The mysterious stranger—where did he go? Illustration produced in collaboration with ChatGPT, which had seen “Casablanca”.
Hard-boiled reflections from criminal adjunkt (kriminaladjunkt) Yan Friis
Where did the classic man go? The one who smoked with style, drank his whisky neat, wore hat and overcoat, and hurried out the door at the slightest suspicion of a damsel in distress? The one who appeared only in black-and-white films and newspaper advertisements shot in dim and enigmatic lighting. Perhaps he carried a revolver in his pocket. He used it only on rogues who beat and deceived women (especially the young and defenceless).
Out there in the hard streets of life, dimly lit, I may perhaps stride gallantly along, spring in my step, yet watchful for movement in dark doorways, while I smoke my cigarette with conspicuous calm. Perhaps a woman comes running out of an alley. She looks back, sobbing, pursued by a burly thug with piercing eyes and gleaming, slicked-back hair.
If he seizes her by the coat, I drop my cigarette with a “Hey there!” faintly scented with whisky. “Who are you?” he growls threateningly and turns towards me. Steel glints. I push my hat back on my head. The sight of my hard, iron-grey eyes makes him hesitate; the sight of the six-shooter in my right hand reminds him that he has an appointment.
“Oh!” she will exclaim as her legs give way beneath her, and only my tiger-like leap and strong arms prevent her from collapsing into the street like a limp doll. “Who are you, my rescuer?” she sighs softly. I introduce myself manfully and whistle for a taxi. She sighs, enraptured. I feel mysterious, a man who has borne many burdens. She will never forget me.
I awaken in 2026. My shoes are of the brand Ecco, admittedly black, but of a soft, pensioner-like design. The sole has a rounded underside. I leave foolish footprints. Where does one obtain film noir shoes? And do they moreover fit feet that are somewhat broad across the instep?
Mysterious strangers never wear this model of shoe. That is something everyone knows. (Photo: Yan Friis)
I have always had difficulty finding shoes that fit. In the 1970s I bought safety shoes, but that was probably because of the price. I do have a suit. But it somehow does not have the right cut. It develops knees the moment I have sat down a little. The jacket seems tight across the shoulders and should preferably not be buttoned. Moreover, I still cannot tie a proper tie knot, and I have no idea whether my ties are stylish or ridiculous—they are all gifts, probably re-gifts.
One must have a shirt, not the sort that pops out of the trousers the moment one sneezes, but proper ones, crease-resistant, somewhat stiff in the fabric, I believe, for they can withstand a fight, I have seen that in films. A good overcoat that reaches just above the knee, a belt that one simply ties carelessly over the stomach. And then, of course, the most important thing: a hat.
Certain men still wear hats. But they are the oddball types. Leather jacket, jeans and a hat. Electric bicycle, padded jacket and a hat. What is that supposed to be? The hat has become a joke, something amusing that no one must believe the wearer takes seriously. This most noble of all garments of the man. It is unbearable. Worse still: I have no idea how one chooses a good hat.
Hats are not something one tosses about casually. It must be the right hat. And it is not approved as a substitute for a helmet—or a cap with a propeller. (Photo: Stocksnap/Pixabay)
To a good hat, one also needs the right hairstyle, incidentally. You no longer obtain that at the hairdresser. If you enter such a place, you risk emerging so unrecognisably styled that the only thing missing is a handbag.
The truth is that I do not feel in the least mysterious. Nor do I know anyone who is. One sees very few mysterious gentlemen at all on the rare occasions one ventures out into the city streets after nightfall. Sinister, yes, but not mysterious in that enigmatic stranger-without-a-name manner. If I were a girl running through alleys, I would not count on there being any help to be had from them. Quite the contrary.
And that is the crux of the matter. The world of the man has shrunk and become a soft little contraption. Our old idols and role models have been declared outlaws. We have no role models. We scarcely know who we are. One cobbles together a sort of man, a surrogate type engineered by ambitious, power-intoxicated women who have no idea what it is like to come running out of dark alleys with a pursuer at one’s heels. The one who was supposed to save them has a rounded sole, leaves silly footprints and struggles to find good jobs.
He must watch himself being passed over by women in the labour market. Women who are so preoccupied with career and self-development that they have no time for skulking, period-drinking men who call themselves private detectives and moreover smoke cigarettes. Ambitious women are also so well trained that they are perfectly capable of dealing with intrusive gentlemen with slicked hair and a limited vocabulary themselves—should they happen to wander into the housing estates at Grorud, which is unlikely. And they never take the underground, in any case.
Example of a modern businesswoman who does not get lost in Grorud. She therefore has no need for assistance from armed smokers with an alcohol problem. (Publicdomainpictures.net)
They have constructed an armoured, brave-new-world model. To prod at it is tantamount to excluding oneself from the politically correct, self-satisfied company. One is left standing as a despised creature, pointed out with an indignant finger. A stone on the tracks of the train of the future. A man.
The hope is that somewhere there exists a Rick’s Café Américain, where men are men upon whose shoulders the fate of the world rests. Behind a bitter mask and a harsh drink, he heroically renounces everything for the woman, gently yet firmly takes her chin between his fingers while drowning his gaze in tear-filled eyes—and exclaims: Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!” Humphrey Bogart (the personification of the “mysterious stranger”) and Ingrid Bergman in the iconic film “Casablanca” (1942). Photo: TT / NTB.
In order for me to get there, someone must assist me with the overcoat, the suit, the hat and the shoes. That is all that is required. A small step for mankind, but a titanic effort for me.
If a private detective reads this, at least send me advice on the choice of hat. A hat of my own is my greatest wish. I have owned only one, a Bogart variant which was unfortunately too small; it had to be forced onto my head and sprang off every time I coughed.
I also wonder whether Bogart ever had holes in his socks. As far as I know, he never removed his shoes indoors, so he got away with it in any case. I must plan the day. Nowadays one must even remove one’s shoes at the dentist. Socks are a vulnerable garment. It takes very little before a toe says hello. So take these words of wisdom with you into everyday life: Never leave your home without a change of socks.
Thank you.