I often get asked why, as someone who appears to be politically switched on, I try and avoid the news media as much as possible. Well, the thing is, the truth of the world is too much for me these days. I can’t take it. Call it cowardice if you like, but I hate feeling angry or upset all the time. I’m not a masochist. A while ago I learnt that the UK government has agreed to sell arms to countries that have been blacklisted for human rights violations, countries that - as in the case of Libya, for example - our politicians will then go on TV and condemn. And that’s nothing new, you know. This has been happening for years [Saddam, the Taliban], but, still, the two-facedness is extraordinary; it doesn’t become any easier to swallow the third, fourth, fiftieth time. But this is only one example, a dribble of spit in a vast ocean of thick snotty phlegm.In Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, Robert De Niro’s character talks about how ‘Someday a real rain will come,’ a rain that will wash all the scum – the corrupt politicians, the pimps, the crooked businessmen etc - off the streets. I don’t advocate violence of any kind, but the film’s popularity attests to how powerful and attractive a fantasy this kind of ‘clean up’ is. It is, moreover, something that is at the heart of Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest, although it takes a little time to warm up to all that. The early stages of the novel are mostly concerned with what appears to be a relatively straightforward murder investigation. The Continental Op has been asked to come to Personville by Donald Willson, yet Willson is offed almost as soon as he arrives. A number of suspects are quickly identified, including Willson’s wife, his father, a local tough and his gold digger girlfriend.“I first heard Personville called Poisonville by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte. He also called his shirt a shoit. I didn't think anything of what he had done to the city's name. Later I heard men who could manage their r's give it the same pronunciation. I still didn't see anything in it but the meaningless sort of humor that used to make richardsnary the thieves' word for dictionary. A few years later I went to Personville and learned better.”However, before too long the Continental Op has collared the culprit, sown up the investigation, and really should be intent on getting the hell out of dodge. Yet he isn’t. Indeed, one gets the impression that the author was eager to get all that stuff out of the way, that he himself wasn’t particularly interested in who shot Donald Willson, and that once it is all neatly tied up the real fun can start. It is from this point onwards that one truly comes to understand why Personville is nicknamed Poisonville, as Hammett embarks on a convoluted, twisty and twisted, tale of backstabbing, corruption, power games, homicides and attempted homicides, dirty secrets and double-dealing, involving just about every prominent person in the town.In the centre of this maelstrom of violence and immorality is the Continental Op, who appears, despite his irascible manner, to be having a whale of a time. In fact, he could be said to be the director of events, as he takes it upon himself to smoke out all the rats, play them off against each other, and, in one way or another, put them out of action. However, one should not make the mistake of thinking he is the hero of the piece, or some kind of avenging angel; his ethics are far too sketchy and dubious for that. In fact, at one point he openly admits that he wants to clean up Poisonville as revenge for the attempts upon his life during his stay, and gleefully talks about opening it up ‘from Adam’s apple to ankles.’ At times the plot comes across as little more than a bunch of psychopaths being rounded up and manipulated by another psychopath; and the overall effect is of a grim dance, one that will never end.“Play with murder enough and it gets you one of two ways. It makes you sick, or you get to like it." It’s interesting that Red Harvest helped to pioneer the hard-boiled genre, because it only bears a superficial resemblance to the classic works that came after it. Certainly those by Raymond Chandler, who is probably the most famous titan of noir, seem safe and cosy in comparison. First of all, the Continental Op is overweight, apparently ugly, and, at 40, relatively old. He is tough, sure, and he cracks wise [although most of his one-liners are laced with spite, rather than humour], but he isn’t suave and is certainly no babe magnet. Moreover, he has absolutely no qualms about putting a slug in someone.[Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo is generally thought to have been inspired by Red Harvest]The femme fatale, Dinah Brand, doesn’t conform to one’s expectations either, being more fatal than femme. She is described as having stains on her dress, badly applied lipstick, and an untidy hairdo. She isn’t, it is fair to say, Jessica Rabbit. She’s also unscrupulous, with dollar signs in her eyes and just about any other place you could mention. In fact, outside of one of Balzac’s or Dickens’ misers, I’ve not encountered a character like her, i.e. one who would happily sell out her grandmother for a tarnished nickel. She does, however, have a strange kind of charm, in that there is something child-like about her attitude, her honesty vis-à-vis her motivations, and her insistence that it is only right and natural that she get paid for every service she renders. In this way, she reminded me of Undine Spragg, the villainess in Edith Wharton’s Custom of the Country.“You're drunk, and I'm drunk, and I'm just exactly drunk enough to tell you anything you want to know. That's the kind of girl I am."It ought to be clear by now that Red Harvest is at the grittier, darker end of the noir spectrum. There are a lot of savage and unpleasant crime novels these days, and while it cannot compete with those in terms of sheer graphic [or pornographic] brutality, there is a great deal of bloodshed, and, by the final page, the book has racked up a body count that would give Jeffrey Dahmer a stiffy. It is hard to say whether I find it admirable or not, but at no point does Hammett flinch. Perhaps the most surprising thing of all, however, is just how odd this book is, how surreal almost. Bullets seem to constantly be in the air, people go to prison and then minutes later are walking the streets, bodies pile up and no one bats an eyelid [at one point the Op enters a house and steps over an unexpected corpse without even breaking stride], etc, until Poisonville stops looking like a dirty old town, and more like a Boschian Hell from which it is impossible to escape.♠I got to the end of this review and realised that I hadn't at all engaged with any potential flaws or criticisms. I enjoyed Red Harvest a lot but the book, as is the case with all books, is certainly not perfect. Therefore, so as to not ruin the structure of what is written above, I'll note a few things here, which may be construed as negatives.I wrote earlier that Hammett's novel has a convoluted plot, and, well, some might actually call it ridiculous, or unbelievable, or at least hard to follow [the pace is breakneck, which gives you barely any time to catch your breath]. Moreover, the characters have very little substance, all of them being a type or one sort or another, but, having said that, I don't know if you turn to noir for character depth. It is also worth pointing out that the book is almost entirely composed of dialogue, so that at times it reads more like a play. This isn't necessarily a criticism, or it didn't bother me at all, but I imagine that it might put some readers off.
In each fictional genre, (war, romance, western, mystery, etc) there are usually a few books which that genre's fans near-unanimously consider to be holy; sacred: an icon, a landmark, milestones. In any genre's canon there are sometimes only as few as 2-3 of the very most-revered relics--invoking the greatest and most unqualified renown among fans--or (though it happens rarely) even just one. This is the case when it comes to hard-boiled American pulp crime fiction from the 1930s; this is the case when it comes to author Dashiell Hammett; and this is very nearly the case when it comes to this novel, 'Red Harvest'. I'll tell you why 'Red Harvest' just missed being the most famous crime novel of the century, losing out only by the skin of a shadow of a hair of a doubt.Crime fans naturally nominate Hammett's other famous novel, 'The Maltese Falcon'; as the chief product which propelled Hammett to notoriety. But either book might have done so. Both are that type of 'object of adoration' I mention above--products for which appeal radiates evenly; outwardly among fans; to the furthest circumference. 'Falcon' is simply more well-known than 'Harvest'. There were three movies made of 'Falcon'--none, for 'Harvest'. This is what 'Harvest' loses out to. For 'Red Harvest', the sensational reputation built more quietly; but more penetratingly. It carried more weight among people who study and pursue writing (the intelligentsia of the 1930s) and among fellow practitioners of the pulp craft (the heirs to Hammett even down to today) than it ever has among 'casual' crime readers. Casual readers still have never heard of it; casual readers are still discovering it. 'Red Harvest' doesn't have a classic Humphrey Bogart film associated with it. But the determined crime-scribblers who followed in Hammett's wake have steered the genre ever since, with this Pole star hanging over their typewriters.'The Maltese Falcon' can never lend its whole structure to any other derivative. It is an archetype: parts of it can be (and are) copied but the whole thing can never be imitated outright. As a structure it is too 'unique unto itself'. But what it did was articulate several now-well-known "genre conventions" more ably than ever before. Those individual elements were ever afterward found done-the-same-way, in myriad other stories. For instance, "the detective office"; "the detective partner"; "the detective code"; or "the femme-fatale". But you can write infinite gumshoe yarns containing any or all of these items (and many have done since) without demonstrating any particularly talent at narrative. They're like rented, used, crutches. In such piecemeal fashion then, 'Falcon' can be mined, and re-mined indefinitely.'Harvest' though, is an entirely different kind of tale. 'Harvest' has none of these highly-polished, convenient, 'tropes' or chestnuts. It is abstract; shapeless and formless. No edges. It has no 'story-beginning-here' or 'story-ending-there'. Nothing in it is familiar, or winsome, or charming, or comfortable to its readers; instead you are plunged into an environment where you just wander around hanging on as best you can. The writing itself --paragraph to careening paragraph--is the strongest visible aspect; yet this technical strength is not an element (like those listed in remarks above) which can at all be 'borrowed'. In this story, the protagonist doesn't even have a name; he is just short and pudgy and tough-talking; with a slouch-brim hat. He's just a collection of traits, such as the way he holds his gun or the way he leans his body. And he doesn't really stay all that 'heroic', as Sam Spade surely does. What can you mine from a technique like this? Nothing. You get nothing 'for free' from this novel, if you are following in Hammett's footsteps.In 'Red Harvest' this 'Op' (operative) simply wades in and goes berserk with his gun. Unlike 'Falcon', the plot is negligible: Hammett merely places his stock-detective in a viper's nest with some nominal murder mystery to solve--but that is just to get the reptiles stirring. When the story really gets underway..I'm not sure anyone can even describe the experience. It is unique in literature. After a few chapters it is no longer a mystery at all, it is just an interregnum of raw, gruesome, thrilling, action.A bloodbath slowly takes shape as each chapter looms; characters are killed off at such a frenzied pace that an accountant-wouldn't-be-able-to-keep-tally. You find yourself panting and flipping the pages as fast as your eyes can race. The writing mounts in speed and frenzy until it is almost unbearable. This is the best pulp crime prose you will ever encounter. You feel as if a pair of giant hands has just picked you up and shaken you from side-to-side like a rag doll; and then tossed you contemptuously aside into a corner. 'Red Harvest' is really ...unsavory. You feel slightly sick reading it; whenever you take a break from turning these pages, you feel queasy--and also somehow--exhilarated. As if you can't wait to snatch it back up and continue. It is fiendish. It is unwholesome. And it is great.It's so great that it can't be stolen; it can only stay fixed in position before us, like a star to guide sailors. That is the essence of the accomplishment here. Purely as a technique, the writing in 'Harvest' blows-the-doors-off all action writing to follow. It is an accomplishment that crime authors ever since have always been able to refer back to, and marvel at. It was so effective and so pure that it bowled-over observant intellects everywhere (Dorothy Parker knelt upon meeting its author). Andre Gide; Akiro Kurosawa, were deeply affected. Innumerable others. Some critics even think that this was where Ernest Hemingway secretly gained his style. It is this knuckle-bruising, 'relentless' technique which has--ever since--floated down to us all the innumerable rafts of later crime, detective, espionage, and thriller writers. They're all trying to do what Hammett did in this novel. He's responsible for this aesthetic, he is responsible for their ideals.Hammett was not the first author of pulp detective fiction. The originator of the first hard-boiled pulp detective was an author named Carroll John Daly, whom few today remember. But it is Hammett's scant legacy of 5-6 books that are always acknowledged in any retrospective of that early pulp period (the late '20s). Hammett really helmed this genre and made it the literary influence which dominates so much of the culture we enjoy today. The official account is that he achieved his fame for glossier products like, 'The Thin Man' or 'Maltese Falcon'. Those are the books you can leave out on the coffee-table. Perhaps no one in 'nice circles' wanted to admit to the shocking, seamy, unclean power of 'Red Harvest'. And afterwards, the 'elegant' tradition emerged with Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain. But it is really a grisly, bloody, malevolent book like 'Harvest' which made crime-writing take off; really showed what could be done; it truly demonstrated what an author could do with an audience when he had a mind to.
Do You like book Red Harvest (2003)?
“You're drunk, and I'm drunk, and I'm just exactly drunk enough to tell you anything you want to know. That's the kind of girl I am. If I like a person, I'll tell them anything they want to know. Just ask me. Go ahead, ask me.” A quick and impressive read, especially for the time it was written. Hammett's Continental Op is obviously the basis for everything that would come in the hard boiled/noir genre and for that alone it deserves all the praise it gets. But it's not just the character and the style that he nailed first time out, the plot of Red Harvest has been used and reused continuously for the past 80 years too. If you've read even only one hard boiled crime novel in your life, you're almost certain to find part of it within the pages of Red Harvest.An enjoyable crime novel that everybody with even a passing interest in the genre should seek out.“This damned burg's getting me. If I don't get away soon I'll be going blood-simple like the natives.”
—Tfitoby
Second time around if not the third.Must be third time around. Still as good and as exciting as it was the first time back in my late teens - early twenties.It wasn't my first encounter with the Continental Op -my favorite Dashiell Hammett character. That was when I first read "Dead Yellow Women" from The Big Knockover as teenager just out o high school and attending college. Later acquired a vintage Dell map-back edition of some of the same stories titled Dead Yellow WomenIt wasn't until I'd read this that it became my favorite of all of the Hammett novels (and stories) combined.This was the perfect read following my obsession with Faulkner's Snopes Trilogy.Classic novel, this one. One of the greatest hardboiled mysteries ever written.No author working the Hardboiled genre ever wrote a better novel.Maybe no modern author ever wrote a better novel regardless of genre.Note: The copy read is the Vintage Crime/Black Lizard edition orginally published in 1992. I own something like 3 or 4 different editions of this novel.
—Still
Originally published in 1929, Red Harvest is a classic crime novel that helped established the hard-boiled genre. This is most definitely not a polite, parlor mystery where most of the blood is spilled off of the page. As the title suggests, this book is filled with mayhem and the bodies are falling left and right.The main protagonist is the Continental Op, who doesn't remotely resemble the genteel Hercule Poirot or any of the other fictional detectives who were so popular in the 1920s. The Op is certainly smart and skilled, but he's a squat, overweight man who's more than willing to cut whatever corners are necessary in order to achieve what he believes to be the greater good.The Op, who is employed by the Continental Detective Agency in San Francisco, is detailed to the Personville, a mining town known to most as Poisonville. The town was, for a long time, under the thumb of Elihu Willsson who owned the Personville Mining Corporation, the local newspapers, and a number of other businesses as well. He also controlled all of the politicians of any consequence, up to and including the state governor.During the First World War, Willsson had made whatever deals were necessary with the miners' unions to ensure that the company's operations were unimpeded. But once the war ended, he determined to break the unions and in doing so, invited in a number of thugs and crooks to assist him. The unions were effectively cowed, but the thugs and crooks stayed in town and carved out interests for themselves, effectively reducing Willsson's authority. As the book opens, Elihu's son, Donald, has asked the Continental Detective Agency for assistance. Elihu has now turned the town's newspapers over to his son and the son is something of a reformer. But before the Op can even meet with Donald, Donald is murdered. The Op believes that it is his obligation to identify the killer. As he attempts to do so, old Elihu Willsson offers the Op $10,000.00 to clean up Personville. In reality, he wants to get rid of the gangs that are competing for control of the town so that he can dominate it unchallenged once again.The Op is repulsed by the level of corruption in the town and by Elihu himself. But he decides to take the job so that he can indulge his own desire to clean up the town and cleverly drafts his agreement with Willsson to effectively give himself carte blanche, even if Willsson should ultimately change his mind about turning the Op loose on the problem.The plot that unfolds is dense and convoluted, but the strength of the book lies in Hammett's prose style, in the characters he develops, and in picture he paints of Personville. As a practical matter, there is not a single moral, selfless person in the entire town, the Continental Op included. He quickly proves that he's ready to get down in the muck with the croooks, grafters and corrupt city officials and do whatever is necessary to complete the quest he's assigned himself.As a young man, Hammett had worked as a detective for the Pinkerton agency in San Francisco and had spent some time during the war in the mining town of Butte, Montana as a strikebreaker. People have long speculated that "Poisonville" was modeled on Butte, a company town controlled by the Anaconda Mining Company. People have also speculated about Hammett's motives for writing the book, suggesting that he might have been seeking some redemption for the actions he had taken in Butte. Whatever the case, the result is a seminal work that stands as one of the great classics of American crime fiction and that has influenced scores of writers who have attempted to follow in Hammett's footsteps.
—James Thane
