MIRRORS

by Janice Law

John Floyd’s good March 12 blog on literary genres got me thinking about other differences between work focused on art and work focused on entertainment, not that those categories are ever mutually exclusive. Shakespeare, after all, was big on contemporary genre entertainment: revenge tragedy, cross-dressing siblings, blood and gore warfare, and romps with fairies. He just happened to be a hack of pure genius.

Nor is he alone. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment was “ripped from the headlines,” as modern blurb writers are fond of saying, while Jane Austen’s romances were seen as just a better grade of young ladies’ fiction.

Some modern writers have made the jump, too, one way or the other. Elmore Leonard was a prolific pulp writer before learned folk decided his work had style with a capital S; a similar discovery promoted Raymond Chandler from hack to icon. Joyce Carol Oates has moonlighted with mysteries; Margaret Atwood with science fiction, and P. D. James left Adam Dalgleish long enough to tap out The Children of Men.

A recent spate of reading some big name mystery novelists has suggested a difference that I don’t believe John mentioned. While both literary and genre work mirror their societies, one provides a critical mirror, the other a flattering one.

I can hear protests. Our favorite genre offers more serial killers, deft poisoners, and purveyors of mayhem than the toughest burg around, with even the quaint village of St. Mary Mead producing enough corpses to embarrass Newark or Detroit. But consider for a moment the heroes and heroines of these capers. Valiant, tireless, and brave, the men get long in the tooth, but with the recent exception of the unceremoniously retired Kurt Wallander, turn almost indestructible. They get the guns, they get the guys, they get the girls, when one knows that in reality they would get arthritis at best, and cirrhosis at worst.

Recently, the super guys have been joined by prodigies on what used to be called the distaff side, beautiful amazons who combine intellect and courage with symmetrical features. Forget Miss Marple, she of the dithery air but razor-sharp intellect. The new model has more than a touch of male fantasy, and like her masculine counterparts, she really does push the credibility envelope.

Olivia Dunham, the chemically enhanced heroine of the popular Fringe series, is a television exemplar. A dab hand at science, a soft touch for ailing children, a crack shot, and a top athlete, Olivia is also a svelte blonde with an oh, so fashionable all-black wardrobe.

Even further over the top is Lisabeth Salander, the “Girl” in the enormously popular Steig Larson trilogy. A computer genius with a photographic memory, this diminutive lassie punches far above her weight when confronting sadists, perverts, and skinhead motorcycle gangs. She’s cute, too, in a Goth way, though thanks to that little touch of autism, not exactly the gal to take home to meet momma.

So though The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and its successors deal with big, and painful topics—sex trafficking, exploitation, government malfeasance, and cruelties of every sort—it has a nice slice of fantasy in its Wonder Woman heroine.

While “serious” novels often traffic in ambiguity and shades of gray, even when dealing with minor matters, the most popular genre works offer clear resolutions and sharp lines between good and evil. They also require a certain busyness of plot, facilitated by the supernatural energy displayed by so many of their heroes and heroines. Who in the detective ranks takes an uninterrupted day off? What P.I. clocks out at 5 p.m. and shuts off the cell phone? Longueurs of any type are anathema and hence, super-person is always on call.

As we’d like to think we’d be. In our daydreams, which of us is mediocre, fatigued, baffled, or bored? Not us. Literary works remind us of our frailties, of the inevitability of error and loss. In entertainment, we’d like an alternative existence of more energy, more excitement, more action.

Does this mean that the gulf between art and genre work is fixed? Not on your life. Time is a great leveler. The smash hit of 1587 was Kit Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great with Edward Alleyn in the lead. A cruel, greedy, capable dreamer, Tamburlaine was out to conquer the world, superman style. The audience ate it up and demanded a sequel, which was duly forthcoming.

A bit of pop fantasy with some poetry of genius, it was a flattering crowd pleaser then. Now, it’s in the literary canon as a prototype of Renaissance “striving” as the lit folks say. What once was amusement, now seems like a critical exploration of certain facets of the Renaissance mind.

Though I hate to disagree with Stephen King, I think his definition of ordinary people doing extraordinary things (genre fiction) and extraordinary people doing ordinary things (literary fiction) doesn’t quite cover everything. The stories can be, and probably are, the same—it turns out that there are only so many basic plots to go around. The real differences are in the ambitions and ideas and craft that go into the work—and these are no respecters of labels or persons.

Ask Shakespeare. He was asked for a revenge tragedy with the newly popular ghost messenger. He was kissed by the Muse and produced Hamlet.

WOMEN WRONGED

by Leigh Lundin

‘Sexually-assaulted girl forced to pay $45,000 in legal fees.’

That’s the short lead-in— the rest of the story isn’t much different but is terribly hard to fathom.

At least three boys (two aged 18, one younger) locked a 16-year-old girl in a bedroom at a party. Clothes and morals were discarded. When others at the party tried to break into the room, the boys jumped out the window, leaving clothes behind. Reports say the older boy threatened to kill others who might report him. (Clothes left behind, what we in the crime-fighting world might call evidence. And DNA)

Police arrested the boys and charged them with sexual assault, which may or may not imply rape, but unless the girl bench-presses 260 pounds, it doesn’t sound like a fair match. There is such a phenomenon as false rape reporting, but nothing suggests that. Justice implies the boys should have had their butts kicked very hard indeed.

At least one of the boys came from a politically prominent family. It took two grand juries to get indictments, but one boy– the one accused of actual rape– pled guilty and was sentenced to a minor fine and two years probation. That allowed him to return to school and eventually go to college on sports scholarships. If the girl and her family were fine with that, then I can accept, but there’s much I can’t.

Charges for the second boy were inexplicably dropped earlier this year. No information is available on the juvenile.

But…

The boys were football and basketball stars and the location was Silsbee, Texas, which worships Football with a capital F. While the Lone Star State is hardly alone, it is a state that continues to pump millions into new high school football stadiums while simultaneously cutting back on teachers and school programs.

And the girl– she was a cheerleader. Her charges of sexual assault threaten the local football and basketball programs, the undefeated district champs. Moreover, she refused to cheer for her rapist, the cheer being:

"2, 4, 6, 8, 10, come on, Rakheem, put it in."

Yes, that was the cheer and Rakheem Bolton was her primary assaulter.

Her balking at the demeaning cheer didn’t sit well with Superintendent Richard Bain. The district superintendent, his assistant, and the principal ganged up on the girl, accusing her of "substantial interference with the work of the school," a school that claims as its "Tiger pride" motto "Putting our children first."

The school initially told her to avoid the cafeteria and other public places including, apparently, homecoming, then followed up by kicking her off the cheer squad. If you think you misread that: Her rapists were allowed to continue starring in sports and she was kicked off the team.

It gets worse.

She sued.

And lost.

And appealed.

And lost. And the appeals court deemed her suit ‘frivolous’. More on that in a moment.

She appealed again.

And lost.

And finally, she appealed to the Supreme Court, which refused to hear the case. (We could have predicted that was fruitless; since Scalia and Thomas joined hands, the Supreme Court has consistently upheld the rights of government against its citizens.)

The $45,000? Not only is the girl’s family responsible for their own legal fees, the ‘frivolous’ ruling means she has to pay the county’s attorney fees (often inflated).

The court said the cheerleader "had no right to remain silent when called on to shout the athlete’s name." In their words, “As a cheerleader, Hillaire S served as a mouthpiece through which (the school district) could disseminate speech– namely, support for its athletic teams. This act constituted substantial interference with the work of the school because, as a cheerleader, Hillaire S was at the basketball game for the purpose of cheering, a position she undertook voluntarily.”

Did the court somehow miss the point the girl was raped? I agree you can’t legislate compassion, but what kind of civics lesson is it that a child should be forced to cheer for her rapist? This is a teenager not only raped but more than $45,000 in debt before starting life as an adult.

As far as I can make out, there’s a lot wrong and nothing right about this case, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing anyone can do about it.

Our Gal in Damascus

A crucial element for democracy in the Middle East is freedom of the press, and the voice dictators fear most doesn’t come from New York, Washington, London, or Paris, but Qatar. The name of the news bureau al Jazeera means ‘the island’ and the network is figuratively an island of free press in the midst of tyrannies striving to choke the free exchange of information.

The al Jazeera network can be seen almost anywhere in the world except large parts of the United States, which is a shame because an informed public needs more information, not less. At one time, al Jazeera employed David Frost and staff from ABC’s Nightline and it is well regarded among news outlets.

As I researched the bin Laden story last week, al Jazeera was covering their own internal drama: their reporter Dorothy Parvaz was missing and, if you can still see her photo in the upper right corner of her web page, she’s probably still missing.

She has not been heard from since her disappearance on 29 April. As have other governments, the US State Department and Ambassador Robert Ford enquired of her whereabouts, to little avail.

Dorothy was seized while covering pro-democracy protests in Syria. For a week, the Syrian government did not acknowledge they’d ‘detained’ her apparently without charges. On Wednesday, al Jazeera reported she’d been secretly handed over sometime earlier to Iranian authorities, which reinforced speculation that Iran is working with Syria to stamp out the flames of democracy in the Middle East.

It’s one more reminder the Arabian Peninsula can be a harsh environment for reporters. The women who venture there are very brave indeed.

PERCEPTION IS EVERYTHING

by John M. Floyd

Two sanitation engineers being conveyed
on their environment service vehicle.

We at Criminal Brief often find ourselves writing about word usage and wordplay. A few of us (excluding me but including JLW) are experts on the subject. And the one thing we all seem to agree on is that the topic can be fascinating.

I was reminded of this while watching TV the other night, and a car-dealership commercial came on. I usually ignore them as the irritants that they are, like mosquitoes, but this one caught my attention. The owner was bellowing something like “Come on down to our auto park at the corner of—”

Auto park? Why didn’t he just say car lot?

I knew why, of course. All of us—not just salesmen and politicians—tend to put a positive spin on things that might not otherwise sound so positive. Whether it’s a job reassignment or an investment opportunity or a description of a new girlfriend, we’re inclined to paint things in as rosy a light as possible.

Selective amnesia

Writers are accomplished spin-doctors. In cover letters and query letters, we short-fiction folks include only the most respectable places that have featured our work; rarely do we point out the stories we might’ve published in folded pamphlets distributed free on streetcorners in the South Bronx. And that’s okay—we’re not lying, or being unethical. It’s just literary bio mechanics, and a similar approach is used in everything from press releases to job interviews.

Consider what you say at your class reunion, when you’re asked what you’ve been doing for the past quarter-century. If you hired on two months ago at a prestigious firm of some kind, that’s the career you mention to the former homecoming queen—not the ten years you spent as a telemarketer or the three-to-five you served for tax evasion. Everybody has a certain amount of less-than-pearly-white laundry in the hamper. Even Spielberg and Lucas have a few 1941s and Howard the Ducks in their past, and I have a feeling Dustin Hoffman is more comfortable talking about Kramer vs. Kramer than about Ishtar.

Creative writing

Just as this careful withholding of the painful truth is expected and natural, so is the dressing-up of job titles. A secretary these days is an administrative assistant, a salesperson is a marketing rep, a foreman is a construction supervisor, a welfare worker is a human resource professional. And I’ve come to believe that the term “technical specialist” can now be applied to anything from a programmer to a help-desk worker to an office gofer. If that isn’t enough lipstick for your pig, a recent Google search revealed the following updated title possibilities:

shelf stacker—stock replenishment coordinator
chimney sweep – flueologist
cafeteria worker—nourishment production assistant
gardener—horticultural maintenance officer
gas pump attendant—petroleum transfer operative
window cleaner—vision clearance technician
sewage worker—waste treatment engineer

I even heard somebody the other day refer to a salesman as a technology evangelist. And in case I’m stepping on any toes here, let me confess that my glorified job title with IBM (I worked as a systems engineer on bank application software) was Senior Finance Industry Specialist.

Matter of fact, I just had a thought. I’m not a struggling writer. I’m a mystery author.

Excuse me while I go change the lettering on my door . . .

JABBER-WALKING PART TWO

by Steven Steinbock

When we left off last week, I had left off my narrative with James Lincoln Warren and myself at Penn Station boarding the Express train Washington, DC. It was Friday, April 29. I feel a little like a character from a Mark Twain adventure – Innocents Abroad or Roughing It. Except between James and me, I’m not sure which of us is supposed to be Tom, and which one Huck.

Travelling tip #86. When attending conferences where you’re likely to accumulate lots of books and other swag, pack light, but use a good sized suitcase. The real trick is to pack an extra empty carry-on. Pick something lightweight but easy to carry, maybe a small duffel bag. Pack the empty bag inside the suitcase. When you get to the end of your voyage, pack most of the books, well-packed amidst the laundry, in the suitcase which you will check at the airport. (Make sure you don’t go over fifty pounds). Then put your dirty laundry and whatever else won’t fit in the suitcase into your duffel bag. Bring it aboard as a carry-on along with your briefcase, purse, or other “personal item.”

The train was packed. James and I managed to find two seats across the aisle from each other. We were both very tired from the previous night’s Edgar events, but I don’t think either one of us slept aboard the train. Less than three hours later we had pulled in to Union Station in Washington, and were pulling our bags toward the Metro (DC’s subway system).

The Metro ticket machines were conspiring against me. The first two machines I tried wouldn’t take my money. As I mentioned, I was tired, but that had nothing to do with my inability to get the machines to deliver a ticket. James, however, would have none of it. I could tell he was getting impatient with me and was just this side of leaving me at the station.

The third machine, however, worked like a charm. By the time we got onto the train to Bethesda, James had forgotten – or at least forgiven – my ineptitude. We came up from the Metro station in Bethesda and found our hotel just a couple dozen yards away.

After checking into my room and signing in at the Malice Domestic registration table, I found Douglas Greene, the founder and publisher of Crippen and Landru books, and the man responsible for introducing me to mystery fandom. But that’s another story.

The Malice opening ceremonies began around 5pm. Then, after a few hours later, James gathered a group of us to go to a little French bistro a few blocks away. The group included Sandra Brannan and Nora McFarland, both of whom saw their first novels published in the previous year, Kate Stine and Brian Skupin (publishers of Mystery Scene Magazine, who incidentally met at a mystery convention, started dating at another mystery convention, and now appear at every mystery convention as husband and wife, living testaments to the genial nature of mystery conventions), Doug Greene, James Lincoln Warren, of course, and me. We had a wonderful meal which, by some miraculous series of events that still remain inexplicable, ended up being paid for by itself. What happened to our bill remains a mystery, but the maitre d’ said it was taken care of.

Saturday, April 30.

I’ve probably said it before in my columns, but of all the reasons I attend mystery conventions, listening to panels is not high on my list. It’s not that I don’t have anything new to learn, but frankly I’d rather be socializing with friends or drooling over the books I can’t afford. But on this particular Malice morning, there were multiple sessions I wanted to catch. I got up early to catch a short story panel featuring all five of the Agatha Award nominees for Best Short Story. Then at 10:15, James Lincoln Warren moderated a panel that asked the questions Do amateur sleuths really help the police in real life? and How do we justify it in our fiction? It was an entertaining and well-run panel. (Throughout it, James was rearranging and reshuffling the stack of index cards he’d prepared, containing notes and questions, and maintaining good natured confidence throughout.

At the Agatha Banquet that evening, each table was hosted by a different author. I was seated with Elizabeth Zelvin, who has had a number of stories published in Ellery Queen, including two featuring a young Jewish midshipman trying to hide his religion aboard Columbus’s Santa Maria. Her story “The Green Cross” was nominated for an Agatha.

Speaking of crews, we had a great crew aboard our table, including most of the group from the previous night (Nora McFarland, Sandra Brannan, Doug Greene, and James Lincoln Warren) as well as Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine editor Linda Landrigan. Here’s a photo of Linda, Elizabeth Zelvin, and Doug, with Linda displaying a copy of Liz’s story:

After the banquet, several hundred of us retired to the bar. John Curran, the author of Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks (winner of the Agatha for Best Critical Work) was with us all the way from Dublin. After determining the time-difference, he decided he’d have to wait until morning to text the news to his friends back in Ireland. Here’s a photo of me, Caroline Todd (aka Charles Todd), and James Lincoln Warren.

Sunday, May 1.

Art Taylor, an old friend who writes for Mystery Scene and has had a number of stories published in Ellery Queen, moderated a morning panel called “Keeping it Real: When Real People Become Fictional Characters.” The panel included my friend and fellow magi Dan Stashower, who has written several novels featuring Harry Houdini.

At 2:30 celebrants gathered in the ballroom for the Agatha Tea and Closing Ceremonies. At the front of the room on easy chairs set up on a dais, Caroline Todd was interviewing John Curran about his experiences at Christie’s Devonshire estate, Greenway House, going through her papers, sitting in her chair, and discovering the box of hand-written “secret notebooks” that provide a glimpse into her creative life.

It was remarkable that throughout the interview, every spoon and teacup remained nearly still and silent.

I spent the next few hours getting my own personal interview with John Curran as we talked about crime writers of the Golden Age and compared notes on our book collections.

Then it was time to go home. Malice Domestic program chair Barb Goffman was heading out and going toward the airport and offered to give me a ride. (Thanks, Barb). And so ended another Malicious weekend.

OTHER THINGS

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Sounds of nothingness surround me as if I were in a tomb. At first my mind questions the static not quite silence, but soon accepts it. I usually write with music in the background, sometimes quiet as if an afterthought, but often nearer to blaring. As a teenager, I’d always done my homework with the Top 40 on the radio blasting away. My mother never could understand. “You can’t hear yourself think in here,” she said more than a bit exasperated. Do we hear ourselves think?

When I am stumped on a plotline, I resort to “other things.” Laundry suddenly calls my name. I find myself wondering if I should organize the pantry or go to the post office to see if something is sitting in the mailbox needing my attention. It’s difficult to fight those moments and stay put in my chair.

Sometimes, the only ways I allow myself to do “other things” instead of writing, is to make it into a study period. I can do two things: read or find a good movie that is well written. Both I must use as a springboard by dissecting the elements that make it worthy of the intended audience.

Our good friend Travis Erwin suggested I watch the HBO series Treme. Creighton, played by John Goodman, is an English professor at Tulane and is struggling with his own novel in progress. His writing isn’t going well, although he doesn’t reveal this information to his wife and daughter. We can see his turmoil and how he decides to solve his problem, though we don’t want to see how this story will likely unfold. The writing as well as the acting is phenomenal and a great example of what I’d like to accomplish. The characters become so real that I am taking each victory as a personal accomplishment and each setback as one of my own. I feel like I live and have always lived in the Big Easy. I struggle with a music career or trying to be a chef in a city where too many people have fled or died during Katrina. I am making a feathered suit to celebrate with too little time, too much left to sew and not enough blue beads. Thanks, Travis. You were right. I did need to see this series.

I flipped the channel to witness Barbara Stanwyck deliver yet another fabulous performance as Stella Dallas. I understood her pain as she wanted more out of life, but didn’t quite know how to get it beyond the rich husband. Her daughter’s devotion to the mother who had raised her practically alone and the sadness when she believes her mother wanted her gone. I adore the unparalleled empathy of the new Mrs. Dallas as Stella makes the biggest sacrifice for her daughter’s better life. Do we ever believe these people didn’t live beyond a movie screen? I ache for them still as if they were my close friends.

Back at my computer, I start to type. I’m almost there and in the zone when I swivel around to switch on a CD. John Mellencamp bellows tune after tune and my mind begins to spin a tale of intrigue. The Cougar is freeing my soul. My heroine isn’t quite Creighton or Stella, but she is beginning to take shape in my mind. She has a story to tell and I’m ready to listen.

As John finishes one song and moves onto the other, I turn up the volume when the track changes to my favorite, Cherry Bomb. As he belts out his angst in a lovely rhythm, I remember when dancing really did mean everything. I jump from my chair and dance around the room. When you feel this good, dancing still means everything. When the CD ends, I return to my chair, feeling like I just won the lottery.

I begin to type, words spilling onto the screen like Jambalaya, spicy and rife with intermingling flavors meant to savor and not soon to be forgotten.

Content with the wild soundtrack playing in my mind, I think I can actually hear myself think. It sounds good, Mom. It really does.

SEE IF I CARE

by Rob Lopresti

When I started the blog Little Big Crimes my mission was simple: say nice things about short mystery stories. That’s why I announced I would review the best story I read that week. What’s the point of criticizing them? Who said “like breaking a butterfly on a wheel?”

But last week before I started my rave I felt obliged to rant a little:

I have been reading mostly web-based stories this week and getting frustrated by them. Here is the plot I seem to read over and over: bad guy meets bad guy. One of them gets killed.

Okay, it’s a story, I guess. In fact it is the plot of “Loaded,” which I reviewed here last week. But by itself, it is not enough. You have to make me care what happens, which bad guy gets killed.

And that is what I have been thinking about ever since: how do we make the reader care about what happens in the story? Here are some methods that work for me as a reader, in no particular order:

Give me the hook. You can rent my attention for a few minutes with a great opening line. “Art Matthews shot himself, loudly and messily, in the center of the parade ring at Dunstable races.” —Dick Francis, Nerve

Make me laugh. Humor will keep reading.

Show me them purty words. What critics call “heightened language,” where the writing does more than just tell the story. Faulkner expressed a view of the world with his long, intricate, stream-of-consciousness sentences. Hemingway did likewise with flat prose and short sentences. Such techniques always run the risk of annoying the reader, but hey, at least you’re trying.

What a concept. Give me a story with a breath-taking central idea. Francis of Assisi as detective (Alan Gordon). Retell Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped (James Lincoln Warren). An armchair detective who happens to be an armchair (James Powell).

Puzzle me. The whodunit is great, but you have to balance between the eeny meeny murder mo extreme and the “this time it’s personal” extreme – the latter being the private eye whose every friend and relative gets murdered in the course of his series. But a puzzle story doesn’t have to be a whodunit. Jack Ritchie won an Edgar with “The Absence of Emily,” in which the narrator tells everyone that his wife is off visiting friends, but acts as if something very different has happened. Whatsgoingon can be just as compelling as whodunit.

Introduce me to your friends. Stories need interesting characters. Not necessarily nice guys, bad guys are fine. But I have to have a reason to root for or against them. Parker: scrupulously ethical thief with no morals whatsover. Keller: amoral hitman who gets strangely fascinated by dogs, stamp-collecting, small towns… James Flood: A ruthless kidnapper with a cunning plan and a twisted need for vengence. All scoundrels, not a one of them dull.

Let’s twist again. A surprise ending can make the whole story look better.

Show me the goal line. The protagonist needs toaspire to something, preferably something I can sympathize with. Has it ever struck you that the essence of noir is the American dream? A nobody, hungering for success, tries to lift himself up by his own bootstraps. Maybe he does it by robbing a bank or killing his sweetheart’s husband, but he wants to achieve, just like everyone in this country is supposed to. He gets squashed like a bug, but dammit, he’s trying.

Show me the pearly gates. Not literally. But the possibility of redemption is a powerful pull. Give the protagonist a shot at fixing the disaster he caused, healing the wound, being a better person than he thought he was. This doesn’t mean the hero has to succeed in being redeemed, of course. And redemption can take all kind of forms. Thomas Walsh won awards for a story called “Chance After Chance” in which (spoiler alert) a washed-up alcoholic ex-priest killed himself because he knew it was the only way to keep from breaking his vows. Redemption by suicide? Absolutely.

So, those are the ones I could think of. What makes you care about a story?

THE PERFECT OBIT

by Melodie Johnson Howe

The actress Yvette Vickers has died. She starred in two 1950s horror cult films: “Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman” and “Attack of the Giant Leaches.” She was a Playboy Playmate, had an affair with Cary Grant and a 15 year relationship with Jim Hutton, who played Ellery Queen in the TV series of the same name.

“Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman” is one of those movies that is so terrible it’s perversely good. Vickers played the town slut seducing a married man. The jealous wife somehow gets tangled up with an alien from outer space who immediately turns her into a fifty-foot woman wearing a very skimpy outfit. The giant of a wife can now seek revenge and does. Vickers dies in the movie. The same exact scenario happens in “Attack of the Giant Leaches”, except she’s killed by enormous bloodsuckers.

In the Los Angeles Times obituary of Vickers, she is quoted as saying, “I did want to play other kinds of parts and to go on into bigger pictures . . . but these things just eluded me.”

A neighbor, Susan Savage, also an actress, found Yvette Vickers’ mummified body in her Benedict Canyon home. The space heater was still on and she may have been dead for as long as a year. According to the obituary, Savage noticed that Vickers’ “mailbox [was] filled with old letters.” Savage went on to say, “She kept to herself, had friends and seemed like an independent spirit. To the end, she still got cards and letters from all over the world requesting photos.” Other residents on the street said they had not seen Vickers since last summer.

In an email to the Los Angeles Times, Alan K. Rode, film historian, wrote that Vickers “proved to have the perfect look for a 1950s drive-in films, along with episodic television.”

According to the obit, “Vickers was married at least twice and had no immediate survivors.”

This is one of the best obituaries I have read in a long time. It unintentionally captures the perfect Hollywood story. Yes, this sad, even humiliating plot has been told many times, but it still fascinates me. Little gems abound. Vickers was found in a mummified state. She ended as she began in the horror genre. Her next-door neighbor is also an actress who refers to Vickers, in a very Hollywood way, as a “free spirit.” Meaning she was a lonely old woman and nobody thought enough about the woman to check on her until a year later.

The obituary writer states, “ . . . but for a time she was better know for her 15 year relationship with Jim Hutton and her affair with Cary Grant.” Stardom did not rub off on her. The men she did marry are not named in her obituary probably because they were not famous.

The film historian tromps in and puts Vickers right back where she never wanted to be in the first place: “ . . . she had the perfect look for 1950s drive-in films . . .”

I was teenager when I first saw “Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman.” And I remember giggling with my girlfriends during the movie. But the image of a woman, played by Allison Hayes, who could be so powerful and threatening stayed with me. Yvette Vickers, who played the home wrecker (there were many such roles in the 1950s), didn’t.

Listing what Vickers might think were her failures, this obit is riddled with Hollywood cruelty. Yvette Vickers’ mummified body, warmed by a space heater, is an example of how quickly they forget.