If a friend had not called to say Ira Levin had died of a heart attack in his Manhattan apartment on November 12, I might not have heard of it right away. The media in India took little notice of his passing away, and no obituaries were posted. To them, he wasn’t a literary figure and as a writer of pulp fiction, not popular enough. I, however, have been making a case out (with friends and readers) for Ira Levin as a true original; a writer with a genius for diabolical suspense.
Levin showed us why suspense is superior to surprise. He made suspense an emotion you could actually experience. He turned it into art.
I had not only read and reread his work but studied them to see how he worked his magic: his books are virtual textbooks in the craft of suspense. I had begun to feel that my obsession with Levin must end in meeting the man in person, at which time I would get my first edition of Rosemary’s Baby (which I bid for and won on eBay) signed and inscribed, and tell him— perhaps even show him— how much I admired his work. Some five years ago I began making plans to meet him.
The mechanics of Levin’s suspense works on the deliciously paranoid theme that no one is who he or she seems to be. It’s the suspense that arises from ambiguity that is at the core of every Levin thriller.
Are those dotty, old people in the apartment next-door actually modern-day witches or just nosy, over-friendly neighbours? Is the handsome, rich bachelor upstairs (whom the heroine is falling in love with) an electronic gadget geek or a psychopathic voyeur? Can an entire town of husbands be secretly plotting to replace their wives with Barbie dolls or do they just have very devoted wives? Levin escalates the suspense in his books by keeping the proceedings as eerily ambiguous to the reader as they are to his characters.
In June 2002, I was in New York for a few weeks. Ira Levin’s phone was, predictably, unlisted. When I could not turn up any contact information for Levin on the Net, I called his publishers who told me that Mr Levin was a shy person, did not usually meet fans, and liked his privacy. Besides, he was busy working on a new book. I persisted saying this was my only chance, and that I had come all the way from India to meet him (which was partially true). Perhaps just to get rid off me, the PR person informed me that the best she could do was forward him a message from me, which she asked to be emailed to her.
Master of surprise
Levin’s first book, A Kiss Before Dying, written when he was only 22, contains surprises that really surprise, and it’s impervious to that really nasty, unworthy trick that some readers resort to— turning to the last page to see whodunit. The revelation is neatly tucked away about one hundred pages into the story.
The moment of revelation is more potent than anything dreamt by Hitchcock. For most mystery writers the whodunit aspect is their plot’s climax; Levin tosses off the killer’s identity midway through the book because he has more suspense up his sleeve. It has to be the greatest suspense novel ever written. Levin’s thrillers are not about ‘whodunit’ but ‘who-will-do-it’. Suspense, not shock, is what Levin is after.
I quickly wrote out a note for Levin via the PR person, careful not to sound like an obsessive fan. Perhaps I should have. I did not hear from her for two weeks.
When I finally called her, she told me Mr Levin thanked me but did not as a rule meet fans. I felt sure that she had not passed on the message or if she had, Levin had not got a chance to read it. Or was she perhaps telling the truth? I had only a couple of days left to return to Bangalore. All I really wanted at this stage was to at least get my books signed.
I knew Levin lived somewhere in the Carnegie Hill district (where he had set Sliver) of Manhattan. ‘The Mysterious Bookshop’ and ‘Murder Ink’, two of Manhattan’s best mystery stores where Levin was known to give readings and sign books, were my only hope to get the actual address.
It is with Rosemary’s Baby that Levin hits upon what was to become his trademark suspense: paranoia. A young, pregnant New York housewife begins to feel that their apartment neighbours— an old couple— are plotting against her. Is she paranoid or is there really a conspiracy against her? It is Levin’s masterpiece.
Roman Polanski’s masterful film adaptation gets all the spooky nuances and the comic undertone of Ira Levin’s great horror novel just right. The Stepford Wives, This Perfect Day, Sliver, The Boys From Brazil and Son of Rosemary are all vintage Levin and not to be missed. His Deathtrap is the most suspenseful play ever written for the stage.
Dead end
I had no luck at ‘The Mysterious Bookshop’ (the clerk told me archly that she knew his phone number and address but would not give it). I begged the friendlier staff at ‘Murder Ink’ to tell me where he lived, and taking pity on me, the staff wrote down the address for me but not the phone number. An hour later I found myself before his elegant apartment building. I stood dithering for at least half an hour by the door buzzer, feeling strongly like an intruder. I turned away from the door and started to leave. At the end of street, and heading for his apartment, was Levin carrying a small bag of groceries.
I recognized him at once from all the book jacket photos I had. He was walking towards me. My heart was thudding. I knew I would look foolish if I were to say everything I had been meaning to tell him— this is what I would do I quickly decided: just hand him my first edition of Rosemary’s Baby, request him to sign it and keep moving. As he neared me, I got the book ready. But in that instant I knew I could not do it— it felt too much like an invasion of an author’s privacy. I simply stood watching as he passed me. And then he turned the key at the door, and was gone.
PS— Two months ago, on Alibris, an Internet booksite, I located a copy of ‘Sliver’ that Levin had actually signed. It was not inexpensive to acquire but it now sits on my shelf next to my first edition of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’, which, of course, will remain unsigned.
