Audio science fiction and - noir

SFFaudio have once more posted some highly interesting links. For instance: Roddy McDowall reading H.P. Lovecraft. Somehow this combination gives me the creeps, it really does, in a good way. Don't quite know why. Maybe it's the softness and gentleness of his voice. So soft and gentle it can only be deception.

What more? There are stories by perennial favourites Philip K. Dick and Robert Silverberg, there's quite a bit of Edmond Hamilton (from whom I've only ever read one novel, I'm sorry to say, if memory serves), there's a whole new SF collection from LibriVox.

Another highly interesting novel is E.E. "Doc" Smith's Triplanetary of the Skylark saga. Haven't read Smith in donkey's years, might be a lot of fun today. Unless it's completely unbearable. No. I shan't be a pessimist. It will be heaps of fun. This is also by LibriVox.

The really fascinating thing (also from LibriVox) is the Conan Doyle novel The White Company (1891), one of his better historical novels about the gentylle & parfait knyght Sir Nigel and his trusted squire set during the Hundred Years War in the 14th century. The novel Sir Nigel (1906), though written later, is in fact a prequel. If you haven't read any Doyle above and beyond Holmes, Challenger, Brigadier Gerard and possibly the odd ghost story, this might well be the perfect place to start reading. Or, in this case, listening. Doyle's historical fiction doesn't come better than this. And, after all, what is Holmes if not a knight, always ready to wield the sword of justice for any damsel in distress who in desperation comes calling at 221B? (Which, of course, makes Watson both his companion and his squire - and also the minstrel who spreads the news of his marvellous exploits!) Reading about Sir Nigel gives one a fuller understanding of what Doyle really meant when he created Holmes.

Then there's some honest pulp and gritty noir for the taking, stories by such stout fellows like Jim Thompson and William F. Nolan. And many more.

Precious little audio dramas, I must add. As usual. It all seems to be readings and the odd interview. Well, still, can't have it all.

Exit Poe

Mönstret är uppenbart.

Det börjar när Edgar är spädbarn. Innan han fyller två år försvinner hans far. Ingen vet vart. Fadern David Poe bara lämnar familjen. Hans öde är okänt, även om man kanske kan gissa att den svårt alkoholiserade fadern avlider kort efter sin flykt.

Ett par månader efter David Poes försvinnande dör Edgars mor Eliza i tuberkulos. Edgar är föräldralös.

Hans äldre bror placeras hos fars föräldrar. Farfar är dock så gammal och hans ekonomiska postion så prekär att han inte tar Edgar. Kan inte, vill inte? Hans syster placeras hos en bekant familj. Men vem tar Edgar?

Till slut hittar en av moderns skådespelarkollegor (som heter Usher!) ett barnlöst par i Virginia, John och Frances Allan. Frances är sjuklig och kan ej få egna barn. De vill ta Edgar, som är ett bedårande barn, intelligent och förtjusande på alla sätt och vis. De klär honom i de finaste av kläder, ger honom allt han vill ha och mera. Men de adopterar honom aldrig officiellt. Detta kommer att ha konsekvenser.

Allan är en förmögen man, en av Virginias förmögnaste. Hans förhållande till Edgar är svårt. Å ena handen skämmer han bort pojken, å andra handen är han känslokall och allt Edgar gör är fel. Frances älskar pojken ohämmat. Men (som med modern Eliza) är hennes hälsa svag och hon orkar inte försvara Edgar mot Allans koleriska raseriutbrott.

Så dör Frances. Allan gifter sig genast med sin älskarinna. Med en annan älskarinna har han redan barn, nu blir det flera. Och Edgar? Hur passar han in i den nya familjen? Det gör han inte. Alls. Relationen försämras ytterligare. Allan tröttnar på Edgars ständiga krav - pengar pengar pengar. Allan gör honom arvlös. Vänder sin rygg. Edgar är igen föräldralös.

Edgar söker upp sin faster Maria Clemm. Hon är änka och så fattig att hon måste hyra ut rum. Hon blir hans hushållerska, hans försörjerska, hans mamma. Han kallar henne Muddy. Muddys unga dotter Virginia kallar han Sissy. Muddy och Sissy. Mor. Syster. De blir hans nya familj.

När en förmögnare kusin, Neilson Poe, vill ta Sissy hem till sig, försörja henne och uppfostra henne ståndsenligt, på det sätt som hon borde uppfostras, kollapsar Edgar fullständigt. Han dricker sig stupfull och blir avskedad från sin tidning. Han börjar bombardera Muddy och Sissy med brev. Innehållet i breven är alltid samma. De kan inte lämna honom. De får inte lämna honom. Om de lämnar honom tar han sitt liv. Till slut lyckas han övertyga dem och de avböjer Neilson Poes förslag.

Ett par månader senare ser Poe till att situationen aldrig kan förnyas. Han gifter sig med Sissy. Hon är blott tretton år gammal. Äktenskapet är med största sannolikhet könslöst. Nu har han sin familj, sin egen familj.

Men som med alla kvinnor i hans liv,modern, Frances Allan, är Sissys hälsa svag. Tuberkulos. Naturligtvis. 1847 är även hon död. Poe börjar åter dricka. Han gör ett par desperata försök att gifta om sig. Han har inga realistiska chanser.

1849 är hans situation närmast desperat. Han har inget arbete. Ingen litar på honom. Han dricker. Hans hälsa är miserabel. Han sätter allt på ett kort. Om han lyckas kamma ihop tillräckligt med pengar kan han realisera sin dröm: att grunda en egen litterär tidskrift. Pengar får han delvis genom att sälja prenumerationer, delvis genom att föreläsa.

Möjligtvis kan han ännu gifta om sig? Ändå?

Han tar tåget från New York till Richmond. Mitt i allt stiger han av i Pennsylvania och berusar sig så kraftigt att han arresteras. I fängelset hallucinerar han och ser paranoida syner. Nästa dag låter de honom gå och han tar första bästa tåg tillbaka till New York. När han sitter i vagnen hör han hur de som sitter bakom honom planerar att mörda honom och kasta ut hans döda lik. Han stiger av och återvänder till Pennsyvania. Han går hem till en vän och beter sig rastlöst. Han vill raka av sin mustasch så att hans fiender inte känner igen honom men hans hand skakar så mycket att vännen får göra det för honom. Vännen är rädd att Poe ska försöka ta sitt liv.

Poe är utan pengar, han har tappat bort sitt baggage, han har bara ena skon kvar. En annan vän är tvungen att låna honom så mycket att han kan köpa sig en tågbiljett till Richmond.

Sedan vänder det. I Richmond är han bland de sina. Han skaffar sig en fin vit sommarkostym istället för den gamla tunga svarta kostymen han hade på sig från New York. Han accepteras genast i societeten - han tillhör stadens aristokratiska elit. Det var ju trots allt i Richmond han bodde som paret Allans privilegierade kronprins. Han håller sitt föredrag (utan sina anteckningar - dem har han tappat bort) och gör en stor succé. Men främst av allt: han träffar åter sin gamla förlovade Elmira Shelton, nu änka. Med Elmira var han hemligt förlovad när han skrev in sig i universitetet som sjuttonåring. När han var tvungen att avbryta sina studier (för att Allan inte gav honom så mycket pengar att han skulle ha kunnat betala sin hyra och köpa mat) och hamnade i Allans onåd tvingade Elmiras far henne att gifta sig med en annan.

Men nu. Men nu! Poe friar. Elmira svarar nej. Han friar på nytt. Hon säger ja.

De ska bo tillsammans i Elmiras stora fina hus i Richmond. Elmira är en förmögen kvinna. Hon har råd att satsa en bra slant i hans nya tidskrift. Ett mirakel har skett. Han är räddad.

Men först, innan de gifter sig, måste han åka tillbaka till New York, sätta sina affärer i ordning. Hämta Muddy som naturligtvis ska bo hos dem i Richmond. Efter det är allt frid och fröjd. Han är räddad.

När han lämnar Richmond känner han sig svag och krank och kraftlös. Förkyld? Kanske. Elmira är orolig. Han tar båten till Baltimore. Efter det - försvinnet han spårlöst.

Tills han hittas sanslös på en gata i Baltimore nästan en vecka senare, i någon annans billiga smutsiga kläder. Han förs till sjukhuset. Hans tillstånd är allvarligt. Han hallucinerar. Sista kvällen och natten ropar han "Reynolds! Reynolds!" timme efter timme. Sedan ger han upp andan. Dödsorsaken är fortfarande ett mysterium. Samma sak med det var tillbringade sina sista dagar eller vad han gjorde. Ingen vet. Teorierna är otaliga.

Men en sak är säker. Det han sökte efter hela sitt liv var trygghet, säkerhet, familj. Mor och far. Bristen på dem var det som sist och slutligen fick honom sätta sina värsta mardrömmar (av vilka han inte hade någon brist) på papper, och till slut dödade honom.

The Great Flamarion

After Erich von Stroheim failed as a director in Hollywood, he could only get employment as an actor, and mostly in pretty crummy films. Why did he "fail"? He never really stood a chance. His movies cost too much to make and were too gritty and realistic and even cruel (maybe sadistic might at times be the best word?) for the ordinary viewer. His movies were often too long and just couldn't be shown at a single sitting: Greed was about ten hours long the way Stroheim wanted it shown - not particularly viable for the theatres or, come to think of it, for the audiences either. Though in all fairness one supposes it could have been shown in three or four parts? (Or maybe the very pig-headed Stroheim wouldn't have any of that?) His movies tended never to get finished - like Queen Kelly of which there seems to be a couple of radically different versions floating around. (Different enough, in fact, to be completely different movies!) There really was no way he could last as a director - it's indeed a miracle he was allowed to make any movies at all.

So, it was back to being an actor for Erich. That was after all how he started in the racket. As a silent movie heavy, a most dastardly villain, a haughty Teuton, a despicable Hun, a Prussian beast - the man you loved to hate. And how well he did it! Then he started making his own films. That was over by 1930. As an actor after that he got to do a few brilliant roles like those in Renoir's La Grande Illusion and Wilder's Sunset Boulevard. Not many of his other movies are what you might call great. However, his presence in a movie, any movie, does make it interesting and definitely worth seeing.

The Great Flamarion by Anthony Mann (1945) is in many ways seriously flawed. It's one of Mann's earliest efforts and in its way a nice little film noir. Stroheim is Flamarion, a cool and distant marksman, who displays his superb shooting skills in a stage show. He has two assistants, the married couple Connie and Al. Al (Dan Duryea, who usually plays the sniveling crook) has a drinking problem and Flamarion threatens to sack him. Connie talks him out of it. Al's drinking gets worse and becomes a risk - he's supposed to perform the routine like clockwork or otherwise he just might get shot. Connie gets an idea. She starts to woo the standoffish Flamarion. She says she's horribly in love with him and if he fires Al she must go with him. And she simply can't be apart from Flamarion. Little by little Flamarion gives in and soon he's head over heels.

Then Connie starts dropping heavy hints. Wouldn't it be horrible if Al made a mistake on stage and got shot? It would be all Al's fault, him being drunk and all, and no blame would be attached to Flamarion. Flamarion is aghast. Then he starts thinking. Yes, it would be an accident. Not his fault in the least. And with Al gone he would get Connie, Connie would be all his. So he waits and bides his time till the drunken Al makes a false move and then he shoots - and kills. Horrible accident! Now they can be together. Not so, says Connie, not yet my darling. What do you mean, says Flamarion. We can't get together at once, says Connie, that would look bad. Connie will go away with another show and in three months they will meet and then the future is theirs and nothing can stand in the way of their strong love.

Three months later Connie doesn't show up. She's quite gone. The address she's given him turns out not to exist at all. Flamarion suddenly grasps the ghastly truth - she's used him! She's betrayed him! She's destroyed his life! What else can he do but track her down? Which is what he does. He finds her on tour in Mexico - and the wife of another man. She claims she's tried to contact him, that she still loves him, how could she ever really love another? He puts down his gun. She snatches it up and tells him the truth. He attacks her, she manages to shoot him twice, but he strangles her all the same. Having killed her he dies - but only after he's told his sad sad story in a slightly heavy-handed flashback.

As early film noirs go this is a pretty fair effort. And it's always good to see Stroheim as the duped, used and tormented inhuman monster who's quite the most human character in the entire film.

After The Great Flamarion Stroheim did another dozen or so movies. There's Sunset Boulevard in 1950 but not many other good ones. There were plans, many plans, but they all fell through. He wrote a couple of novels in French and plotted what magnificent things he would do if somebody gave him enough money to direct. Nobody did.

I spy

Came across W. Somerset Maugham's Collected Short Stories, Volume Three. Cover looked promising, not familiar - but did I already own it in another edition? Well, better take no chances. Took it home and turns out I don't own Vol. 3 although I have most of the other vols. Jolly good. Then, upon further inspection of said book, turns out I in fact do own it, sort of. Because it's in essence the same book as the novel Ashenden, except for a bit in the end: a short story called Sanatorium. What Maugham did was what in Science Fiction is called a fix-up - he took a bunch of related short stories and turned them into a novel. As far as I can tell there seems to be no actual rewriting as such, but the pacing of the book is slightly different as the chapter breaks don't strictly follow the breaks between the different stories. (I probably knew all this already as something like fifteen years ago I published an article about the Ashenden novel/stories in The Finnish Whodunnit Society magazine Ruumiin kulttuuri but have managed to forget all about it.)

Ashenden (or Vol. 3, if you will) is quite clearly one of Maugham's most interesting books. It's about a writer called Ashenden who during World War I becomes a spy. Maugham knows whereof he writes as he himself was a spy during the war. Therefore the stories are - if not autobiographical - then at least based on personal experience. They're quite low key, shy away from any melodrama or cheap sensationalism (which is pretty obvious when one compares them to other stuff about spies written around the same time) and come off as almost naturalistic. In the first short story the fellow who approaches him to become a spy tells the true story of what happened to a colleague of his. Well, the colleague had in his possession certain crucial documents. He went out and had supper, met a beautiful lady, they came back to his digs, had some bubbly and next thing the chap knows it's the following morning and the documents are gone, phut, just like that, and so's the lady - now how's that for a story? Ashenden rolls his eyes and says: "We really can't write that story much longer."

Hitchcock made a movie based on the stories, Secret Agent (1936), with John Gielgud as the slightly unlikely Ashenden, the lovely Madeleine Carroll as his "wife" and the truly sinister Peter Lorre as his disturbing associate The General. Not a bad little picture, not much to do with Maugham's original writings, but nevertheless not a bad picture.

Odd thing, by the way, how many writers become involved with the cloak and dagger business. Maugham, Compton Mackenzie, John Le Carré, Ian Fleming, Graham Greene, Manning Coles (now actually Manning Coles is a pseudonym behind which there were two writers: Manning and Coles, of whom Coles worked for British Intelligence in both wars), Ted Allbeury, Tim Sebastian. These are just a few that spring to mind. And the traditions are long: even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries we have names like Daniel Defoe, Aphra Behn (one of the, to my knowledge, very few female author-spies) and indeed Christopher Marlowe who very likely owed his untimely demise to his shady dealings with that dangerous and ruthless man Walsingham, the spymaster of Queen Elizabeth. There are claims that Edgar Allan Poe was actually a government spy. I seriously doubt it.

Are authors good spies? Why do they want to be spies? Is there some intricate but hidden connection between spying and writing? I think there very well may be just that. What does a writer do - all the time? He observes people. He observes facts. He spies on private conversations. He pries into the souls of others. Why did he say that? Why did she react like that? Who is this person? What's his secret? What makes him tick? What makes her do the things she does? What is she thinking? What will he do? The writer is life's ever alert little eavesdropper. Would probably peep through keyholes too.

That's what fiction is about. Observing facts. Putting them together. Building large constructions based on tiny shreds of truth. Tiny slivers of life. Extrapolating.

There's also another thing that may be similar. I sincerely believe that all writers want to be someone else. At least sometime. At least for a little while. And that's what you do when you write somebody: you become that person. And that person becomes you. So for a while you get to pretend to be someone else. The act of writing, the act of creating, is the act of becoming and of being.

And then lastly but not necessarily leastly there's the lying. The untruths. The fabrication of facts. The fabrication of reality itself. That always appeals tremendously to the creative mind of the writer. Fiction is lying. Or maybe I can put it like this: writing fiction is lying with a licence. More or less. Wouldn't it be simply splendid if one could stretch it a bit? Stretch it into real life? Just a little? Where's the harm? All writers are born liars. They've just been able to channel their lies in a constructive and profitable way. Well, the same goes for the spy.

I well understand that a spy needs other qualities as well. But an author naturally has several of the more important qualities that a spy needs. And I'm not claiming that being an author automatically makes anyone a decent spy. Or even half decent. What I am saying is that I quite understand why so many authors would want to be and choose to become one. I quite understand.

The Lost World

I'd never seen The Lost World until I came across it in DVD form in a second-hand bookshop (obviously a bookshop) sometime before last Christmas. And when I say I'd never seen The Lost World I mean I'd seen several Lost Worlds - only never The Original One, the first and certainly best cinematic take on the book from 1925.

It is quite a magnificent film, even today. The effects are dated but still inventive, imaginative and even spectacular. There's a certain inner strenght in the movie, an inherent power that blinds one to all faults. Certainly the Pterodactyl (is it in fact Pterosaur I should be saying?) doesn't convince me totally, but the Allosaurus, the Triceratops, the Stegosaurus and even the Brontosaurus are all pretty magnificent - considering what the film makers had to work with and seeing that everything they did was completely innovative. They were simply making it up as they went along. The man behind the special effects was none other than Willis H. O'Brien who a few years later went on to create the effects in King Kong.

In fact the dinosaurs and effects in The Lost World look surprisingly convincing - much more so than one had any reasonable cause to expect. The scenes where the enraged Brontosaurus (should one actually call it Apatosaurus nowadays?) runs amok and wreaks havoc in London are no less than terrific - even more convincing than the scenes on the legendary plateau. What makes the film even more pleasurable to watch is that it is beautifully tinted in different shades of green, red, brown, yellow and blue, according to the mood and action of the scenes. Works very well indeed. It enhances the ambiance of the movie and at the same time transforms it completely so you don't even notice that some of the effects might seem a trifle hokey.

Much to my chagrin I noticed that the original release ran a 106 minutes - while my own DVD offers no more than 63 minutes of film. Over 40 minutes missing. I'm annoyed. I will go even further - I'm quite annoyed. Especially when I found out that, although there are several scenes that are lost forever, there do exist considerably longer prints. Like the George Eastman House Restoration. I found a shorter version of that (75 minutes while it's really supposed to be all of a 100 minutes long) on Youtube and it's been restored marvellously - it's a true gem. Bright clear colours, sharp images - truly splendid. And no wonder the continuity on my DVD seemed somewhat less than adequate when even an addition of a mere 12 minutes pretty much transform the action and make it seem much smoother and more logical.

I think the original print had even Sir Arthur himself at desk saying a few words of the work before the action started. So obviously he approved. Even though they did add a slightly gratuitous romance that was never in the book.

What I perhaps like best in the movie is Wallace Beery's portrayal of the irascible professor Challenger. Beery is the last actor one would pick for a professorial role - he's big, ugly, brash, loud, oafish and a complete clod. He's precisely the sort of fellow you'd imagine in a tremendous bushy mustache chasing after poor little Charlie Chaplin or throttling Stan Laurel. What he's best remembered for are his numerous (and almost forgotten) wrestling movies. Yet, quite miraculously, he's a marvellous Challenger. At least in a silent movie - in a talkie I'd have to hesitate. No, I'm certain he'd be all wrong in a talkie. Just about as right as he's in a silent film. Challenger is a bully and a complete child. He's rude to everyone and apt to manhandle anyone who doesn't agree with him or questions his theories. But he never means any harm, not really. He may just overreact slightly upon occasion. There's an amusing scene where Malone the journalist calls upon Challenger at his home and they end up wrestling and the wrestling goes on and on till they find themselves on the street and are interrupted by a passing Bobby. And Challenger, upon getting caught, looks and acts like a sulking schoolboy. After that scene it's very hard to think of anyone else as professor Challenger.

It's quite obvious that The Lost World spawned King Kong. Quite directly. But did The Lost World in turn owe something to Tarzan? Having recently watched the very first Tarzan movie ever made (in 1918 with Elmo Lincoln as Tarzan), Tarzan of the Apes, I begin to wonder if perhaps that movie wasn't something of a precursor, in a certain sense, of The Lost World? At least it would have whetted the audiences appetite for jungle adventures and made it easier market the movie version of Doyle's ripping yarn.

Many consider The Lost World (1912) to be Doyle's finest novel (I can't say I disagree - I'd place it among his top two with The Hound of the Baskervilles): does this make The Lost World of 1925 the very finest Doyle filmatization ever? Can't say I'd disagree there either.

Shake it II - Ob metum mortis

In 1930 Shakespearean scholar and literary detective Leslie Hotson stumbled on two highly interesting documents, both being writs of attachment issued to the sheriff of Surrey. In the first, from early November 1596, a certain Francis Langley seeks protection: "Be it known that Francis Langley craves sureties of the peace against William Gardiner and William Wayte for fear of death, and so forth." In the second, from late November the same year, William Wayte returns the favour: "Be it known that William Wayte craves sureties of the peace against William Shakspere (!), Francis Langley, Dorothy Soer wife of John Soer, and Anne Lee, for fear of death, and so forth." (The writs were originally in legal Latin, translations by Hotson.)

"For fear of death." Ob metum mortis in the original. Now these are what today would be called restraining orders. F.E. Halliday's A Shakespeare Companion 1564-1964 explains them thus: "Anyone craving sureties of the peace made oath before a justice that he stood in fear of his life or some bodily hurt, whereupon a judge would order the sheriff of the county concerned to attach the alleged threatener and make him enter a bond to keep the peace." Quite serious stuff, then.

So, this William Wayte feared for his life. And what he feared was that William Shakespeare would kill or seriously injure him. Shakespeare, being mentioned first in the writ, was therefore also considered the biggest threat.

Who are these people? What do we know of them? Wayte, Gardiner, Langley, Soer, Lee? What does Shakespeare have to do with them? This is where it gets really interesting. Let's start with William Gardiner who is nothing less than a justice of the peace and the former High Sheriff of Surrey and Sussex. And a right bent one to boot, of this there can be no doubt whatsoever. William Wayte is Gardiner's stepson and obviously his enforcer when it comes to his shady dealings. Wayte does Gardiner's dirty work for him.

Langley was originally a goldsmith who in 1589 bought Paris Garden on the Bankside. Which is where Londoners went to watch the popular pastime of bear-baiting and other unsavoury things. Like plays. This is because the Bankside was in Southwark and therefore not in the City of London. You couldn't have theatres within the walls of the City, that was illegal. Theatres were quite immeasurably immoral. Like brothels really. So no wonder the theatres often operated as brothels as well, or the theatre owner had another building right next to his theatre where pleasures of the flesh were on offer to the gent what wanted a bit of nook. Well, entertainment's entertainment like, innit? Anyway, the officials of London had no jurisdiction in Southwark. Therefore that's were the underworld and the demi-monde tended to congregate and ply their trade. In 1594 Langley started building a new theatre, The Swan, in Paris Garden. The Swan was finished and ready for use sometime in 1596. Which is what connects Langley to Shakespeare. Theatre owner - playwright, right? But Dorothy Soer and Anne Lee? Who on earth were they? How do they enter the picture? Nothing beyond their names is known of them.

Halliday calls Langley a "financier". His wikipedia article describes him, very generously, as a "theatre builder and theatrical producer". Peter Ackroyd, in his Shakespeare biography, sees the man in a slightly bleaker light: "It is perhaps worth noting that Langley himself enjoyed a somewhat dubious reputation as a money-broker and minor civic official who had managed to accumulate a large fortune; he had been charged by the Attorney General, in no less a tribunal than the Star Chamber, of violence and extortion." William Ingram's biography of the man (A London Life in the Brazen Age) is even franker as to his little "business pursuits". So there we have it. Langley was a thug and a king pin of thugs. He was a money-lender, a brothel-keeper and maybe worse (his brother-in-law worked for the sinister spy master Walsingham and that's how he got his appointment as a government official!). The role of Dorothy Soer and Anne Lee seems to become clear. What else can they be than brothel workers? Why else would they be involved with Langley in a spat with Wayte and Gardiner? They can hardly have been theatrical workers, that would make no sense whatsoever. But the brothel angle would. All the sense in the world. If they were punks, drabs or bawds, to use the parlance of the day, that would be another matter indeed.

Obviously there was a turf war going on. Gardiner wanted in on the action. Langley wasn't having none of it. Gardiner sent in his enforcer Wayte. And Langley? Did he counter with his enforcer, the even nastier bully boy Will Shakspere? The mind boggles a bit. Ever so slightly.

Shakespeare a thug? An enforcer? A common criminal? Oh dear.

1596 was a most curious year for Shakespeare. In August he buried his only son Hamnet. A few days later he received his coat of arms, making him officially a gentleman. Shakespeare the gentleman enforcer? Curiouser and curiouser.

But the Langley connection does seem to explain things. Around that time Shakespeare suddenly seems to have a great deal of money. He buys the second finest house in Stratford for £60 - a huge sum. In 1599 he owns a share (10 or possibly 12%) of the newly erected Globe. These are not trifling sums. Certainly not the sort of money one makes with one's quill, however brilliant a craftsman one happens to be. How does he get it? Well if he's in cahoots with Langley, if he takes his just cut of the immoral earnings of prostitutes, if he's in on all of Langley's other grimy rackets, squeezing everyone within sight, that would explain it.

It's not the sort of explanation Shakespearean scholars long for. Usually biographies sort of skate around Langley and Wayte. They shouldn't. Whatever the truth there's a story there. And a jolly good one at that. It may not be pretty. It may even change the way we have to see Shakespeare, irrevocably, but it does have to be addressed honestly and seriously. Anything else would just be cowardice.

Innan man dör ut

Värt måhandä att notera att science fiction-evenemanget Finncon 2009 går av stapeln på Kabelfabriken om en vecka. Tre programpunkter på svenska. Gott och väl. Men herredumilde: "Ursäkta mig, finns det någon finlandssvensk fandom?" Vad kan man säga? 1) Ja 2) Nej 3) Kanske 4) Ingen aning 5) Who cares? Men allvarligt talat, det finns tre programpunkter på svenska, endast tre, och detta har de att komma med? Som hade inte denna synnerligen livsviktiga fråga redan behandlats, tycker man. Om och om igen. I mina ögon är det här det ungefär allra minst viktiga och intressanta man kunde behandla. Kan ha fel: det kolossala finlandssvenska navelskådandet brukar ju vara hur populärt som helst. Bland finlandssvenskar. Inget viktigare än det. Ja, jag måste definitivt ha fel. Betydligt intressantare och relevantare att diskutera den finlandssvenska fandomen (ifalla den nu råkar existera) än tex. litteratur, film, författare eller annat onödigt och suspekt. Heja vi.

Märkte även att varken Poe eller Doyle har noterats i år. Poe är faktiskt dubbeljubilar: han fyller 200 år och det är 160 år sedan han dog. Pojkspolingen Doyle fyller bara 150 år han. Men, tänk er, vilka fina programpunkter kunde man inte ha fått kring dem? Mannen som så gott som uppfann genren och hans mångsidiga och uppfinningsrika lärling. Man kunde till exempel ha diskuterat hur Doyle influerades av Poe (både inom science fiction- och detektivberättelsen), hur Doyle förvaltade, förde vidare och förädlade Poes arv, eller hur de båda gjorde en ofantlig insats så inom science fiction-, deckar- som skräckgenren. Men nej. Inget åt det hållet. Synd.

Kan inte påstå att jag är värst överraskad. Det är ditåt det brukar luta. På en Finncon av det nyare slaget är det alltid viktigare att anordna paneler och enormt lärda diskussioner kring TV-serier, plastleksaker, maskeraddräkter, serietidningar, Harry Potter (särskilt Harry Potter) och annan barnkultur än att behandla litteratur. I synnerhet lite äldre litteratur. Och klassiker är rentav bannlysta. Men det är väl naturligt. Vem läser? Bara onödiga gamla stofiler. De dör snart ut ändå. Det är barnen och deras leksaksintressen som gäller. Ju mera småbarn de har som besökare desto bättre gillar samarbetsparterna. Vilket då i sin tur möjliggör det att de kan ha femtielva samtidiga programlinjer om McDonalds Starwarsplastgubbar och lesbiska vampyrer i mindre kända japanska b-porrfilmer. Men tyvärr inte så mycket om science fiction-litteratur. Särskilt såndänt gammalt mögligt stoff. För vem läser? Seriously! Like nobody dude!

Vilket iochförsig är hur okej som helst. Det är bara att man redan ganska länge vantrivits så sjutton de gånger man nu råkat bevista en Finncon. Känt sig mera än lindrigt malplacerad. Vilket man då i allra högsta grad är. (Inget under att de aldrig vill ha en i sina paneler.)

Men man kan alltid stanna hemma, slå upp en bra gammal bok och hälla sig ett glas Lagavulin. I väntan på att man dör ut.