There's normal crime and punishment stories where someone commits a heinous crime and if all goes well eventually suffers the consequences for being a crime committing kind of person.
Then there's the Cornell Woolrich kind of crime and punishment tale where the crime is being born in the first place and the punishment is for the world to snuff you out like Godzilla stepping on Bambi, but in slow motion so you're well aware of the crushing doom that is bearing down on your head with remorseless inevitability. At least there's almost a romance in this one, even if everyone is too busy wrestling with inexorably strangling fate to really give it the attention it deserves. But whose day planner isn't packed solid these days?
As usual Woolrich is a writer that may not immediately come to mind but if you're a film buff there is a very good chance you've seen something that he had a hand in. The big draw is that he wrote the story that "Rear Window" was based on but this one is probably up there as one of the more well-known adaptations. Filmed in 1948 it starred Edward G Robinson and gave us a jazz standard in the main theme (far, far jauntier than anything associated with this book deserves . . . hearing it in my head while reading this was a strangely disorienting feeling) but even a quick perusal of the movie's plot after reading the book shows that they really went out of their way to brighten it up as best they could. Granted since the book is pitch black even a major brightening makes it a sickly kind of grey but its better than triggering an existential crisis in your audience. Because if you're in the wrong mood this book can do that to you, unless you find the idea of futilely struggling against your unchangeable fate relaxing even in the face of its certainty. And some people probably do. But those people are probably in cults.
It starts normally enough, at least for a noir. Police officer Shawn is talking his usual after-work walk along the river when he encounters a young woman attempting to commit suicide by jumping off a parapet. Fortunately for her she's slow at it and he manages to rescue her before she hits the pavement. Understandably she's a little distraught but at the same time weirdly panicked over the fact that stars are in the sky. It seems like she's been through a lot already. Alas, for her the story is really only half over.
Turns out she's rich, the only daughter of Harlan Reid, a widowed rich dude. Strangely enough for rich people in noirish novels they're surprisingly normal and well-adjusted at the start of things, having a good father-daughter relationship and seemingly at least decent to everyone they meet. Why is poor Eileen bugging out over stars then? Is this one of those "reefer madness" scenarios?
Nope. She's freaking out because people keep telling her things that come true. Specifically one of their servants passes a message along that her father should take a different way back from his recent business trip because the plane might run into some trouble. When that turns out to be entirely accurate Eileen goes to discover the source of these predictions and finds out that one of the neighbors of her servant (well, she former servant after she fires her in the time honored fashion of rich people everywhere hearing stuff they don't like) appears to have the gift of prophecy. Like an uncontrollable gift for it, like an overflowing bathtub or, perhaps more apt for this story, like an semi-automatic weapon with safety not only off but intent on doing the opposite of what safeties are supposed to do. Needless to say, collateral damage is an afterthought.
Interestingly Woolrich turns the screws slowly on this one, at least at first, and he lays out the scenario so deliberately that you may start wondering what all the fuss is about, especially when Eileen spends pages agonizing over whether to tell her father to come back via a different way than his allegedly doomed airplane. Woolrich wrings all the tension he can out of it until you're torn between page-turning and wondering if the poor girl is being a bit hysterical.
Turns out she's not, but that's when it gets worse.
Her father insists on meeting this strange seer, whose name is Tompkins and over the course of several conversations finds his advice, reluctant as it is, does help him make some sound business decisions. Unfortunately for poor Harlan he asks one question too many and if there's any moment where "don't ask questions you don't want answers to" might apply, its here, as Tompkins tells him there's very little point in making long term plans. In fact even making short term plans might be out of the question too. In true "you are doomed" fashion, he gives him a date and a time and even a place, even if the place itself doesn't make too much sense (lions?). Harlan, like all doomed people, doesn't take this well at all and neither does Eileen. Fortunately for her, she's decided on an interesting path to getting the attention of the police. Unfortunately for her there's going to be nothing they can do about it. But boy does everyone spend the next couple hundred pages trying really hard.
Its unusual to find a book that features so many people that would really prefer to be anywhere else but the book they are currently inhabiting. For the police I guess it’s a nice break from their usual duties although it seems weird to assign what feels like half the force just because a rich guy got a dire prophecy but its one of those quirks you just learn to go with. It does turn the book into a bit of a police procedural, if you enjoy cop shows where literally everything they do is pointless wheel spinning because merciless fate cannot be deterred. For all the cover copy deems Tompkins a con-man he clearly would like to being doing anything but telling people about the terrible futures he keeps glimpsing (though some of his clairvoyance seems odd, at one point Harlan keeps asking him stock advice but if its preordained you would think it doesn't matter what Tompkins says, unless that's just part of the skein) but like the rabbit with the batteries attached he can't help but tell people exactly what's going to happen (sometimes in eerie detail) with a palpable misery. But then I guess if his entire existence is basically "spoiler alerts" I wouldn't be too thrilled either.
Woolrich novels are no stranger to people on the slow road to total oblivion but there's just something a little . . . extra about this one. Maybe it’s the weird see-saw structure in the beginning, maybe it’s the switch between first and third person (with a fiendish degree of intensity in the first person sections), maybe it’s the slight supernatural edge without any real explanation. Is Tompkins causing these things to happen or is he just seeing how the motors of the universe mesh together? The book seems to lean toward the latter, that he's the puppet who can see the strings as the naked blue guy once said, but there's an element of "does it really matter?" And that's really a good question, one the book isn't interested in answering, or at least not in a way that's remotely optimistic. Much like by some yardsticks blowing up a house is technically the same as renovating it, just in a really final way, Woolrich seems to suggest that avoiding your fate is the same thing as walking right into it since its all going to the same place anyway.
Thus cue the feverish pitch that an ocean of Tylenol isn't going to bring down. Once the plot really kicks into gear and the police start fanning out to figure out how to stop a murder that seems inevitable, has no suspects and their only clues are gibberish we get to watch the equivalent of ants trying to crawl out of a clear sided glass jar with the sun beating on it. Nobody stops trying but there hardly seems to be any doubt as to how this is going to go. But even as the police are chasing down every random lead Harlan Reid is rapidly unraveling at home, winding clocks and counting down the minutes to what he presumes are going to be his final moments. Remember how terminally ill patients are often credited for how well they handle being dealt a bad hand in their remaining days, with quiet grace and poise? . . . yeah, that's not Harlan and Woolrich gives us an unflinchingly uncomfortable glimpse of a man given unexpected news and then completely falling apart, which is probably what ninety percent of people would do in that situation.
At the center of it are Shawn and Eileen, two people thrown together randomly and trying to make the best of it . . . its often hard to find actual human beings in Woolrich novels as everyone just seems like a pawn of forces outside their control but these two do their best here and I think the ultimate tragedy of the novel wouldn't come across as powerfully if not for their unexpectedly strong characterizations (a dinner bordering on farce demonstrates how well they play off each other as the situation itself gets increasingly seasick). They're honestly trying to save someone they like and it helps the book feel like there's actual stakes involved as opposed to watching lemmings shuffle off a cliff. Thanks to them you feel there's a chance that this might all come out okay and their fight against an all-encompassing invisible smothering force known as the universe is what makes the book so stomach churning in parts. You want these people to win but its like wanting your grandmother to live forever. There are some things that just aren't going to happen, no matter how much anyone wishes otherwise.
But they try. They try really hard, in fact and if there's any small humanity in this book its that a whole bunch of people get together to save this terrified older man from a fate he's convinced is heading right for him, not because they want to be rewarded but because it’s the right thing to do. Honestly noble people are somewhat rare in Woolrich novels, typically everyone seems compromised in some way but what makes this hard at times is that Harlan genuinely doesn't seem to deserve any of this. But good people get bad breaks everyday . . . it just feels so obliviously callous here, like a giant rolling over in his sleep and accidentally crushing you. Harlan can't win, but then ultimately nobody does. This time it was just his turn.
So Shawn and Eileen have a plan, the police have a plan . . . random criminals also have a plan, weirdly enough (it doesn't go well, in one of the more chilling sequences in the book, where Tompkins seems less a pawn of forces beyond his control than a vessel for something that isn't possible to name). Unfortunately for everyone involved here Woolrich also has a plan and "bright sunny days" aren't a part of it. The atmosphere gradually gets more oppressive to the point where you start hearing ticking clocks counting down the moments to your own demise (they play a game of roulette to pass the rapidly diminishing time and of course it goes somewhere freakishly extreme) and you feel that the page numbers in the book should start going backwards as you get nearer the end.
Its all tense, wound extremely tight. You know how its going to end. You hope it defies your expectations. But in the end its just so futile (he even left-fielded me on the lions thing . . . although I think we all knew he wasn't going to end up as zoo lion chow) with nothing but a handful of bodies to show for everyone's efforts. In a genre not known for its effervescent cheer, this one is simply pitch-black. Harlan is doomed before the book even starts, he just has the curse of someone telling him how its going to go. Some people might find that empowering, to finally know. Woolrich treats it as he seems to have treated death in general, a final slide into a nothingness of being that had to be held off as long as possible, even if you have to rip your fingernails to bloody pieces to keep yourself from being dragged all the way down into the complete and eternal annihilation of self that he was sure waited for him. Look, when it comes to this genre my heart is probably always going to lie with Phillip Marlowe's sun-drenched underbelly of mid-century Southern California. But this isn't like anything I've ever read. As an exercise in sustained mood its impressive enough but there's this soul-shattering terror of certainty underlying it that makes it more than just a gimmicky suspense novel. There's real fear here, the kind that takes you past a cold sweat and into another mode of thought completely, a realm that you don't want to dwell in for too long unless you want to start perceiving the world and existence in a way that's no longer comfortable. But reading this, it feels like just a sliver of what Woolrich felt all the time, every waking moment of every day (and maybe in his dreams) for all the years of his life before the final release he had strived so desperately to avoid. It doesn't sound like a healthy place to be (I know I don't want to be Cornell Woolrich, I'm not even sure I would have wanted to meet him) but the fact that he was able to reach into that place inside himself that was no doubt sure everything was pointless and eventually dust and articulate even a portion of how that felt is fascinating to me. It almost feels too personal, like we got a glimpse too far and he showed us what we weren't meant to see. There are moments where it very much feels that way to me. And yet he didn't even publish it under his own name.