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Understudy for Death
Charles Willeford's legendary lost novel, unavailable since its original publication in 1961.
AN UNFORGIVABLE CRIME.
AN UNFORGETTABLE NOVEL.
Why would a happily married Florida housewife pick up her husband's .22 caliber Colt Woodsman semi-automatic pistol and use it to kill her two young children and herself? Cynical newspaper reporter Richard Hudson is assigned to find out - and the assignment will send him down a road of self-discovery in this incisive, no-holds-barred portrait of American marriage in the Mad Men era.
On the 30th anniversary of the death of the masterful novelist the Atlantic Monthly called the "father of Miami crime fiction," Hard Case Crime is proud to present Charles Willeford's legendary lost novel, unavailable since its original publication by a disreputable paperback house in 1961. One of Willeford's rarest titles (copies of the original edition sell for hundreds of dollars), Understudy for Death still has the power to disturb, half a century after its debut.
AN UNFORGIVABLE CRIME.
AN UNFORGETTABLE NOVEL.
Why would a happily married Florida housewife pick up her husband's .22 caliber Colt Woodsman semi-automatic pistol and use it to kill her two young children and herself? Cynical newspaper reporter Richard Hudson is assigned to find out - and the assignment will send him down a road of self-discovery in this incisive, no-holds-barred portrait of American marriage in the Mad Men era.
On the 30th anniversary of the death of the masterful novelist the Atlantic Monthly called the "father of Miami crime fiction," Hard Case Crime is proud to present Charles Willeford's legendary lost novel, unavailable since its original publication by a disreputable paperback house in 1961. One of Willeford's rarest titles (copies of the original edition sell for hundreds of dollars), Understudy for Death still has the power to disturb, half a century after its debut.
223 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1961
15 people are currently reading
281 people want to read
About the author
Charles Willeford
75 books409 followersCharles Willeford was a remarkably fine, talented and prolific writer who wrote everything from poetry to crime fiction to literary criticism throughout the course of his impressively long and diverse career. His crime novels are distinguished by a mean'n'lean sense of narrative economy and an admirable dearth of sentimentality. He was born as Charles Ray Willeford III on January 2, 1919 in Little Rock, Arkansas. Willeford's parents both died of tuberculosis when he was a little boy and he subsequently lived either with his grandmother or at boarding schools. Charles became a hobo in his early teens. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps at age sixteen and was stationed in the Philippines. Willeford served as a tank commander with the 10th Armored Division in Europe during World War II. He won several medals for his military service: the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, two Purple Hearts, and the Luxembourg Croix de Guerre. Charles retired from the army as a Master Sergeant. Willeford's first novel "High Priest of California" was published in 1953. This solid debut was followed by such equally excellent novels as "Pick-Up" (this book won a Beacon Fiction Award), "Wild Wives," "The Woman Chaser," "Cockfighter" (this particular book won the Mark Twain Award), and "The Burnt Orange Heresy." Charles achieved his greatest commercial and critical success with four outstanding novels about hapless Florida homicide detective Hoke Moseley: "Miami Blues," "New Hope for the Dead," "Sideswipe," and "The Way We Die Now." Outside of his novels, he also wrote the short story anthology "The Machine in Ward Eleven," the poetry collections "The Outcast Poets" and "Proletarian Laughter," and the nonfiction book "Something About A Soldier." Willeford attended both Palm Beach Junior College and the University of Miami. He taught a course in humanities at the University of Miami and was an associate professor who taught classes in both philosophy and English at Miami Dade Junior College. Charles was married three times and was an associate editor for "Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine." Three of Willeford's novels have been adapted into movies: Monte Hellman delivered a bleakly fascinating character study with "Cockfighter" (Charles wrote the script and has a sizable supporting role as the referee of a cockfighting tournament which climaxes the picture), George Armitage hit one out of the ballpark with the wonderfully quirky "Miami Blues," and Robinson Devor scored a bull's eye with the offbeat "The Woman Chaser." Charles popped up in a small part as a bartender in the fun redneck car chase romp "Thunder and Lightning." Charles Willeford died of a heart attack at age 69 on March 27, 1988.
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May 15, 2020
My introduction to the fiction of Charles Willeford is Understudy for Death, a "lost" novel out of print since its publication in 1961. Hard Case Crime re-released it in 2018 with stunning pin-up art by Paul Mann and unfortunately, the book doesn't live up to its racy cover. This novel is a grand exhibit of what can happen--I'm assuming, based on the quality control here--when an author starts writing with no idea where he's going. Results can vary but in this case, what might have been necessary or exhilarating for the author was a muddle and often a bore for me.
The story is the first-person account of Richard Hudson, a twenty-five-year-old cocksure staff writer of the Lake Springs Morning News in Florida. The Morning News, Evening Press and Sunday News-Press are all run out of the same office and despite having a family, Hudson voluntarily remains on the night shift after five years with the paper. A hometown boy and aspiring playwright, he took the job to support his college sweetheart Beryl after their experiment with coitus resulted in their son. It doesn't take Hudson long to learn the law of newsprint--if it bleeds, it leads--and put in the least amount of work possible to crank out passable copy.
After submitting his latest piece, a news story about well-to-do Marion Huneker shooting her two young children to death and turning the gun on herself, Hudson's editor tasks him with writing a Sunday series on the latest trend sweeping the nation: suicide. Despite leaving a suicide note that seems to leave no ambiguity as to her motive, Hudson begins to dig for an answer on why a suburban woman who seemed to have it all would resort to such a violent end. His laziness and contempt is tempered by his need for a job and to do just what's necessary to keep it. The same seems to go for his marriage.
By any standards of beauty, Beryl certainly wasn't plain, but perhaps she wasn't gorgeous, ether. Scott Fitzgerald wrote a descriptive passage for one of his feminine characters that almost fitted Beryl exactly: "She was a faded but still beautiful woman of twenty-seven." And Beryl was not twenty-seven. Sometimes she looked twenty-three, but there were days when she looked much closer to thirty, trying to pass herself off as twenty-seven. She had long, black hair (I didn't allow her to cut it) and cerium gray eyes that turned into cobalt blue the moment she stepped outside and the sun fell on her face. She was too old to wear her long hair in a ponytail, confirmed by a rubber band, but she wore it that way most of the time anyway, out of defiance for me, I supposed, because I refused to let her chop it off. But this morning, all of a sudden, she looked very young and incredibly desirable.
"Well," I said grimly, "I'm not going to order you not to wear short shorts, but if you get raped someday, don't say I didn't warn you."
"That would be better than nothing." She smiled sweetly, and fluttered her long lashes.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
I cleared my throat. "It's not my fault. You told me you were off the roof. What do you expect me to do?"
"That was ten days ago."
"That long?" I was truly astonished.
"That long." She opened the front door.
"Wait!" I crossed the room hurriedly, closed the door, and my back to it. I grinned. "Far be it from me to deny my wife a sexual favor. And there will never be a better time than now." I reached out toward her, and she stepped back.
"No," she snapped. "I'm going to the store."
"You can go to the store afterwards."
"Go to hell, Richard Hudson! You'll never see the day when I'll agree to hinting around for one of your sexual favors!"
Feminist of the Month material he is not, Richard Hudson does have boundless stamina and very little shame. The latter permits him to walk into places where he's not wanted and ask direct questions that aren't welcome, in this case, about the late Mrs. Marion Huneker. The former gets him into some hot Florida water with one of the dead woman's social friends, Mrs. Gladys Chatham, whose boredom with her attorney husband has produced quite a bar tab as well as a string of affairs whenever she feels one is necessary. Hudson alternates between dipping his pen in Gladys and searching for details about her dead friend.
There's a bounty to love about Willeford's writing. From a terrific title to wonderful dialogue (Quentin Tarantino has credited not just Elmore Leonard, but Charles Willeford as an influence for starting their pulp fiction with dialogue and letting that inform the story) to vividly sleazy Florida atmosphere (does film noir thrive better in any other state?), the novel has a lot going for it. There's a wealth of information here about small town newspapers in the late '50s though much of this felt self-indulgent to me, with the author dumping his resume onto the reader and calling it a story.
What Understudy for Death lacks is a compelling story. In a switch, Willeford announces that there's nothing suspicious about Marion Huneker's death and he keeps to that oath, so there's no mystery. Ripe for seduction, greed and ruin, Hudson's day-to-day is far more mundane than pulp fiction has any right to be, so there's no suspense. There's some graphic sex but Willeford does such a good job at making Hudson out to be Prick of the Century that the lack of a comeuppance seems like a waste. The story just coasts along on its peerless craft and economy without amounting to much. More Willeford, though? Yes, please.
Word count: 70,663 words
The story is the first-person account of Richard Hudson, a twenty-five-year-old cocksure staff writer of the Lake Springs Morning News in Florida. The Morning News, Evening Press and Sunday News-Press are all run out of the same office and despite having a family, Hudson voluntarily remains on the night shift after five years with the paper. A hometown boy and aspiring playwright, he took the job to support his college sweetheart Beryl after their experiment with coitus resulted in their son. It doesn't take Hudson long to learn the law of newsprint--if it bleeds, it leads--and put in the least amount of work possible to crank out passable copy.
After submitting his latest piece, a news story about well-to-do Marion Huneker shooting her two young children to death and turning the gun on herself, Hudson's editor tasks him with writing a Sunday series on the latest trend sweeping the nation: suicide. Despite leaving a suicide note that seems to leave no ambiguity as to her motive, Hudson begins to dig for an answer on why a suburban woman who seemed to have it all would resort to such a violent end. His laziness and contempt is tempered by his need for a job and to do just what's necessary to keep it. The same seems to go for his marriage.
By any standards of beauty, Beryl certainly wasn't plain, but perhaps she wasn't gorgeous, ether. Scott Fitzgerald wrote a descriptive passage for one of his feminine characters that almost fitted Beryl exactly: "She was a faded but still beautiful woman of twenty-seven." And Beryl was not twenty-seven. Sometimes she looked twenty-three, but there were days when she looked much closer to thirty, trying to pass herself off as twenty-seven. She had long, black hair (I didn't allow her to cut it) and cerium gray eyes that turned into cobalt blue the moment she stepped outside and the sun fell on her face. She was too old to wear her long hair in a ponytail, confirmed by a rubber band, but she wore it that way most of the time anyway, out of defiance for me, I supposed, because I refused to let her chop it off. But this morning, all of a sudden, she looked very young and incredibly desirable.
"Well," I said grimly, "I'm not going to order you not to wear short shorts, but if you get raped someday, don't say I didn't warn you."
"That would be better than nothing." She smiled sweetly, and fluttered her long lashes.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
I cleared my throat. "It's not my fault. You told me you were off the roof. What do you expect me to do?"
"That was ten days ago."
"That long?" I was truly astonished.
"That long." She opened the front door.
"Wait!" I crossed the room hurriedly, closed the door, and my back to it. I grinned. "Far be it from me to deny my wife a sexual favor. And there will never be a better time than now." I reached out toward her, and she stepped back.
"No," she snapped. "I'm going to the store."
"You can go to the store afterwards."
"Go to hell, Richard Hudson! You'll never see the day when I'll agree to hinting around for one of your sexual favors!"
Feminist of the Month material he is not, Richard Hudson does have boundless stamina and very little shame. The latter permits him to walk into places where he's not wanted and ask direct questions that aren't welcome, in this case, about the late Mrs. Marion Huneker. The former gets him into some hot Florida water with one of the dead woman's social friends, Mrs. Gladys Chatham, whose boredom with her attorney husband has produced quite a bar tab as well as a string of affairs whenever she feels one is necessary. Hudson alternates between dipping his pen in Gladys and searching for details about her dead friend.
There's a bounty to love about Willeford's writing. From a terrific title to wonderful dialogue (Quentin Tarantino has credited not just Elmore Leonard, but Charles Willeford as an influence for starting their pulp fiction with dialogue and letting that inform the story) to vividly sleazy Florida atmosphere (does film noir thrive better in any other state?), the novel has a lot going for it. There's a wealth of information here about small town newspapers in the late '50s though much of this felt self-indulgent to me, with the author dumping his resume onto the reader and calling it a story.
What Understudy for Death lacks is a compelling story. In a switch, Willeford announces that there's nothing suspicious about Marion Huneker's death and he keeps to that oath, so there's no mystery. Ripe for seduction, greed and ruin, Hudson's day-to-day is far more mundane than pulp fiction has any right to be, so there's no suspense. There's some graphic sex but Willeford does such a good job at making Hudson out to be Prick of the Century that the lack of a comeuppance seems like a waste. The story just coasts along on its peerless craft and economy without amounting to much. More Willeford, though? Yes, please.
Word count: 70,663 words
July 7, 2019
”She half-turned, and I dodged back instinctively from her full bust. Her potent femininity made me a trifle nervous, and she gave off an exotic scent, a peculiar mixture of gin, tweed and night-blooming flowers.”
Richard Hudson is a trifle nervous about more than being bludgeoned by Mrs. Chatham’s rather impressive, potent femininity. He is investigating an event that has rocked the Lake Springs, Florida, community to its foundations. A “happily” married woman picks up her husband’s .22 caliber, Colt Woodsman, semi-automatic pistol. She hunts down her young children and shoots them dead and then turns the pistol on herself.
It makes no sense to anyone who knew her, but then senseless violence like this is rarely expected by anyone. Even if someone suspected that she was depressed, no one would have ever suspected how it would be manifested. This is the early 1960s, and depression and suicide have been on the rise. It has become such a problem that there is speculation about ways to fix it that sound prescience. ”If suicide is as grave a problem as you say it is, why isn’t there an office in every city where a person can call and get comfort? A number that is always available, anonymous, where a despondent person can call and get advice and reassurances from some person gifted in human relations.”
This is the Mad Men era of women staying home or, if they work in the office, they are supposed to fetch coffee and not mind the roving hands of their male colleagues. They are supposed to be a good sport about it all, or they will find themselves hitting the bricks, looking for a new job. Mrs. Marion Huneker may have reached a point where life felt pointless to her, and she makes the case in her suicide note that she wanted to send her children to heaven before they had sinned.
But the thing is, nobody seems to know why. We want to know why because it is reassuring to be able to put a horrible incident into a box that couldn’t possibly have any relevance in our own lives. If we don’t understand why, then we have to speculate about the possibility that the shadow that envelops Mrs. Huneker may envelop us.
Even Hudson’s cynical reporter eyes betray him with some moisture when he tracks down a story she wrote for a creative writing course called Little Miss Little. It isn’t a very well written story, but given the context of her death, it has a poignancy that gives him a bit more insight into how Marion went from happy to suicidal.
Hudson is a reporter by night and a frustrated playwright by day. His relationship with his lovely wife is deteriorating. ”Beryle was wearing blue cotton short shorts, and a blue-and-white bandana halter. Her long straight legs were tanned evenly, and her ample breasts strained against the halter; the girl took damned good care of herself. She was a pleasure to look at, in fact to stare at…” So why isn’t he spending more time with her? He could switch to the day shift and spend every night with her and the rugrat that cemented their marriage.
Maybe in the end, this investigation is going to lead Richard Hudson back to getting his own life back on track.
Understudy for Death is the legendary lost novel by Charles Willeford that has been out of print since 1961. Fortunately, interest in his books has returned in recent years, and some of his more elusive titles are now readily available. He is best known for his Hoke Moseley series, and if you have never read Willeford, that series, which begins with the book Miami Blues, is a great place to start. There is also a 1990 movie of Miami Blues, starring Fred Ward (who seems to show up in a lot of movies I like), Alec Baldwin, and Jennifer Jason Leigh. I remember reading as many books by Willeford as I could get my hands on back in the late 1980s and early 1990s. I was enthralled with hardboiled, very real dialogue, the boisterous sex, and progressive social commentary.
This is an odd book, not unusual for Willeford, but the plot sort of meanders around with all these scenes of lust, depression, longing, and cynicism. He never really puts a big bow on things, but then real life is always messy and fraught with missed opportunities and unresolved issues.
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
Richard Hudson is a trifle nervous about more than being bludgeoned by Mrs. Chatham’s rather impressive, potent femininity. He is investigating an event that has rocked the Lake Springs, Florida, community to its foundations. A “happily” married woman picks up her husband’s .22 caliber, Colt Woodsman, semi-automatic pistol. She hunts down her young children and shoots them dead and then turns the pistol on herself.
It makes no sense to anyone who knew her, but then senseless violence like this is rarely expected by anyone. Even if someone suspected that she was depressed, no one would have ever suspected how it would be manifested. This is the early 1960s, and depression and suicide have been on the rise. It has become such a problem that there is speculation about ways to fix it that sound prescience. ”If suicide is as grave a problem as you say it is, why isn’t there an office in every city where a person can call and get comfort? A number that is always available, anonymous, where a despondent person can call and get advice and reassurances from some person gifted in human relations.”
This is the Mad Men era of women staying home or, if they work in the office, they are supposed to fetch coffee and not mind the roving hands of their male colleagues. They are supposed to be a good sport about it all, or they will find themselves hitting the bricks, looking for a new job. Mrs. Marion Huneker may have reached a point where life felt pointless to her, and she makes the case in her suicide note that she wanted to send her children to heaven before they had sinned.
But the thing is, nobody seems to know why. We want to know why because it is reassuring to be able to put a horrible incident into a box that couldn’t possibly have any relevance in our own lives. If we don’t understand why, then we have to speculate about the possibility that the shadow that envelops Mrs. Huneker may envelop us.
Even Hudson’s cynical reporter eyes betray him with some moisture when he tracks down a story she wrote for a creative writing course called Little Miss Little. It isn’t a very well written story, but given the context of her death, it has a poignancy that gives him a bit more insight into how Marion went from happy to suicidal.
Hudson is a reporter by night and a frustrated playwright by day. His relationship with his lovely wife is deteriorating. ”Beryle was wearing blue cotton short shorts, and a blue-and-white bandana halter. Her long straight legs were tanned evenly, and her ample breasts strained against the halter; the girl took damned good care of herself. She was a pleasure to look at, in fact to stare at…” So why isn’t he spending more time with her? He could switch to the day shift and spend every night with her and the rugrat that cemented their marriage.
Maybe in the end, this investigation is going to lead Richard Hudson back to getting his own life back on track.
Understudy for Death is the legendary lost novel by Charles Willeford that has been out of print since 1961. Fortunately, interest in his books has returned in recent years, and some of his more elusive titles are now readily available. He is best known for his Hoke Moseley series, and if you have never read Willeford, that series, which begins with the book Miami Blues, is a great place to start. There is also a 1990 movie of Miami Blues, starring Fred Ward (who seems to show up in a lot of movies I like), Alec Baldwin, and Jennifer Jason Leigh. I remember reading as many books by Willeford as I could get my hands on back in the late 1980s and early 1990s. I was enthralled with hardboiled, very real dialogue, the boisterous sex, and progressive social commentary.
This is an odd book, not unusual for Willeford, but the plot sort of meanders around with all these scenes of lust, depression, longing, and cynicism. He never really puts a big bow on things, but then real life is always messy and fraught with missed opportunities and unresolved issues.
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
December 11, 2018
A small Florida community is stunned when a housewife in a seemingly happy marriage murders her two children and then kills herself. Reporter Richard Hudson writes up the story and thinks his work is done, but his managing editor wants an in-depth piece on the rising suicide rates using the dead lady as a local angle.
With that as the starting point and considering that this is a Hard Case Crime reprint of a Charles Willeford novel you might be expecting the book to be about this intrepid reporter uncovering something related to these deaths. I certainly was. Surprise!
This isn’t the first time that HCC has published a book that subverts expectations. Donald Westlake’s Memory isn’t really a crime novel at all. Neither is this. Instead it’s more of a character study of Richard and his own domestic situation. What we learn is that he’s pretty much an enormous jerkface. He’s not much a husband or father who deliberately stays on the night shift so he can avoid domestic responsibility. He’s also content to drift along as an unambitious reporter who has developed a variety of shortcuts to avoid actually doing his job. Richard rationalizes this as being necessary for him to work on his true calling of being a playwright, but it’s quickly apparent that just the dodge he’s using to feel better about being perfectly content to just coast along with minimum effort.
What evolves through Richard’s skewed perspective is a pretty interesting snapshot of life in the early ‘60s. It’s no shock that it’s filled with casual sexism and women are treated as second class citizens. Yet as Richard considers why a woman who had everything that American society said she needs to make her happy would kill herself, he finds himself increasingly thinking about his own life and marriage.
Some readers might complain that this is bait-and-switch since it’s not technically a crime novel, but I found it well-written and somewhat compelling. There’s nothing fantastic or groundbreaking to it, but it’s like a time capsule that gives you a sense of the time and place as well as a glimpse of white male entitlement at its peak.
With that as the starting point and considering that this is a Hard Case Crime reprint of a Charles Willeford novel you might be expecting the book to be about this intrepid reporter uncovering something related to these deaths. I certainly was. Surprise!
This isn’t the first time that HCC has published a book that subverts expectations. Donald Westlake’s Memory isn’t really a crime novel at all. Neither is this. Instead it’s more of a character study of Richard and his own domestic situation. What we learn is that he’s pretty much an enormous jerkface. He’s not much a husband or father who deliberately stays on the night shift so he can avoid domestic responsibility. He’s also content to drift along as an unambitious reporter who has developed a variety of shortcuts to avoid actually doing his job. Richard rationalizes this as being necessary for him to work on his true calling of being a playwright, but it’s quickly apparent that just the dodge he’s using to feel better about being perfectly content to just coast along with minimum effort.
What evolves through Richard’s skewed perspective is a pretty interesting snapshot of life in the early ‘60s. It’s no shock that it’s filled with casual sexism and women are treated as second class citizens. Yet as Richard considers why a woman who had everything that American society said she needs to make her happy would kill herself, he finds himself increasingly thinking about his own life and marriage.
Some readers might complain that this is bait-and-switch since it’s not technically a crime novel, but I found it well-written and somewhat compelling. There’s nothing fantastic or groundbreaking to it, but it’s like a time capsule that gives you a sense of the time and place as well as a glimpse of white male entitlement at its peak.
July 18, 2018
The Middle Class Blues
Willeford toiled in relative anonymity for decades turning out odd pulp novels before hitting the big time in the Eighties with his Hoke Moseley novels, the best known of which is Miami Blues because it got turned into a movie. Understudy for Death is one of his early pulps, set in small town Florida in the early Sixties. This one doesn’t have the odd preacher or the car salesman. But, it sort of peeks behind the Ozzie and Harriet world of middle class life and shows that it’s not all wine and roses. In that sense, the novel is more like Orrin Hitt than a Spillane novel. Certainly, it has little shoot-em-up action.
Willeford uses the news story about a housewife who murders her young children and then shoots herself for no apparent reason as the hook to take the reader behind the screen of middle class contentment. The main character is a reporter for a small town paper who is assigned to explore the case. The reporter himself is dissatisfied with his lot. He’s a mediocre reporter on a third rate paper, writing stories about fiftieth anniversaries and lectures at women’s garden clubs. Hes allegedly working on the great American play but that project has gone on for nearly a decade and gone nowhere fast. He’s got a ravishingly beautiful wife, but he thinks she’s dumb as a bag of rocks and she drives him crazy with domestic chores and honey-do lists.
And, as the novel unfolds, we begin to see that he feels trapped in his marriage, though they have some wild sexcapade scenes together, and he is more than willing to spend his time frolicking with a bored housewife he finds at the country club. Her marriage has some issues too.
While not action-packed, Understudy for Death is a mature look into the emptiness and dissatisfaction some feel with their humdrum lives, having given up on shooting for the stars. Easy to read with well-developed characters.
Willeford toiled in relative anonymity for decades turning out odd pulp novels before hitting the big time in the Eighties with his Hoke Moseley novels, the best known of which is Miami Blues because it got turned into a movie. Understudy for Death is one of his early pulps, set in small town Florida in the early Sixties. This one doesn’t have the odd preacher or the car salesman. But, it sort of peeks behind the Ozzie and Harriet world of middle class life and shows that it’s not all wine and roses. In that sense, the novel is more like Orrin Hitt than a Spillane novel. Certainly, it has little shoot-em-up action.
Willeford uses the news story about a housewife who murders her young children and then shoots herself for no apparent reason as the hook to take the reader behind the screen of middle class contentment. The main character is a reporter for a small town paper who is assigned to explore the case. The reporter himself is dissatisfied with his lot. He’s a mediocre reporter on a third rate paper, writing stories about fiftieth anniversaries and lectures at women’s garden clubs. Hes allegedly working on the great American play but that project has gone on for nearly a decade and gone nowhere fast. He’s got a ravishingly beautiful wife, but he thinks she’s dumb as a bag of rocks and she drives him crazy with domestic chores and honey-do lists.
And, as the novel unfolds, we begin to see that he feels trapped in his marriage, though they have some wild sexcapade scenes together, and he is more than willing to spend his time frolicking with a bored housewife he finds at the country club. Her marriage has some issues too.
While not action-packed, Understudy for Death is a mature look into the emptiness and dissatisfaction some feel with their humdrum lives, having given up on shooting for the stars. Easy to read with well-developed characters.
August 18, 2018
The synopsis for Understudy for Death reads like it should be a hard hitting dark piece of crime fiction where a journalist becomes entrenched in a horrific crime involving the murder suicide of a housewife and her two young children.
However, the long lost 1960's pulp novel by Charles Willeford is anything but, with the murder suicide little more than a byline into newspaper reporter Richard Hudson's freewheeling, male chauvinistic, sex-obsessed life.
Don't get me wrong, the book is a fun read; pitch perfect pulp for fans of the likes of sleaze-pulp authors Orrie Hitt and some of the earlier, more risque' novels by Lawrence Block (writing as Sheldon Lord).
The plot largely centers around Hudson as he drinks and sleeps his way through a series of newspaper articles whilst digging around for a window into the deceased life leading up to the unfortunate event.
My rating: 3/5 stars.
However, the long lost 1960's pulp novel by Charles Willeford is anything but, with the murder suicide little more than a byline into newspaper reporter Richard Hudson's freewheeling, male chauvinistic, sex-obsessed life.
Don't get me wrong, the book is a fun read; pitch perfect pulp for fans of the likes of sleaze-pulp authors Orrie Hitt and some of the earlier, more risque' novels by Lawrence Block (writing as Sheldon Lord).
The plot largely centers around Hudson as he drinks and sleeps his way through a series of newspaper articles whilst digging around for a window into the deceased life leading up to the unfortunate event.
My rating: 3/5 stars.
March 25, 2024
04/2021
From 1961
I'm not surprised that this was only published once then.
About a newspaper man attempting to understand the reasons behind a murder suicide. Of a woman who shot her two young children. Also about living in the world through writing and acting. And destruction of these because you realize it's all fake (very Willeford). At least in this book, it ends positively, with the realization that the only important thing is love.
As the killer says in her suicide note, Television is more important.
From 1961
I'm not surprised that this was only published once then.
About a newspaper man attempting to understand the reasons behind a murder suicide. Of a woman who shot her two young children. Also about living in the world through writing and acting. And destruction of these because you realize it's all fake (very Willeford). At least in this book, it ends positively, with the realization that the only important thing is love.
As the killer says in her suicide note, Television is more important.
Want to read
July 28, 2018This is Hard Case Crime book 134 (July 2018).
Cover by Paul Mann.
Cover by Paul Mann.
January 15, 2024
Understudy for Death is essentially a character study that examines the banality of modern (sub)urban life - dysfunctional marriages, unsatisfying careers, failed aspirations and the disillusionment that inevitably accompanies one into adulthood. The protagonist's own buried and sundried resentments and regrets surface in the process of reporting on the suicide/murder of a young housewife in his town. It's not exactly depressing so much than just a dose of reality, but still the It's powerful stuff, written in Willeford's deft hand, just don't expect a crime story or any action, mystery, chills or thrills.
December 11, 2021
In Understudy for Death, Richard Hudson, a newspaper reporter is trying to find what forced an upper middle-class housewife into shooting herself and her two children to death. He investigates the suicide at the behest of his editor while struggling with his family life, writing a play and his boring night job as a reporter. The novel is set in a small Florida town where nothing much happens. It is such a boring town (until the murder-suicide) that the newspaper where Hudson works has to use fifty-year anniversaries of resident couples and newly fixed marriages as news.
I am not sure if I consider Charles Willeford to be a crime fiction writer anymore. Sure, this “lost novel” has been put out by Hard Case Crime, at the center of the novel is a horrific crime and the plot has elements of a procedural. But it is the unpredictable and absurd happenings in the life of the protagonist who is solving/committing the crime that are more interesting than the crime itself. The crime investigation is nothing but bait to lure unsuspecting crime fiction fans to Willeford’s account of the nihilism and violence that lurks behind the veil of normalcy worn by upper middle-class Americans. I know that sounds cliched. But Willeford is not one to pass moralistic judgements. While this is one of his darkest novels, I got the impression that he was having great fun writing about these tortured hard-drinking but wildly entertaining characters. It seemed like a celebration of American masculinity and not exactly a satire. There is a sex scene every second chapter. Willeford can write great sex scenes. Told in first person, the main character’s voice projects malevolence, viciousness, sarcasm and nihilism.
The novel contains some amusing behind the scenes accounts of life working in a small-town newspaper juxtaposed with scenes from daily middle class American life. If Richard Yates wrote a sexy crime novel, it would read like Understudy for Death.
I am not sure if I consider Charles Willeford to be a crime fiction writer anymore. Sure, this “lost novel” has been put out by Hard Case Crime, at the center of the novel is a horrific crime and the plot has elements of a procedural. But it is the unpredictable and absurd happenings in the life of the protagonist who is solving/committing the crime that are more interesting than the crime itself. The crime investigation is nothing but bait to lure unsuspecting crime fiction fans to Willeford’s account of the nihilism and violence that lurks behind the veil of normalcy worn by upper middle-class Americans. I know that sounds cliched. But Willeford is not one to pass moralistic judgements. While this is one of his darkest novels, I got the impression that he was having great fun writing about these tortured hard-drinking but wildly entertaining characters. It seemed like a celebration of American masculinity and not exactly a satire. There is a sex scene every second chapter. Willeford can write great sex scenes. Told in first person, the main character’s voice projects malevolence, viciousness, sarcasm and nihilism.
The novel contains some amusing behind the scenes accounts of life working in a small-town newspaper juxtaposed with scenes from daily middle class American life. If Richard Yates wrote a sexy crime novel, it would read like Understudy for Death.
June 10, 2019
COUNTDOWN: Mid-2oth Century North American Crime
BOOK 203 (of 250)
HOOK=2 stars: "A well-to-do Lake Springs matron, Mrs. Marion C. Huneker, 30...fatally shot her 2 small children and herself last night." This, from a news article, is the opener. Children being murdered is a tough one for me. I could have closed the book right there, but I read a chapter or 2, and the children don't play a part of the story.
PACE=2: This really isn't much of a crime novel, even though the opening might have you think so. Much too much time spent on an arguing, married couple taking turns hurting each other.
PLOT=3: A newspaper writer, Richard Hudson, is told by his managing editor to do an article about the increase in suicides, perhaps a big, ongoing article. His wife isn't happy her husband is employed by the night shift and spends his days working on stage plays. She decides to actually be the featured player in a community theatre production, trying to one-up her husband. And that's the plot, a husband and wife on the outs. Will one push the other too far and are they headed to that opening line territory?
CHARACTERS=2: Richard is a self-centered jerk, expecting his spouse to, basically, be his personal servant. He doesn't even allow her to get a hair cut. The wife, Beryl, does resent it, but oh she likes the sex, she likes it rough, but those scenes serve only to heighten a relatively done-to-death plot. As Richard investigates the murder, he talks to a friend of Marion, Gladys Chapman. Gladys hasn't been able to 'go all the way' until Richard comes along, in a sort of silly scene. Bob Leonard, the community theatre director, for some reason hires Beryl as a lead in a play and promises not to let Richard here about it. Mrs. Blanche Pritchard is the only remaining member of the G.O.C (Ground Observer's Corps) and she spends much time in the Courthouse Tower. Has she seen anything to do with the murder? Various other characters have small parts. No one is very interesting, or unique.
ATMOSPHERE/PLACE=3: I especially like this: "On the way back...I stopped for a hamburger and a cup of coffee at a drive-in. I bit well into my hamburger, almost biting past the small coin of meat, as I happened to think of Mrs. Hunkeker..." Can Hudson get to the meat of the story? The small city community theatre back-stage goings on are interesting, as is the competitive atmosphere at the newspaper. But nothing much really stands out.
SUMMARY: My rating is 2.4. Other than the opening line, this isn't much of a crime novel at all. And the title means nothing, all in all.
BOOK 203 (of 250)
HOOK=2 stars: "A well-to-do Lake Springs matron, Mrs. Marion C. Huneker, 30...fatally shot her 2 small children and herself last night." This, from a news article, is the opener. Children being murdered is a tough one for me. I could have closed the book right there, but I read a chapter or 2, and the children don't play a part of the story.
PACE=2: This really isn't much of a crime novel, even though the opening might have you think so. Much too much time spent on an arguing, married couple taking turns hurting each other.
PLOT=3: A newspaper writer, Richard Hudson, is told by his managing editor to do an article about the increase in suicides, perhaps a big, ongoing article. His wife isn't happy her husband is employed by the night shift and spends his days working on stage plays. She decides to actually be the featured player in a community theatre production, trying to one-up her husband. And that's the plot, a husband and wife on the outs. Will one push the other too far and are they headed to that opening line territory?
CHARACTERS=2: Richard is a self-centered jerk, expecting his spouse to, basically, be his personal servant. He doesn't even allow her to get a hair cut. The wife, Beryl, does resent it, but oh she likes the sex, she likes it rough, but those scenes serve only to heighten a relatively done-to-death plot. As Richard investigates the murder, he talks to a friend of Marion, Gladys Chapman. Gladys hasn't been able to 'go all the way' until Richard comes along, in a sort of silly scene. Bob Leonard, the community theatre director, for some reason hires Beryl as a lead in a play and promises not to let Richard here about it. Mrs. Blanche Pritchard is the only remaining member of the G.O.C (Ground Observer's Corps) and she spends much time in the Courthouse Tower. Has she seen anything to do with the murder? Various other characters have small parts. No one is very interesting, or unique.
ATMOSPHERE/PLACE=3: I especially like this: "On the way back...I stopped for a hamburger and a cup of coffee at a drive-in. I bit well into my hamburger, almost biting past the small coin of meat, as I happened to think of Mrs. Hunkeker..." Can Hudson get to the meat of the story? The small city community theatre back-stage goings on are interesting, as is the competitive atmosphere at the newspaper. But nothing much really stands out.
SUMMARY: My rating is 2.4. Other than the opening line, this isn't much of a crime novel at all. And the title means nothing, all in all.
October 3, 2018
Good to know that even a legend like Willeford is capable of writing mediocre garbage like the rest of us.
July 28, 2020
I am unqualified to give Willeford advice, but this book needs a chapter 16 where Hudson, because he is irremediably cynical, commits suicide.
October 4, 2019
"That's easy. All children should be killed at birth. They make too much noise growing up, and a lot of them end up as journalism majors."
I read Charles Willeford's, "Understudy for Death", in a day. The book is a page turner without a puzzling mystery, a short blast into the world of mid-century Florida replete with lonely housewives, aloof players living a shadow of a life in a contained environment, and the journalist assigned to the murder-suicide of two young children by their seemingly prosperous mother. All the elements for a good crime story are present, including a rich world for the action to take place, an observational protagonist, a strong authorial voice, and a demented crime. Willeford puts the crime in the background so that he can explore the loneliness of possessing the American dream and how it reflects on the various characters. Not quite Richard Yates, but a worthy, entertaining read that's difficult to put down.
I read Charles Willeford's, "Understudy for Death", in a day. The book is a page turner without a puzzling mystery, a short blast into the world of mid-century Florida replete with lonely housewives, aloof players living a shadow of a life in a contained environment, and the journalist assigned to the murder-suicide of two young children by their seemingly prosperous mother. All the elements for a good crime story are present, including a rich world for the action to take place, an observational protagonist, a strong authorial voice, and a demented crime. Willeford puts the crime in the background so that he can explore the loneliness of possessing the American dream and how it reflects on the various characters. Not quite Richard Yates, but a worthy, entertaining read that's difficult to put down.
December 11, 2023
Understudy for Death, by Charles Willeford, original paperback published 1961. The manuscript was lost then rediscovered and then published 30 years later -after the author’s death in 1988- by Hardcase Crime thankfully! Although this book doesn’t neatly fit into the crime fiction/mystery genre. This is more social satire, with a good dose of dark humor spread throughout by the protagonist, journalist Richard Hudson. And calls to mind what Willeford's 3rd wife, Betsy said- he had a credo that also served as a caution for aspiring writers: "Just tell the truth, and they'll accuse you of writing black humor."
Hudson provides a clear sociological/psychological profile of an alienated, self centered, sardonic and arrogant, rogue male type -with a I don’t give a damn what you think attitude. Yet he’s tippy toeing a thin line- needed to maintain job, marriage and a marginal middle class social/economic status in a conservative mid size Florida lake town - population predominantly white: Methodists, Baptists, and smattering of Catholics. Through the eyes, and voice of our jaded protagonist, Willeford delivers a dark humored satire of early 60’s community mores, Florida style. Yet also the clear portrayal of alienation and a male type -lacking in substance, character and beliefs.
Managing Editor. Assigns Hudson the job of reporting on an unheard of tragic event… a well respected town maven’s suicide, and her murdering of her two children…
“ So you aren’t interested, you say.” “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Hudson. Five years ago you entered this office, a raw youth, and asked me for a job.” “Yeah. A Raw Youth, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I was twenty-five, a married man and a father, a college graduate” But Hudson wants to keep his job and takes the assignment. And - “couldn’t allow myself to remain prejudiced against the late Mrs. Huneker. To investigate her death I had to be objective. As the old master, Ben Hecht, said:
“To show emotion, be callous.”
Would Be Playwright- Hudson regularly reports on the Civic Theatre, and develops a relationship with the theatre director, in hopes of future placement. “Yeah, and you won’t like it, Bob. This medium, blue-eyed baby without conscience. Fallowed be thy fameless frame.” “What’s that from?” He raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s a couple of lines from my play,” I said self-consciously” … In discussing his goal with his latest paramour “I’d be surprised if you didn’t have few sexy scenes in your play. How would you get them by the Civic Theater board?” “My play’s in blank verse. The sex scenes are much too subtly written to be spotted by Baptists and Methodists.” “I like selfish men; they’re so practical.” “That’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of being practical.”
A new play to review. “ Lilliom ends by slapping his daughter across the face. Back the poor devil goes to Purgatory… The final scene, when it is performed correctly, will jerk tears out of the eyes of Branch Company finance manager.” But then shock and displeased to discover his wife has been cast to in the lead role. “Beryl had the typical untrained soft southern voice, with every bad habit of speech there is: hesitations, indistinct phrasings, poor or little projection, maddening slowness, ignored “ing’s,” and mispronunciation. She always said “chirren” instead of “children” and yet to his further displeasure pulls it off with good success. His review praises the play, but describes the lead actress [Beryl] adequate [male inadequacy to the successful wife].
Junior College Creative Writing Instructor. “If you can earn a living freelancing, I’d say you had plenty of talent, Mr. Hershey.” “No, there’s a difference, and it took me a good many years to accept this difference as a fact. I have a facility, a knack, and I learned craftsmanship by writing for the pulps; westerns at a half-cent and a penny a word. That kind of writing takes facility, and a subconscious knowledge of formulas.” Please pour… “I can lift a pot of cold water easily, but as soon as the same pot of water gets hot I have trouble with it. I get a little nervous and my hand shakes.” “You’ve written too many potboilers, Mr. Hershey” “What it all boils down to, Richard, is this: I’m unwilling to share my real feelings with some anonymous reader. And there are very few writers who’ve got that kind of guts. If they did, they’d be rich and famous.” [Ironic, that within the bad puns, this is a writer who does share his real feelings, yet is neither rich nor famous. And perhaps willing to further lampoon his predominant writing genre?] “The only clue worth noting, and it wasn’t worth much, was the fact that she had tried to write a mystery-type story, or at least a half-hearted mystery. Why had she chosen that form instead of another; instead of a love story, for instance? Was life itself a mystery to the woman, or had she written the story in mystery form because they were supposed to be the easiest kind to write?”
On the home front. “I was on the point of telling her that if she had stayed home where she belonged, instead of entering into secret alliances with a bunch of would-be actors, she wouldn’t be so tired—but I caught myself, in time. That little business had been settled already. Why bring it up again? And why was I deliberately courting an argument? She wasn’t the guilty party, I was; and knowing I was guilty, I was on the defensive” Belated self awareness.
Husband of the deceased. “ Print anything you like. I’m leaving Lake Springs and the whole damned state of Florida!” “I always write what I please.” I turned away, looking down for the first step. “Here’s some punctuation for you—!” As I snapped my head around I was just in time to catch a looping roundhouse right flush on my jaw.” In search of a new start - “But the statistics were against his finding the kind of woman he said he wanted. A widower almost always married the same kind of woman he had the first time, whether his first marriage had been a happy one or not.“
Managing Editor’s review. “I want a specific story—the facts behind Marion Huneker’s murder-suicide. This is pap, pap, pap!” “I see,” I said, standing up slowly and nodding. “Then you’d better write it yourself.” I dumped the contents of the suicide envelope into the metal wastebasket beside my desk. I flipped on my lighter, ignited the contents, and stepped back three feet to watch the cheery little fire.” “Let it burn, Mrs. Mosby,” J.C. said curtly, waving his secretary and Blake away. “This is the first spark of incendiary action Hudson has shown around here in five years, and I want to enjoy it.” “Am I fired?” I asked, and I truly didn’t care. “No,” J.C. said soberly. “I’d say you were fired up.”
Realization. “But I knew in my heart that I didn’t really care whether I ever finished my play or not. The only thing in this world that mattered was the working relationship between Beryl and myself. Without Beryl I could easily end up in an ascetic cell like Mr. Paul Hershey, writing stories for fifty dollars apiece because I didn’t have any emotion” and furthermore “ My throat was dry, and I realized that I hadn’t talked to my son since last Monday—six full days ago! “What’re you doing up so late, son,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Watching Ghoul Theater,” he said impatiently. “Did your mother say you could stay up?” “She didn’t say I couldn’t,” he said defiantly, without looking at me.” Son to bed and reckoning with wife.
A surprise ending. Hudson [author] momentarily setting aside social commentary and dark humor- an epiphany … “And besides, such things happen all the time—especially in the movies. …yeah.”
Who’d of thunk it?…from Willeford. What a kick.
Hudson provides a clear sociological/psychological profile of an alienated, self centered, sardonic and arrogant, rogue male type -with a I don’t give a damn what you think attitude. Yet he’s tippy toeing a thin line- needed to maintain job, marriage and a marginal middle class social/economic status in a conservative mid size Florida lake town - population predominantly white: Methodists, Baptists, and smattering of Catholics. Through the eyes, and voice of our jaded protagonist, Willeford delivers a dark humored satire of early 60’s community mores, Florida style. Yet also the clear portrayal of alienation and a male type -lacking in substance, character and beliefs.
Managing Editor. Assigns Hudson the job of reporting on an unheard of tragic event… a well respected town maven’s suicide, and her murdering of her two children…
“ So you aren’t interested, you say.” “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Hudson. Five years ago you entered this office, a raw youth, and asked me for a job.” “Yeah. A Raw Youth, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I was twenty-five, a married man and a father, a college graduate” But Hudson wants to keep his job and takes the assignment. And - “couldn’t allow myself to remain prejudiced against the late Mrs. Huneker. To investigate her death I had to be objective. As the old master, Ben Hecht, said:
“To show emotion, be callous.”
Would Be Playwright- Hudson regularly reports on the Civic Theatre, and develops a relationship with the theatre director, in hopes of future placement. “Yeah, and you won’t like it, Bob. This medium, blue-eyed baby without conscience. Fallowed be thy fameless frame.” “What’s that from?” He raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s a couple of lines from my play,” I said self-consciously” … In discussing his goal with his latest paramour “I’d be surprised if you didn’t have few sexy scenes in your play. How would you get them by the Civic Theater board?” “My play’s in blank verse. The sex scenes are much too subtly written to be spotted by Baptists and Methodists.” “I like selfish men; they’re so practical.” “That’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of being practical.”
A new play to review. “ Lilliom ends by slapping his daughter across the face. Back the poor devil goes to Purgatory… The final scene, when it is performed correctly, will jerk tears out of the eyes of Branch Company finance manager.” But then shock and displeased to discover his wife has been cast to in the lead role. “Beryl had the typical untrained soft southern voice, with every bad habit of speech there is: hesitations, indistinct phrasings, poor or little projection, maddening slowness, ignored “ing’s,” and mispronunciation. She always said “chirren” instead of “children” and yet to his further displeasure pulls it off with good success. His review praises the play, but describes the lead actress [Beryl] adequate [male inadequacy to the successful wife].
Junior College Creative Writing Instructor. “If you can earn a living freelancing, I’d say you had plenty of talent, Mr. Hershey.” “No, there’s a difference, and it took me a good many years to accept this difference as a fact. I have a facility, a knack, and I learned craftsmanship by writing for the pulps; westerns at a half-cent and a penny a word. That kind of writing takes facility, and a subconscious knowledge of formulas.” Please pour… “I can lift a pot of cold water easily, but as soon as the same pot of water gets hot I have trouble with it. I get a little nervous and my hand shakes.” “You’ve written too many potboilers, Mr. Hershey” “What it all boils down to, Richard, is this: I’m unwilling to share my real feelings with some anonymous reader. And there are very few writers who’ve got that kind of guts. If they did, they’d be rich and famous.” [Ironic, that within the bad puns, this is a writer who does share his real feelings, yet is neither rich nor famous. And perhaps willing to further lampoon his predominant writing genre?] “The only clue worth noting, and it wasn’t worth much, was the fact that she had tried to write a mystery-type story, or at least a half-hearted mystery. Why had she chosen that form instead of another; instead of a love story, for instance? Was life itself a mystery to the woman, or had she written the story in mystery form because they were supposed to be the easiest kind to write?”
On the home front. “I was on the point of telling her that if she had stayed home where she belonged, instead of entering into secret alliances with a bunch of would-be actors, she wouldn’t be so tired—but I caught myself, in time. That little business had been settled already. Why bring it up again? And why was I deliberately courting an argument? She wasn’t the guilty party, I was; and knowing I was guilty, I was on the defensive” Belated self awareness.
Husband of the deceased. “ Print anything you like. I’m leaving Lake Springs and the whole damned state of Florida!” “I always write what I please.” I turned away, looking down for the first step. “Here’s some punctuation for you—!” As I snapped my head around I was just in time to catch a looping roundhouse right flush on my jaw.” In search of a new start - “But the statistics were against his finding the kind of woman he said he wanted. A widower almost always married the same kind of woman he had the first time, whether his first marriage had been a happy one or not.“
Managing Editor’s review. “I want a specific story—the facts behind Marion Huneker’s murder-suicide. This is pap, pap, pap!” “I see,” I said, standing up slowly and nodding. “Then you’d better write it yourself.” I dumped the contents of the suicide envelope into the metal wastebasket beside my desk. I flipped on my lighter, ignited the contents, and stepped back three feet to watch the cheery little fire.” “Let it burn, Mrs. Mosby,” J.C. said curtly, waving his secretary and Blake away. “This is the first spark of incendiary action Hudson has shown around here in five years, and I want to enjoy it.” “Am I fired?” I asked, and I truly didn’t care. “No,” J.C. said soberly. “I’d say you were fired up.”
Realization. “But I knew in my heart that I didn’t really care whether I ever finished my play or not. The only thing in this world that mattered was the working relationship between Beryl and myself. Without Beryl I could easily end up in an ascetic cell like Mr. Paul Hershey, writing stories for fifty dollars apiece because I didn’t have any emotion” and furthermore “ My throat was dry, and I realized that I hadn’t talked to my son since last Monday—six full days ago! “What’re you doing up so late, son,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Watching Ghoul Theater,” he said impatiently. “Did your mother say you could stay up?” “She didn’t say I couldn’t,” he said defiantly, without looking at me.” Son to bed and reckoning with wife.
A surprise ending. Hudson [author] momentarily setting aside social commentary and dark humor- an epiphany … “And besides, such things happen all the time—especially in the movies. …yeah.”
Who’d of thunk it?…from Willeford. What a kick.
January 10, 2021
Originally published in 1961 as Understudy for Love by Newsstand Library, which marketed it as a sleaze novel. Perhaps the most interesting thing about the novel is that both publishers misrepresented the novel. In 1961 Newsstand library pushed the sleaze and sex angle. In 2018 Hard Case pushed the crime angle. The book is neither sleaze nor crime. The two books that immediately came to mind for comparison were Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West and Revolutionay Road by Richard Yates. What we have here is a cynical journalist with a bad case of existential dread amidst his comfy suburban life. Your basic literary novel, which is how it would have been marketed if it had been published by one of the mainstream publishing houses instead of a sleaze publisher. So the first task in approaching this novel is to set aside both the sleaze and crime expectations. The question is will Richard Hudson get his head and heart in sync enough to keep his marriage and his life from imploding? Has its flaws, but is well-written, and actually quite good in its proper context. Willeford wrote a fascinating mix of novels that is worth deeper literary study.
June 14, 2019
I was pleased when this 1961 Willeford novel was finally re-printed. I had read every book he ever wrote, except this one.
It's not one of his stronger works. The plot is thin, and the crime aspect is pretty much non-existent. The protagonist, Richard Hudson (a recycled name from The Woman Chaser, but the two men have similarities) is not particularly likeable. He's a narcissistic womanizer and a frustrated newspaper reporter who wants to be a playwright but has never finished a play.
As Hudson goes about the business of investigating a married woman's suicide and the murder of her children, we realize that the book is more about Hudson's own marriage and his unhappiness with his middle class suburban life. He avoids his wife most of the time, except for sexual activity, and he goes for a month without speaking to his own child.
Aside from the distastefulness of the main character, the book is full of "Willeford-isms": glib commentary about the shallow, materialistic existence of upper-middle class Americans (almost like a nod to John Cheever); a particularly good scene with a elderly man who sells short stories and teaches an adult education writing class for $5 a week; and a flashback of Hudson's earliest sexual experience, a very unfortunate gang bang with a local high school girl who collects 25 cents from every participant.
Willeford presents the material in his usual deadpan manner. The "crime" is never solved, but Hudson's marital difficulties are strangely resolved. Is the ending serious or facetious? With Willeford, you never know.
Willeford always went the extra mile in his early pulp novels. He includes the requisite sex scenes that the publishers demanded, but he also explores existential themes of morality and choice. Unsuspecting readers who bought these paperbacks at their local drugstore for 25 cents got a lot for their money.
This book would not be a good place to start for those unfamiliar with Willeford. Better to first read the legendary Hoke Mosey novels in order, and then work your way back through The Burnt Orange Heresy and The Black Mass of Brother Springer to his early pulp novels. You will not be disappointed.
Willeford stands alone. There is no other writer like him.
It's not one of his stronger works. The plot is thin, and the crime aspect is pretty much non-existent. The protagonist, Richard Hudson (a recycled name from The Woman Chaser, but the two men have similarities) is not particularly likeable. He's a narcissistic womanizer and a frustrated newspaper reporter who wants to be a playwright but has never finished a play.
As Hudson goes about the business of investigating a married woman's suicide and the murder of her children, we realize that the book is more about Hudson's own marriage and his unhappiness with his middle class suburban life. He avoids his wife most of the time, except for sexual activity, and he goes for a month without speaking to his own child.
Aside from the distastefulness of the main character, the book is full of "Willeford-isms": glib commentary about the shallow, materialistic existence of upper-middle class Americans (almost like a nod to John Cheever); a particularly good scene with a elderly man who sells short stories and teaches an adult education writing class for $5 a week; and a flashback of Hudson's earliest sexual experience, a very unfortunate gang bang with a local high school girl who collects 25 cents from every participant.
Willeford presents the material in his usual deadpan manner. The "crime" is never solved, but Hudson's marital difficulties are strangely resolved. Is the ending serious or facetious? With Willeford, you never know.
Willeford always went the extra mile in his early pulp novels. He includes the requisite sex scenes that the publishers demanded, but he also explores existential themes of morality and choice. Unsuspecting readers who bought these paperbacks at their local drugstore for 25 cents got a lot for their money.
This book would not be a good place to start for those unfamiliar with Willeford. Better to first read the legendary Hoke Mosey novels in order, and then work your way back through The Burnt Orange Heresy and The Black Mass of Brother Springer to his early pulp novels. You will not be disappointed.
Willeford stands alone. There is no other writer like him.
February 20, 2024
A local woman killed her two children before committing suicide and that means jaded local reporter Richard Hudson is being assigned extra work to get to the bottom of it, if possible. Hudson is the atavistic Willeford everyman, young, self-made, war veteran with a drop-dead gorgeous wife and a raging (if not yet self-diagnosed) case of ennui. At first he tries to buck the task, but reluctantly does his meager best and before he knows it finds himself embroiled in an affair. How is he ever going to finish writing his own play, his own unrecognized labor of love when his wife keeps asking him to do simple errands and he's handed asinine assignments? Read and find out.
I loved this one, my favorite since The Burnt Orange Heresy, and mostly due to the same reasons I gave in my review of that gem. Willeford had a way of combining the money-making formulas with actual writing that has guts and a soul. For example this is one of his most sexually descriptive (and charged) novels, but it's purposeful and enhances his characterizations. His unlikeable protagonist flusters and gawps about things in ways that are infuriating to the modern eye . And Willeford's sloppiest writing tendencies are nowhere to be found but his insights are abundant.
Wonderful.
I loved this one, my favorite since The Burnt Orange Heresy, and mostly due to the same reasons I gave in my review of that gem. Willeford had a way of combining the money-making formulas with actual writing that has guts and a soul. For example this is one of his most sexually descriptive (and charged) novels, but it's purposeful and enhances his characterizations. His unlikeable protagonist flusters and gawps about things in ways that are infuriating to the modern eye . And Willeford's sloppiest writing tendencies are nowhere to be found but his insights are abundant.
Wonderful.
June 25, 2019
DNF at 98 pages.
I wanted to push through this loosely called story, but ultimately couldn't. After the main character cheats on his wife, seemingly because he can and the woman is there, coupled with the disgusting way the author views women, I am cutting my losses and moving onto what will hopefully be a better read.
I wanted to push through this loosely called story, but ultimately couldn't. After the main character cheats on his wife, seemingly because he can and the woman is there, coupled with the disgusting way the author views women, I am cutting my losses and moving onto what will hopefully be a better read.
October 28, 2022
Willefords "lost" novel should've stayed that way. 3 stars is very generous. I'd recommend giving this one a miss unless you're a Willeford completionist or a big fan of softcore porn with very unlikeable characters and an unresolved, pointless mystery.
November 14, 2023
Understudy for Death's oddball story and characters lift this book out of the dud category. A rare miss from Willeford who wrote a bunch of great crime novels.
October 25, 2018
Don't read this book. If that's all you need to see, stop reading here.
Charles Willeford may be a fine writer, but this "unearthed classic," like many others that Hard Case Crime exhumes, should have stayed buried. Buried deep.
"Understudy for Death," the book in question, is not badly written. But it's not really a crime novel. It's a novel about a crime that happens before the action of the book starts. And the protagonist, reporter Richard Hudson, is worried more about getting laid (with his wife and others) than delving deeply into the reasons for why the "shocking" crime took place.
There are plenty of "noir" elements to be worked with here, but the author bypasses most of them on a winding road to nowhere.
The book is a long character study of Hudson. And he's not that appealing. He's a young, bitter guy with a wife and son he doesn't treat very well. He's definitely a jerk who is trying to work his way up/down to cad. He's a frustrated writer with ambitions of becoming a playwright, but he has none of the talent or drive to succeed. So he lives life as a small-town reporter, going through the motions. He's often selfish and mean and takes out his frustrations with life on others around him.
The crime that's supposed to make this a "crime" novel does move him out of his rut, but only into infidelity and generally crappy behavior. Yet nothing this character does and says amounts to...anything. He does bad things and treats people--mainly his wife--poorly, but nothing comes from that. The author is the only one who seems to care about the protagonist. Even the other characters seem to just try to tolerate or ignore him.
I kept waiting for something to happen...and it never did. No mysteries were solved. Nobody else died. As a reader, I felt this book was a giant waste of time.
"Understudy for Death" just ended up being a rather dull "slice of life" tale that had very little of interest going on within. The end.
Charles Willeford may be a fine writer, but this "unearthed classic," like many others that Hard Case Crime exhumes, should have stayed buried. Buried deep.
"Understudy for Death," the book in question, is not badly written. But it's not really a crime novel. It's a novel about a crime that happens before the action of the book starts. And the protagonist, reporter Richard Hudson, is worried more about getting laid (with his wife and others) than delving deeply into the reasons for why the "shocking" crime took place.
There are plenty of "noir" elements to be worked with here, but the author bypasses most of them on a winding road to nowhere.
The book is a long character study of Hudson. And he's not that appealing. He's a young, bitter guy with a wife and son he doesn't treat very well. He's definitely a jerk who is trying to work his way up/down to cad. He's a frustrated writer with ambitions of becoming a playwright, but he has none of the talent or drive to succeed. So he lives life as a small-town reporter, going through the motions. He's often selfish and mean and takes out his frustrations with life on others around him.
The crime that's supposed to make this a "crime" novel does move him out of his rut, but only into infidelity and generally crappy behavior. Yet nothing this character does and says amounts to...anything. He does bad things and treats people--mainly his wife--poorly, but nothing comes from that. The author is the only one who seems to care about the protagonist. Even the other characters seem to just try to tolerate or ignore him.
I kept waiting for something to happen...and it never did. No mysteries were solved. Nobody else died. As a reader, I felt this book was a giant waste of time.
"Understudy for Death" just ended up being a rather dull "slice of life" tale that had very little of interest going on within. The end.
October 25, 2018
Just finished this one. I can understand why it has never been re-published and why only a "disreputable paperback house" published it in 1961. [From the cover]
The cover and the comments are misleading. Absolutely nothing "disturbing" about it.
This is not a crime novel in the normal sense for one thing and it is very boring. The "crime" at the very beginning does not really relate that well to the narrative in the book. Willeford rambled on and on far too many places in it. Didn't really seem to have a point, but especially not as a "Hardcase Crime" novel. Might have made a good short story for a soap opera magazine.
I finished it just so I could say I read the whole thing. Kept waiting for something other than one man's recollections of a boring life and boring job. The extra-marital and marital sex scenes did perk it up, but still didn't make it a book.
The cover and the comments are misleading. Absolutely nothing "disturbing" about it.
This is not a crime novel in the normal sense for one thing and it is very boring. The "crime" at the very beginning does not really relate that well to the narrative in the book. Willeford rambled on and on far too many places in it. Didn't really seem to have a point, but especially not as a "Hardcase Crime" novel. Might have made a good short story for a soap opera magazine.
I finished it just so I could say I read the whole thing. Kept waiting for something other than one man's recollections of a boring life and boring job. The extra-marital and marital sex scenes did perk it up, but still didn't make it a book.
July 28, 2018
The problem with this book for me was the simple fact that it was not a crime novel, although it could have been very easily. I suppose that gives some of the plot away. But this book was marketed as a crime novel, just look at the cover. The plot, what there is of it, meanders about, never really moving forward.
March 23, 2019
I still love Willeford but his other work is soooo much better than this. At the end I just felt ennui.
May 14, 2020
I rather liked Charles Willeford's Understudy for Death, though I felt that the book was not really the crime fiction it purported to be. It is the tale of a newspaper reporter married to a beautiful young wife who has been assigned to write a story about suicide after a local resident of Lake Springs, Florida, has shot and killed her two young children and herself.
At several points, I kept asking myself, "Where was the crime? Where's the noir?" The book is well written, but needs to be reclassified as general southern fiction. But then, that is probably the fault of the publisher.
When it was originally published, the novel was called The Understudy: A Novel of Men and Women, which is probably a less misleading title.
At several points, I kept asking myself, "Where was the crime? Where's the noir?" The book is well written, but needs to be reclassified as general southern fiction. But then, that is probably the fault of the publisher.
When it was originally published, the novel was called The Understudy: A Novel of Men and Women, which is probably a less misleading title.
Read
February 10, 2019Understudy for Death is a pulp novel concerned with city lighting issues and the politics of community theater. There's one chapter on sex education. (the inciting murder gets about four pages) Charles Willeford, like always, shows that real misery, the grimmest stuff, comes from domestic expectations and everyday failure.
This has a depth that's absent in even the best Jim Thompson novels about psychotic men. You're given few tells about the narrator's reliability. Every bit character has a beating heart. It's astonishing that this was ever published by a paperback house.
This has a depth that's absent in even the best Jim Thompson novels about psychotic men. You're given few tells about the narrator's reliability. Every bit character has a beating heart. It's astonishing that this was ever published by a paperback house.
January 17, 2020
This is one of those stories that sticks with you in the.....what exactly did I read way. It's deeper in its own way than most and yet incomprehensibly shallow. Worth the read and an interesting piece for sure.
August 2, 2019
As I was reading this book I wasn't sure I was liking it especially since the main character did things I wasn't happy with. But it became a excellent look at how marriage was at the time (the1950's)and how suicide can effect anyone, even with a people who has everything.
April 30, 2020
I had forgotten about Willeford, even though I had read the Burnt Orange Heresy.
Again, I was a little put off with the odd and banal characters but I was sucked in after 30-40 pages.
Again, I was a little put off with the odd and banal characters but I was sucked in after 30-40 pages.
July 29, 2020
There is a vital clue to rhe suicide in Mrs Huneker's story. But Hudson misses it. He's as clueless as she is about how to solve a personal problem. Mrs H sees her husband as a kind of god -- she can't kill him. So she kills herself and her kids! Hudson does not "get" it in this novel.
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