Men Dislike Women by Michael Arlen (1931)

I go on fairly consistently about the under-reading of Arlen, and shall do so again here. Of course, he is an exemplar of the slick, dramatic, deco-perspectived, dashing twenties, as they are conceived in the popular imagination - he is Britain's Fitzgerald...in a way. The racing Deusenberg, the Brooks-bobbed fatal heroine with eyes that one sinks into, the top-hatted gentleman in tow, wryly self-deprecating and of impeccable coolness - could he be a cad? It's all lovely - of course it is. But these leading players are also seamed through with nerves, or a deadness because of a lost love, or a deluded vision of themselves as martyred to.....whatever. That's the first layer of ensubtlement - I'll take the blame for the invented word. Then under this again, we have philosophical drawing out, and not too hampered by the stylishness, either. Arlen is most definitely not silly. And then there are set pieces of psychology attached to the philosophy, where he manages to very concisely draw us into a state of mind, all its weighings and oppositions adding to a revelation which is familiar enough to be recognizable, and yet original enough of exposition to be a concentrated moment of joy. Here he emerges into the thirties with his first novel set anywhere other than Britain. It's the New York of the period just after the financial shock of 1929. His wish to be up-to-date is very evident: a lot of the cultural references are to things of the prior couple of years, like the Cole Porter song What is This Thing Called Love?, the just built skyscaper called the New York Central Building (now the Helmsley), the mention of the young Hemingway as the prophet of the in-crowd, and Barrymore, Chaplin and Keaton as the leading lights of film. The other change here comes with the territory. He utilizes the alteration of scene not only to discuss with some derogation American society and the American character, but also to investigate the reach of crime in NYC. The father and suitor of his wealthy American lead are crims, but in the untouchable way of the times. They're slick, never mention their nefarious activities, are 'prominent businessmen'. They have corrupt police in tow, and speak often in code, or with considerable camouflage. They too have psychological tics, little maimednesses which underscore their reactions. I hope it is needless to say that all these wounds of the mind have an origin only a decade or so back - perhaps emblematically, perhaps more directly. The action here is set off by the arrival on the Berengaria of a young Anglophile Frenchman, Andre Saint-Cloud, along with a Paris-based English friend with whom he has journeyed, Sheila Hepburn. Sheila has had many lovers, and has a reputation in Europe. She is the kind of woman most men fall for pretty well immediately, so has had lots of opportunities. The story eventually revolves around Sheila falling for one of the wealthy businessmen in a way she hasn't before, and he for her. Andre is early enmeshed with a young Long Island heiress (of the aforesaid less than squeaky prominence), Marilyn Fox, who is hopelessly in love with Sheila's conquest. It all becomes desperately tangled, not only of direct emotions, but of self-delusions, undercurrent urges, workarounds of delicate sensibilities. In amongst all this are the egos of the criminal types, playing by sideways allusion, under the surface. And then through it all also are pedestalled ideals, destroyed illusions - the territory of dreams and their danger. The fact that Arlen can marshal all this into a muster which is stripped, elegant and poetic is a tribute to the man. It will be interesting to see what he does in his next steps, as I believe he begins the move away from this home territory, and into crime more pointedly, and to the dystopian. Should be thought-provoking.