The Maltese Falcon — Dashiell Hammett

Dashiell Hammett’s pulp novel The Maltese Falcon is ‘a classic’ (or something like that — best consult your nearest upscale Sunday paper for the latest jargon), and it might strike some as a little odd to criticise it. Yet while still acknowledging its place in ‘literary history’, it has to be said that in some ways it isn’t all that good, certainly not as good as the moniker ‘classic’ might imply.

Yes, we can thrill to the ‘hard-boiled’ dialogue if thrilling to hard-boiled dialogue is our thing, and we can nod sagely that Hammett ‘struck out in new ways and altered the the course of thriller fiction’ if nodding sagely is also our thing.

Certainly, to describe the books several flaws doesn’t detract from the novel’s place in history and literary sentiment. But then ‘having a place in history and literary sentiment’ doesn’t necessarily make a book very good.

It should be pointed out, too, that as with Hemingway’s mediocre novel To Have And Have Not, it is the film of the book of The Maltese Falcon with which we are more familiar. That both films starred Humphrey Bogart is perhaps

relevant as Bogart did have a screen persona and attitudes which stick in your memory over and above the films he appeared in. When we think ‘Sam Spade’ and ‘Philip Marlowe’, we are likely to picture Bogart.

One should also note that Hammett’s novel began life episodically, serialised in a pulp magazine Black Mask. That publication was one of many of its kind, and it had been set up by H. L. Mencken to make downmarket money to subsidise another magazine, the more upmarket, The Smart Set. By the time Hammett was writing for Black Mask, though, Mencken had already sold it.

That Hammett had to come up with a new episode — each of which, presumably, had to end with a cliffhanger of some sort to ensure the punters turned up again for the next issue — did to some extent shape the novel and give it a certain incoherence quality, which is, though and to be fair,more apparent in retrospect.

The Maltese Falcon was also published almost 100 years ago and has not aged well (though I suspect most literature doesn’t age well). But it cannot be blamed for that. These days we have ‘police procedurals’ and ‘in yer face’ crime series CSI-style dramas coming out of our collective arse and the goings-on in the The Maltese Falcon don’t rattle many cages.

Also to be noted is that for its day Hammett’s style of writing was unusual. The problem is that it wasn’t very good.

Hammett’s forte was ‘realistic’ dialogue laced with loads of slang was, but that was pretty much the only one he had in his arsenal. Much of ‘the prose’ is padding, trying to ensure that dialogue doesn’t take over entirely. It’s as thought Hammett felt he had to get ‘movement’ in there to keep things jogging along. There are thus far too many descriptions of all kinds, of people and how they sit, stand, walk, some of which are simply not very good, and some of which are, frankly, quite awful.

There is also the distinct impression that Hammett made up the story as he went along and had decided to sort it all out when he got to the end. That end comes in a rather long-winded denouement in Sam Spade’s apartment, and it does go on a bit.

There’s nothing wrong with that method, of course, if it works, and I don’t doubt that’s how many writers choose to work. But crucially it must all ‘work out’. And though The Maltese Falcon does, it does so just. That is to say ‘the story’ and ‘the plot’ are not as convincing as they might be. Many strands are left a little forlorn and ignored.

The novel kicks off with two murders, but at the end of the day these are pretty much by-the-by, in the grand scheme of things of little consequences. It is obvious (to this reader at least) that Hammett set his story up by pitching in two murders but they — murders! — get lost along the way.

The relationships between the four criminal protagonists — why not call them baddies? - often makes little sense. One character, the daughter of a central baddy, makes one fleeting appearance and seems to play a crucial role, but then leaves the stage and apart from one brief offhand reference to her is never seen again. She is undoubtedly a victim of Hammett’s obligation to write episodes.

Those four baddies and their distinctive quirks seem, like the murders, to have been pitched into the mix to see what kind of pudding might be made of it all. As I say, if that kind of method works, fine, but in the The Maltese Falcon it barely squeaks through.

So there you have it: Dashiell Hammett’s ‘classic’ noir novel The Maltese Falcon. My advice is to ignore it and watch the film which is decidedly more entertaining.