Christian
and Voodoo concepts of good and evil in Graham Greene's Brighton Rock and William Hjortsberg's Falling Angel
Marion Dawson, Lancaster University
Introduction
Much has
been written on the subject of Catholic theology within Graham Greene's
novels. However critics have
tended to take a stance which reflects their own religious or non-religious
affiliations, obscuring the complex tensions set up by the author, which are in
fact what make his novels so interesting (Pryce-Jones, 1963). Furthermore, little has been written on
the significance of Voodoo and devil worship in William Hjortsberg's more
recent novel Falling Angel, while critics have preferred to focus on the
novel's hybrid and postmodern elements (Horsley, 2009; Richardson, 2009; Jones,
2002). Interesting parallels can
be drawn between the two writers, not least because both make use of the noir
genre to foreground theological concerns.
Emphasising noir's affinity with the Gothic, Lee Horsley (2009)
argues that it is the 'pull towards excess which gives noir its unsettling
power, its savage intensity and its haunting sense of irreversable fate'
(229). This combined with themes
of paranoia and urban decay make noir an appropriate framework for exploring
the nature of evil. Where
conventional noir and Gothic narratives diverge is in noir's realist
sensibility, which usually locates malevolence in dark city streets, here on
Earth, rather than fantastical or supernatural realms. Hjortsberg set Falling Angel in New York, 1959, deliberately, so that he could tie
events to specific urban locations (Official William Hjortsberg
Homepage). Brighton Rock is similarly location
specific, revealing a heinous criminal underworld beneath the 1930s seaside
town gloss. In both novels, gritty
urban realism is juxtaposed with meditations on the more metaphysical matters
of good and evil. The supernatural
Gothic elements of Falling Angel allow many common noir themes, such as the pervasiveness of evil and the
inescapable past to be literalised (Horsley, 2009). In Brighton Rock,
the theme is more subtly introduced through the beliefs of its characters, who constantly refer to their belief systems in order to
justify their actions. In both
cases, it is the juxtaposition of realist noir conventions (such as the
hardboiled detective story) with more metaphysical religious themes
which make the novels powerful and engaging reads.
Rather
than follow (or oppose) other critics in making a stand for one or another
theological position, I want to emphasise the religious tensions which are
highlighted in Falling Angel and Brighton Rock, said to be Greene's
'first specifically Catholic novel' (Pryce-Jones, 1963: 29). In doing so, I foreground elements
formally neglected by other writers: the significance of female characters in
both novels as representatives of pantheistic and/or atheist philosophies, the
role of magic and individual agency, and the tension between these systems and
the more familiar monotheistic, hierarchical concepts of good and evil. The framework of the noir thriller,
with its mood of fatalism, malevolence and individual isolation (Horsley,
2009), allows both writers room to explore these tensions productively, without
giving any neat resolutions.
Ida
Arnold: detective or busybody?
Critics
have been unkind to Ida Arnold. The life-loving, pragmatic amateur detective of Brighton Rock has been described as 'sacharine and mass produced',
'shallow and banal' (Horsley, 1995), 'naïve', 'spiritually blind', 'flat' and
'lukewarm' (Diemert, 1992). Brian
Diemert (1992) argues that her 'perceived lack' of spirituality:
has dominated readings of the novel because a
conflation of interests has enabled critics, most of them male, to attack
overtly Ida's character and her actions in the narrative while covertly
dismissing critical approaches that focus on aspects of the secular, the
feminine, or the popular in the novel.
In
response to this, Diemert takes the classical detective story as the lens for
focusing his article. However, Ida
does not come out much better off. Ambassador for an 'anti-fascist aesthetic', nonetheless, it is her
perceived deficiencies as a detective which Diemert argues 'demonstrate the
period's distrust of the single authoritative point of view.' In this analysis, her spiritual
shallowness remains unquestioned, and 'serves as one of the means … of
discrediting her authority' as a detective. He argues that her failure to understand Rose and Pinkie's
theological world view inhibits her ability to solve
the mystery surrounding Hale's death. Furthermore, although Ida rids us of the villain Pinkie in the end, 'she
does nothing to alleviate the conditions that produced him; the evil remains.'
Diemert
takes this as a challenge to the classical detective story and the ideology of
supreme rationality embodied by its 'confident, upper class, male
investigators'. However, it could
be argued that it is precisely Ida's differences from the classical detective which prevent her from posing a real challenge to
their authority. Neither male nor
upper class, witty and down to earth rather than intellectual, her failure to
restore order could be seen as due to the limitations of her gender, class and
intellect, rather than the limitations of intellect itself. In such a reading, the authority of the
classical detective is strengthened rather than undermined. However, it should also be noted that
Ida is an unwilling detective, a fact obscured by Diemert's analysis. While classical detectives such as
Conan Doyle's Holmes or Christie's Poirot took on work out of a sense of noble
righteousness, Ida begins her search as much for the thrill of the chase and a
love of gossip as from a sense of right and wrong. Unaccredited by police or profession, Ida could be seen (and
is seen by some characters), as more of an interfering busybody than a
detective. From this point of
view, the boundaries between busybody and detective begin to blur. This has the potential not only to
challenge the authority of the classical male investigator, but also to convey
the (usually) female busybody in a more positive light. When her friend Clarence tells her,
'It's none of your business,' Ida reflects, 'It's none
of anybody's... that was the trouble: no-one but her to ask questions' (BR
34). With no-one to ask questions, to interfere, evil would go on
impeded. Apathy in the face of
great evil is a subject which Greene would return to
in later novels, as the threat of fascism loomed in Europe. While Greene has been alleged to scorn
Ida's world view, Lee Horsley (1995) has pointed out that his own Catholicism was
equally inadequate for the task: 'a means of escape from the spectre of chaos
and barbarism, and arguably one which (with its paradoxical alliance of good
and evil) leaves little point in fighting the evils of fascism.'
The
alliance of good and evil
In Brighton Rock, Pinkie and Rose represent
two sides of good and evil, which, rather than antithetical, are complementary
to each other: 'What was most evil in him needed her: it couldn't get along
without goodness' (126). Greene
appeared to have some sympathy for the devil when he argued, 'The greatest
saints have been men with more than a normal capacity for evil' (1951:
131). He quotes TS Eliot, arguing
that in order to do good, people must be awakened to the spiritual plane of
life, but in doing so they also become capable of evil (138). This perspective has been interpreted
by critics as entailing sympathy for Pinkie, who is seen as a tragic figure,
even Christ like. For example,
Pryce-Jones writes that, 'The argument of the book
is... only by a profound knowledge, almost a love of sin, and the despair
accompanying it, can a human being reach salvation' (1963: 33).
This
approach becomes deeply problematic when exposed to feminist ideas, as the
exaltation of Rose as goodness personified involves a celebration of female
passivity in the extreme. Although
Rose has moments of boldness, which induce an uncomfortable sensuality in
Pinkie, her defining character trait is that of
passivity. For example, she is
introduced as: 'one of those girls who creep about... as if they were afraid of
their own footsteps... He despised her quiet, her pallor, her desire to please'
(27). At first, Pinkie sees this
desire to please as a threat, as it makes her vulnerable to corruption by
outside forces such as the police. But later it becomes useful to him, as it allows him to talk her into
first marriage, then suicide, making her 'safe' from condemning him with her
knowledge. He begins to see her as
an ally, though one that (as the goodness to his evil) he necessarily
despises. Rose's 'blind
willingness to be deceived' (92) and abused is the flip-side to Pinkie's unremitting cruelty and misogyny. His evils to her could not continue without her
acceptance. According to Pryce-Jones, 'As Pinkie sins more
and more, so Rose is seen more clearly as a saint whose love remains
inflexible' (35), despite the fact that, she herself admits (to Ida), he may
not love her. However, the ending
to the book would seem to complicate this analysis, as the priest argues it is
Pinkie's love for Rose which might save him from damnation, not her love. This suggestion gives her temporary
comfort, though only the reader knows the 'horrible' truth,
that he did not love her, and she will soon know this too.
From a feminist point of view, Rose's 'inflexible' love is a
condoning and acceptance of the evil of misogyny, rather than a force for
good. Her extreme passivity allows
Pinkie's crimes, both to herself and others, to go unchallenged. In 21st century terms, she
could be said to be suffering from 'battered wife syndrome.' This is not to suggest that her
acquiescence makes her to blame for her own fate. Greene suggests that her miserable experience of life means
she 'will not recognize kindness' (BR 121), which is borne out by the indifference
of her parents. However, neither
does it make her a saintly figure. Discussing domestic violence, bell hooks (2001) describes love as an
action rather than a feeling, dismissing the common refrain that perpetrators
of domestic abuse 'love' their partners, and Pinkie's claim that 'It's not what
you do... It's what you think' (BR 127). From this point of view, the most loving thing Rose could do for Pinkie
is to challenge his behaviour, perhaps sparing him from damnation, as well as herself and others from his continuing crimes. It is ironic that Pinkie himself
criticises the idea of endurance as a kind of virtue when he meets Rose's
poverty stricken parents, echoing the feminist criticism of feminine passivity:
They said that saints
had got – what was the phrase? - 'heroic virtues', heroic patience, heroic
endurance, but there was nothing he could see that was heroic in the bony face, protuberant eyes, pallid
anxiety (143).
Pinkie himself comes from such origins, but escapes it through a
life of crime and a self-serving attitude. In this passage, Greene demonstrates two possible responses
to poverty and deprivation, embodied by Pinkie and Rose: misanthropic violence
or passive acquiescence. In the
carefree, humanistic Ida Arnold, he introduces a different attitude, one which
destabilises the smooth alliance of good and evil set up by the unhappy couple,
and which, far from 'obtruding [the] theological considerations' of the novel,
as Pryce-Jones would have it (36), is axiomatic to it.
Ida's humanist alternative
Most critics agree that, as a Catholic, Greene scorned Ida and her
'superficial' view of life (Pryce-Jones, 1963; Diemert, 1992; Horsley,
1995). However, this does not stop
her from making a bold, likable presence in the novel, at least to contemporary
readers. (I base this on the
unempirical evidence of my own and friends' reactions to the novel.) This may be due to the increased
secularisation of British society since the novel was published, and the impact
of feminism. However, I find it
difficult to believe that were Greene wholly consumed with scorn for her, that
this would not show through in his writing. I for one struggle to detect it within the novel itself,
although secondary sources suggest they were not kindred spirits. This (admittedly unempirical) evidence
suggests that Greene's own relationship to good and evil was far more
complicated than critics have suggested, recalling a school mate's suspicions
that 'under his rather woebegone mask' he derived 'cynical, light-hearted
humour' from his explorations of evil (Peter Quennell quoted in Pryce-Jones,
1963: 6).
Ida's approach to morality is entirely alien to that of Pinkie and
Rose's, based on a humanistic, emotional attachment to others and the
practicalities of everyday life, rather than abstract notions of good and
evil. She is described as, 'as far
from either of them as she was from Hell – or Heaven. Good and evil lived in the same
country, spoke the same language, came together like old
friends' (127). Unmoved by
concepts of Heaven or Hell, Ida's great belief is in this life, which she takes
'with a deadly seriousness' (36). She pursues the pleasures of life that are brought to mind by a seaside
holiday: food, drink, sex, music, gossip. All of these things provoke revulsion
in Pinkie. All have also at one
time or another been associated with the feminine, which may in part explain
Pinkie's misogyny. It may also
help to explain the dismissal of Ida by critics from a pre-feminist era. Rather than actively despise her, it
seems they don't know what to make of her. This is hardly surprising, as, neither virgin nor femme
fatale, she is uncharacteristic of her era, which in my belief is what makes
her so fascinating. Even today, it
could be argued that sympathetic sexual middle-aged female characters are
rare.
Ida's free and easy sexuality is symptomatic of her approach to
morality, which, far from the 'prating of petit bourgeois right and wrong'
(Neil Nehring, 1991: 229), has more in common with the progressive sexual mores
of the 1960s. 'I'm not a Puritan,
mind,' she says. 'I've done a
thing or two in my time – that's natural' (122, original
emphasis)... 'That [sex] does no one any harm. That's not like murder' (223). Ida's sense of right and wrong is not based on any abstract
definition but derived from a deep sense of empathy and love of life, which
makes her hate to see anyone suffer. She is a realist, not an idealist. For example, she expects men to lie to get into bed with her (31) but
will accept them on her own terms. She sees Rose as 'vexing' and 'stupid', but still deserving of being
saved (223). In short, she sees
the bad as well as the good in human nature, but thinks the good is worth
working for. This worldview is
mirrored by her view of herself. She knows she is far from perfect, but enjoying life does not stop her
from doing what's right: 'I don't say it hasn't been – exciting... What's
the harm in that? I like doing
what's right, that's all' (223). This pragmatic approach allows Ida to feel comfortable with herself and the world in a way that Rose and Pinkie never
can. For them, there is good and
evil, no middle ground.
Voodoo
gods and devils in Falling Angel
Falling Angel's Voodoo priestess, Epiphany Proudfoot,
states that in Voodoo there are 'many devils' (167). It would be tempting to suggest that the pantheistic Voodoo
version of morality she represents is analogous to Ida Arnold's secular
humanism. However, the reality is
more complicated. There are many
similarities. For example,
although only seventeen, Epiphany is also sexually experienced and
self-assured. More than harmless
fun, to her, 'Sex is how we speak to the gods... Us being together is like a
mirror of creation' (153). When
Angel reproaches her not to 'get too serious', she replies, 'It's not serious,
it's joyful' (153). This echoes
Ida's claim to take life 'with a deadly seriousness' (BR 36). The Voodoo creation myth that life
began 'with the copulation of the gods' (FA 153) means that sex is sacred and
celebratory, rather than profane. This has a positive impact on Voodoo's view of women. Zora Neale Hurston, in her study of
Voodoo in Haiti, encountered a ceremony in which the Voodoo mambo (priestess)
is asked:
What is truth?... She
replies by throwing back her veil and revealing her sex organs. The
ceremony means that this is the infinite, the ultimate truth. There is no mystery beyond the
mysterious source of life (Hurston, 1938: 113).
This
ceremony gives support to Hurston's argument that 'Voodoo is a religion of
creation and life … the worship of ... natural forces' (113). The high position accorded to women as
priestesses also gives support to the notion of Voodoo as a pagan-like,
matriarchal religion, in which human life is sacred.
However,
it is also worth noting that Catholicism was often practiced alongside Voodoo
by followers in the Caribbean and the US. According to Maya Deren (1975), there were so many similarities between
the two faiths that 'to the voudoun serviteurs, there is a far greater
incompatibility between [Protestantism and Catholicism] than there is between
the Catholics and themselves' (62). (Voodoo, voudoun and obeah are all words given to the same phenomenon at
different times and places.) The
strongest example of this compatibility is in the Catholic saints, who, as
guardians of human life on earth, are analogous to the Voodoo loa (gods), who
are 'considered to be on a level far below' the creator God (60). Humans are not considered worthy enough
to communicate with the creator directly, and so all ceremonies and rituals are
directed to the loa. This explains
the lithographs of Catholic saints Angel finds in Epiphany's temple (FA 135),
which are common in Voodoo worship (Deren, 1975: 60). Deren argues that patronising Western attitudes towards
'primitive' faiths have assumed that Voodoo followers are 'incapable of
abstract concepts' (60) but that their belief in a lofty creator God, similar
to that of Christianity, demonstrates otherwise. This may explain why Voodoo has remained strongest in areas
where Catholicism has flourished, such as New Orleans (Mulira, 1990), while,
according to Deren, Protestantism has succeeded in
suppressing it. Rather than be
overcome by Catholicism, 'Voudoun has merely been receptive to compatible
elements from a sister faith and has integrated these into its basic
structure,' in a similar way to which it accommodated disparate West African
and Native American practices in order to survive in the New World (Deren,
1975: 61).
The
belief in abstract concepts of good and evil is where Ida and Epiphany's
approaches to morality diverge. In Falling Angel, it is detective Harry Angel's disbelief in evil forces which is quite literally his downfall. His trivialising attitude towards evil,
a product of his age of secular hedonism (Muchembled, 2003), makes him much
more vulnerable to corruption by it. Epiphany's warnings to him take a similar tone to Greene's musings on
good and evil: 'I work for good but that doesn't mean I don't know about
evil. When your adversary is
potent, it's best to stay on guard' (159). Later, when Angel points out the similarities between Voodoo
ritual and Satanic Mass, Epiphany admits: 'There are
similarities... The difference is between appeasing the force
of evil and encouraging it' (212). Greene argued, with Eliot, that in order to do good,
humans also had to be capable of evil. The Voodoo take on this is that in order to resist evil, one must understand and respect its power.
Postmodernity
and pantheism
While
Hjortsberg's Voodoo characters express a healthy respect for evil, this is in
contrast to the Satanists, who positively worship and encourage it. Rather like Brighton Rock's Rose
and Pinkie, good and evil are presented as being in an inverse relationship
with one another. Satanic Mass is
held in backwards Latin and includes many of the tropes of Christian worship
but in reverse. The clearest
illustration of the close, almost symbiotic relationship between Christian good
and evil is in a bizarre scene in which the devil himself (in the guise of el Çifre) preaches at a Baptist
Church. His exhortations to 'Be like the lion and the wolf, not the lamb... Steep your
hearts in bold deeds' (FA 207) are eagerly received by the congregation,
despite the obvious reversals of Christian teaching that 'blessed are the meek'
(Matthew 5:5). Yet, perhaps this
is understandable given the contradictions inherent in Bible teaching
itself. His later quote, 'An eye
for an eye' (FA 208), also used by Ida Arnold, is accurate (Leviticus 24:19). This
scene could be read as a critique of Christian dogma, which so easily lends
itself to different interpretations. It could also, however, be read as a critique of postmodern secular
society, in which all faiths are seen as equal: 'Although not of our faith,
this is a man... of great wisdom with much to teach,' says the Reverend Love of
his visitor (FA 206).
Hjortsberg's
postmodern tone in his approach to religion presents a striking contrast to
that of Brighton Rock. He dips in and out of different faiths
and belief systems throughout the novel, in a similar way to the character of
Johnny Favorite himself, who is said to have 'explored many avenues' in order
to increase his personal power (151). Favorite's involvement with Voodoo is enough to throw Angel off the
scent for a while, as to him the practices of Voodoo
and devil worship are indistinguishable. This misconception is compounded by Angel's ignorance and prejudice
towards the African-American community, which comes to stand for a frightening,
unknowable Other which haunts his nightmares after he witnesses a Voodoo
ceremony: 'The dancers swayed and moaned, only this time the bleeding didn't
stop ... Blind with panic, I ran through deserted nighttime streets ... The air
putrid with rot' (77).
The
feelings of isolation and panic that Angel experiences in his dreams are common
tropes of noir fiction (Horsley, 2009). However, images of rot and decay, and of a people swayed by animalistic
impulses are also common racist tropes often associated with people of African
descent. Angel's ethnicity and
lack of knowledge makes him an outsider in the Voodoo community. Even when he gets to know Epiphany, his
exoticised sexual desire for her prevents him from taking her (and her faith)
seriously: 'I like your eyes when you get mad' (211). This attitude prevents him from realising that the true evil
is literally under his nose.
Damnation,
magic and human agency
It could be argued that Voodoo's pantheistic version of morality
is more suited to a postmodern society, where good and evil can take many forms
and different religions are practiced side by side. However, the biggest difference between the Voodoo religion
and Brighton Rock's Catholicism is
probably in their understanding of human agency. Pinkie
and Rose's understanding of their religion is fatalistic. Their concept of evil is closely bound
with that of eternal damnation. Damned from the start, it seems Pinkie has no other option than to go on
sinning, and he drags Rose down with him:
'It's a mortal [sin].'
'What
difference does it make? You can't
be damned twice over, and we're damned already' (205).
The
impossibility of redemption in Pinkie's version of the Catholic creed means he
has no motive for changing his behaviour. Interestingly, this philosophy seems to have more in common with the
strongly Protestant idea of predestination than with the Catholic ethos of
confession and absolution. Muchembled argues that the 'Salem complex, with its unspoken
contradiction between an obsession with purity and the conviction that humans
are not cut out for it' (2003: 270) means that belief in an abstract and
absolute form of evil has persisted much more strongly in the Protestant
cultures of Northern Europe and the United States than in Catholic countries,
where the devil is treated more lightheartedly. In sum, predestination means that some people are
predestined for salvation, while others are irretrievably damned from the start
(hence Puritanism, which insists that humans can never be good enough). Muchembled argues that this latent
belief underscores (and justifies) the emphasis on individual responsibility
and harsh social relations in America, which, incidentally, provided much of
the inspiration for noir.
The
Satanists of Falling Angel also
understand that they will be damned, in exchange for power and wealth on earth,
although Johnny Favorite tries to cheat the devil by imbibing Harry Angel's
soul. He ultimately fails,
suggesting that if you dice with evil you should accept the consequences. 'Damnation is never negotiable,' as Lee
Horsley put it (2009: 232). Pinkie
understands this too, and sneers at Rose for trying (BR 166). By contrast, Voodoo, as practiced in
the Americas, retains an important place for human agency, which Deren argues
was borne of a need to resist great oppression. The West African hierarchical system of Rada loa, gods with
a 'defensive, protective attitude' (65), was not sufficient to resist the
displacement and enslavement that Voodoo followers faced in the New World. The answer to this was Petro loa,
'patrons of aggressive action' (65). When Epiphany describes Petro as an evil force (FA 204), she appears to
echo a common Western misconception:
Petro... is not evil; it is the rage against
the evil fate which the African suffered... It is the violence that rose out of
that rage, to protest against it... Suppression always destroys first what is
gentle and benevolent; it inspires rage and reaction, encourages malevolence
and magic, and so creates the very thing which,
theoretically, it would destroy (Deren, 1975: 66).
Neither
good nor evil, the spirit of Petro seems more akin to Ida Arnold's approach to
life: the busybody who asks questions, rather than accepts things as they
are. It is no coincidence that Petro
loa provided the inspiration for many slave revolts. Deren argues that the harsh reality of slave life demanded a
pragmatic approach to religion: 'It must do more than provide a reason for
living; it must provide the means for living' (76, her emphasis). This need, combined with Native
American influences, also encouraged the magical elements of Voodoo, which
Jessie Gaston Mulira is at pains to downplay, in her bid to establish Voodoo as
'a functional religious system' (1990: 35). However, in her study of Voodoo in New Orleans, she also
argues that the suppression of the more public, ceremonial aspects of the
Voodoo religion, gave its magical (hoodoo) elements more significance. Actions to 'appease' the gods, such as
those undertaken by Epiphany Proudfoot, can be understood as akin to magic,
since they demand action on behalf of the worshiper. In Deren's analysis, magic could be seen as more suited to a
noir vision of reality, such as that conveyed inFalling Angel, than a
religion based on submission to divine powers:
Religion presumes that the major forces of the
universe... are essentially benevolent in nature... Magic is an individual
action, undertaken because the cosmos is not believed to be benevolent by
nature, or at least not benevolent enough to that person (Deren, 1975: 79).
As well
as their religious themes, the novels of Greene and
Hjortsberg share a noir sensibility: a bleak view of the world, in which no-one
can be trusted, least of all the protagonist or detective him/herself. As Horsley suggests, and the fate of
Pinkie and Rose demonstrates, retreat into Catholic (or Protestant) fatalism
does not present a sufficient challenge to this vision. Capitulation with (in Pinkie's case) or
passive acceptance (in Rose's case) of evil only increases its power. Ida Arnold and Falling Angel's Voodoo characters share a concern with the material world which demands action to challenge earthly evils,
whether it be slavery and racist oppression or murder. Rather than passively accept their
place in the world (and the one after), these characters seek to influence
events in the here and now through confrontational action. What matters is not whether they are
essentially good or evil as people, or what their fate will be in the next
world, but the actions that they take in the here and now.
Conclusion
As has
been demonstrated, there are no easy parallels to be drawn between the concepts
of good and evil presented in Greene and Hjortsberg's novels. Perhaps this reflects the subject
matter, as, without recourse to dogma, religious belief is prone to overlap and
contradiction, particularly when adherents are pantheistic or serve more than
one faith. However, there are
common elements to both novels. Both feature a dichotomous good and evil, concerned with eternal life or
damnation, which are complementary rather than antithetical to one
another. Both also feature female
characters who present a challenge to this belief
system by focusing on more worldly concerns, insisting on the importance of
human agency. The main difference
between the two characters is that Ida Arnold supplants good and evil with
right and wrong, which could be said to refer to people's actions in this life,
rather than an unchangeable essence which determines their place in the next
world. Epiphany Proudfoot, on the
other hand, is a Voodoo priestess who has a strong belief in the power of evil,
as well as good, although she believes that both can take many forms. Her belief that to do good, one must also understand evil, is not dissimilar to
Greene's own view of religion's importance. The magical elements of Voodoo (hoodoo), which became
stronger as a result of African enslavement and oppression, take this a step
further, giving the individual power to influence this life. Within hoodoo, good and evil become
less important than the will of the believer.
Perhaps
the inconsistencies and overlap found between belief systems in the novels is
symptomatic of the nature of religious belief itself, which is often fraught
with tension and self-contradiction. Although critics of Brighton Rock have portrayed Greene as hopelessly dogmatic, his own relationship with
Catholicism was far from straightforward (Pryce-Jones, 1963). It should also be noted that there are
many ways of understanding and practicing Catholicism, just as there are myriad
forms of Voodoo worship. All that
can be concluded from Brighton Rock is that Greene thought that religious questions were important, and should not
be neglected by novelists, something he emphasised in his Collected Essays (1951). Falling Angel’s resolution
appears to be rather more neat (Horsley, 2009). After being lulled by the conventions
of a noir detective story, spiced up by the addition of Voodoo and Satanist
characters, the book's very literal conclusion (that the devil does exist and
walks among us) is both shocking and somewhat ridiculous to postmodern
audiences. This has led readers to
question whether the conclusion is meant to be taken literally, or if it is merely a metaphorical device intended to provoke
postmodern anxieties about the dissolution of the subject. (This question was discussed at length
at an MA seminar on the book at Lancaster University on 18th March
2010.) In either case, there is
much more to the novel than a simplistic good and evil dichotomy. The presence of Voodoo characters and
rituals complicates and confuses the binary, as well as the reader, just as Ida
Arnold's presence is a constant disturbance to Brighton Rock's Catholicism. This
friction, like that of noir's excess and realist elements, is what drives both
of the novels to explore some of the most fundamental questions of human life.