparently the first mention ever of Blackbeard in a poem, and we’ve all heard of Blackbeard, right? And Ben Franklin.

Here’s the info Nathan eased in:

On July 21, 1865, Hickok had been in what is often called the first recorded one-on-one gunfight — quick draw, as opposed to European-style gentlemen’s dueling — when he and a man in a white linen coat named Davis K. Tutt fired at each other across some seventy-five yards of Springfield, Missouri’s public square. Tutt, who had taken Bill’s pocket watch against his poker debt, moved first, according to some witnesses, then grabbed his breast after the shots were fired to announce, accurately, “Boys, I am killed.” After the facts of the shooting made the local paper, Hickok’s name was introduced to a public hungry for other stories of frontier violence, true or not. Hickok was happy to oblige his growing myth, particularly in an interview filled with tall tales he fed to the journalist Henry Morton Stanley, who more famously found Dr. Livingstone near Lake Tanganyika in Africa a few years later.

Man, that newshound Stanley got around, didn’t he?

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Rediscovered: Cowboy America

“Wild cattle that refused to move with the herd and kept returning to the brush the cowboys might make docile by sewing their eyelids shut; after about two weeks, when the thread had decayed enough for the eyes to reopen, the animals were less likely to stray. The trail hands spent stormy nights in their saddles, watching the nervous group they had assembled, or otherwise slept in shifts on bedrolls on the ground. But to Charlie it was the only life worth living.”

Charlie Siringo was an Everyman Cowpoke like many hundreds more, doing a job, riding the vast plains as sprawling cattle drives began to forge north from Texas to the cowtowns and railroad heads, doing his bit to change the face of the Wild West.

Unlike most Cowpokes, it turned out he could write, and captured the era in a series of autobiographies. Primal Western documents.

I’m confident Nathan Ward realized what he had to hand in the Siringo saga as he was writing his biography of Dashiell Hammett, mining a later stage in the life where the cowboy became a range detective working with the Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency. Companion volumes with plenty of adventure. And as it turned out, Siringo and Hammett both ended up in Hollywood, which didn’t hurt their notoriety any.

Trailing after Siringo, Nathan uses the canvas of that life to paint a vivid picture of the Old West growing — growing faster than history could keep up. From rounding up stray mavericks in the brush to endless trainloads of beeves heading to Chicago to make it the meat-packing capital of America. From Billy the Kid to Tom Mix, lives becoming legend.

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