A Christie for Christmas

OK, I’m about to reveal something that might result in my being purged from all hard-boiled environs: I dig Agatha Christie.

Those who know me might shake their heads. After all, I’m the guy who once wrote in Mystery News that I love the hard-boiled stuff, even going to the point of saying that my kind of book is “something James Ellroy wrote while in a really foul mood.” But, every now and again, I catch myself reaching for a Christie, particularly those that feature the first series character I came to know, and the first fictional character whose obituary made it to the front page of The New York Times--the inscrutable Belgian, Hercule Poirot.

Part of my fondness for Dame Agatha is the fact she is part of my mystery-reading history. When my family would take off in the car for a vacation, my mother would buy me an Agatha Christie mystery to shut me up and keep me from harassing my sister. Christie was the first adult author I read with any interest. I became so familiar with her style that I started looking for the ejaculations. Yes, you read that correctly. In each and every Poirot novel, there’s a point where a character exclaims something so dramatically that Christie describes it as an ejaculation. I was 12 years old when I first saw that. It made me snicker then and the subsequent lack of maturity makes me smile now.

All of this came to mind when I read Kevin Wignall’s latest posting over at Contemporary Nomad. Wignall is no powder puff--he writes some edgy stuff, so I was gratified to learn that he also pops open a Christie every now and again. He writes about Murder on the Orient Express (1934):

First things first, I’m not quite sure where the “cosy” label comes from--this book deals with the savage murder of an old man who himself turns out to be a child-killer. The writing naturally sticks to the conventions of the time but the subject matter isn’t far removed from some of the best crime books of modern times. There’s even some topicality in that the Armstrong kidnapping case is clearly meant to suggest the Lindbergh case.

Second, the writing is surprisingly fresh and modern. It doesn’t go overboard with description and canters along at a brisk pace, but it manages to be evocative at the same time. Nor are the characters the cardboard cut-outs critics would lead you to expect. Yes, the plot is somewhat contrived, but no less so than that of a Jane Austen or Charles Dickens novel--and I have no doubt that many of our plots will seem the same if our books are still around in seventy years.

There are even a couple of touches which are quite postmodern and for which the McSweeney’s brigade are considered daring.

I agree with Wignall that the “cozy” label is dated and, for the most part, used as a pejorative. I prefer to call Christie stories and their brethren “traditional” mysteries. I also agree that Christie’s works continue to stand the test of time. She’s definitely a writer of her day and age, and perhaps too quaint for some. But her plotting is first-rate, her narrative constantly moves forward, and she provides little grace notes to her characters without hammering the reader over the head with accentuated significance. Hers is a writing style known best for having some restraint and for crediting the reader with intelligence.

Obviously, the fact that Wignall and I are writing about this means that we don’t hold a unanimous view. The dissenters are well represented by I.J. (Ingrid) Parker (Black Arrow), who writes in the comment section:

I used to be a big fan, but I can’t take her anymore. The books are too simple, mere games like crossword puzzles. Most of the so-called “traditional” mystery genre falls into that category. You have to play “fair” with the reader because it is a game. The killer must appear early. The victim is always an expendable character. Alibis are there to be cracked. The least likely character is it.

Parker is an immensely appealing writer and she has graciously granted me two interviews over the years, but on this point we couldn’t possibly disagree more. It seems to me that many of her criticisms of Christie could be selectively applied to everyone from Ed McBain to Lawrence Block, both of whom have more than sufficient amounts of modern-day mystery street cred.

In closing his post, Wignall invites us to celebrate the forthcoming reprinting of 15 Poirot novels in facsimile hardback editions, courtesy of HarperCollins. “Having revisited Christie after several decades,” he writes, “’m not much puzzled by her continuing success. I’m more puzzled that she isn’t read and respected even more than she is.” Read Wignall’s entire post here.