Metropolis

History, Politics, Sex, Violence and Spectacular Cynicism

Metropolis by Philip Kerr was the last of fourteen Bernie Gunther novels and is set in the dying days of the Weimar Republic.

Completed shortly before he died, Kerr’s swan song left us with dialogue that outstrips even Chandler’s.

I caught a glimpse of her onstage as I made my way up to one of the dressing rooms – one of those thin, pale-faced, red-haired Berlin girls who reminded me of a safety match.

Synopsis

When somebody starts murdering prostitutes in 1920s Berlin, the public isn’t particularly excited, even though the murderer scalps his victims. This is Berlin between the wars, the most debauched city in Europe. The last victim is the daughter of a local crime lord. He is less composed.

Then a second serial killer hits the streets. This one targets disabled First World War veterans who beg for a living. To increase his profile, the murderer writes letters to the newspapers. He signs them “Heil Hitler”.

A young Kriminalpolizei murder squad inspector — Bernie Gunther — tries to find the killers.

Review

Philip Kerr’s novel is a detailed portrayal of one of European history’s most alarming but little-known periods. Hyperinflation had led to poverty and political disillusionment. Jews were legitimate targets, and Berlin was the sex tourism capital of Europe. This all fuelled the Nazi’s rise to political prominence. Kerr set his novel in an era when real monsters stalked the streets. The city police were struggling with public discontent and politically condoned violence.

Kerr’s chief protagonist, the sardonic Bernie Gunther, tries hard to be a good man in bad times. He is a detective every bit as hard-boiled as Philip Marlowe or Mike Hammer, with wisecracks to match.

I’ve seen your wife and that doesn’t surprise me. She’d frighten a hyena with a law degree.

The plot is a little untidy, mirroring real-life not fiction, though the depiction of the Weimar Republic’s last days and the political realities of a turbulent time are horrifically enlightening. Kerr’s last novel is far more engaging than any history lesson.

And it is all packaged up with a splendidly cynical turn of phrase.

Excerpt

They were rehearsing a new opera when I showed up at the stage door and from the sound of it I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy The Threepenny Opera any more than I enjoyed The Cheerful Vineyard, which was the last musical I’d seen at The Neues Theatre some three years before. The band sounded desperately out of tune, like a waterlogged barrel organ, while the mezzo-soprano could hold a note no better then I could hang onto a hot poker. She was plain too, – I caught a glimpse of her on stage as I made my way up to one of the dressing rooms – one of those thin, pale-faced, red-haired Berlin girls who remind me of a safety match.

By contrast, Brigitte Mölbling was an Amazonian blonde whose perfectly proportioned windswept head looked like the mascot on the hood of a fast car. She had a cool smile, a strong nose and eyebrows that were so perfectly drawn they might have been put there by Raphael or Titian. She wore a plain black dress, more bracelets than Cleopatra’s pawnbroker, a long gold necklace, a big ring on almost every finger and an enormous single earring, on the end of which was a little frame containing a laughing Buddha. I figured that the Buddha was laughing at me for playing along with Weiss’s crazy idea, he was probably trying to work out what kind of animal I was going to be in the next life: a rat or a louse, or just another cop.

Metropolis, Philip Kerr