Milton K. Ozaki, plus a few more night shots
My street, tinkered with so it looks contemporaneous with the paperback originals I've been reading from the 1950s and '60s. (Photos by your humble blogkeeper) |
Ozaki's entertaining 1954 novel Dressed to Kill got me thinking more than I have before about the role formula played in what readers and publishers expected — and circumstances demanded — of writers in the paperback original and pulp eras, from the 1930s through the 1960s.
The Lit Brothers Building, Philadelphia. |
"The bright yellow of the Caddy made it stand out like a banana in a bowl of grapes."or
"His pale eyes, excited by the anticipated kill, had the translucent quality of seedless grapes, yet seemed more shiny, as if oiled by hate."
From my newspaper's office looking across Market Street, Philadelphia. |
Bill Crider notes the extravagance and the occasional repetition in Ozaki's work, which I'm guessing are results of having to turn out so much work so fast. At the same time, I especially like this observation of Crider's, which fills me with respect for talented writers who worked under difficult conditions:
"You can almost see the improvement happening in Ozaki’s steady progression up the ladder of paperback publishers. He started at the bottom with Phantom and Handi-Books, moved to Graphic, then to Ace, and finally to Gold Medal."And now I'm off to learn more about the pulps and hacks who wrote for them.
© Peter Rozovsky 2014
Labels: Bill Crider, Helen Nielsen, images, Milton K. Ozaki, noir photos, Robert Leslie Bellem
5 Comments:
I've probably read more Milton K. Ozaki books than just about anybody. It's been a while, though. I have his booklet on stamp collecting, but I haven't read that one.
Stamp collecting, you say? And I thought it was his hairdressing that made him stand out among hard-boiled crime writers?
Any recommendations on what I should read next of his, other than gravitating toward the books originally published by Gold Medal, if I can find them?
Not to neglect Lawrence Block's Keller, of course.
There is something about a photo taken through a window that gives me the momentary frisson of a voyeur, a slightly melancholy voyeur.
I like the street scenes. Photoshop a silhouette of a man in a fedora and a trench coat and you would have had the next Mickey Spillane jacket.
For Spillane, I think I'd have to add a gun to the picture. Or a babe. Or a babe and a gun.
The voyeur tradition also has more cheerful antecedents in seventeenth-century Dutch painting, notably Vermeer's Little Street.
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