Living on Borrowed Time

In many ways, crime fiction is a very demanding genre. It is bound and defined by 'rules' that the author devises (though they may be broken by others later on). It also has to pander to popular demands—a gripping plot, solid, plausible motives, believable characters, social commentary, appropriate settings and atmosphere, and so on.

One of the criticisms levelled against the genre is that its practitioners sacrifice one of these elements excessively to enhance the effect of another. If the whodunnit aspect is brilliant, the motive can turn out to be pretty weak. If the howdunnit bit of the mystery is genius, the portrayal of characters may well be a dud. The result, in any of these cases, is likely to attract detractors more than admirers. Striking the right synergy or balance between these disparate elements is often difficult and tricky and the subject of much head-scratching among mystery authors. However, should this miracle be achieved, the end product can be a sheer delight.

Hong Kong's Chan Ho-Kei is a man who has donned several hats—he has worked as a software engineer, a game designer, a manga editor and a lecturer. As such, his name may have stayed unfamiliar to me forever were it not for the fact that he also happens to be the author of one of the most superlative efforts in detective fiction in recent years which I've had the pleasure of reading.

Ho-Kei's 2014 offering, 13.67 (a clever nod to the period the work spans—between 1967 and 2013), received a translation in 2016 with the rather ambiguous title of The Borrowed. In the book's six interlinked tales, Ho-Kei gives readers a retrospective look at the evolution of Hong Kong and its society over six decades—through the lens of crime, politics, detection and its police force. What's most striking is that this is one of those rare gems that successfully bridges the gap between the social school of mystery writing and the classic puzzle plot mystery that are so often at odds with each other. There's a lot of diversity in the stories too, sufficient to keep you hooked for many a day—besides the logical puzzle plot, there's something on offer for fans of police procedurals, hardboiled stories and those who like a hint of socio-political commentary in stories as well.

The protagonist of The Borrowed  is Kwan Chun-dok, former Superintendent of the Hong Kong Police who later became a consultant for the same. Renowned for his exceptional crime-solving abilities, he was bestowed many nicknames—'Crime-Solving Machine', 'Eye of Heaven', 'Genius Detective' (and Kwan's pick of the lot, 'Uncle Dok'—also a common Cantonese name for very miserly people). But, reading the first story ("The Truth Between Black and White", 2013), you'll be hard-pressed to believe that he could be that 'grand detective' from legend. For we first encounter him on his deathbed where he doesn't even have the ability to speak or write. Instead, Kwan's protégé, Inspector Sonny Lok, employs his services (as an 'armchair detective' of sorts) in a tricky case where an 'inside job' (a murder) is made to look like a robbery gone wrong. Kwan is able to deceptively 'solve' the case after he is hooked up to a device that analyses his brain waves, through which he is able to respond only with a YES or a NO to questions asked. It's a device I have seen once in an episode of that meme-worthy excuse of a detective show called C. I. D.—but rest assured, it has been executed with far greater finesse here.

One of my most favourite things about this book is that it actually follows up on threads and hints that are left dangling before the reader in another story. Characters and locations reappear in multiple stories—and it may perhaps be possible for those truly curious to chart a map of Hong Kong and its changes through the decades, relying on the descriptions here. Apple, the brains behind the unique medical instrument in the first tale, is a central character in the second story ("Prisoner's Honour", 2003). Set in the midst of gang warfare and featuring triads, "Prisoner's Honour" takes a harrowing look at the Hong Kong underworld and also reveals the seedier aspects of the entertainment world. It takes a hardboiled approach but delivers a surprisingly logical conclusion that also carries with it an element of hope for a better future. With its message of hope and elements of social realism, this story is similar to the fifth story  ("Borrowed Place", 1977) where Kwan has to solve the case of the kidnapping of a British child (apparently for ransom money) while also having to deal with rising tensions between the police and other law enforcement agencies, as well as the increasing conflicts between the local and international cadres among the police.

Lok's beginnings and his relationship with mentor Kwan are explored in the third ("The Longest Day", 1997) and the fourth story ("The Balance of Themis", 1989). Both plots focus on Kwan's relentless pursuit of his ultimate nemesis, Shek Boon-tim, and are, arguably, the crème de la crème of the lot. Set against the backdrop of the British handover of Hong Kong, "The Longest Day" opens with convict Shek Boon-tim evading and escaping guards en route to the hospital. As if this wasn't disastrous enough for his last day in the police force, Kwan also has to help his disciple Lok in solving the case of acid bomb attacks before more damage is done, both to innocent bystanders and the police force's image. A number of curious but seemingly unrelated incidents may grab the reader's attention, but the neat, rational manner in which Kwan ties it all, with one central incident as the focal point, is testament to Ho-Kei's consummate skill as a plotter of the highest order.

At this point, it should be evident that Ho-Kei expends much of his efforts unravelling the fraught nature of relations between Hong Kong's various law enforcement agencies and the extent to which they become mired in corruption in each decade. Nowhere is this more apparent than in "The Balance of Themis", perhaps the darkest story in this collection. A stake-out mission to capture one of the Shek brothers, Shek Boon-sing, and their gang, goes horribly wrong in the enormous residential building, Ka Fai Mansions, where they are holed up, leaving six bystanders and three criminals dead, and several policemen injured. But all is not what it seems and a message on a pager warning the criminals suggests the presence of a mole within the police team. The way in which Kwan subverts the established sequence of events completely and unearths the real motive behind all that happened should be a lesson for crime-fiction writers in the art of judicious clue- and information-management and revelation at the correct juncture. Above all, the helping hand that Kwan extends to the rookie Lok (after the events of the failed mission) and his solemn vow to capture the other Shek who escaped and clean up the police force make it hard for one to not root for Kwan Chun-dok.

In the last story ("Borrowed Time", 1967), the reader is transported to 1967 Hong Kong, a summer that saw violent protests and riots in the region. Here, the rookie Kwan, as a beat/patrol cop, is able to thwart a few planned bomb attacks with the crucial help (and brains) of a 'stranger', who becomes a person of interest and whistleblower. The socio-political setting is vibrant and it thrives in atmosphere, but this is, by no means, a traditional puzzle plot story. Kwan even becomes an unwitting 'criminal' towards the end. Still, it is a vital chapter in Kwan's life and career that has a curious circularity about it, when one thinks, retrospectively, of the characters he keeps encountering. You'll of course need to read till the last page to figure out its surprising connection with the first story which is set nearly five decades apart.

The one sore note in the book is the uneven portrayal/representation of women in the stories. The first two stories have strong, empowering women who have their own arcs of redemption and play influential roles in the events of each. However, the fourth and fifth stories have women who have downright tertiary roles. Worse, they are stereotyped and fulfill patriarchal roles and functions that will strike a nerve among many readers today. I do not know if Ho-Kei was trying to say something about the way Hong Kong's society treated women, even those from the upper middle class, in those days, but it could have definitely been handled with more sensitivity and maturity.

The reverse-chronological narrative adds a distinct charm to the book—in many parts, it feels like viewing a vivid, historical and socio-political portrait of Hong Kong, only backwards. While that's definitely one way to enjoy it, a more stimulating and entertaining way to read it would be to work out the many refreshing ways in which the stories, occupying certain points in times past, form different pairs, triads (or even more) with each other. The commonalities may be diverse—the themes addressed, concurring character arcs and intersecting storylines, among others—but this singular exercise, I believe, is essential if one is to derive maximum joy from it.

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: Can a detective novel study the evolution of a city through its history of crime and detection?)

A Nosy Affair

When I first conceived of this blog, I imagined it to be a space where I would talk exclusively about Asian (in particular, Japanese) crime fiction. And while the first post is probably a sign that is no longer the case, much of what I plan to write here will be my thoughts and commentary on books, films and series (animated or otherwise) from said region.

I was introduced to Japanese crime fiction courtesy of a television channel called Hungama TV, which once aired 30 episodes of Detective Conan, dubbed in Hindi, over the course of two seasons. It was a curious choice to broadcast them on a channel meant primarily for kids—most Indian parents I have come across have extreme reservations on letting their children see anything that has blood and violence; Detective Conan has copious amounts of both.

Be that as it may, I remember being pretty amused at the sight of genius high-school detective Shinichi Kudo being turned into a kid (literally!) in the very first episode itself. This happens after Shinichi solves a murder case on a rollercoaster while on a date with his girlfriend Ran Mouri. He then overhears a suspicious conversation between a businessman and two men in black and tails them only to be ambushed by said men in black, which finally leads to the predicament mentioned earlier.

The kid Shinichi adopts the name of Edogawa Conan (a tribute to mystery authors Edogawa Rampo and—you guessed it—Arthur Conan Doyle) to protect those near and dear to him as well as uncover the (many) brains and the mastermind behind the nefarious Black Organisation (who are responsible for his plight) and bring them to justice. And to his credit, Shinichi (or Conan) certainly stands out in a world where every fourth or fifth character (friend or foe) turns out to be a sleuth in some form or the other (hey, you can never have enough detectives after all!).

Shinichi Kudo (left) and Edogawa Conan (right) from the early days of Detective Conan

Conan's quest continues to this day. Gosho Aoyama's Meitantei Conan (as Detective Conan is known in Japan) started back in 1994 as a manga series. Conan and company's adventures have now seen over 1,000 manga chapters, 1,000-plus anime episodes, over 20 animated films, several OVAs and television specials. The prolific nature and high standards achieved make it one of the longest-running, most beloved and acclaimed literary-fiction franchises all over the world.

In my early university days, though, when I was first able to appreciate the nuances of Aoyama sensei's work, I failed to see it as anything beyond a creative and faithful tribute to the past doyens of mystery fiction. This was especially true in the case of the first few volumes of the manga and the first 50-odd episodes of the animated series, where I could spot fun, sporting and subtle nods to your Conan Doyles, John Dickson Carrs and Ellery Queens, but not much else besides.

My opinion changed drastically, however, when I saw episode 52—an episode I still believe really helped the series stand out on its own and conveyed the message that it is a masterpiece like no other. This one-hour TV special, ominously titled "Kiri-tengu Densetsu Satsujin Jiken" (The Mist Goblin Legend Murder Case) (an adaptation of chapters 108–110 or volume 11, files 8–10, of the manga series) opens in a relatively peaceful fashion. Ran, Conan and Ran's father, the 'great detective' Kogoro Mouri, are watching cherry blossoms on the mountainside. As evening descends, they try to make their way back home—but as is often the case when Kogorou and travelling are involved, the trio manage to get themselves stranded and lost in the deep forest amidst pouring rain. They are, therefore, forced to take refuge in a temple, with a waterfall running past it, that Conan spots. In the Sandeiji temple, the group meets with the caretaker and head priest Tenei, a long- and sharp-nosed, suspicious-looking figure who agrees to accommodate them for the night for a hefty fee. They also come to know of the legend of the kiri-tengu (the mist goblin, a figure from Japanese folklore), who, in this story, is believed to kidnap young women and feast on their flesh after hanging them from trees.

The four Buddhist monks in training—Kannen, Tonnen, Mokunen and Shunen—take Conan, Kogoro and Ran on a tour of a temple. Here, Conan's attention is drawn to a small room with an extremely high ceiling, a window near the top and a gap near the bottom guarded by a door. On asking, they find out that the room is a 'training room' for monks who isolate themselves to observe penance after being punished. There's also talk of a certain 'incident' in the room some years ago, which seems to have been the handiwork of the kiri-tengu, but Tenei abruptly and angrily brings a halt to all discussions on the subject. All the characters pass restless nights—and the unease deepens further the following morning when the head priest is found hanging from a beam high up in the ceiling of the training room. It's as if the kiri-tengu itself had hung Tenei there—and when the police arrive, Conan and Kogoro learn that, two years ago, another monk Chunen had been found hanging from the very same beam in an identical fashion, a case the police had ruled out as suicide. Can Conan and Kogoro solve the mystery of both murders and unmask the kiri-tengu?

The dastardly kiri-tengu 'hangs' Tenei Oshou

Seasoned readers of Japanese detective fiction will probably realise that this somewhat long and elaborate setup screams 'Seishi Yokomizo' from the get-go. Elements from the works of this master of crime fiction are all here in this episode. A remote location? Check. A case with links to Japanese folklore? Yes. And just as a waterbody plays a major role in Yokomizo's The Honjin Murders (more precisely, the mechanism of a waterwheel on a nearby stream), here too, the waterfall adjoining the temple plays a very influential part here.

And yet, Conan solves the case not in the manner of a Kosuke Kindaichi (the detective from Yokomizo's series) but in his own characteristic way. The 'howdunnit' aspect of the story is a sheer delight, the solution to which will logically lead you to find out 'whodunnit'. It's all fair and above board too—what I like most about the culprit's plan is that it uses the natural features and the 'potential' of the 'training room' to maximum effect by using tools and tricks (none too fancy) that are present in the temple and won't leave you wondering, "Hmmm, how and from where could they have procured these tools in such a short time?" 

The main trick is a variation of one that I have seen executed successfully in a horizontal space (say, a crop field for instance) but never in a vertical space. It is quite unique, but never for a moment does it feel forced or that it does not belong or feels out of place in a setting such as a mountain temple. There is a meticulous yet commonsensical, DIY nature to the physics and dynamics of the tricks here, all of which are neatly tied up and explained in the end.

The episode plays it very fairly with the viewers as well. It invites them to completely immerse themselves in the story being told and pay particular attention to every conversation and scene in order to pick out the select clues that can solve the crime. By the time the deduction starts, you have in your possession all the information, visual and verbal, to unravel the mystery, even though you will probably need to exercise your imagination judiciously to get you started.

The kiri-tengu baffles Conan and the others

The most damning clue that specifically reveals the culprit is also presented in a most human manner. Quite refreshingly, this is not a case of the detectives intellectually outsmarting the criminal hands-down; neither is it an 'oversight' by the murderer. In the course of the episode, both the criminal and the detectives are evenly balanced and look for the same clue—it's just that the sleuths get to it and understand its significance faster than the criminal can hide or destroy it. Perhaps, the only 'unfairness' I can think of comes when the culprit falls into a trap in the first place by incorrectly guessing something that happened while they were busy preparing the scene of crime so elaborately.

In an episode that is a fair-play mystery on so many levels, it is perhaps a tad bit unfortunate that the tragic motive takes a backseat. But it's really a minor peeve, especially when one considers that the episode sets so many of the rules of the game for this series—ones that defined the series and stands it in good stead even today, nearly three decades after its start.

Lastly, there's something really fitting in the use of traditional cel animation in a series such as Detective Conan. The dark tones enhance the atmosphere and feel of the mysteries in the manga so much so that it becomes all the more easier to be invested in them—wouldn't you agree?

Another Brick in the Wall

Knives Out was easily one of the standout mystery films for me in 2019 (more on it for another post, perhaps). But, seeing it also reminded me of Brick, the first film Rian Johnson directed, back in 2005. And just as Knives Out is Johnson's tribute to fair-play mysteries reminiscent of works from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction (GADF) in Britain, Brick draws heavily—for its plot, characterisation and dialogue—from another school of crime fiction that was becoming equally popular on the other side of the Atlantic, roughly around the same period as GADF—the hardboiled mysteries.

But, these are thoughts that emerged much later during my rewatch of Brick. My first impression, funnily enough, was—is that really Joseph Gordon-Levitt? Anyway... 

A mysterious note in his school locker leads high-school student Brendan Frye to a payphone where he receives a call from his ex-girlfriend Emily Kostich. The clearly terrified Emily leaves an almost incoherent plea for help to Brendan, who can only make out four words—"brick", "Tug" and "the Pin". The call abruptly ends just as a black Ford Mustang races past the road, from which someone throws a cigarette with a distinct mark. To find Emily, Brendan enlists the services of his mate Brain, who tells him that Emily had been spotted in the company of "the Ivy-bound, cheerleading elite" Laura Dannon and her boyfriend, Brad Bramish. He also meets another ex, Kara, who helps Brendan get in touch with Laura. Laura in turn directs Brendan to Dode, a small-time drug dealer and Emily's lover.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Brendan Frye in Brick

When Brendan does meet Emily, however, she requests him to forget all about the phone call and to let her be. But Brendan steals Emily's notebook where he finds an enigmatic symbol resembling an 'A' with "midnight" scribbled below it. Finally deducing that the 'A' showed a particular location—more specifically, a drainage tunnel close to the school—Brendan visits the place only to find Emily's corpse. Hiding the body, a distraught but determined Brendan soon discovers what "brick", "Tug" and "the Pin" really mean. "The Pin" is a local drug baron, whose right-hand (hench)man is the muscular "Tug" (who also happened to be another of Emily's romantic interests). They had recently acquired a consignment of ten heroin blocks (or "bricks"), of which they had sold eight successfully. However, the ninth one was found to be adulterated and poisoned, supposedly by Emily, which led to the death of a gang member, while the tenth was yet to be sold. But, with Emily's death, more mysteries have emerged: who killed Emily? And who really contaminated the ninth brick?

Brick isn't your traditional whodunnit, and it would perhaps be wrong to expect a fair-play mystery while watching it. What it does excel in is the atmosphere it creates throughout. Brick oozes noir—no mean feat considering that the entire action is set within a school community. In many ways, it refreshingly introduces an adult, violent genre (whose glory days were in the 1930s) to a new generation by relying on fitting relics from the past (think of the payphones, for instance). Even the way Brendan carries out his sleuthing is so reminiscent of gumshoe detectives in fiction from the same period. And in the way it pans out, Brick probably resembles Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon (the trope of a femme fatale stringing the protagonists along) and Red Harvest (the sheer body count) most closely—indeed, a most distinguished company to be counted amongst.

But Brick is not just a homage to a genre, it is also Johnson's ode to his hometown of San Clemente in southern California, where the film was shot. He cleverly utilises the locales and surroundings to maximum effect for purposes of clueing, foreshadowing and marking out the scenes of action—the intersection of Sarmentoso and Camino del Rio (where the phone booth from the opening moments was located) and the drainage tunnel (astutely referred to by the symbol in Emily's notepad) being cases in point. There's also a certain atmosphere of bleakness that pervades all through the film, the effect of which is heightened by some settings and backdrops—the basement-like darkness of the Pin's lair and the scene on the beach where the Pin bares a vulnerable side to his personality before Brendan against the wan glow of a setting sun clearly illustrate this.

Brendan comes across Emily's body in the A-shaped drainage tunnel

It is, however, very difficult to make sense of the rationale behind the decisions of certain key characters at critical moments that have a lasting effect later on in the film. Which is a real disappointment, truth be told, because it would mean that just for the sake of making it an honest, authentic exploration of the hardboiled genre, certain characters go out of their way and behave in awkward, unnatural ways that will make you wonder—why would X do this in such a situation when they could have easily avoided their fate had they taken an alternate, more commonsensical and equally plausible decision that was available to them at that point?

Roger Ebert, in his review of Brick, points out that "because we can't believe in the characters, we can't care about their fates." I cannot agree more.