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Mysteries tend to fit into either of two categories: puzzle (also known as fair play) or hard-boiled. Mysteries of the puzzle style are often notable for the presence of a Great Detective, a (usually rather eccentric) genius like Sherlock Holmes, Charlie Chan, or Ellery Queen, who can put together a huge variety of seemingly inconsequential and unrelated facts to discern who committed the crime in question, how it was done, and why. The reader or viewer is given all the clues as the detective uncovers them, and can solve the mystery just as the protagonist does — if the reader happens to be a genius. Hard-boiled stories, by contrast, tend to involve a private detective (or sometimes a police operative or private citizen) whose pursuit of clues is significantly more physical. These stories typically include lots of tough guys, tough women, and tough luck for the detective. He usually solves the case by enduring enough beatings or administering a sufficient number of the same to reach the truth. Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, Mike Hammer, and Spenser are some of the best-known protagonists of the hardboiled school. The brilliance of Rex Stout (1886-1975) was in combining elements of these two types so skillfully that he was able to glean mystery devotees from both sides of the spectrum. His Nero Wolfe series, which began in 1934, featured a classic Great Detective in the genius Wolfe. Stout's armchair detective was a gourmand and passionate breeder of rare orchids, a thinking machine who weighed "a seventh of a ton," refused to leave his house except under the most dire of circumstances, and did not suffer fools gladly, if at all. The stories, like most hard-boiled fare and unlike most puzzle mysteries, were told in the first person by a far more prosaic, conventional gumshoe: Wolfe's assistant, Archie Goodwin. Archie is a smart-aleck, tough guy, and would-be bon vivant who feels real compassion for a good many of their clients, in contrast to Wolfe's evident disdain for everyone not up to his level of intellect, which includes, of course, practically everybody. Wisely, the people behind the A&E series Nero Wolfe, now early in its second season (airing Sunday nights at 8 P.M. Eastern time, from April through July), decided not to mess with success (unlike most other TV producers). The series retains both the passion for the good life — elegant furnishings, Wolfe's fondness for good food and drink, stylish dress, stimulating conversations, etc. — that characterized the books, while not stinting on the action and wisecracks that made the original stories more than just intellectual adventures. (This was essential to their success because Stout was such a poor plotter and puzzle-maker.) The story of each episode is based directly on one of Stout's novellas (long stories of about 25,000 words or so) or done as a two-part adaptation of a full-length Wolfe novel. The filmmakers have remained as scrupulously faithful to the original stories as possible, even to the point of retaining the different time settings — this season's episodes have jumped from the 1940s to the 1960s and back without a care. The settings and costumes are authentic and elegant, and Wolfe's office — with its sleek bookshelves, fine leather chairs, attractive lighting, etc. — like the rest of the fashionable Manhattan brownstone house in which he works, is a place most people would be very happy to visit for more than one hour a week. As in the books, the byplay between Archie and Wolfe and between them and their clients, the police, and the other detectives Wolfe uses is both witty and peppered with good insights into human motivations and personal relationships. Timothy Hutton, who also serves as executive producer for the show, is just brilliant as Archie Goodwin, managing to express the gumshoe's toughness (which I had been rather skeptical of his ability to do) as effectively as he shows his moral strength and emotional complexity. (Hutton is the son of the late Jim Hutton, who made a convincing and appealing Ellery Queen in the 1970s NBC TV series of the same name.) Archie is at the center of the stories, but the real star, of course, is the eccentric genius for whom he toils. Maury Chaykin is just perfect as Wolfe, gliding effortlessly from thoughtful contemplation to manipulative cajoling to momentary perplexity to blustering contempt for his adversaries' stupidity. Chaykin quite simply is Nero Wolfe, playing the role with impressive confidence and subtlety. The rest of the cast, which operates as a repertory group playing different parts in the various episodes, is nearly as good, especially Kari Matchett, whose versatility in portraying a wide variety of young females is particularly impressive. As the show has progressed over the past season, the relationship between Archie and Wolfe has become increasingly complex and involving, with the byplay over Wolfe's use of other detectives progressing from a matter mostly of humor to one of some poignancy. Archie's hunger for his boss's respect is evident, and what is rather poignant is our knowledge that this is a matter over which the detective really has no control. Wolfe could never pretend an intellectual respect he does not feel, and this, of course, ironically shows his powerful respect for Archie's moral integrity and personal strength. But Archie wants Wolfe to admit that the great detective really relies on him, which Wolfe could never do, but not because of psychological weakness. On the contrary, Wolfe could not admit that because it simply isn't true. Archie, unlike Wolfe, is replaceable. The A&E TV series is bringing out the complexities of this relationship as effectively as the books did. Often this relationship plays out in what the great filmmaker Howard Hawks called three-corner dialogue — conversations in which the participants talk about something very important to them by talking about something else. A good example occurred in a recent episode, "Die Like a Dog," in which Wolfe tries to get Archie to keep a dog that has followed him home, but without actually asking him straight out. Wolfe clearly has a soft spot in his heart for the creature — it reminds him of a mutt he had while a child in Montenegro, though it evidently bears no resemblance whatever to its fondly remembered predecessor. However, he does not want Archie to see this sign of what Wolfe would consider, in another, an intolerable weakness of character. So the dialogue ping-pongs back and forth until Wolfe gets his way without admitting that he has any emotions. Soon after, while the dog lounges about Wolfe's elegant brownstone and destroys the kitchen, the portly detective solves a murder and sets the world right again, at least as right as a world can be when it's full of murderers, thieves, con artists, and other wicked folk. But given that we have to live in a world so far from perfection, it's a comfort to know that there are people like Wolfe and Archie out there to keep things from devolving into utter chaos — and can do so with class, panache, and a real joy for living. What a stunner it is to find them translated so effectively to television. — S. T. Karnick is editor in chief of American Outlook magazine and American Outlook Today, published by the Hudson Institute. |
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ysteries
have often been characterized as intellectual adventures, but I think
it's important to place the emphasis on the word adventure. The
best mysteries give the reader or audience a thrill or two, and the intellectual
aspect is there to engage the mind (so that the smarter ones don't get
bored) and to provide a little moral status (so that we puritanical Americans
can pretend that this fun stuff is actually good for you).
