George Baxt, the US playwright, scriptwriter and novelist, in New York City, USA.
He began his career as a radio announcer, an actors' agent, and television scriptwriter. He claimed that as an actors' agent he threw James Dean out of his office because he needed a bath. George Baxt's career developed into scriptwriting cult horror films. He made a contribution to The Abominable Dr Phibes, although it was uncredited. His first novel A Queer Kind of Death, (1966), introduced the detective Pharoah Love who was the first in the genre to be both black and openly gay. The novel was very well received and marked the start of a new career in writing. Two further Pharoah Love novels soon appeared and were widely regarded as superior to the first. Nearly three decades passed before the final outings of Pharoah Love in two novels.
Meanwhile George Baxt introduced the detective duo Sylvia Plotkin and Max van Larsen, but these were soon abandoned and several non-series novels were produced. Starting with The Dorothy Parker Murder Case, George Baxt then began to use his knowledge of Hollywood life by using celebrities as characters in a series of detective novels.
He died following complications after heart surgery.
George Baxt is at his weirdly fantastic best in A Parade of Cockeyed Creatures OR Did Someone Murder Our Wandering Boy? (1967) He introduces us to an eclectic cast of characters, some really quite odd, whose lives have mingled with the "wandering boy." The investigation brings the reader in contact with several social concerns of the 1960s--including the peace movement, drugs, organized crime, and a touch of the occult. Not quite as far out as some of his other work, Parade also introduces a very human element to his carnival of the absurd in the person of investigating officer.
The story opens with Marcus and Wilma Blaney in the Missing Persons office of the police department. Max Van Larsen is the cop there to help them. Van Larsen has just returned from compassionate leave after the death of his wife and son in an automobile accident. He isn't very grief-stricken--in fact, he feels a bit empty because he never really felt much at all for these two people who shared his life. His investigation into Henry Thorpe "Tippy" Blaney's disappearance will help him understand his own son and himself as he learns and begins to care about a boy he's never met.
After listening to the Blaneys' description of Tippy and the events leading up to his disappearance, his first question is "Why'd you wait five days before reporting your son missing?" Their feeble excuses don't convince him and when he meets those who knew Tippy best--his schoolteacher, Sylvia Plotkin (one of the most normal characters in the book); his friend Ashley Tybor, who is obsessed with death and goes by the name "Prince of Darkness"; an art dealer who smuggles drugs amongst the art pieces; an artist addicted to heroin; an "aunt" with ties to mob; and a girlfriend who refused to marry him--he discovers that there is more to Tippy's last few days than his parents have told. There are several car accidents involved in the plot and Baxt plays a bit of sleight-of-hand on who died in which accident. The swirling colors and mixed messages of his carnival of clues keeps the reader on his toes and it will be a canny reader indeed who figures out what happened to Tippy before the final reveal.
This is one of Baxt's better novels--well-written and it does a good job mixing the absurd with the serious. It was nice to watch the growth of Van Larsen even while laughing at some of the situations he found himself in. My primary complaint is with the lack of fair-play clueing--but Baxt isn't exactly well-known for that. Overall, an entertaining read and well worth the time. ★★★ and a half.
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Ah, George Baxt.... I've been addicted to his novels for many years, in spite of the fact that I honestly don't think they're very good. They're sometimes hard to follow, as the writing - which aims for sassy and jaded - is just as often simply opaque, and the clutter of minor characters - each with a "bit," an accent, maybe, or an elaborately eccentric passion for turbans - confuse the storytelling.
But. But but but. There is also a goofy charm that overlays the pitch-black heart of Baxt's worldview that is very appealing to me. And I have to love the groovy swingingness of his 60's sensibility.
A Parade... is one of his better efforts, which combines everything mentioned above with a genuinely sad death and a welcome hint of offbeat romance. When the over-the-top climax aims for zany it misses, but when it aims for tragic it hits the mark with startling effect. Sylvia Plotkin is probably Baxt's single most likeable character, but her object of her affection, private detective Max van Larson, is hiding a secret so dark that you'll wonder what the hell Baxt was thinking. Or smoking. Or shooting.
There's also this gem: "Clifton Southford studied his refection in the floor-length mirror in his bedroom. He was dressed in a pink and yellow toga that came to his knees. On his head perched a laurel wreath of his own design, gold and silver leaves cut, painted, and polished by himself and welded to an iron halo. His feet were shod in golden sandals with silver laces that tied midway up his calves. Attached to his wrist was a stuffed dove with outspread wings that could be used as a fan if the evening became humid. ...
'I love you, Clifton Southford, Esquire!' he shouted gleefully at the mirror. 'I love you love you love you!'"
If that made you smile, you might be a candidate for the cult of Baxt. But I'll warn you: few people will understand.
Just the best, if you can get your hands on a copy. I read it when it as new -- I found it on the stacks in my hometown library, and there are scenes and elements I've never forgotten. "I am calm. I am peaceful. I am serene."
Baxt is yet another largely forgotten 20th century writer of crime and mystery fiction. I'd certainly never heard of him before adding this book to my to-read pile based solely on the title and kitschy cover art. Now that I've read this fast-paced novel, I'm an instant fan.
Baxt's novel is set in Greenwich Village in the late 1960s and the fun period detail--featuring artists, poets, performers, protesters, and freaks galore--is just one of the book's many attributes. The well-oiled plot focuses on the disappearance of a precocious and unusually independent 17-year old named "Tippy," son of wealthy NY types that may not be all that they appear to be on the surface. This mystery is investigated by a classically-jaded detective (Van Larsen), who is working through his own issues. Along the way, he meets up with (and falls for) a tough-as-nails Jewish public school teacher named Sylvia Plotkin; together, they put the pieces together while trawling through the counterculture.
This is a fun and fast-paced book with a good deal of humor, although there's also a surprisingly high body count and some genuine darkness lurking within. If anything, the book displays exactly the kind of tone that is present in a lot of fiction from this era--a mix of black humor, comic absurdity, gleeful non-political correctness, all shot through with a cynical, perhaps pessimistic acknowledgement of the messed up nature of society. Baxt is a clever, economical writer and I can't wait to track down more of his books from this era!