In an effort to make sure I wasn't losing my mind, I looked for any info on a potential Poe movie. This source from last year mentions Robert Downey Jr.'s and Sylvester Stallone's involvement, and as far as Joaquin Phoenix, one source says he's in and another says he's out.
Who knows? It looks like it's a lot of talk so far, but IMDb lists "Poe" as one of Robert Downey Jr.'s projects in development, so I'm not giving up hope just yet!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
If the Glove fits..
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when detective A and I finished examining the crime scene. Tired from looking within every crevice of the jeweler’s store for the missing weapon, my side kick looked to me and said,
“It seems to me that lying husband has outsmarted us. Mr. Oscar James Simpson has managed to hide the weapon so well, that we will have no other choice but to release him from police custody.”
“But- how can we release him, my dear A, when we know that he was indeed the one that killed his wife? I believe that you may not have given our murderer a fair chance. You see, just the other month while I was working with my ex-partner, I was asked to find a purloined letter for the Queen. The police assumed the letter to be hidden throughout the apartment, never once thinking that the letter may indeed be within plain sight. And sure enough, I once again was right. So tell me, what do we know about the crime?”
“Witnesses saw a man enter the store at noon while the wife was working on the sales floor and stab her with the butter knife multiple times. By 12:10 Ms. Simpson was dead in the arms of her husband, O.J., who claimed to have entered from the back door when he heard about his wife’s murder. Had the killer left from the back door, he would have run into the frantic Mr. Simpson. And it was only a matter of minutes before the police were on the scene, as the precinct was down the block from the front entrance. Had the killer left from the front door, he would have been seen by the witnesses and the police as he exited the building. Therefore, the killer must have been someone within the room, and we must find some other evidence that we can trace back to him.”
“Exactly.” And sure enough, as the words were being spoken from my tongue, I saw in the corner of my a glistening specimen, unlike the rest of the diamonds in the store. This one seemed to lack the fragmentation of light that occurred with other diamonds. Glistening in the main display case of the store, was a white sequined glove, with a trace of what appeared to be blood.
“The criminal seemed to know that there would be a quick response to the murder of Ms. Simpson and attempted to hide the evidence of the murder in plain sight,” I explained to detective A. “Thus, when we would arrive on scene, we would think nothing of the jewelry case, as nothing was missing from the case. One would expect to see glistening items within the case, and the untrained eyes of the police force assumed everything to look normal. However, had the officers examined the cases, they would have noticed that the criminal also failed to close the case fully“.
“But how do we prove that the glove belongs to Mr. Simpson?” asked detective A, as he examined the outside of the glove.
“Easy. Can you look on the inside of the glove and tell me who designed the glove, A?”
“Oh most certainly. It seems to have been made by a man name Michael Jackson.”
Detective A and I went and visited Mr. Jackson in hopes of verifying that the glove did in deed belong to Mr. Simpson. According to Mr. Jackson, each glove was an original, made specifically to fit the mold of the individual customer’s hand, guaranteeing a perfect fit. However, the white sequined glove had been made popular that year when it was worn by the man starring in the Jekyl and Hyde play, so Mr. Jackson could not verify that the glove belonged to Mr. Simpson, but only stated that Mr. Simpson did indeed own a pair.
When we returned to the jewelry store, Mr. Simpson was waiting for us with two police escorts. I took the white sequined glove out of my pocket, and told detective A to put it on Mr. Simpson. And just like Mr. Jackson predicted, the glove was a perfect fit. As the police escorted Mr. Simpson back to the station, detective A and I took our reward and bought ourselves some custom made gloves.
Part II. The Explanation
When writing, I tried to focus on the elements of detective ficton, as the main character (who this time happens to be the narrator as well), is set in the middle of crime scene, has he searches for the evidence to link the murderer to the crime. Because we are not given any other details about the murderer himself, there is a clear distinction between good and evil. Thus, when Dupin solves the crime he triumphs over evil fulfilling the three elements of detective fiction .
In my detective story, I attempted to continue the Dupin series that Poe had already established, by formatting my story to match elements found within the Purloined Letter. In the first two cases, Dupin does not receive a reward for solving the crime, but the series progresses towards Dupin doing so. Thus, I assumed that had Poe written another story with Dupin, it would be likely that Dupin would receive another reward for his help. Like the Purloined Letter, Dupin and the police already know who has committed the crime, however, the evidence that connects Mr. Simpson to the crime cannot be found. What I tried to focus on was, Dupin’s ability to find the evidence that the police failed to take notice of. This was crucial in the finding of the purloined letter, as Dupin finds the letter hidden in plain sight. The police are never able to find the weapon itself, but Dupin finds another piece of evidence, which has been hidden in plain sight, in the jewelry case. From there, Dupin is able to trace the sequined glove back to Mr. Simpson, which fits perfectly on the murderer’s hand and is Mr. Simpson is carried to the police station
“It seems to me that lying husband has outsmarted us. Mr. Oscar James Simpson has managed to hide the weapon so well, that we will have no other choice but to release him from police custody.”
“But- how can we release him, my dear A, when we know that he was indeed the one that killed his wife? I believe that you may not have given our murderer a fair chance. You see, just the other month while I was working with my ex-partner, I was asked to find a purloined letter for the Queen. The police assumed the letter to be hidden throughout the apartment, never once thinking that the letter may indeed be within plain sight. And sure enough, I once again was right. So tell me, what do we know about the crime?”
“Witnesses saw a man enter the store at noon while the wife was working on the sales floor and stab her with the butter knife multiple times. By 12:10 Ms. Simpson was dead in the arms of her husband, O.J., who claimed to have entered from the back door when he heard about his wife’s murder. Had the killer left from the back door, he would have run into the frantic Mr. Simpson. And it was only a matter of minutes before the police were on the scene, as the precinct was down the block from the front entrance. Had the killer left from the front door, he would have been seen by the witnesses and the police as he exited the building. Therefore, the killer must have been someone within the room, and we must find some other evidence that we can trace back to him.”
“Exactly.” And sure enough, as the words were being spoken from my tongue, I saw in the corner of my a glistening specimen, unlike the rest of the diamonds in the store. This one seemed to lack the fragmentation of light that occurred with other diamonds. Glistening in the main display case of the store, was a white sequined glove, with a trace of what appeared to be blood.
“The criminal seemed to know that there would be a quick response to the murder of Ms. Simpson and attempted to hide the evidence of the murder in plain sight,” I explained to detective A. “Thus, when we would arrive on scene, we would think nothing of the jewelry case, as nothing was missing from the case. One would expect to see glistening items within the case, and the untrained eyes of the police force assumed everything to look normal. However, had the officers examined the cases, they would have noticed that the criminal also failed to close the case fully“.
“But how do we prove that the glove belongs to Mr. Simpson?” asked detective A, as he examined the outside of the glove.
“Easy. Can you look on the inside of the glove and tell me who designed the glove, A?”
“Oh most certainly. It seems to have been made by a man name Michael Jackson.”
Detective A and I went and visited Mr. Jackson in hopes of verifying that the glove did in deed belong to Mr. Simpson. According to Mr. Jackson, each glove was an original, made specifically to fit the mold of the individual customer’s hand, guaranteeing a perfect fit. However, the white sequined glove had been made popular that year when it was worn by the man starring in the Jekyl and Hyde play, so Mr. Jackson could not verify that the glove belonged to Mr. Simpson, but only stated that Mr. Simpson did indeed own a pair.
When we returned to the jewelry store, Mr. Simpson was waiting for us with two police escorts. I took the white sequined glove out of my pocket, and told detective A to put it on Mr. Simpson. And just like Mr. Jackson predicted, the glove was a perfect fit. As the police escorted Mr. Simpson back to the station, detective A and I took our reward and bought ourselves some custom made gloves.
Part II. The Explanation
When writing, I tried to focus on the elements of detective ficton, as the main character (who this time happens to be the narrator as well), is set in the middle of crime scene, has he searches for the evidence to link the murderer to the crime. Because we are not given any other details about the murderer himself, there is a clear distinction between good and evil. Thus, when Dupin solves the crime he triumphs over evil fulfilling the three elements of detective fiction .
In my detective story, I attempted to continue the Dupin series that Poe had already established, by formatting my story to match elements found within the Purloined Letter. In the first two cases, Dupin does not receive a reward for solving the crime, but the series progresses towards Dupin doing so. Thus, I assumed that had Poe written another story with Dupin, it would be likely that Dupin would receive another reward for his help. Like the Purloined Letter, Dupin and the police already know who has committed the crime, however, the evidence that connects Mr. Simpson to the crime cannot be found. What I tried to focus on was, Dupin’s ability to find the evidence that the police failed to take notice of. This was crucial in the finding of the purloined letter, as Dupin finds the letter hidden in plain sight. The police are never able to find the weapon itself, but Dupin finds another piece of evidence, which has been hidden in plain sight, in the jewelry case. From there, Dupin is able to trace the sequined glove back to Mr. Simpson, which fits perfectly on the murderer’s hand and is Mr. Simpson is carried to the police station
Another Suggestion for a Fourth Detective Fiction Characteristic
I agree with Teresha; the list of characteristics that a story must have to be considered part of the detective genre is incomplete. As the list stands right now it includes the following: the detective must detect, the detective must be the protagonist, and the detective must triumph over evil. These three characteristics are crucial to detective fiction, but there is one missing. Not only should the detecting protagonist of a detective triumph over evil, but he must do it in an asexual manner.
In its above usage the term asexual does not refer to the biological characteristics of the detective but rather to the way he deals with other human beings. Evidence to support this proposed fourth characteristic, i.e. that a detective should behave asexually, can be found in the Poe, Wilkie Collins, and Conan Doyle detective stories. Poe's Dupin and Conan Doyle's Holmes show no interest in the opposite sex. Though some may argue that this lack of interest in the opposite sex is due to an interest in the same sex, the evidence to support this claim is less than conclusive. Rather, I simply propose that these two detectives remain sexually uninvolved in order to be able to think clearly about the cases. Wilkie Collins' Sharpin, who fails to suspect the guilty woman he has fallen for, shows what happens when a detective allows his sexuality to cloud his judgement.
At no point in the stories concerning Dupin and Holmes did I feel that they were capable of having feelings of sexual desire. If Dupin had not sought revenge and if Holmes did not use drugs and play practical jokes I wouldn't be sure if they are actually even human. These two uber-detective refuse to allow their sexuality to hinder them from solving a case. This asexual behavior, since it is so crucial to the triumph of the detectives, should be included as a necessary characteristic of detective fiction.
Disappearing Acts
The Case of the Disappearing (& Reappearing) Egg
-(B) In 1899, Czar Nicholas Fyodorovna gave his wife, Czarina Alexandra, the Bouquet of Lilies Clock Egg (also known as the Madonna Lily Egg) as an Easter gift. This was quite the tradition, giving these extravagant eggs, started by the Czar Alexander III in 1885 as presents for his wife at Easter time. Every year a jeweled egg would be created for the Czar’s wife (and later Mother, in Nicholas II’s case), with a surprise inside. There were some 50 eggs made, with 40 or so surviving presently, that were created for the Czarinas.
-(C) Prime Minister Nicholas was planning the most extravagant party, with the Egg … and his daughter, as the centerpieces of the event. The food was Easter-themed, with dishes containing eggs at the forefront. Decorations included chicks and little bunnies and a thick case was prepared for the Faberge egg. Due to how expensive and important this egg was meant it would remain heavily guarded before and during Rebecca’s party, with no one knowing exactly when the egg would arrive or leave.
-(D) The night of Rebecca’s party brought people from miles and miles around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the beautiful egg in its arrival. The guest list was very strict, only two hundred people allowed to enter the Prime Minister’s home. No longer was this simply a party for Rebecca’s birthday; this had turned into a media circus with only the children of the wealthiest and most affluent leaders in attendance.
-(E) In the center of the dining hall, housed inside a glass case sat the beautiful Madonna Lily Egg. With its diamond encrusted sides and belt of diamond Roman numerals, the egg seemed to scream ‘expensive’ and the guards flanking the case reinforced the importance of keeping the Czarina’s former gift safe. The night progressed relatively calmly, with photographs being taken with the egg (in its case, of course).
-(F) The lights in Nicholas’s house flickered once, before completely going out and the building was completely engulfed in darkness. Women screamed, men pulled their wives a little closer, and the wait staff dropped serving trays. The lights came back on, only to reveal that the Faberge egg was gone. The pedestal was empty, but there were no signs of disturbance. No glass cuts or breaks were apparent to the case. The supervising guard jumped to attention (a little late) and ordered a search to the building and that no one be allowed to leave the premises. Before his orders could be completely heeded, the lights went out again. Obviously this was something no one in the party could get used to because screams once again erupted from the guests. As the lights returned to their illuminated state, the guests looked expectantly at the case and were pleased to find that the Madonna Lily Egg was returned to its pedestal.
-(G) Rebecca’s party ended rather quickly, with the benefactors of the Egg eager to remove the event and deliver it to the safety of a vaulted safe in the city of London.
-(H) It was when the egg arrived at its overnight resting place that the guards realized that the egg they were protecting was not the egg they had left the Kremlin with. Created from fake materials, the egg was an amazing replica of the Madonna Egg, right on down to the diamond hand clock and the red-gold scrolls on the sides.
- (I) All the guests had disbanded shortly after the egg left the party and would need to be questioned by the guards. It was then that Rebecca, daughter of the British Prime Minister, decided to take matters into her own hands. Knowing who had stolen the egg put her in a such an awkward position, forcing her to chose whether to submit to the law or protect her loved ones. Remembering that London was teeming with Sherlock imitators and wannabes, Rebecca called for the one man she knew would never be able to solve the case, but would try his hardest to do so. Detective Alexander would snoop the scene, move somethings around, question the wrong people and create a story that would appease the public without sending anyone important to prison. Perhaps some poor man would be convicted, then maybe tortured to admittance.
Ending: Hoping to sell the Egg on the Black Market, the Prime Minister had arranged for the Faberge Egg to be removed from its case, then swapped out for an imitation. He had disappeared during the light flickering, but had returned before anyone could honestly know he was missing.
Fourth Factor: Detective Genre
The three factors that "supposedly" define detective fiction are incomplete. There should be a fourth factor that inquire about the detective's background.
The following three factors define detective fiction: a detective who detects, a protagonist (detective himself), a detective who triumphs over evil. Those factors are too ideal for defining a detective story with any real depth. That is, if this particular fiction is defined securely by the detective alone. Not by who the man is who the man is behind the badge. Yet, there should be a factor that pose an inquiry about the detective's personal past, that qualifies him above all else to be a detective along with the other three factors.
A person's background is what makes them who they are. The three factors merely act as the surface for detective fiction. There is another counter part missing. I believe there is another explanation for why Poe, who is a pioneer for this genre, stories are so dry. Poe wanted, as much as possible, to distant his extraordinary character, Dupin, away from the audience. We are not to know any of Dupin's dirty little secrets. Yes, Dupin is a fictional character, but there is no realism to him making him somewhat relatable or engaging other than his extraordinary intelligence. As the reader, I was delighted when Poe gave me some background material on Dupin, in "The Purloined Letter" , in correlation to Dupin solving the crime. It made the story more engaging.
The irony here is that the three factors that define detective fiction implies that the reader will get some personal background about the detective(s),but we don't at least not with Poe.
All of the authors that come after Poe such as Doyle with Sherlock Homes include personal details about the detective. Doyle made Holmes a user of cocaine; this information did not taint his character, if anything it made Holmes, who is fictional, appear real. Also, in Summerscale's Mr. Whicher there is some personal information about Whicher fathering a child and having a wife. However, there is no record of where they are. For me, this information help form Mr. Whicher's whole character outside of his detective skills. So I propose a fourth a factor that enforces the author to have some, if not a lot, of personal background history on the detective(s).
The following three factors define detective fiction: a detective who detects, a protagonist (detective himself), a detective who triumphs over evil. Those factors are too ideal for defining a detective story with any real depth. That is, if this particular fiction is defined securely by the detective alone. Not by who the man is who the man is behind the badge. Yet, there should be a factor that pose an inquiry about the detective's personal past, that qualifies him above all else to be a detective along with the other three factors.
A person's background is what makes them who they are. The three factors merely act as the surface for detective fiction. There is another counter part missing. I believe there is another explanation for why Poe, who is a pioneer for this genre, stories are so dry. Poe wanted, as much as possible, to distant his extraordinary character, Dupin, away from the audience. We are not to know any of Dupin's dirty little secrets. Yes, Dupin is a fictional character, but there is no realism to him making him somewhat relatable or engaging other than his extraordinary intelligence. As the reader, I was delighted when Poe gave me some background material on Dupin, in "The Purloined Letter" , in correlation to Dupin solving the crime. It made the story more engaging.
The irony here is that the three factors that define detective fiction implies that the reader will get some personal background about the detective(s),but we don't at least not with Poe.
All of the authors that come after Poe such as Doyle with Sherlock Homes include personal details about the detective. Doyle made Holmes a user of cocaine; this information did not taint his character, if anything it made Holmes, who is fictional, appear real. Also, in Summerscale's Mr. Whicher there is some personal information about Whicher fathering a child and having a wife. However, there is no record of where they are. For me, this information help form Mr. Whicher's whole character outside of his detective skills. So I propose a fourth a factor that enforces the author to have some, if not a lot, of personal background history on the detective(s).
Detecting Club
I came to be in the acquaintance of one Mr. Durden in the summer of 18--, the background of whom I intend to be selectively ambiguous about under the auspices of making him more mysterious than he need be. As for myself, I was residing in Paris at this time and there is little more that you must know about me other than that before I met Tyler Durden my life was boring and devoid of imagination. Mr. Durden, one could say, is the man that I wanted to be.
Fortunately, he and I had the very fortuitous occasion to meet each other in a nearly abandoned library. In fact I did not see anyone but myself when I entered yet somehow near the “very rare and very remarkable volume” I sought there stood this man with whom I immediately felt a kinship. Additionally, out of the goodness of his heart he allowed me to rent a house for us both and he even let me pay for all of the furniture we would need. Fortunate for us, I found “a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted… tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion” of the city.
“Our seclusion was perfect.” Nobody knew where we were living. I was able to conceal my location from my former associates and for some reason or another nobody seemed to have heard of or could remember ever knowing of Durden. “We existed within ourselves alone.”
Often we spent the whole day reading and talking to each other. Durden was enamored of the night and every morning we would shut out the sun and consume our chosen literature. I would read articles written by organs in the first person, “I am Joe’s Colon” and Durden would read the works of E.T.A. Hoffman and Voltaire. At night we would carouse arm in arm seeking the sort of excitement that only the night can provide.
It was on these nighttime constitutionals that I became familiarized with a peculiar analytical power in my new friend. He was able to read my mind and even retrace the train of thought that had led me to my reflections. Indeed he was able to combine vastly disparate thoughts and link them together through simple observation of my physicality. His ratiocination followed all sorts of bizarre leaps in thought but it seemed to me that he was privy to my thought process.
Not long after Durden’s strange reasoning feat we came across an article in the evening paper about two murders in the aptly named Rue Morgue. A mother and daughter were found brutally murdered and their apartment in disarray. They lived alone in a room locked from the inside a search party found the bodies of both women one stuffed up the fireplace and the other with her head nearly sliced off. The only clue that really stood out in all of the witness testimonies seemed to be that there was a foreigner in the room speaking a strange tongue. There were many, many, many, many, witnesses who heard a shrill voice and a harsh voice.
The paper went on to outline that one Mr. Bon-Bon had been arrested because someone needed to be arrested and he seemed like an acceptable choice even though there was no evidence against him.
Mr. Durden seemed to read these accounts with great focus and relish until he read about the arrest of Bon-Bon. Once he hit upon that fact he immediately launched into a diatribe against the abilities of the Parisian police force. He decided, with me as collaborator, that we would undertake our own investigation into the events at the Rue Morgue. Apparently all that is necessary for two strange recluses from the edge of town to access a murder scene is to ask permission of the prefect of police.
Oddly enough in our perusal of the murder scene we spoke to no one and no one spoke to us. We simply wandered around examining what we wanted. Durden often picked up and moved things, and at one point I’m pretty sure I saw him put something in his pocket. Crime scene etiquette at its finest.
The next day in some soliloquy or another Durden explained or attempted to explain his solution of the murder. He spoke as if he was speaking to an audience and not to me but it didn’t matter. I felt like I was about to understand what he was saying yet I couldn’t quite fully understand. Also at one point he handed me some guns. His discourse was long and varied but it had something to do with lightning rods, syllabification, clothing, and nails. I wasn’t really sure what he was getting out and then he pulled out a fistful of hair and a book about monkeys. To be honest I sort of lost track of what was going on until a gentleman with a moustache and a club came into the house and we had him locked in with guns pointed at him. He then recounted for me… er… us the story of how his orangutan got loose and broke into the house and, in a charade far less funny than a chimp smoking a cigar, decapitated the old woman before throttling her daughter to death.
It all ended alright though. The sailor made a bunch of money when he sold his orangutan because there are no repercussions for having a crazy, murderous monkey and there is a market for crazy, murderous monkeys. Most important of all was that Durden was right and that is all that really matters.
I think my satire does a good job of showing one of the strange characteristics of the detective genre is the odd character of the narrator. In the Poe stories the narrator does not even get a name he is purely a conduit for the amazing abilities of Dupin. In my satire I also focused on a strange quality the Dupin stories have. I could not find an instance where the Narrator and Dupin were acknowledged as separate people. They seem to always be presented as both being addressed and in much of the dialogue where they both speak it is feasible that one person could be giving both responses. For example at the beginning of “The Purloined Letter” the prefect is about to lay out the story of the letter when the narrator says, “Proceed” and Dupin says, “Or not.” It is feasible that one person spoke both of these lines. While rereading “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” I could not help but see corollaries to Chuck Palahniuk’s “Fight Club.” The dilapidated mansion, the eccentric idealized alter ego, the homoerotic, or perhaps autoerotic, undertones. I think that if the characters of Narrator/Dupin and Narrator/Tyler Durden were more thoroughly compared and analyzed we would see some interesting similarities. I think this is particularly apt given the fight club-esque nature of the new Sherlock Holmes film.
Beyond this I feel that my satire makes light of the seeming ease with which an everyday person could access a crime scene. There seems to be in all of these detective stories a willingness to allow just about anyone a crack at solving the murder. Today it is impossible to get information from the police about anything. Apparently in Victorian England all you needed was to be rather bizarre, or have a substance abuse problem and the chief of police would personally grant you permission to wander around and pick up evidence. I think my satire highlights the fact that in the Victorian detective genre the focus is not on the criminal or really the crime. The focus is the character of the detective. For this reason I sort of glossed over the events of the murder and the clarification of what happened in preference to focusing on the strange character of the detective and the peculiarity of his relationship with the narrator.
The Fantastic Adventures of the Super-Analyst (a Satire)
Episode 1: Mystery in the Rue Morgue
Before we start the narrative, I just thought I’d share this set of random rambling observations that may or may not eventually pertain to the actual story:
The ability to analyze is practically a superpower. While normal men may harness their physical strength, the analyst—who is infinitely more amazing—harnesses the power of the mind. The super-analyst doesn’t play chess, which is for sissies. A defined set of rules and moves is too simple for the analyst, who probably knows which move you’ll make before you do. No, the super-analyst plays whist, because he can see through everything you do and can pretty much read minds. The best chess-player is only good at chess, but being good at whist implies awesomeness in general. Super-analysts should not be mistaken for simple geniuses, by the way. Geniuses can’t use the Powers of Analysis and will never be as awesome as the Super-analysts, who wield not only the Powers of Analysis but also the Power of Imagination.
Now, assuming you haven’t dozed off, let’s continue. I was residing in Paris— (What? Who, me? I’m not quite important enough to have a name; I'm just here to write things down.) —I was residing in
Yet I was unaware of the truth of M. Dupre until a stroll around town one evening. We were walking in silence when all of a sudden Dupre exclaimed, “He’s rather short.”
“Of course,” I said, and then, when my mind caught up, I exclaimed, “how did you know what I was thinking?”
“I’m a Super-analyst. I know you went from thinking about chess to the fruiterer to the constellations to
“Amazing! How did you know I began with chess?”
“You’re just the type,” he said. It was then that I realized that he was a Super-analyst, that the mansion was his secret hideout, and that I was his sidekick.
We later read in the newspaper about an interesting murder case: Mme. L’Espoir and Mlle. Camille L’Espoir, who lived all alone in a street appropriately named the Rue Morgue, had roused the entire neighborhood with screams early one morning. Neighbors broke into the house—taking their sweet time to get to the room where the noise actually came from, because otherwise they’d know what had happened and there would be no story—and found the women dead. Their possessions had been scattered about, and there was blood all over, and just for fun Mlle L’Espoir’s body was found upside down in the chimney and Mme L’Espoir’s head came off.
Now, the neighbors who ran to the rescue all had different ideas about what happened. One thought one of the men who murdered the L’Espoirs was a Frenchman, another thought he was Italian, another English, another German, another Russian—and actually, it may have been a woman after all.
Dupre was naturally interested in the case. “The Parisian police,” scoffed he, “are perplexed by the lack of motive. The poor things aren’t even geniuses. They are mere shortsighted mortals—don’t they know that the best way to see a star is not to look at it at all? Come, Narrator. We have nothing better to do than to solve this case.”
And so, we found ourselves at the scene of the crime (of course we, as random citizens, were allowed access to it), where Dupre scrutinized everything in minute detail while saying absolutely nothing. And just for fun and to build suspense, he wouldn’t talk about the murder until the following day.
“Didn’t you notice anything peculiar?” He asked later. “Since no one could be sure what language the murderer spoke, it was obviously F. None Of The Above. Oh, and by the way, despite the danger I’m waiting for an accomplice to this whole shebang, so you should probably ready your pistol. Anyway, I imagined that there was probably a secret way of getting out of the window, and thanks to my Power of Imagination, there was, due to a conveniently broken nail. And though it seems there would be no way of getting down from such a high window, I’m quite sure it’s possible for anyone agile enough.”
“Could this have been done by a madman?” I asked.
“That,” said Dupre, “would make too much sense. Here, take a look at this hair.” He placed in my hand a strand of long white hair. “You will perceive that it is not a human hair. Remember that the women were cut, and one was stuffed up a chimney.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was a flying unicorn,” Dupre said.
I, of course, began laughing at the joke.
“No really,” he said. “It was a unicorn. Only a unicorn could have flown up to the window and cut the women with its horn.”
“How did it stuff Mlle L’Espoir up the chimney?”
“It’s a flying unicorn. It can do anything. Anyway, I’m sure someone must have recently misplaced a flying unicorn, so I advertised in the paper.”
Naturally, the man arrived and explained everything (once he saw Dupre’s Super-Analysis pistol), and of course it happened exactly as Dupre had said. The flying unicorn was later caught by its owner, no one was prosecuted, and all’s well that ends well (except for the L’Espoir women, I suppose).
“But it doesn’t quite add up,” the Prefect of Police said.
But the Prefect, as you and I now know, is only a man of genius, and he can never be expected to understand the true Powers of Analysis.
Response:
I wanted to combine a number of different aspects of detective fiction in the satire, and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” has most of the aspects I was interested in (likely because Poe sort of laid the groundwork for the genre).
I like the first-person aspect of the detective stories we’ve read, because it seems like it pulls the reader in closer than a third-person story would. The narrative style of the Dupin tales is particularly interesting, and I wanted to use (somewhat) the same narrative style that Poe uses, as it sounds as though the narrator is talking to the reader personally, as he often pauses to clarify himself or to make some statement about the purpose of a certain portion of the text.
Arrogance and pride have a place (however large or small) in all of the detective stories we’ve read. At times in this particular story, the narrator seemed quite proud and Dupin seemed arrogant, and I definitely wanted to play that up in the satire.
Additionally, I was interested in how dry Dupin’s character is. In comparison with Holmes, who is shooting up cocaine and/or morphine (I’m pretty sure at one point Watson asks which one he’s doing that day), Dupin is ridiculously tame and dry. I suppose that maybe in this story’s day, the secrets for his decline into poverty may have been interesting for the reader, but I couldn’t exactly say I was intrigued. It didn’t have any effect on his character except maybe his odd love of seclusion. Dupin seemed to exist only to analyze, and he wasn’t really a three-dimensional character (I’m sure you could argue otherwise, but for me, I had a hard time liking him as a person. I found myself interested in the plot more than the characters.)
The relationship between the main sleuth and his companion interested me as well. I don’t think that Dupin was exactly looking down on the narrator, as I sort of hinted, but it doesn’t seem like they have as equal (or somewhat-equal) of a relationship as Holmes does with Watson, who even did a little investigation on his own. The narrator seems—especially in this story—to be there mostly so that someone can write down Dupin’s adventures and be surprised at Dupin’s solutions to the cases (essentially, he’s just a sidekick).
I enjoyed all the talk about the power of the imagination, and how imagining what happened lets the detective sort of allow endless possibilities, even unrealistic ones, and narrow them down (and I think there was something similar in “Silver Blaze” where Holmes imagines what happens and it turns out to be true). So of course I exaggerated the imaginative aspect.
Finally, as for the ending: I know that there was all that evidence that an orangutan had committed the crime, but it really felt more like a cop-out ending to me. It was such a wild ending to what had previously been a tame story that it shocked me. It was almost like Poe couldn’t think of an actual ending that would fit realistically, so he made up this thing about an escaped orangutan (I mean, really?). The twist was fantastic, of course, but I had been hoping for something more realistic.
All in all, though, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” makes a great groundwork for future detective stories, since you can kind of see the sources for all of the classic tropes.
Exploration of the Private Life through Television
The Adventures of Harland Bennet is a T.V. show series starring the new detective on the gloomy streets of London, Harland Bennet. Bennet is a detective modeled after the infamous Sherlock Holmes. He longs for adventure and the thrill of the chase to conquer the villain. The viewer will follow Bennet into the depths of the murder, and believe me your hands will get dirty. However similar to Sherlock Holmes, Bennet’s life is anything but average. The viewers are allowed to immerse themselves into the story and get a full view of his private life. The Adventures of Harland Bennet gives the Victorians a chance to lift up the tablecloth and view the intricate and beautiful design of the table foot.
I decided to create a television show to relate the craving for peering into the private life in Victorian Era to the craving of the private life today. The television show allows the viewer to see inside the life of the London detective, Harland Bennet. This connection allows the viewer to understand Victorian England through the aspect of mass media. Sherlock Holmes was such a hit that many people had a difficult believing that he was not a real person, merely a fictional character. Today, many people believe characters from books and even television shows are real people.
This television show, The Adventures of Harland Bennet, not only presents the start of the spread of mass media and its influence on a culture but, it also attempts to define a detective character. As we have discussed previously in class, there are three things that determine detective fiction: a detective who detects, the detective being the protagonist, and the detective has to triumph over the criminal. However since mass media has greatly influenced the culture it has consumed, the Adventures of Harland Bennet challenges the ramifications of detective fiction. It presents a challenge for whether the detective actually triumphs over the criminal or becomes one himself. I chose to challenge these ramifications of what defines detective fiction because modern mass media challenges all of society’s’ norms and gets away with it.
The question is: Is Harland Bennet a villain?
The Adventures of Harland Bennet: a Detective TV Show Series in Victorian England
Tune in every Tuesday from 7-7:30 p.m.
Episode 1: Missing by the Pond
The candle flickered in the back corner flashing violent shadows across the wall. Horse drawn carriages hurriedly splashed through puddles, as the wind howled through the barren streets. Harland Bennet sat up from the bed and traced her full outline, from collarbone to the lower part of her belly button. Gliding across the room, he picked up the chicory colored pipe, opened the red box, and stuffed his pipe as the tobacco aroma filled the bedroom. He lingered over to the window, pipe resting between his chapped lips, lit a match, pressed it up against the tobacco and deeply inhaled. With each puff, his eyes stayed glued to the window.
Eva stirred and sat up in his bed, her tussled red curls fell slightly below her breasts, barely covering her nipples. Like a mysterious mermaid, she ventured over to the red velvet chair and dressed herself in a blue silk robe, which was beaded down the sleeves. She popped open her silver cigarette case that lay on the bedside table, lit it off of the candle and placed her hand on Harland’s shoulder. He remained still, eyes fixed upon the dingy, paned window.
She rested her lips on the outside of his earlobe and whispered, “Gloomy London?” And her green eyes lifted in reference to the streets out beyond the window.
Without a response, Harland ventured over to the coffee table. It was littered with shards of tobacco, a bag of heroine, news paper clippings, and various newspaper headlines: “Detective Bennet Does it Again, McNabbe Jailed,” “The Murder of Madame Nerlame: Case Closed.” He pulled a tiny gold pocket watch from the top of the table, popped the top down. It read 4:15 a.m.
“You better get going Eva, I have work to do,” Harland said while lifting his pipe from his lips as white smoke curved around his exhaled breathe.
Eva walked slowly towards him, “Why so early tonight?”
“I have a lot on my mind,” he gestured toward his head with his pipe. Without further explanation, she stepped into the dark corner by the bed and clothed herself. Harland usually enjoyed watching her, the way she tightened her corset, rolled her stockings up her thighs, and pulled her red locks up in a chignon bun. But not this morning, his mind was other places.
Before pulling the latch to leave his bedroom, Eva lingered over to Harland, stroked his upper thigh and kissed him on the lips. “Toddles,” she murmured, placed her silver cigarette case in her pocket, and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Harland ventured towards his armoire, clothed himself, and sat back down on the red velvet chair facing the window. He pulled the gold wedding band from the depths of his front pant pocket and placed it on his cold ring finger. He gently picked up the blue cloth that resided on the bedside table next to his red tobacco box. Picked up the small syringe hidden inside the smooth cloth, he filled it with a hit of heroine, pierced his upper forearm. His ring finger pushed the trigger in, sighing delightfully, “Sometimes Eva just doesn’t entertain the mind enough.”
He enjoyed the silence as he stared down at the gloomy London streets.
Shortly after Harland concealed the syringe back in its blue cloth, there was a knock on his bedroom door. He stuffed the wedding band back into his front pocket, strolled toward the door and opened it, not surprised to find Rufus Waynefield, the Lieutenant of the London police department, standing there short of breathe and dark circles cupping his bottom eyelids.
“Good Morning Bennet, pardon for bothering you at this ungodly hour, but it is urgent,” Waynefield muttered as he walked towards the fireplace after throwing his coat on the coat hanger along with his fedora. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead and he rubbed it off with his pudgy round fist. He picked up the glass container of whiskey on the mantel, poured a small amount into a cup, put it to his lips and kicked it back. As he backed away from the mantel, the flame of the candle caught the edge of his silver badge, pinned strategically below his collarbone, and it cast a glinted streak of light across the room.
“Not a problem Rufus. It is keen time for another case.” Harland pulled his watch from his pocket, 5:30 a.m. He strolled over to the window and stared out blankly.
“Luke Levanti, the manager of London Federal Bank, went missing last night at eight o’clock. The last anyone saw him was standing in the National Park near the bridge and it was as if he disappeared in the deep fog. I sent out a crew to cover the premises, the dogs are tracking the area. We need you out there, looking for clues, doing what you do best Bennet.”
“Let us waste no time,” Harland murmured. He went over to his closet picked a black cloak, swung it over his shoulder, stuffed the pipe in his mouth and stormed out the bedroom door, with the thrill of the chase on his mind. Waynefield followed hurriedly behind.
The thinning fog clung to their cloaks as they hurried down the cobbled stone path toward the horse carriage. Once inside the carriage, Harland and Waynefield sat quietly listening to the trotting hoofs pounding down the rickety path. The carriage slowed to a halt as they approached the edge of the park. As they descended the carriage, the first rays of morning bent around the tall elm trees; the stubborn fog only let three rays shine through.
Waynefield turned to Harland, “The police force has been searching for a couple of hours, searching for remnants of where he could have been taken too, and the possible perpetrator.”
Without a further word from Waynefield, Harland scanned the perimeter of the park. He pulled out his pipe and a small box of matches wedged in his cloak pocket. He lit the tobacco remnants that clung to the inside of the pipe. He strolled over to the bridge following the large, wet footprints in the mud. The bridge was covered in the early morning dew, moist and slippery. Harland noticed a thick green streak of algae wedged between two bricks. He peered over the side of the bridge into the glass like pond below, untainted and naive. While peering deeply into the water, he was brought back to that night, the night he wished he could forget. He flashed back to the night it happened. It haunted his dreams.
He saw her face in the pond, bubbles flying out of her mouth feverishly. Her arms flailing above her head, gasping for breathe. Panting and craving for attention, longing for him to rescue her from the bottomless pit of water. Her eyes resembled dusty marbles left abandoned under the bed as oxygen left her body. Her eyes spoke her impending fate. All he could do was stare and long to save her. He was too high to save her, to call for help, to do anything. He stood tears streaming his face as the water swallowed her whole.
He emerged from the flashback with his pupils elongated, and hands extended screaming. He took three forceful steps away from the bridge; his right arm shook uncontrollably. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of his temple. He felt into the depths of his pocket, felt his wedding band, and longed for the feeling of the syringe gently pushed into his arm. He longed for his mind to find a release stronger than Eva; he longed for the heroine.
Harland spoke aloud to himself:
“Could I be the villain for not trying to save her? It goes against everything I stand for as a detective, searching for a villain of the crime. I let her drowned. I let my wife drown in the lake. What kind of detective am I?”
I decided to create a television show to relate the craving for peering into the private life in Victorian Era to the craving of the private life today. The television show allows the viewer to see inside the life of the London detective, Harland Bennet. This connection allows the viewer to understand Victorian England through the aspect of mass media. Sherlock Holmes was such a hit that many people had a difficult believing that he was not a real person, merely a fictional character. Today, many people believe characters from books and even television shows are real people.
This television show, The Adventures of Harland Bennet, not only presents the start of the spread of mass media and its influence on a culture but, it also attempts to define a detective character. As we have discussed previously in class, there are three things that determine detective fiction: a detective who detects, the detective being the protagonist, and the detective has to triumph over the criminal. However since mass media has greatly influenced the culture it has consumed, the Adventures of Harland Bennet challenges the ramifications of detective fiction. It presents a challenge for whether the detective actually triumphs over the criminal or becomes one himself. I chose to challenge these ramifications of what defines detective fiction because modern mass media challenges all of society’s’ norms and gets away with it.
The question is: Is Harland Bennet a villain?
The Adventures of Harland Bennet: a Detective TV Show Series in Victorian England
Tune in every Tuesday from 7-7:30 p.m.
Episode 1: Missing by the Pond
The candle flickered in the back corner flashing violent shadows across the wall. Horse drawn carriages hurriedly splashed through puddles, as the wind howled through the barren streets. Harland Bennet sat up from the bed and traced her full outline, from collarbone to the lower part of her belly button. Gliding across the room, he picked up the chicory colored pipe, opened the red box, and stuffed his pipe as the tobacco aroma filled the bedroom. He lingered over to the window, pipe resting between his chapped lips, lit a match, pressed it up against the tobacco and deeply inhaled. With each puff, his eyes stayed glued to the window.
Eva stirred and sat up in his bed, her tussled red curls fell slightly below her breasts, barely covering her nipples. Like a mysterious mermaid, she ventured over to the red velvet chair and dressed herself in a blue silk robe, which was beaded down the sleeves. She popped open her silver cigarette case that lay on the bedside table, lit it off of the candle and placed her hand on Harland’s shoulder. He remained still, eyes fixed upon the dingy, paned window.
She rested her lips on the outside of his earlobe and whispered, “Gloomy London?” And her green eyes lifted in reference to the streets out beyond the window.
Without a response, Harland ventured over to the coffee table. It was littered with shards of tobacco, a bag of heroine, news paper clippings, and various newspaper headlines: “Detective Bennet Does it Again, McNabbe Jailed,” “The Murder of Madame Nerlame: Case Closed.” He pulled a tiny gold pocket watch from the top of the table, popped the top down. It read 4:15 a.m.
“You better get going Eva, I have work to do,” Harland said while lifting his pipe from his lips as white smoke curved around his exhaled breathe.
Eva walked slowly towards him, “Why so early tonight?”
“I have a lot on my mind,” he gestured toward his head with his pipe. Without further explanation, she stepped into the dark corner by the bed and clothed herself. Harland usually enjoyed watching her, the way she tightened her corset, rolled her stockings up her thighs, and pulled her red locks up in a chignon bun. But not this morning, his mind was other places.
Before pulling the latch to leave his bedroom, Eva lingered over to Harland, stroked his upper thigh and kissed him on the lips. “Toddles,” she murmured, placed her silver cigarette case in her pocket, and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Harland ventured towards his armoire, clothed himself, and sat back down on the red velvet chair facing the window. He pulled the gold wedding band from the depths of his front pant pocket and placed it on his cold ring finger. He gently picked up the blue cloth that resided on the bedside table next to his red tobacco box. Picked up the small syringe hidden inside the smooth cloth, he filled it with a hit of heroine, pierced his upper forearm. His ring finger pushed the trigger in, sighing delightfully, “Sometimes Eva just doesn’t entertain the mind enough.”
He enjoyed the silence as he stared down at the gloomy London streets.
Shortly after Harland concealed the syringe back in its blue cloth, there was a knock on his bedroom door. He stuffed the wedding band back into his front pocket, strolled toward the door and opened it, not surprised to find Rufus Waynefield, the Lieutenant of the London police department, standing there short of breathe and dark circles cupping his bottom eyelids.
“Good Morning Bennet, pardon for bothering you at this ungodly hour, but it is urgent,” Waynefield muttered as he walked towards the fireplace after throwing his coat on the coat hanger along with his fedora. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead and he rubbed it off with his pudgy round fist. He picked up the glass container of whiskey on the mantel, poured a small amount into a cup, put it to his lips and kicked it back. As he backed away from the mantel, the flame of the candle caught the edge of his silver badge, pinned strategically below his collarbone, and it cast a glinted streak of light across the room.
“Not a problem Rufus. It is keen time for another case.” Harland pulled his watch from his pocket, 5:30 a.m. He strolled over to the window and stared out blankly.
“Luke Levanti, the manager of London Federal Bank, went missing last night at eight o’clock. The last anyone saw him was standing in the National Park near the bridge and it was as if he disappeared in the deep fog. I sent out a crew to cover the premises, the dogs are tracking the area. We need you out there, looking for clues, doing what you do best Bennet.”
“Let us waste no time,” Harland murmured. He went over to his closet picked a black cloak, swung it over his shoulder, stuffed the pipe in his mouth and stormed out the bedroom door, with the thrill of the chase on his mind. Waynefield followed hurriedly behind.
The thinning fog clung to their cloaks as they hurried down the cobbled stone path toward the horse carriage. Once inside the carriage, Harland and Waynefield sat quietly listening to the trotting hoofs pounding down the rickety path. The carriage slowed to a halt as they approached the edge of the park. As they descended the carriage, the first rays of morning bent around the tall elm trees; the stubborn fog only let three rays shine through.
Waynefield turned to Harland, “The police force has been searching for a couple of hours, searching for remnants of where he could have been taken too, and the possible perpetrator.”
Without a further word from Waynefield, Harland scanned the perimeter of the park. He pulled out his pipe and a small box of matches wedged in his cloak pocket. He lit the tobacco remnants that clung to the inside of the pipe. He strolled over to the bridge following the large, wet footprints in the mud. The bridge was covered in the early morning dew, moist and slippery. Harland noticed a thick green streak of algae wedged between two bricks. He peered over the side of the bridge into the glass like pond below, untainted and naive. While peering deeply into the water, he was brought back to that night, the night he wished he could forget. He flashed back to the night it happened. It haunted his dreams.
He saw her face in the pond, bubbles flying out of her mouth feverishly. Her arms flailing above her head, gasping for breathe. Panting and craving for attention, longing for him to rescue her from the bottomless pit of water. Her eyes resembled dusty marbles left abandoned under the bed as oxygen left her body. Her eyes spoke her impending fate. All he could do was stare and long to save her. He was too high to save her, to call for help, to do anything. He stood tears streaming his face as the water swallowed her whole.
He emerged from the flashback with his pupils elongated, and hands extended screaming. He took three forceful steps away from the bridge; his right arm shook uncontrollably. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of his temple. He felt into the depths of his pocket, felt his wedding band, and longed for the feeling of the syringe gently pushed into his arm. He longed for his mind to find a release stronger than Eva; he longed for the heroine.
Harland spoke aloud to himself:
“Could I be the villain for not trying to save her? It goes against everything I stand for as a detective, searching for a villain of the crime. I let her drowned. I let my wife drown in the lake. What kind of detective am I?”
The Adventure of the Final Problem: the Lost Sherlock Holmes Story
www.imdb.com/theadventureofthefinalproblem
IMDB (Internet Movie Database)
THE ADVENTURE OF THE FINAL PROBLEM (2010)
User rating: 0.2 out of 10 stars (based on 293481908 reviews)
Down 97% in popularity this week. (See why on IMBD pro.)
Director: Holly Combs
Writer: Holly Combs (screenplay)
Release Date: 20 April 2010 (USA)
Genre: Satire
Tagline: The lost story of Sherlock Holmes
Plot: (SPOILER ALERT!) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has survived two wives, a son, and numerous other family members. Also, Doyle is tired of being associated with Sherlock Holmes because many believe that he is Sherlock Holmes, and at this time, he is attempting to write his final Sherlock Holmes adventure, in which Holmes will meet his death. Doyle is in a deep depression because of the many deaths in his family, and he is having trouble writing because of this. During a particularly bad episode of writer's block, he decides to call his old friend, magician Harry Houdini, to ask him for advice.
Because of Doyle's depression, he starts to become delusional as he talks to his old friend. Doyle asks Houdini to bring his family back to life with his magic powers. When Houdini explains that he does not truly possess magical powers and that his tricks are merely illusions, Doyle becomes irate. He accuses Houdini of being in cahoots with fairies and ends their friendship. Houdini is confused and offended.
Doyle finds inspiration in his anger and sets out to write the best Sherlock Holmes story that he can. He begins writing:
Sherlock Holmes loved cocaine. He loves everything about it that kept his mind busy. However, his dearest friend Dr. Watson was not such a fan of the stuff. One day, Sherlock Holmes is in his study, doing cocaine, when Watson interrupts. Watson is worried that Holmes is doing too many drugs, and he decides that he could no longer be around Holmes when he is doing so many drugs. Watson leaves Holmes to his cocaine, and Holmes decides that cocaine is his new best friend and his replacement Watson.
Almost immediately after Watson walks out on Holmes, a red-headed damsel in distress appears at Holmes' doorstep. The damsel begs for Holmes to solve a mystery for her, and he accepts the case. Holmes ventures out to look for clues whilst drinking and smoking his pipe. He is wandering down a hallway when he begins to feel that a clue could be near.
At this time, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle takes a break from writing to wallow in his sadness and to send Harry Houdini a text saying that his story is going well and that he knows that Houdini is truly magical.
Doyle then goes back to writing:
Holmes finds a clue in the hallway but realizes a second too late that the clue has been a set-up. A masked man comes up behind Holmes, beats him unconscious, and captures him. When Holmes reawakens, he is duct taped to a chair in a super villain's lair. He realizes that cocaine was no substitute for his friend Watson, but again, his realization comes too late. The masked man who kidnapped Holmes appears and reveals himself to be Harry Houdini, or Fairy Houdini, King of the Fairies. Holmes remarks, "The illusions were real," before Houdini uses his fairy powers to force choke Holmes to death, laughing maniacally all the while.
Once Holmes is dead, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle decides that he doesn't like where the story has gone; he decides to write an entire book on the existence of fairies instead.
Plot Keywords: Satire, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, fairies, Harry Houdini, mystery, Sherlock Holmes, detective, drug abuse
User Reviews:
"Though the cinematography and acting are questionable, I can appreciate The Adventure of the Final Problem for what it is: a satire. Combs chooses to focus on the time in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's life when he was the least stable (and arguably the most interesting). Many may find it hard to believe that such an intelligent man (a knighted doctor and famed writer) died fighting to convince the world that fairies exist, but this is true to his biography. I personally believe that by the time that Doyle began ranting about fairies, he may have been going through a version of Post-traumtic Stress Syndrome or just a sort of delusional depression brought on by the numerous deaths in his family, especially that of his beloved wife Louisa, but this is only speculation. In Doyle's life he truly was friends with magician Harry Houdini, and they really did have a public falling out because Doyle believed Houdini to be magical when Houdini insisted his tricks were merely illusion. Though these events were not as closely related as Combs portrayed them in her film, they were both eccentricities dealing with spiritualism that arose in Doyle's later life, and I can understand why she would link them in the satire. Many biographers believe that Doyle began to go mad in his later years, and if this is the case, the portrait of Doyle in this film is accurate. Also, the title of the film, The Adventure of the Final Problem, is very close to the name of the story where Doyle actually kills off Sherlock Holmes, which is just called "The Final Problem." Perhaps the audience should be led to believe that the film is an early draft of this story or a re-write of it.
However, Combs' film not only pokes fun at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for his ridiculous beliefs, but also pokes fun at the character Sherlock Holmes, grossly exaggerating his love of drugs, as depicted in "The Sign of Four." In the film, Holmes replaces his companion Watson with cocaine because Watson doesn't want to be around when Holmes does drugs. In the short story, Watson also objects to Holmes' drug use. Because Watson is absent during most of Combs' film, Holmes drinks too much, does too many drugs, and has no one to look out for him during his expeditions. Because of this, Holmes falls into a trap and is captured by a magician/fairy and killed. This attempts to show the importance of Watson's character in Doyle's short stories. Watson takes care of of Holmes in many ways and helps Holmes despite his arrogance. Holmes needs Watson to come to his rescue, just like in "The Empty House," when Watson needed Holmes to help him solve the mystery.
The satirical detective story in Combs' tale falls just short of the Ellery Queen standards. In this version of Sherlock Holmes, there is a detective who detects, though sometimes he detects incorrectly (which leads him to being kidnapped). This detective is the protagonist, though he may be more of an anti-hero in this telling, as his drug problems seem to rule his life and he's a dick to his friend Watson who cares about him. However, the Holmes does not triumph over the criminal. In fact, he is killed by the criminal. This laughable criminal ("Fairy Houdini") is supposed to be a spoof off of Harry Houdini. Doyle is angry at Houdini and perhaps believes that if he models the villain who kills Sherlock Holmes after him, fans of Sherlock Holmes will turn against Houdini.
In many detective stories I have read, there is at least one character with wild (and incorrect) suppositions as to how the crime can be solved. These characters are unable to use simple logic with deduction and induction in the way that genius detective like Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin are able to. Characters like Utterson (The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), the police (Poe's Dupin Stories), and Sharpin (The Biter Bit) are quick to jump to conclusions concerning the crimes they inspect without looking logically at the possibilities. After years of writing stories about a genius of logic and then becoming entangled with his character, in Doyle's later years, his beliefs turned out to be less rooted in logic and more deeply rooted in fantasy (for example, his main argument for the existence of fairies was based on obviously doctored photos of fairies). This is drastically different from what many would expect the creator of Sherlock Holmes to believe. Combs' film does a great job of showing the illogical side of Doyle and then imposing that ridiculous side of him on the character he was so often mistaken for.
I give it ten stars."
-moviegoerjoe7827
"This movie sucks. The acting is terrible. The voice-overs remind me of bad Kung-fu movies.
I give it half a star."
-littlevickyzombie42
"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is HOT.
I give his body 10 stars."
-elementarywatson55
The Case of the (Not Really) Missing Elements of Detective Fiction!
Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
Albus Dumbledore
The rain splattered the streets of Pensacola, Florida as the brothers, El and Ery made their silent journey to their destination. The house wasn’t hard to find; it was the only one with lighted windows and a smoking chimney at 2 o’clock in the morning. After only two knocks on the door, the brothers were allowed inside.
“I knew you would come eventually,” the owner of the house resumed his seat nearest the fire. He was puffing on a pipe that emitted bubbles, rather than smoke. El and Ery exchanged glances before seating themselves on the velvet sofa.
“Oh, yes I knew you would come,” Sir Sleuthsalot puffed on his faux pipe thoughtfully. “I have read about your missing elements, and I shall take on the case myself! This is why you have sought me at this hour, is it not?”
“Right on all accounts!” El was relieved that they could skip the introduction of the case. Naturally, the press had been all over them for the story, so there wasn’t much to say. “I daresay you have a lead then?”
“Why, I have three leads!” Sir Sleuthsalot stood up dramatically.
“Thank you, detective!” The brothers asked simultaneously.
“I know where our first crime scene is located, let us not waste time!” Sleuthsalot grabbed his coat and beckoned the brothers to follow.
The detective led them to a very dark and partially flooded alleyway. There was a single door at the end of this dark, tunnel-like path, and it was locked.
“Never fear, my friends!” Sleuthsalot rummaged in his pocket and produced a key. “The original crime that took place here has long been forgotten; however, some clues are never too old to be analyzed.” He jammed the rusty key into the rustier lock, and with miraculous luck, the door opened.
After fiddling with the lights, Sleuthsalot revealed that they were standing in the laboratory of the dreaded Dr. Heckle. The brothers remembered hearing tales of the horrible monstrosity Dr. Heckle created that resulted in the murders of many victims and eventually the doctor himself. The brothers watched as Sleuthsalot prowled around the room, searching for something that they obviously did not see.
“Yes, it is just as I expected,” Sleuthsalot chuckled as he straightened up. “Can you, my dear friends, see what is wrong about this scene?”
The brothers looked around with slight creases between their eyebrows. Sure, they could spot the mysterious liquids glinting poisonously in their crystal vials, and they saw the broken glass and smashed tables, but they knew these were not what Sir Sleuthsalot was interested in.
“Give up?” Sleuthsalot asked, still chuckling. “It is because the thing I was looking for isn’t here. There was never a detective on the case for the mysteries of Dr. Heckle! There is one of your missing elements, and you’re very welcome.” He stared smugly at the brothers.
“Well, all right,” the brothers figured that made some sense. “Now, what about the other--”
“We’re already on our way!” Sleuthsalot was halfway out the door before the brothers caught up.
The next crime scene was a secluded house on Paris Ave. Sleuthsalot magically had the key to this building, as well, and the trio was now standing in a very plush and dimly-lit study.
“This, El and Ery, is the study of the famous detective DuPoboy.” Sleuthsalot waited for the brothers to look impressed. Instead, they merely grimaced. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Oh, we’ve read the stories of DuPoboy.” Ery explained.
“But we were never huge fans of his boring explanations on how he solved his crimes.” El admitted, shrugging.
“Ah, but there lies one of your other elements!” Sleuthsalot wagged his finger at the brothers. “DuPoboy’s explanations monopolized his stories. He was also the one doing the detecting, which made him the protagonist of his tale. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, I suppose so—.”
“Then we move on to crime scene number three!” Sleuthsalot paused before he reached the door this time. “However, I appear to be missing an important part for my detective story that is introduced by the DuPoboy tales. I must have a narrator!”
The brothers stared at each other. Neither knew what to tell Sir Sleuthsalot. They both felt that a disembodied narrator was doing just swimmingly.
“Do you feel a narrator is extremely crucial for detective fiction, Sir Sleuthsalot?” El asked the detective.
“No, no,” Sleuthsalot waved his hand impatiently. “The narrator just makes things interesting and keeps the detective company. He is, however, rather handy, and I would like to have one.”
“I don’t mind narrating your sleuthing.” Ery boldly offered himself up for the position.
“Nonsense, neither of you is allowed to narrate!” Sleuthsalot waved his hand impatiently. “I need someone not involved in the crime!” He stepped into the street and grabbed the first man he could find. “Sir, what’s your name?”
“Name’s Greg,” a gruff man who appeared to be homeless answered. “Whatchoo want?”
“I need a narrator to be my companion and to record the multiple cases I shall solve!” Sleuthsalot declared dramatically.
“So, I can live with yas, then?”
“Of course.”
“OK, I’m in.” Greg took over for narrating.
-
The next place this fancy guy with the bubble pipe took us was some house in the middle of town. I tried casing this place once in my day, but I only ended up tackling wax busts of what appeared to be a dude. Man, try latching on to that in the middle of the night. I never walked near this house again—
“Greg, if you want a hot meal and a place to stay, you have to narrate correctly!”
Right, so, now that I have to be a fancy man, I gotta talk real smooth.
Anyway, Sleuthsalot led us into the house and into another study. This one seemed much more interesting than the other house. There were crazy inventions, newspaper clippings, and various instruments strewn across the floor and onto cluttered desks. It seemed a much more lively man studied here than in the other house.
“And this,” Sleuthsalot paused for dramatic effect. “Is the legendary study of E. Teephone Homes, the greatest detective to date!” Now, this time, I saw the faces of El and Ery light up.
“Yes, we were hoping you’d bring us here!” El exclaimed happily as he watched Sleuthsalot begin searching the study. “Mr. Homes has quite the reputation of being a great detective!”
“As he rightly should!” Sleuthsalot sat in the armchair closest to the fire and closed his eyes. It was as if the spirit of E. Teephone Homes was residing in the armchair itself.
I sure hope not, because I don’t mess with no ghosts!
“He has the qualities of DuPoboy, yet he is much more personable and active in solving his crimes. His narrator, Watson is rather charming, too. I must apply for one of these!”
This is the part where I turned angrily from Sleuthsalot and strode for the door. My cardboard box by the beach was sounding better by the minute.
“Oh, Greg, come back!” Sleuthsalot called for him. “I shall enroll you in medical school, and all will be well! You will see!”
I returned to the study to find Sleuthsalot now standing up and the two brothers sitting down.
“So, you see, here are your three elements.” Sleuthsalot held out three fingers and brought one down with each element. “The first one is the detective himself who solves the crime. The crime does not have to have a motive, but it must be a case to crack! The second is the detective being the protagonist of his tale, as DuPoboy exhibited. The third, which rounds out the perfect detective that is E. Teephone Homes, is the use of empirical study and deductive reasoning to solve a crime. Since I am a well-known detective myself, I knew what the three missing elements were from the beginning. I have exhibited the third element perfectly by attending each crime scene and physically looking for clues (or lack thereof) in order to fit them into the big picture. My actions exhibit deductive reasoning and have also solved your crime.”
I turned from Sleuthsalot’s beaming face to El and Ery’s confused ones. They appeared to not be satisfied with my new roommate’s conclusion.
“But, Sir Sleuthsalot,” El began quietly. “We know what the three elements are. We, afterall, came up with them.”
“Oh, well, I knew them already so I did not feel the need to ask you—.”
“But you did not get the third one.” Ery cut Sleuthsalot off. “The detective who detects and the detective being the protagonist are, indeed, the first two elements. The third, however, is the detective triumphing over a criminal of some sort. We came to you, not really to find the three elements separately but to find all three of them together within one detective story.”
At the mention of triumphing over a criminal, I attempted to edge over to the exit. You see, I had some hot watches in the inside pocket of my coat, and I’d rather hang onto them for the time being—
“Get back in here, Greg!” Sleuthsalot snapped. “I must apologize, my dear friends, but I declare your case unsolvable. For you see, I have my own theory as to why your elements never appear to be in the same story at once. All of the elements of detective fiction rely in the act of detection itself. Sure the characters, crimes, and motives might be a little tweaked here and there, but that’s what makes detective novels so interesting. We, as readers, merely need a vehicle through which we can solve the crime or puzzle presented to us.” He fastened the buttons of his coat and took out his bubble pipe. “I hope this act of detection has brought you the answers you need. Come, Greg, we’re off to medical school!”
I happily followed my new partner into the dark and stormy night.
I wrote my story to express how silly the Ellery brothers’ 3 qualities of detective fiction are. According to their list, none of the stories we’ve read are 100% detective fiction, yet they are all undoubtedly forefathers of the detective genre. I started the story with a crime scene similar to Jekyll’s laboratory to show that the crime itself is what initially begins the detecting that takes place in a detective novel. The first two elements are obviously necessary for a true detective novel. Without the detective as the protagonist, the reader would lose sight of actually solving the crime. The greatest detectives, Dupin and Holmes, are both intriguing characters who walk the line between hero and villain. These types of characters intrigue the reader to continue solving the crime with the detective. I had my detective progress through the stories in the order read in class, not only for sequential purposes, but also to show the evolution of the detective novel. From the introduction of the crime and the criminal, (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde) to the well-developed detective of Victorian England (Sherlock Holmes,) the detective genre has evolved and adapted to the readership of Victorian England. I think my story would be appropriate for Victorian England (minus some of the places and names) because it falls into place with the mainstream detective novels while vouching for the actual detection that initially draws in the reader. It also shows that while the Ellery brothers’ 3 qualities are often good additions to detective novels, they do not (and often are not) simultaneously in a story. I also added the epigraph, because most detective novels have one, and Dumbledore’s words at the beginning of Harry Potter’s first term at Hogwarts have always been a few of my favorites.
Albus Dumbledore
The rain splattered the streets of Pensacola, Florida as the brothers, El and Ery made their silent journey to their destination. The house wasn’t hard to find; it was the only one with lighted windows and a smoking chimney at 2 o’clock in the morning. After only two knocks on the door, the brothers were allowed inside.
“I knew you would come eventually,” the owner of the house resumed his seat nearest the fire. He was puffing on a pipe that emitted bubbles, rather than smoke. El and Ery exchanged glances before seating themselves on the velvet sofa.
“Oh, yes I knew you would come,” Sir Sleuthsalot puffed on his faux pipe thoughtfully. “I have read about your missing elements, and I shall take on the case myself! This is why you have sought me at this hour, is it not?”
“Right on all accounts!” El was relieved that they could skip the introduction of the case. Naturally, the press had been all over them for the story, so there wasn’t much to say. “I daresay you have a lead then?”
“Why, I have three leads!” Sir Sleuthsalot stood up dramatically.
“Thank you, detective!” The brothers asked simultaneously.
“I know where our first crime scene is located, let us not waste time!” Sleuthsalot grabbed his coat and beckoned the brothers to follow.
The detective led them to a very dark and partially flooded alleyway. There was a single door at the end of this dark, tunnel-like path, and it was locked.
“Never fear, my friends!” Sleuthsalot rummaged in his pocket and produced a key. “The original crime that took place here has long been forgotten; however, some clues are never too old to be analyzed.” He jammed the rusty key into the rustier lock, and with miraculous luck, the door opened.
After fiddling with the lights, Sleuthsalot revealed that they were standing in the laboratory of the dreaded Dr. Heckle. The brothers remembered hearing tales of the horrible monstrosity Dr. Heckle created that resulted in the murders of many victims and eventually the doctor himself. The brothers watched as Sleuthsalot prowled around the room, searching for something that they obviously did not see.
“Yes, it is just as I expected,” Sleuthsalot chuckled as he straightened up. “Can you, my dear friends, see what is wrong about this scene?”
The brothers looked around with slight creases between their eyebrows. Sure, they could spot the mysterious liquids glinting poisonously in their crystal vials, and they saw the broken glass and smashed tables, but they knew these were not what Sir Sleuthsalot was interested in.
“Give up?” Sleuthsalot asked, still chuckling. “It is because the thing I was looking for isn’t here. There was never a detective on the case for the mysteries of Dr. Heckle! There is one of your missing elements, and you’re very welcome.” He stared smugly at the brothers.
“Well, all right,” the brothers figured that made some sense. “Now, what about the other--”
“We’re already on our way!” Sleuthsalot was halfway out the door before the brothers caught up.
The next crime scene was a secluded house on Paris Ave. Sleuthsalot magically had the key to this building, as well, and the trio was now standing in a very plush and dimly-lit study.
“This, El and Ery, is the study of the famous detective DuPoboy.” Sleuthsalot waited for the brothers to look impressed. Instead, they merely grimaced. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Oh, we’ve read the stories of DuPoboy.” Ery explained.
“But we were never huge fans of his boring explanations on how he solved his crimes.” El admitted, shrugging.
“Ah, but there lies one of your other elements!” Sleuthsalot wagged his finger at the brothers. “DuPoboy’s explanations monopolized his stories. He was also the one doing the detecting, which made him the protagonist of his tale. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, I suppose so—.”
“Then we move on to crime scene number three!” Sleuthsalot paused before he reached the door this time. “However, I appear to be missing an important part for my detective story that is introduced by the DuPoboy tales. I must have a narrator!”
The brothers stared at each other. Neither knew what to tell Sir Sleuthsalot. They both felt that a disembodied narrator was doing just swimmingly.
“Do you feel a narrator is extremely crucial for detective fiction, Sir Sleuthsalot?” El asked the detective.
“No, no,” Sleuthsalot waved his hand impatiently. “The narrator just makes things interesting and keeps the detective company. He is, however, rather handy, and I would like to have one.”
“I don’t mind narrating your sleuthing.” Ery boldly offered himself up for the position.
“Nonsense, neither of you is allowed to narrate!” Sleuthsalot waved his hand impatiently. “I need someone not involved in the crime!” He stepped into the street and grabbed the first man he could find. “Sir, what’s your name?”
“Name’s Greg,” a gruff man who appeared to be homeless answered. “Whatchoo want?”
“I need a narrator to be my companion and to record the multiple cases I shall solve!” Sleuthsalot declared dramatically.
“So, I can live with yas, then?”
“Of course.”
“OK, I’m in.” Greg took over for narrating.
-
The next place this fancy guy with the bubble pipe took us was some house in the middle of town. I tried casing this place once in my day, but I only ended up tackling wax busts of what appeared to be a dude. Man, try latching on to that in the middle of the night. I never walked near this house again—
“Greg, if you want a hot meal and a place to stay, you have to narrate correctly!”
Right, so, now that I have to be a fancy man, I gotta talk real smooth.
Anyway, Sleuthsalot led us into the house and into another study. This one seemed much more interesting than the other house. There were crazy inventions, newspaper clippings, and various instruments strewn across the floor and onto cluttered desks. It seemed a much more lively man studied here than in the other house.
“And this,” Sleuthsalot paused for dramatic effect. “Is the legendary study of E. Teephone Homes, the greatest detective to date!” Now, this time, I saw the faces of El and Ery light up.
“Yes, we were hoping you’d bring us here!” El exclaimed happily as he watched Sleuthsalot begin searching the study. “Mr. Homes has quite the reputation of being a great detective!”
“As he rightly should!” Sleuthsalot sat in the armchair closest to the fire and closed his eyes. It was as if the spirit of E. Teephone Homes was residing in the armchair itself.
I sure hope not, because I don’t mess with no ghosts!
“He has the qualities of DuPoboy, yet he is much more personable and active in solving his crimes. His narrator, Watson is rather charming, too. I must apply for one of these!”
This is the part where I turned angrily from Sleuthsalot and strode for the door. My cardboard box by the beach was sounding better by the minute.
“Oh, Greg, come back!” Sleuthsalot called for him. “I shall enroll you in medical school, and all will be well! You will see!”
I returned to the study to find Sleuthsalot now standing up and the two brothers sitting down.
“So, you see, here are your three elements.” Sleuthsalot held out three fingers and brought one down with each element. “The first one is the detective himself who solves the crime. The crime does not have to have a motive, but it must be a case to crack! The second is the detective being the protagonist of his tale, as DuPoboy exhibited. The third, which rounds out the perfect detective that is E. Teephone Homes, is the use of empirical study and deductive reasoning to solve a crime. Since I am a well-known detective myself, I knew what the three missing elements were from the beginning. I have exhibited the third element perfectly by attending each crime scene and physically looking for clues (or lack thereof) in order to fit them into the big picture. My actions exhibit deductive reasoning and have also solved your crime.”
I turned from Sleuthsalot’s beaming face to El and Ery’s confused ones. They appeared to not be satisfied with my new roommate’s conclusion.
“But, Sir Sleuthsalot,” El began quietly. “We know what the three elements are. We, afterall, came up with them.”
“Oh, well, I knew them already so I did not feel the need to ask you—.”
“But you did not get the third one.” Ery cut Sleuthsalot off. “The detective who detects and the detective being the protagonist are, indeed, the first two elements. The third, however, is the detective triumphing over a criminal of some sort. We came to you, not really to find the three elements separately but to find all three of them together within one detective story.”
At the mention of triumphing over a criminal, I attempted to edge over to the exit. You see, I had some hot watches in the inside pocket of my coat, and I’d rather hang onto them for the time being—
“Get back in here, Greg!” Sleuthsalot snapped. “I must apologize, my dear friends, but I declare your case unsolvable. For you see, I have my own theory as to why your elements never appear to be in the same story at once. All of the elements of detective fiction rely in the act of detection itself. Sure the characters, crimes, and motives might be a little tweaked here and there, but that’s what makes detective novels so interesting. We, as readers, merely need a vehicle through which we can solve the crime or puzzle presented to us.” He fastened the buttons of his coat and took out his bubble pipe. “I hope this act of detection has brought you the answers you need. Come, Greg, we’re off to medical school!”
I happily followed my new partner into the dark and stormy night.
I wrote my story to express how silly the Ellery brothers’ 3 qualities of detective fiction are. According to their list, none of the stories we’ve read are 100% detective fiction, yet they are all undoubtedly forefathers of the detective genre. I started the story with a crime scene similar to Jekyll’s laboratory to show that the crime itself is what initially begins the detecting that takes place in a detective novel. The first two elements are obviously necessary for a true detective novel. Without the detective as the protagonist, the reader would lose sight of actually solving the crime. The greatest detectives, Dupin and Holmes, are both intriguing characters who walk the line between hero and villain. These types of characters intrigue the reader to continue solving the crime with the detective. I had my detective progress through the stories in the order read in class, not only for sequential purposes, but also to show the evolution of the detective novel. From the introduction of the crime and the criminal, (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde) to the well-developed detective of Victorian England (Sherlock Holmes,) the detective genre has evolved and adapted to the readership of Victorian England. I think my story would be appropriate for Victorian England (minus some of the places and names) because it falls into place with the mainstream detective novels while vouching for the actual detection that initially draws in the reader. It also shows that while the Ellery brothers’ 3 qualities are often good additions to detective novels, they do not (and often are not) simultaneously in a story. I also added the epigraph, because most detective novels have one, and Dumbledore’s words at the beginning of Harry Potter’s first term at Hogwarts have always been a few of my favorites.
The Marvelous Augustine-- a satire
The Marvelous Augustine
We were members of that select fraternity, I and my companion, a certain Jean-Baptiste Augustine of whom I had become inordinately fond over the short span of our acquaintance— so fond, in fact, that we had come to inhabit together a house rife with phantasms. They did not bother us, and we did not bother them— we were busily engaged in intellectual pursuits, he and I. It happened one night, as I was scribbling down some transient thought which had settled in my agitated mind, that Augustine stood up, handed me an evening journal, and said, “observe, cher ami, the third column from the right.” Printed there was a story documenting the discovery of the body of Mme. Dupont, found lying in a gutter at two o’ clock that morning. While out on an errand of an unknown nature she had received multiple stab wounds from a similarly unknown blunt weapon and seemed to have been nearly thrown across the street. Seven bones were shattered and there were several puncture wounds in her chest— ah, Paris! Will your thirst for blood ne’er be quenched? Neighbors had reported an unusual and horrible sound, as of a man in pain.
“But that is most strange,” I mentioned to my companion. “Could it be that a man was murdered as well, and the body hidden?”
“A man will be murdered soon enough unless these ignorant gendarmes of ours reexamine their evidence,” he replied. “Their current scenario can’t possibly be correct— M. Dupont, stab his wife in cold blood and then hurl her across the street? The man doesn’t have the strength to throw a cookpot that distance! I suppose,” he said meditatively, “we ought to go set things aright. It’s dark enough— what say you to a journey to the troisiéme?” So saying, my companion donned his sunglasses and off we set.
Upon our arrival a swarthy gendarme attempted to bar us from the scene of the crime, saying we lacked official certification, but a quiet word from my companion and he become suddenly reticent and allowed us to pass unmolested.
“Pray tell, what is this that you whispered in the officer’s ear?” I queried, but Augustine only smiled and said “Save your curiosity for the mystery, mon cher. There are greater things afoot. What’s this?” he said, approaching the victim’s body. “What a curious puncture wound.”
“The instrument must have been curved like a Japanese sword,” I observed.
“It would certainly seem so,” said my companion, bending over the body for a moment. “Very well,” he said, straightening up again. “I’ve seen enough. Let us depart.”
“Is the crime so impenetrable?” I protested. “With your extraordinary ability of deduction, surely you, my dearest friend, can hazard a guess as to the nature of this incident?”
“Any guess I hazard now can be hazarded just as easily at home, where I have my pipe and a comfortable chair to hazard with. Unless you’ve anything else you would like to see, I suggest we depart.
“But you know,” he said as we walked by moonlight, the pavement shining beneath our feet like ethereal silver, “as notions go, I believe I’ve a fairly accurate one. Tomorrow at 10 P.M., we shall see for certain.” And inveigle as I might, he would only smile and say “Tomorrow at ten all shall be made clear.”
And the next night we had a very queer visitor indeed. A rather portly man of British origin came calling. His manner was nervous and his voice overly loud— repeatedly I had to beg him to speak more quietly, for the room was filled with much that was delicate and I and my companion were unaccustomed to loud noises. I led him to the parlor, instructing him to speak very softly around Augustine who was delicately constituted.
“Ah,” Augustine said kindly, “and this would be R. Gables?”
“Sir— why, yes,” said our visitor, rather taken aback. He had not announced himself, and I had seen no need to inquire. “I was led to believe, Monsieur, that is to say…”
“You were led to believe that I and my companion provide a service of shipping exotic animals across France, yes?” Augustine said. “You have an animal of the exotic nature, presumably, which requires said shipping?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I have recently acquired, through no fault of my own, a dwarf wildebeest. I would like it shipped as, well, as discreetly as can be managed, given the unusual circumstances.”
“R. Gables,” Augustine said, “are you aware of the curious circumstances of the death of Mme. Dupont?”
“It doesn’t belong to me,” Gables said nervously.
“I see you are attempting to surreptitiously reach for your weapon. I would not do this,” Augustine said, lifting his hand from the shadowed recesses of the divan, and for a moment I saw the metallic gleam of his revolver. “I am aware that the wildebeest was not originally in your possession. It belonged to an exhibition which is currently travelling through Lyon. The animal’s name, I believe, is Oscar.”
“They’d kill him,” Gables said, “they’d kill him if they knew. That he killed her. He did it. I saw him do it.”
“But you knew, of course, that Mme. Dupont had brought this misfortune upon herself by attempting, very stupidly, to steal the animal.”
“She must have been relocating the animal when I spotted her. Followed her discreetly— wanted to turn them her into the authorities once I knew where she was going. You understand.”
“I do,” Augustine said mildly. “And of course, after seeing Oscar dispose of Mme. Dupont, you very charitably elected to care for him until you could return him to the exhibition where he belonged. Only one thing puzzles me— where have you been keeping the animal?”
“I have a large closet.”
“I see. Well, all is clear to me now. At this address you will find the headquarters of an organization which will be sympathetic to your cause. I have spoken to them already— they will arrange for the transportation of the animal.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” R. Gables murmured, “God bless you.” I took it upon myself to see him out of our dwelling.
“But mon cher,” I said upon returning, more than slightly puzzled. “Even if the mystery is clear, the solution is not. How did you know the puncture wounds were caused by a wildebeest, of all things?”
“It was simple,” he said. “From the nature of the wounds— you observed yourself that the instrument must have been curved like a Japanese sword— and also from this.” He extricated a piece of brown fluff from his pocket. “In my youth I dabbled in the natural sciences; it was easy enough to determine that this was wildebeest fur, and once I had drawn that logical conclusion I realized it could only have come from Oscar, the missing dwarf wildebeest. It then became my objective to find out who was harboring said wildebeest, and why. I obtained a copy of last week’s paper, in which the disappearance of the wildebeest was noted. R. Gables was thought to be a prime suspect because of his previous close ties to the wildebeest, but his premises were searched and nothing found. I elected to follow the lead anyway— I had some of my associates plant the idea in Gable’s head to come here around ten in the evening on a Tuesday, which is when we supposedly arranged for the shipping of exotic animals. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Jean-Baptiste Augustine, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Always, mon cher. Now pass me my pipe.”
Evaluation
In The Marvelous Augustine, Augustine's ability to solve the crime is heavily dependent on his having read the newspaper, which was a facet of Victorian life, and on his knowledge of natural science, an area which was rapidly expanding. The language is overly flowery
à la Bulwer-Lytton, and I tried to reference The Purloined Letter, in which one never sees the purloined letter, in the way that newspapers in this text hold all the answers and they are never seen. I tried to be relatively faithful to the character of Dupin as well.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Quest for Sir Arthur
Page 1, Page 2, Page 3, Page 4, Page 5, Page 6, Page 7
Brief response to my comic, "The Quest for Sir Arthur"
I found Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s belief in fairies quite interesting, as well as ridiculous. I wanted to satirize that his convictions were entirely based on doctored photographs. I did not (and still do not) understand why such an intelligent man made such assumptions with so little proof. Thus I thought it would be both hilarious and appropriate to reverse the situation. I created two fairies, one of which believed in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the other a skeptic.
In order to create some semblance of a detective story, I took into account the Ellery Queen yardstick—a detective story that contains a detective who detects, who must be the protagonist, and must triumph over the criminal. I had a hard time thinking of a story that fit into that mold, so I used only certain aspects of the yardstick formula. I also considered the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, in which Mr. Utterson pursues the bizarre circumstances surrounding Dr. Jekyll on a hunch and meager observations, much like Doyle’s conjecture about fairies. The pink-haired fairy—the protagonist—leads a skeptical fairy around to find an elusive Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to no avail. It reflects the absurdity of an unsubstantiated hunch, like that of Doyle, Sharpin (in The Biter Bit), and Utterson.
I also wanted to briefly comment on gender roles in Victorian society. The pink-haired fairy, portrayed by my (male) friend Tyler, is dressed in a tutu, tights, skin-tight shirt, and a pink wig with a crown. A woman—Holly—depicts Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in a suit and bowler hat, and dons a moustache. Both defy the traditional female/male standard that Victorians so heavily stressed.
Essentially, I wanted to make fun of Doyle’s ludicrous claims on the existence of fairies. But, like in most of the stories we have read, there is also a serious element under the impractical.
A man solves a crime - or maybe not...
A satirical review of “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt” by Edgar Allan Poe
Constant repetition carries conviction.
- Robert Collier -
Any idea, plan, or purpose may be placed in the mind through repetition of thought.
Any idea, plan, or purpose may be placed in the mind through repetition of thought.
- Napoleon Hill -
Premise.
Hobby detective Monsieur Dupont, called “the Explanator,” and his assistant, who unfortunately has no name, and will further be referred to “the Transmitter” because he originally told the story and fulfilled other delivering tasks, live in a spooky house no one wants to go in. The couple likes that, they do not want to be visited. The Transmitter is a rich man, and he pays for everything since the Explanator lost all his former property – why, nobody really knows, it might not be by his fault. These men are very momentary: they decided to give “the Future to the winds” and to “slumber tranquilly in the Present” (150). See how educated they are? Consider their poetic language! Other people may call their ‘action’ as being very, very lazy, but in the way the Transmitter says it, it sounds to be something reeeeally important and elite.
The Transmitter is very proud of the Explanator because he solved an ‘unsolvable’ murder a couple of years ago. Just by the power of his brain, called inductive reasoning. Isn’t he a smart guy? Of course, he never told this to anyone, so the policemen really admire him since he is so much cleverer than they are. And now, the Police, also known as “the Incapables” have to ask the Explanator for explanations of a crime again. The story will start right now.
Part I: Facts.
The Transmitter is very proud of the Explanator because he solved an ‘unsolvable’ murder a couple of years ago. Just by the power of his brain, called inductive reasoning. Isn’t he a smart guy? Of course, he never told this to anyone, so the policemen really admire him since he is so much cleverer than they are. And now, the Police, also known as “the Incapables” have to ask the Explanator for explanations of a crime again. The story will start right now.
Part I: Facts.
A girl, Marie Rogêt, lower middle class, left the house one Sunday morning and did not come back. Later, she was found in the river. She was obviously killed because her body was treated very badly. But it was unknown how she was murdered. A woman said that it was a gang. However, this can’t be taken too seriously because this woman owns a small pub and on this day, there was a gang that bilked – so by accusing a gang, the woman only wanted to ensure that she will get back her money. After a week of no results, a reward was posted for any hints, and doubled after another week. But nothing happened. Additionally, there are even rumours that Marie Rogêt is not Marie Rogêt. A very sensation-seeking newspaper came up with this idea because it wanted the fiancée to be the murderer, or at least part of a conspiracy. It told the reader that the family did not seem to be shocked by the murder of the girl, and did not show up at the funeral. This was the evidence. The editor did not know or consider, though, that the mother was indeed really shocked, so shocked that she could not do anything during the next days. Circulation is not everything, dear editor.
Part II: more facts.
The Incapables eventually asked the Explanator for help. When he heard of the reward, he acceded. Oh well! He is not always the disinterested, philanthropic man… The Transmitter had to run around the town to get all the newspapers for further information. After one reading, the Explanator knew the newspapers were wrong. He is so smart! He did not even have to go to the crime scene! Unfortunately, the Transmitter was not that clever, so the Explanator had to explain the (logical) falsities. His explanations were very, very long, so here is just one example. “Due to the specific weight of water, at the same time taking into consideration the mineral content, tides, water pollution, a body, which is of the same specific weight, at least most of the time, unless this balance is destroyed by the factors afore mentioned, or human uncontrollable behavior […] the newspaper’s statement is not true.” The Explanator is a very scientific man, as you can see. Regrettably, this makes his way of talking pretty dry and kind of boringly complicated. But the Explanator would not be the Explanator if he did not repeat his explanations. I repeat: he always repeats his main points.
Part III: fade-out…
After reading the newspapers, and rereading them aloud to the Transmitter, he got it. Marie had a secret lover, got into a fight, was killed. Very romantic. Or maybe not? Poe, the author, based this story on a real one in New York. Shortly before publication, he found out that he was wrong: In fact, Marie died because of a fatal abortion. Clever as he was, and not wanting to be claimed for wrong solutions, he included some very small hints in his story that this was also a possibility. He went into the trap the Explanator accuses the police to do: there were lots of possibilities, and he chose the one he wants to be the reason. Just in case you did not get the hints in the story: reread it. The Explanator knows why he always repeats what he is saying. I repeat: he always repeats his main points.
So, the Explanator found two fatal causes. A crime without a conviction, without a “that’s it, here is the murderer” ending? Very unsatisfying. Attention: this could be another hint. The crime might not be so important at all. But what else? Come on, use your logical capacities!
(A not so short) Explanation
We said that the beginning of detective stories was an intrusion into the Victorian privacy at the same time. The detective exposes what has been kept as a secret or at least was not made public. Dupin is a bit contradictory in this aspect because in "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt" he (arguably) solves the crime by discovering a very private affair, the secret lover, and thus would be able to publicly embarrass Marie's family and her reputation, but finds this out by referring to newspaper articles alone. This is a bit scary because it shows how easily a facade can be destroyed. Technically, this method is less intrusive than investigation on-site as Dupin does not get in contact with the family, but in reality, this procedure is rather unrealistic.
“The Mystery of Marie Rogêt” is, in my opinion, the driest of all three detective stories, despite some clever moments when Dupin exposes the ploys and falsities of the newspapers that only want to get a high circulation and therefore jump to conclusions. I mention this in my satire because it shows how sensationally minded the Victorian public can be despite the overall mention of the value of privacy. Besides, this critique is still very topical today.
My satire is divided into an epigraph and four parts. As the original opens with a quote by Novalis about coincidence and how humans and circumstances influence events, thus refers to the fact that the mystery of Marie Rogêt is complicated by a lot of different statements and “evidences,” my epigraph highlights repetition because it completely dominates the story. Dupin always repeats what he considers to be most important in order to ensure that his assistant (and thus the reader) will get the point. But honestly, I was kind of annoyed by the repetition of newspaper articles, so I exaggerated Dupin’s and the story’s repetition by the frequent use of same words in one sentence.
Also, this constant repetition reminded me of something we discussed at the beginning of the semester: the education system in Victorian England. In "Water Babies" and "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," it is criticized that children have to "learn" through repetition/memorizing. By overemphasizing this, I criticize the lecturing character of the Dupin stories. We said that parents in the Victorian age often expected a story to be teaching. Though the Dupin stories are not children's books, the teaching moment can be found there, too. Dupin always explains how he gets to his conclusion/solutions. Poe allows the reader to follow Dupin’s /his way of thoughts, but makes it almost impossible to get to conclusions by oneself since not everything is told at the moment it happens. For example, it is not mentioned that Dupin picks up a bunch of hair when he examines the crime scene in the story “Murder in the Rue Morgue.” Only when Dupin needs it as evidence for his explanation, the reader gets to know it. So the reader relies on Dupin and his explanations in order to get to the solution. Therefore, I nicknamed the detective in my story, since nicknames can indicate a special character trait or behavior. The assistant is nicknamed, too. “The Transmitter” shall emphasize that he plays an important part in communicating the story to the reader, but does not contribute to the investigation through own observations. He only follows Dupin’s explanations. The police’s nickname, “the Incapables” is given from Dupin’s (arrogant) perspective and the general impression that is created by Poe.
The first part serves as an introduction to the main characters (and therefore not only bases on the story at hand but on “The Murder in the Rue Morgue” as well). There are some hints at the peculiar character of the detective and his assistant and their relationship, e.g. that they do not like visitations, and Dupin’s slightly decrying way to talk about the police and other “investigators” by highlighting his superior qualities and position at the same time. I found it interesting that Dupin, who, in his function as a detective, finds out other people's deepest secrets, is kind of a secret himself as we do not get to know a lot of his background. He can almost be seen as the representation of the Victorian demand of privacy.
I named the detective DuPont instead of Dupin because of two reasons. First, DuPont sounds alike to Dupin. Second, DuPont is one of the most popular last names in France, almost a cliché, the typical French name. Likewise, Dupin serves as a role model for following detectives such as Sherlock Holmes, and the composition of detective stories. "Part II: more facts", is titled this way as an allusion to the original, in which Dupin gathers facts from newspapers and reconsiders them. “More facts” also alludes to the repetitive character of the story, the re-told newspaper articles. Additionally, this title, as well as the title of Part I, is meant ironically because the newspaper “facts” are mostly guesses instead of proved evidence. And as mentioned above, Dupin does not go to the crime scene in order to prove the “evidence.” I picked up Dupin’s long, long way of explaining the situation at hand by giving an example of his argumentation – a completely fictitious one, but one that refers to the explanation of the “water density” discussion. This “quote” presents Dupin as a very scientific man, but also highlights that this makes his descriptions pretty complicated and dry. Again, this can be understood as a further reference to the education system and the rising importance of science in Victorian England.
Part III is named “fade out” because I had the feeling that the original does not have a clear end, at least not an end as I expected it from a detective story. I reckoned with a clear solution, i.e. that the murderer is named and presented to the police. Instead, there is this ‘romantic’ (in its general meaning, not referred to the Romantic period) idea of a secret lover plus the confusion about the fatal abortion, a concept that is more than hidden in the text. It is more like one has to know this possibility in order to find the hints in the story. Inductive reasoning, as practiced by Dupin, is barely possible. Instead, the reader has to act like Sherlock Holmes or Poe, who use deduction.
Reference
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt." Selected Tales. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. 149-92.
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." Selected Tales. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. 92-122.
Part II: more facts.
The Incapables eventually asked the Explanator for help. When he heard of the reward, he acceded. Oh well! He is not always the disinterested, philanthropic man… The Transmitter had to run around the town to get all the newspapers for further information. After one reading, the Explanator knew the newspapers were wrong. He is so smart! He did not even have to go to the crime scene! Unfortunately, the Transmitter was not that clever, so the Explanator had to explain the (logical) falsities. His explanations were very, very long, so here is just one example. “Due to the specific weight of water, at the same time taking into consideration the mineral content, tides, water pollution, a body, which is of the same specific weight, at least most of the time, unless this balance is destroyed by the factors afore mentioned, or human uncontrollable behavior […] the newspaper’s statement is not true.” The Explanator is a very scientific man, as you can see. Regrettably, this makes his way of talking pretty dry and kind of boringly complicated. But the Explanator would not be the Explanator if he did not repeat his explanations. I repeat: he always repeats his main points.
Part III: fade-out…
After reading the newspapers, and rereading them aloud to the Transmitter, he got it. Marie had a secret lover, got into a fight, was killed. Very romantic. Or maybe not? Poe, the author, based this story on a real one in New York. Shortly before publication, he found out that he was wrong: In fact, Marie died because of a fatal abortion. Clever as he was, and not wanting to be claimed for wrong solutions, he included some very small hints in his story that this was also a possibility. He went into the trap the Explanator accuses the police to do: there were lots of possibilities, and he chose the one he wants to be the reason. Just in case you did not get the hints in the story: reread it. The Explanator knows why he always repeats what he is saying. I repeat: he always repeats his main points.
So, the Explanator found two fatal causes. A crime without a conviction, without a “that’s it, here is the murderer” ending? Very unsatisfying. Attention: this could be another hint. The crime might not be so important at all. But what else? Come on, use your logical capacities!
(A not so short) Explanation
We said that the beginning of detective stories was an intrusion into the Victorian privacy at the same time. The detective exposes what has been kept as a secret or at least was not made public. Dupin is a bit contradictory in this aspect because in "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt" he (arguably) solves the crime by discovering a very private affair, the secret lover, and thus would be able to publicly embarrass Marie's family and her reputation, but finds this out by referring to newspaper articles alone. This is a bit scary because it shows how easily a facade can be destroyed. Technically, this method is less intrusive than investigation on-site as Dupin does not get in contact with the family, but in reality, this procedure is rather unrealistic.
“The Mystery of Marie Rogêt” is, in my opinion, the driest of all three detective stories, despite some clever moments when Dupin exposes the ploys and falsities of the newspapers that only want to get a high circulation and therefore jump to conclusions. I mention this in my satire because it shows how sensationally minded the Victorian public can be despite the overall mention of the value of privacy. Besides, this critique is still very topical today.
My satire is divided into an epigraph and four parts. As the original opens with a quote by Novalis about coincidence and how humans and circumstances influence events, thus refers to the fact that the mystery of Marie Rogêt is complicated by a lot of different statements and “evidences,” my epigraph highlights repetition because it completely dominates the story. Dupin always repeats what he considers to be most important in order to ensure that his assistant (and thus the reader) will get the point. But honestly, I was kind of annoyed by the repetition of newspaper articles, so I exaggerated Dupin’s and the story’s repetition by the frequent use of same words in one sentence.
Also, this constant repetition reminded me of something we discussed at the beginning of the semester: the education system in Victorian England. In "Water Babies" and "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," it is criticized that children have to "learn" through repetition/memorizing. By overemphasizing this, I criticize the lecturing character of the Dupin stories. We said that parents in the Victorian age often expected a story to be teaching. Though the Dupin stories are not children's books, the teaching moment can be found there, too. Dupin always explains how he gets to his conclusion/solutions. Poe allows the reader to follow Dupin’s /his way of thoughts, but makes it almost impossible to get to conclusions by oneself since not everything is told at the moment it happens. For example, it is not mentioned that Dupin picks up a bunch of hair when he examines the crime scene in the story “Murder in the Rue Morgue.” Only when Dupin needs it as evidence for his explanation, the reader gets to know it. So the reader relies on Dupin and his explanations in order to get to the solution. Therefore, I nicknamed the detective in my story, since nicknames can indicate a special character trait or behavior. The assistant is nicknamed, too. “The Transmitter” shall emphasize that he plays an important part in communicating the story to the reader, but does not contribute to the investigation through own observations. He only follows Dupin’s explanations. The police’s nickname, “the Incapables” is given from Dupin’s (arrogant) perspective and the general impression that is created by Poe.
The first part serves as an introduction to the main characters (and therefore not only bases on the story at hand but on “The Murder in the Rue Morgue” as well). There are some hints at the peculiar character of the detective and his assistant and their relationship, e.g. that they do not like visitations, and Dupin’s slightly decrying way to talk about the police and other “investigators” by highlighting his superior qualities and position at the same time. I found it interesting that Dupin, who, in his function as a detective, finds out other people's deepest secrets, is kind of a secret himself as we do not get to know a lot of his background. He can almost be seen as the representation of the Victorian demand of privacy.
I named the detective DuPont instead of Dupin because of two reasons. First, DuPont sounds alike to Dupin. Second, DuPont is one of the most popular last names in France, almost a cliché, the typical French name. Likewise, Dupin serves as a role model for following detectives such as Sherlock Holmes, and the composition of detective stories. "Part II: more facts", is titled this way as an allusion to the original, in which Dupin gathers facts from newspapers and reconsiders them. “More facts” also alludes to the repetitive character of the story, the re-told newspaper articles. Additionally, this title, as well as the title of Part I, is meant ironically because the newspaper “facts” are mostly guesses instead of proved evidence. And as mentioned above, Dupin does not go to the crime scene in order to prove the “evidence.” I picked up Dupin’s long, long way of explaining the situation at hand by giving an example of his argumentation – a completely fictitious one, but one that refers to the explanation of the “water density” discussion. This “quote” presents Dupin as a very scientific man, but also highlights that this makes his descriptions pretty complicated and dry. Again, this can be understood as a further reference to the education system and the rising importance of science in Victorian England.
Part III is named “fade out” because I had the feeling that the original does not have a clear end, at least not an end as I expected it from a detective story. I reckoned with a clear solution, i.e. that the murderer is named and presented to the police. Instead, there is this ‘romantic’ (in its general meaning, not referred to the Romantic period) idea of a secret lover plus the confusion about the fatal abortion, a concept that is more than hidden in the text. It is more like one has to know this possibility in order to find the hints in the story. Inductive reasoning, as practiced by Dupin, is barely possible. Instead, the reader has to act like Sherlock Holmes or Poe, who use deduction.
Reference
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt." Selected Tales. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. 149-92.
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." Selected Tales. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. 92-122.
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