As I noted in my Crime Beat
column on the late crime writer, Mickey Spillane's I, the Jury was one of the first crime thrillers I
read as a boy. I thought it was terrific.
The novel was tough, violent and sexy. I loved the book's wild ending. I thought it was a cool book.
The novel was tough, violent and sexy. I loved the book's wild ending. I thought it was a cool book.
I went on to read better
crime novels and thrillers, like the works of Raymond Chandler, Dashiell
Hammett, Ian Fleming, Eric Ambler and others, but I remember fondly
Spillane's I, the Jury like one remembers his first girlfriend.
I love Spillane's "fuck you" attitude regarding critics. Despite the terrible reviews he received during his life, he sold millions of copies of his books. He wrote unabashedly for money and he said his books were the chewing gum of American literature.
I love Spillane's "fuck you" attitude regarding critics. Despite the terrible reviews he received during his life, he sold millions of copies of his books. He wrote unabashedly for money and he said his books were the chewing gum of American literature.
In July of 2006, at the age of 88, the
last major mystery writer of the twentieth century left the building. Only a
handful of writers in the genre—Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammett, and Raymond
Chandler among them—achieved such superstar status.
Spillane’s position, however, is unique—reviled by many mainstream critics, despised and envied by a number of his contemporaries in the very field he revitalized, the creator of Mike Hammer had an impact not just on mystery and suspense fiction but popular culture in general.
Spillane’s position, however, is unique—reviled by many mainstream critics, despised and envied by a number of his contemporaries in the very field he revitalized, the creator of Mike Hammer had an impact not just on mystery and suspense fiction but popular culture in general.
The success of the paperback reprint
editions of his startlingly violent and sexy novels—tens of millions of copies
sold—jumpstarted the explosion of so-called “paperback originals,” for the next
quarter-century the home of countless Spillane imitators, and his redefinition
of the action hero as a tough guy who mercilessly executed villains and slept
with beautiful, willing women remains influential (Sin City is Frank Miller’s homage).
When Spillane published I, the Jury in
1947, he introduced in Mike Hammer one of the most famous of all fictional
private eyes, and one unlike any P.I. readers had met before. Hammer swears
vengeance over the corpse of an army buddy who lost an arm in the Pacific,
saving the detective’s life. No matter who the villain turns out to be, Hammer
will not just find him, but kill him—even if it’s a her.
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