Friday, July 31, 2020
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
like humor, but smaller
DFT pitched the first one months ago. This was quickly knocked together for a Twitter post using the photo that prompted it and an image search result, and I'm putting it here so I can get it with equal facility if I need it again.
That's all. No end credits joke here today.
.
Monday, July 27, 2020
Solving the unsolved murder in Chandler's THE BIG SLEEP
Who killed the Sternwood Chauffeur? Raymond Chandler famously didn’t know the answer when he was asked by screenwriters for the adaptation of his classic novel, The Big Sleep, but some careful digging turns up a plausible answer, and possibly even a reason Chandler might have lied about it.
The Big Sleep was Chandler’s first novel, and the first appearance of Philip Marlowe, one of the most famous and frequently imitated of the fictional sleuths. Chandler wrote seven novels starring Marlowe, as well as a number of short stories. The character inspired ten movies, four radio series (and several one-off adaptations of the movies), and two series (plus one-offs) on television. Whenever a tough detective talks to himself, he seems to be using Marlowe’s voice, possibly filtered through Humphrey Bogart. And then there is the Marlowe Apocrypha (by which I mean stories by Raymond Chandler featuring detectives who would later evolve into Marlowe--not stories by other writers about Marlowe, in imitation of Chandler).
Writing did not come easily to Chandler. When it came to producing his first novel, he reached back to stories he’d already published in the pulps, a fairly ephemeral medium, adapting and borrowing from the adventures of detectives who were Marlowe in all but name: Carmady, Dalmas, Mallory, and others with and without name who already had the ethical toughness with a touch of poetry (Chandler had a classical education from Dulwich College, London, where he associated with the Bloomsbury group).
Chandler ‘cannibalized’ (his term) the earlier stories for plots, characters, and incidents, enlarging and adding detail in the process. Once he had done this, he closed the book on the stories, never allowing them to be reprinted. Three of the stories were reprinted in the 1940s — according to Philip Durham in his introduction to the collection “Killer in the Rain,” Chandler said this was done without his knowledge or permission. They had served their purpose, and whether he was embarrassed by his early work or felt that readers could be confused by their variant plotlines, or some other reason, he wasn’t interested in seeing them pop up again, even for money.
In writing The Big Sleep, Chandler cannibalized no fewer than four stories, but relied mostly on “The Curtain” and “Killer in the Rain.” As Durham notes, he also borrowed bits of “Mandarin’s Jade” and “Finger Man” for scenes and details, but the first two mentioned provided twenty-one out of thirty-two chapters in the novel. In “Killer in the Rain,” the dead chauffeur is named Carl Owen. His name is changed to Owen Taylor in The Big Sleep. We don’t see him alive in either one.
The scene where Marlowe watches them fish the car out of the water comes from “Killer in the Rain.” Inside the car was the body of Owen, chauffeur of the father of Carmen Dravec, who became Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep. Owen had been hit on the head, non-fatally, before the car went into the water and he drowned.
[SPOILER ALERT]
At the end of the story, Marlowe talks to Joe Marty (who becomes Joe Brody in the novel and movie), who reveals that he had sapped Owen, but while his attention was elsewhere, Owen came to and sped off quickly. It’s assumed by Marlowe that Marty is telling the truth, and therefore the chauffeur drove off the pier in a confused mental state. This incident, however, didn’t make it into The Big Sleep.
So who killed Owen Taylor? In The Big Sleep, Brody is otherwise much the same as Marty in the original short story. Can we assume that events followed a similar course? (Before going back and reading closely, I had the idea that Owen had been done in by the same character who committed the murder in “The Curtain,” which made for a more elegant theory and a shorter explanation, but the theory didn’t hold up under examination.) Brody doesn’t live long enough to tell Marlowe the same story Marty told, but with the parallels between the two stories, he’s the best fit. We’ll say the evidence is circumstantial, and we’ll never know because the sentence was carried out on him before we could find out — let’s just say “Joe did it. Sort of.”
And what of Chandler? Did he forget what he wrote before? It seems unlikely, given that he must have looked closely at the story while he was rewriting much of it for the novel. I would speculate instead that he preferred looking a little foolish than bringing up the stories he cannibalized for the book. Anyway, to Chandler, the details of the plot were secondary to character and mood. He expressed scorn for most mystery writers (Dashiell Hammett being a notable exception) with their railway timetables, alibis, and unmasking scene in the living room. He didn’t care to revive a story he’d already recycled, and a neat, mechanical mystery and solution were never his first priority.
The Big Sleep was Chandler’s first novel, and the first appearance of Philip Marlowe, one of the most famous and frequently imitated of the fictional sleuths. Chandler wrote seven novels starring Marlowe, as well as a number of short stories. The character inspired ten movies, four radio series (and several one-off adaptations of the movies), and two series (plus one-offs) on television. Whenever a tough detective talks to himself, he seems to be using Marlowe’s voice, possibly filtered through Humphrey Bogart. And then there is the Marlowe Apocrypha (by which I mean stories by Raymond Chandler featuring detectives who would later evolve into Marlowe--not stories by other writers about Marlowe, in imitation of Chandler).
Writing did not come easily to Chandler. When it came to producing his first novel, he reached back to stories he’d already published in the pulps, a fairly ephemeral medium, adapting and borrowing from the adventures of detectives who were Marlowe in all but name: Carmady, Dalmas, Mallory, and others with and without name who already had the ethical toughness with a touch of poetry (Chandler had a classical education from Dulwich College, London, where he associated with the Bloomsbury group).
Chandler ‘cannibalized’ (his term) the earlier stories for plots, characters, and incidents, enlarging and adding detail in the process. Once he had done this, he closed the book on the stories, never allowing them to be reprinted. Three of the stories were reprinted in the 1940s — according to Philip Durham in his introduction to the collection “Killer in the Rain,” Chandler said this was done without his knowledge or permission. They had served their purpose, and whether he was embarrassed by his early work or felt that readers could be confused by their variant plotlines, or some other reason, he wasn’t interested in seeing them pop up again, even for money.
In writing The Big Sleep, Chandler cannibalized no fewer than four stories, but relied mostly on “The Curtain” and “Killer in the Rain.” As Durham notes, he also borrowed bits of “Mandarin’s Jade” and “Finger Man” for scenes and details, but the first two mentioned provided twenty-one out of thirty-two chapters in the novel. In “Killer in the Rain,” the dead chauffeur is named Carl Owen. His name is changed to Owen Taylor in The Big Sleep. We don’t see him alive in either one.
The scene where Marlowe watches them fish the car out of the water comes from “Killer in the Rain.” Inside the car was the body of Owen, chauffeur of the father of Carmen Dravec, who became Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep. Owen had been hit on the head, non-fatally, before the car went into the water and he drowned.
[SPOILER ALERT]
At the end of the story, Marlowe talks to Joe Marty (who becomes Joe Brody in the novel and movie), who reveals that he had sapped Owen, but while his attention was elsewhere, Owen came to and sped off quickly. It’s assumed by Marlowe that Marty is telling the truth, and therefore the chauffeur drove off the pier in a confused mental state. This incident, however, didn’t make it into The Big Sleep.
So who killed Owen Taylor? In The Big Sleep, Brody is otherwise much the same as Marty in the original short story. Can we assume that events followed a similar course? (Before going back and reading closely, I had the idea that Owen had been done in by the same character who committed the murder in “The Curtain,” which made for a more elegant theory and a shorter explanation, but the theory didn’t hold up under examination.) Brody doesn’t live long enough to tell Marlowe the same story Marty told, but with the parallels between the two stories, he’s the best fit. We’ll say the evidence is circumstantial, and we’ll never know because the sentence was carried out on him before we could find out — let’s just say “Joe did it. Sort of.”
And what of Chandler? Did he forget what he wrote before? It seems unlikely, given that he must have looked closely at the story while he was rewriting much of it for the novel. I would speculate instead that he preferred looking a little foolish than bringing up the stories he cannibalized for the book. Anyway, to Chandler, the details of the plot were secondary to character and mood. He expressed scorn for most mystery writers (Dashiell Hammett being a notable exception) with their railway timetables, alibis, and unmasking scene in the living room. He didn’t care to revive a story he’d already recycled, and a neat, mechanical mystery and solution were never his first priority.
Friday, July 24, 2020
walking haiku
Come here, butterflies!
With every random zigzag
You refill my soul.
It occurred to me while walking that one of my favorite Walt Kelly quotes, with the addition of only a couple of punctuation marks and line returns, is a very serviceable haiku:
.
With every random zigzag
You refill my soul.
There is, unerring,And so there is, and it would be a shame to forget it.
Magic in the stumbling flight
Of the butterfly.
.
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
Today's haiku from the trail
Black dragonfly preens:
Frozen, posing, beautiful
Till my camera's on.
.
Frozen, posing, beautiful
Till my camera's on.
 |
| Standing in for today's dragonfly is a similar one I saw in China in 2011. |
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Things You Learn on the Trail
[1] Turning right instead of left can get you an entire extra hour of walking. I did that yesterday, and wound up going all over the place, and to the other side of the Erie Canal for the first time. The converse is true too--any new turn can tempt you to further feats of foot, and any chance straying up a short dead-end street can be a ticket to new sights, sounds, and smells. Even flavors, if you're 100% pos that the area hasn't been sprayed.
Who knew there'd be a beached inflatable unicorn in this yard? I certainly didn't.
[2] Hydration isn't just for drinking. I've started carrying a flat plastic water bottle that Sarah received after some soccer tournament in Webster. The annoyance of adding it to my swollen arsenal (umbrella and camera in back pockets, phone and utility bag in shirt pocket, etc) is outweighed by the luxury of saying "Aha! Methinks I'll sip some of the old aqua pura right now!" and doing it. I've switched from my headphones to ear buds for the lighter and less sweaty rewards, and this lets me wear my Carolina hat instead of my billed cap, which in turn shades my neck. I can also take it off and put it back on more easily, and (most important) I can use it as a swamp cooler by drenching the crown. Of course, this dries out before you know it, and I didn't want to use my drinking water, and I was reluctant to dip it in one of the nice water bowls local citizens put out for passing puppies, or even to use a puddle. I held out for the drinking fountains at Schoen Place, which of course turned out to be out of service, possibly because of some deadly plague that's going around. The canal was sort of convenient, but not that convenient, and who knows what those ducks do in it? (Spoiler: I know.) I eventually remoistened it by taking advantage of the copious dew on the grass, dragging it along for a few yards, looking like a bird feigning a broken wing, until the crown was sufficiently moist.
Another insufficiently inviting opportunity to moisten the hat. Great for looking, dodgy for personal use.
[3] Today's mishap is tomorrow's knowledge. Yesterday, I found that by taking the one-lane bridge over the canal at Mitchell, I could not only see the really neat canalside buildings that I'm thinking were maybe stables for mules or something, but I could walk a little farther and catch the other portion of the Auburn trail, which dead-ends in the clear-cut valley of the giant walking pylons. Yesterday I took that over to State Street and proceeded to Schoen Place, where not enough people are wearing their germ straps, and then took Main Street most of the way home. Today, I reversed that and picked up the valley from State Street, and thought I'd be clever and take it all the way to Jefferson. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the Erie Canal is still there, and the wires just go over it, which is an option I don't have. Nonetheless, I now know that I could have taken that trail from Schoen Place all the way to the valley and then caught the Auburn to Mitchell to Jefferson to Knickerbocker to home.
The pylons are friendly, but they might lead you to the very brink of the canal. Beware! Be very ware!
[4] Slower is often better. If your goal is to see things and take pictures, being on foot gives you opportunities. Things I never could catch out of the car window become easily available. Yesterday, I walked all around a couple of ruined buildings by the canal that I'd never been able to photograph, and snapped away until they became boring (about twelve minutes). I can't believe nobody has bought them to replace with McMansions in that spot, overlooking the canal and with a view of the aforementioned former stables. I've also taken surreptitious snaps of homes that have always interested me. Click! Take it home and study it at length.
It's a bit of a fixer-upper. Just replace the roof and the parts under it.
[5] Five things is about enough. I might do a more narrative version of my walks some time, depending upon how much frenzy I can whip up here. Oh, look! It's possible to comment on this blog. Who knew? I've about stopped using Google Earth to figure out new routes, though I can guess close enough. Basically, I figure about three miles in an hour and then count the hours. Yesterday two and three-quarters. Today, just over two, and that includes the backtracking part. No regrets. I've found blackberries every day, and one day I was next to a hedge to fragrant (honeysuckle, maybe) that I sort of wanted to hug it. I've seen dozens of painted rocks people have left by trails and sidewalks to cheer the weary traveler, and I've improved my ability to just keep walking (left foot, etc.) for as long as it takes. I have lots of photos I haven't used yet.
Watch this space.
.
Who knew there'd be a beached inflatable unicorn in this yard? I certainly didn't.
[2] Hydration isn't just for drinking. I've started carrying a flat plastic water bottle that Sarah received after some soccer tournament in Webster. The annoyance of adding it to my swollen arsenal (umbrella and camera in back pockets, phone and utility bag in shirt pocket, etc) is outweighed by the luxury of saying "Aha! Methinks I'll sip some of the old aqua pura right now!" and doing it. I've switched from my headphones to ear buds for the lighter and less sweaty rewards, and this lets me wear my Carolina hat instead of my billed cap, which in turn shades my neck. I can also take it off and put it back on more easily, and (most important) I can use it as a swamp cooler by drenching the crown. Of course, this dries out before you know it, and I didn't want to use my drinking water, and I was reluctant to dip it in one of the nice water bowls local citizens put out for passing puppies, or even to use a puddle. I held out for the drinking fountains at Schoen Place, which of course turned out to be out of service, possibly because of some deadly plague that's going around. The canal was sort of convenient, but not that convenient, and who knows what those ducks do in it? (Spoiler: I know.) I eventually remoistened it by taking advantage of the copious dew on the grass, dragging it along for a few yards, looking like a bird feigning a broken wing, until the crown was sufficiently moist.
Another insufficiently inviting opportunity to moisten the hat. Great for looking, dodgy for personal use.
[3] Today's mishap is tomorrow's knowledge. Yesterday, I found that by taking the one-lane bridge over the canal at Mitchell, I could not only see the really neat canalside buildings that I'm thinking were maybe stables for mules or something, but I could walk a little farther and catch the other portion of the Auburn trail, which dead-ends in the clear-cut valley of the giant walking pylons. Yesterday I took that over to State Street and proceeded to Schoen Place, where not enough people are wearing their germ straps, and then took Main Street most of the way home. Today, I reversed that and picked up the valley from State Street, and thought I'd be clever and take it all the way to Jefferson. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the Erie Canal is still there, and the wires just go over it, which is an option I don't have. Nonetheless, I now know that I could have taken that trail from Schoen Place all the way to the valley and then caught the Auburn to Mitchell to Jefferson to Knickerbocker to home.
The pylons are friendly, but they might lead you to the very brink of the canal. Beware! Be very ware!
[4] Slower is often better. If your goal is to see things and take pictures, being on foot gives you opportunities. Things I never could catch out of the car window become easily available. Yesterday, I walked all around a couple of ruined buildings by the canal that I'd never been able to photograph, and snapped away until they became boring (about twelve minutes). I can't believe nobody has bought them to replace with McMansions in that spot, overlooking the canal and with a view of the aforementioned former stables. I've also taken surreptitious snaps of homes that have always interested me. Click! Take it home and study it at length.
[5] Five things is about enough. I might do a more narrative version of my walks some time, depending upon how much frenzy I can whip up here. Oh, look! It's possible to comment on this blog. Who knew? I've about stopped using Google Earth to figure out new routes, though I can guess close enough. Basically, I figure about three miles in an hour and then count the hours. Yesterday two and three-quarters. Today, just over two, and that includes the backtracking part. No regrets. I've found blackberries every day, and one day I was next to a hedge to fragrant (honeysuckle, maybe) that I sort of wanted to hug it. I've seen dozens of painted rocks people have left by trails and sidewalks to cheer the weary traveler, and I've improved my ability to just keep walking (left foot, etc.) for as long as it takes. I have lots of photos I haven't used yet.
Watch this space.
.
Friday, July 10, 2020
In Search of a Quote
The only references I seem to find to this now are me, quoting it from memory. Here's an example:
Ta.
.
Former National Lampoon editor Sean Kelly called out fellow former NatLamp ed PJ O’Rourke once, and in the course of it he described “the one conservative joke,” which, shorn of corroborative detail works out to “if these people are so darn smart, why aren’t they able-bodied/rich/white/male/straight?”Can anybody point me to the original of this? Does Kelly have a blog or an address I could write to to ask him? It was a piercing observation, and I don't like watering it down through my own memories of how I paraphrased it earlier, like a solo game of Telephone.
Ta.
.
Tuesday, July 07, 2020
Left foot. Right foot.
I walk through the world on the soles of my feet.
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
Out of my driveway and over a block;
Detouring through streets with the shadiest trees
I figure on just over four miles to walk.
I'm ready to relish the tiniest breeze.
The path between houses, a trail through the woods,
The Auburn trail beckons. I enter its shade
Past daughter's old school via two neighborhoods
To tread the firm earth that the railroad men laid.
Small movement seizes my gaze at my feet
A frog moves one yard and then freezes in place
Another blackberry is ready to eat
White butterfly drunkenly flies in my face.
The last leg's uphill, it's slow going but sweet
Umbrella and cap help to temper the heat.
I practically coast the last few dozen feet:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The house is a haven that always needs work
Our work gives life meaning and fodder for talk
Complaining is free. It's an un-ending perk
A topic for small chat along the long walk.
The leak that I fixed last year's dripping again
I'd call in the plumber, but he must be paid
I'll do what I can just one more time, and then
Next year they can deal with the muddle I made.
This is the year when the porch's damn roof
Must be fixed and fixed well, or we'll lose the whole room
Winter will come, we're not yet water-proof
We ponder our financial peril with gloom.
Solutions don't last, resolutions aren't neat
It isn't an option to shrug that we're beat
So we struggle ahead, not admitting defeat:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
.
I'm not sure if this is finished or not. Watch this space: Changes may take place silently.
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
Out of my driveway and over a block;
Detouring through streets with the shadiest trees
I figure on just over four miles to walk.
I'm ready to relish the tiniest breeze.
The path between houses, a trail through the woods,
The Auburn trail beckons. I enter its shade
Past daughter's old school via two neighborhoods
To tread the firm earth that the railroad men laid.
Small movement seizes my gaze at my feet
A frog moves one yard and then freezes in place
Another blackberry is ready to eat
White butterfly drunkenly flies in my face.
The last leg's uphill, it's slow going but sweet
Umbrella and cap help to temper the heat.
I practically coast the last few dozen feet:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The house is a haven that always needs work
Our work gives life meaning and fodder for talk
Complaining is free. It's an un-ending perk
A topic for small chat along the long walk.
The leak that I fixed last year's dripping again
I'd call in the plumber, but he must be paid
I'll do what I can just one more time, and then
Next year they can deal with the muddle I made.
This is the year when the porch's damn roof
Must be fixed and fixed well, or we'll lose the whole room
Winter will come, we're not yet water-proof
We ponder our financial peril with gloom.
Solutions don't last, resolutions aren't neat
It isn't an option to shrug that we're beat
So we struggle ahead, not admitting defeat:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The world is a house on the edge of a drop
Some party inside like tomorrow won't come
While others are nervously working up top
Trying to re-roof, for Winter will come.
We work for solutions and think we're ahead
When we've managed to budget for vittles and rent
But our loud, feckless roommates have broken their bed
And accused us of wasting the money they spent.
The going's unsure: slowly gain, quickly lose
The prizes we'd won somehow frittered away.
When we're running ahead, someone's stolen our shoes.
The progress of decades wiped out in a day
The road is uneven, the map's incomplete
And it's rare we can hitchhike or otherwise cheat.
We work through this life with our souls in our feet.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Are we there yet?
Repeat.
I'm not sure if this is finished or not. Watch this space: Changes may take place silently.
Sunday, July 05, 2020
Mission: Improbable [content warning: sex, violence, bad puns]
(Opening music plays: Theme to "Peabody's Improbable History")
Peabody: Hello, everyone. Peabody here, and this is my boy, Sherman.
Sherman: What are we going to do today, Mr. Peabody?
P: Today, Sherman, we are going back to the Whitechapel district of London, in the year 1888, to pay a call upon that notorious cut-up, Jack the Ripper.
S: I'll set the WABAC machine!
[Business with WABAC]
P: And here we are. And there, unless I'm very much mistaken--which I never am--the gentleman with the high neckline and narrow lapels is Mr. Ripper himself.
(Jack is the typical upper-class English twit we've seen in other Jay Ward cartoons, vaguely reminiscent of young David Niven.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody! He's just standing there! He's not ripping anybody!
P: Give him time, Sherman, give him time. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
(they wait)
P: That's enough time, Sherman. Let's go give history a helping hand, shall we?
S: Let's shall!
P: We can work on your English later.
S: What are you going to do, Mr. Peabody?
P: As history suggests, Jack was a misogynist with a maniacal hatred of women of the street. Therefore, we shall introduce him to such a woman and let nature take its awful course.
(A strumpet shows up, and Peabody instructs her.)
P: Here, madame, is a pretty penny for you, if you will go up to that gentleman and whisper filthy nothings in his ear.
Strumpet: Coo lumme, pet!
(She walks up to to him and whispers in his ear. Disappointingly, his reaction consists of manifesting a bunch of hearts and blushing slightly, then following her offstage.)
P: Alas, Sherman, our first gambit has failed.
S: What'll we do now, Mr. Peabody?
P: We wait, Sherman.
(Five minutes later, the twit returns from his assignation and stands on the corner again.)
P: And now, let's see if we can poison his mind against that lady of the evening. Oh, sir!
J: Oh, I say, what, wot?
P: Are you aware that the young woman you were dallying with just now is a harlot?
J: I beg your pardon?
P: A harlot. A naughty lady. A tuppence tart.
J: Oh, I say! I gave her thruppence! (goofy smile) But it was worth fuppence and a ha'penny! (more hearts emit)
P: Ah, but she doesn't care with whom she cohabits, and is even now sharing her possibly diseased charms with other gents.
J: Oh, well, jolly old fortunes of war, wot? Share the wealth, wot?
P: But aren't you just a bit irate, or murderously jealous?
J: I should say not! Easy come, easy go!
(He resumes standing aimlessly and Peabody returns to Sherman.)
S: What now, Mr. Peabody?
P: What indeed, Sherman! This is a poser. If Jack the Ripper fails to rip, history itself will be the poorer for it!
S: Gosh!
P: Gosh, indeed. Indeed, gosh! Let me think.
(Sherman assumes a posture of silent, alert readiness, as befits a well-trained boy.)
P: Sherman, I have it!
S: The plague?
P: No, an idea. According to the best historians--I include myself among their number--Jack the Ripper, in addition to his day job of ripping, was also a frustrated surgeon.
S: He was?
P: He positively was. And therefore, I shall appeal to his medical nature. (to Jack) Oh, sir!
J: You rang?
P: Are you aware that the saucy bit of crumpet with whom you have been cavorting is in urgent need of medical attention?
J: Good heavens!
P: And if you don't operate at once, her appendix and spleen may both burst forthwith?
J: I? Operate? But, my dear sir, I have no idea what to do!
P: Just follow my instructions, and all will be copacetic. Come along, there's no time to lose!
(They dash around the corner to where the Strumpet is back to soliciting.)
P: There she is. Quickly, hold this ether-soaked cotton in front of her nose for five seconds!
J: It smells fascinating. What a bouquet! (starts to sniff at it)
P: Stop! Do as I say, or I'll summon a bobby!
J: Oh, very well. (He knocks out the Strumpet.)
P: Now, gather her up, and follow me into this secluded alley. You will follow my directions to the letter!
J: Oh, quite. Pip pip.
P: (voice over) For the next thirty minutes, I directed that hapless drone in a series of the most horrific indignities a human being has ever perpetrated on another. At the end of the time, the hapless fille de joie was a lifeless, bloody husk, and Jack the Ripper was born!
J: Say, that was ripping fun! I think I'll do it again! And again!
P: Stout fellow. Think of it as cleaning the streets!
(Jack dashes off like a maniac, brandishing his blade.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody, that was terrible!
P: Yes, Sherman, our job here is done. Back... to the WABAC machine, and home!
(back in Peabody's penthouse)
P: Well, Sherman, did you learn anything today?
S: History is gruesome?
P: Did you happen to notice anything about the procedure you witnessed?
S: History is stomach-turning?
P: Did you chance to observe the instrument being used?
S: He was an upper-class British twit, wasn't he?
P: I mean the instrument that he was using on the luckless trollop.
S: Gosh, no, Mr. Peabody! I just assumed he used a scalpel.
P: One might guess so, but the actual implement was more of a colloquial hand blade, popular in the 19th and early 20th century.
S: You're not going to say what I hope you're not going to say, are you, Mr. Peabody?
P: Why, Sherman, even one of your rudimentary perceptive abilities should have been able to discern the familiar form of a... Jack... knife!
S: Oh, Mr. Peabody!
(ba-whump)
(closing music)
.
Peabody: Hello, everyone. Peabody here, and this is my boy, Sherman.
Sherman: What are we going to do today, Mr. Peabody?
P: Today, Sherman, we are going back to the Whitechapel district of London, in the year 1888, to pay a call upon that notorious cut-up, Jack the Ripper.
S: I'll set the WABAC machine!
[Business with WABAC]
P: And here we are. And there, unless I'm very much mistaken--which I never am--the gentleman with the high neckline and narrow lapels is Mr. Ripper himself.
(Jack is the typical upper-class English twit we've seen in other Jay Ward cartoons, vaguely reminiscent of young David Niven.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody! He's just standing there! He's not ripping anybody!
P: Give him time, Sherman, give him time. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
(they wait)
P: That's enough time, Sherman. Let's go give history a helping hand, shall we?
S: Let's shall!
P: We can work on your English later.
S: What are you going to do, Mr. Peabody?
P: As history suggests, Jack was a misogynist with a maniacal hatred of women of the street. Therefore, we shall introduce him to such a woman and let nature take its awful course.
(A strumpet shows up, and Peabody instructs her.)
P: Here, madame, is a pretty penny for you, if you will go up to that gentleman and whisper filthy nothings in his ear.
Strumpet: Coo lumme, pet!
(She walks up to to him and whispers in his ear. Disappointingly, his reaction consists of manifesting a bunch of hearts and blushing slightly, then following her offstage.)
P: Alas, Sherman, our first gambit has failed.
S: What'll we do now, Mr. Peabody?
P: We wait, Sherman.
(Five minutes later, the twit returns from his assignation and stands on the corner again.)
P: And now, let's see if we can poison his mind against that lady of the evening. Oh, sir!
J: Oh, I say, what, wot?
P: Are you aware that the young woman you were dallying with just now is a harlot?
J: I beg your pardon?
P: A harlot. A naughty lady. A tuppence tart.
J: Oh, I say! I gave her thruppence! (goofy smile) But it was worth fuppence and a ha'penny! (more hearts emit)
P: Ah, but she doesn't care with whom she cohabits, and is even now sharing her possibly diseased charms with other gents.
J: Oh, well, jolly old fortunes of war, wot? Share the wealth, wot?
P: But aren't you just a bit irate, or murderously jealous?
J: I should say not! Easy come, easy go!
(He resumes standing aimlessly and Peabody returns to Sherman.)
S: What now, Mr. Peabody?
P: What indeed, Sherman! This is a poser. If Jack the Ripper fails to rip, history itself will be the poorer for it!
S: Gosh!
P: Gosh, indeed. Indeed, gosh! Let me think.
(Sherman assumes a posture of silent, alert readiness, as befits a well-trained boy.)
P: Sherman, I have it!
S: The plague?
P: No, an idea. According to the best historians--I include myself among their number--Jack the Ripper, in addition to his day job of ripping, was also a frustrated surgeon.
S: He was?
P: He positively was. And therefore, I shall appeal to his medical nature. (to Jack) Oh, sir!
J: You rang?
P: Are you aware that the saucy bit of crumpet with whom you have been cavorting is in urgent need of medical attention?
J: Good heavens!
P: And if you don't operate at once, her appendix and spleen may both burst forthwith?
J: I? Operate? But, my dear sir, I have no idea what to do!
P: Just follow my instructions, and all will be copacetic. Come along, there's no time to lose!
(They dash around the corner to where the Strumpet is back to soliciting.)
P: There she is. Quickly, hold this ether-soaked cotton in front of her nose for five seconds!
J: It smells fascinating. What a bouquet! (starts to sniff at it)
P: Stop! Do as I say, or I'll summon a bobby!
J: Oh, very well. (He knocks out the Strumpet.)
P: Now, gather her up, and follow me into this secluded alley. You will follow my directions to the letter!
J: Oh, quite. Pip pip.
P: (voice over) For the next thirty minutes, I directed that hapless drone in a series of the most horrific indignities a human being has ever perpetrated on another. At the end of the time, the hapless fille de joie was a lifeless, bloody husk, and Jack the Ripper was born!
J: Say, that was ripping fun! I think I'll do it again! And again!
P: Stout fellow. Think of it as cleaning the streets!
(Jack dashes off like a maniac, brandishing his blade.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody, that was terrible!
P: Yes, Sherman, our job here is done. Back... to the WABAC machine, and home!
(back in Peabody's penthouse)
P: Well, Sherman, did you learn anything today?
S: History is gruesome?
P: Did you happen to notice anything about the procedure you witnessed?
S: History is stomach-turning?
P: Did you chance to observe the instrument being used?
S: He was an upper-class British twit, wasn't he?
P: I mean the instrument that he was using on the luckless trollop.
S: Gosh, no, Mr. Peabody! I just assumed he used a scalpel.
P: One might guess so, but the actual implement was more of a colloquial hand blade, popular in the 19th and early 20th century.
S: You're not going to say what I hope you're not going to say, are you, Mr. Peabody?
P: Why, Sherman, even one of your rudimentary perceptive abilities should have been able to discern the familiar form of a... Jack... knife!
S: Oh, Mr. Peabody!
(ba-whump)
(closing music)
.