"They came from everywhere to ride the Bullet Train, the famous
Hikari 109. An American doctor, an aging millionaire and his beautiful
mistress, the schoolchildren on their excursion--they were all among the
1500 passengers that midsummer morning when the spectacular
superexpress pulled out of Tokyo station. But excitement turned to
terror when they discovered that a bomb, hidden on board, was set to
explode if the speed slowed to 50 miles an hour. Trapped in a no-exit
nightmare, racing toward destruction, their lives depended on a
staggering ransom... and the determination of one brave man."
Is BULLET TRAIN greater than the sum of its parts? Or the parts of its sum?
Wait---Let me ask that it in better way: Is the 1980 novelization of Bullet Train by Joseph Rance and Arei Kato, based on the 1975 Japanese action-thriller film of the same name (also known as Super Express 109), better than the abridged version that was published by Reader's Digest Condensed Books in 1981?
Wait---Let me answer that for you. Yes. It is better.
Is the unexpurgated edition of Stephen King's The Stand better than its truncated first edition? Are Poe's stories in their original versions better than the versions adapted for Scholastic readers? Is the extended version of David Lynch's Dune better than the theatrical version?
Once again, I think I know what your answers are without having to actually see or hear them. Or, am I wrong here, and could a case be made against The Stand? At 1400 pages--sheesh--what a slog! For that matter, how about King's masterpiece, IT? Would it be improved if it were cut by a hundred pages? A lot of fans might say yes, including me. With writing, sometimes less can be greater than more.
Thousands of former Reader's Digest Condensed Book subscribers might disagree with my opinion of Bullet Train, but it's pretty much a given that if you've already read the condensed version you're not likely to read the full-length version, so most of those people wouldn't even have a seat on the proverbial opinion ride. Unless some of them are like me, hopelessly nerdish, and decided to read both versions for no other reason but one of comparisonal curiosity.
And so that's what I've got here, a 'comparison of sorts,' in an entirely non-academic, truncated way of course. Ha! (Good thing I've got some great artwork to go along with it too!)
The Hikari-Shinkansen began service on October, 1964, connecting the capital Tokyo with Osaka. Initial speeds ran up to 130 mph. Today the train averages 200 mph with high speeds reaching 275 mph. At peak times, the line carries up to 16 trains per hour in each direction with 16 cars each (1,323-seat capacity) with a minimum headway of three minutes between trains (during off peak times it leaves Tokyo every thirty minutes). It takes 2 hours and 53 minutes to travel the 320 miles separating the the two major cities (give or take depending on which high-speed bullet you caught). If you want to go all the way to Hakata, it's a 5 hour ride, covering 675 miles. In the last decade up to 170 million passengers annually have ridden that line.
If traveling on one of these super trains, or its equivalent in Europe, is not in your bucket list maybe it should be. Seriously. It's been in mine for years, although the older I get the less likely I am to actually cross it off. Durn it all for getting old.
William Morrow & Company published the novelization of Bullet Train in hardcover in 1980. As I said, it's based on the 1975 Japanese film of the same name (itself a major inspiration to the hit 1994 film, Speed, right up to its use of a bomb and speed as key plot elements), which is based on a story by Arei Kato (supposedly a pseudonym). It would seem to me that the author, Joseph Rance, was the primary writer and not Kato. Rance is in reality Englishman Trevor Hoyle, whose legal name is Trevor Smith (1940-). Hoyle has written 22 novels to date; some are disaster themed, some are intrigue, some are horror, some are science fiction, and some are otherwise. All are reportedly good. His most popular works perhaps are the "Q" series, about a scientific investigator named Christian Queghan, who possesses the ability to journey through time as well as to hypothetical worlds.
Irving Freeman produced the striking jacket art on Bullet Train. Freeman (1947-) began his studies at the Art Students League in NYC in the 1960's. Then he went to the Ruskin School of Art in Oxford, England, before returning back to NYC to attend the School of Visual Arts, where he worked with designer Milton Glaser. In between, and also after, were more periods of self-study and institutional study. Although a fine illustrator and painter in his own right, Freeman has spent most of his professional life as a graphic designer. A partial list of his clients would include Ballantine, E.P. Dutton, Doubleday, Harper & Row, William Morrow, Simon & Schuster, St. Martin's, NBC-TV, New York magazine, The New York Times, Worth magazine, Pfizer, and Major League Baseball.
I sure hope I'm right, and I think I am, but I could just as easily be wrong.
While writing this I learned that Richard Bober only recently passed away. He was 79 years old. Bober has been a favorite artist of mine since the 1970's. I've collected dozens of his paperback covers during that time, including most of the covers he produced for Dell's Alfred Hitchcock Presents series. Style wise Bober was in a category all his own; part 19th century romanticist, part fantasist, part fabulist; some of his artwork even bordered on comic absurdity, surrealism and horror. He worked in oil paints primarily, and was noted for his superb embellishing and textural surfacing. It saddens me to know that so many of the great 20th century book cover artists are now gone, just like their writing counterparts who they tried to represent so perfectly. I like to think they're all up there in the clouds somewhere, having a swell old time laughing and doing what they do best, creating entertaining works of literature and art, with no more deadlines to ever worry about. I guess I'm just an old romanticist too.
Would I still be called crazy if I said the the books were also enriched by some of the world's greatest illustrators?
In fact, these books did exist, and in record numbers. For 47 years, between 1950 and 1997, worldwide annual sales of Reader's Digest Condensed Books was estimated at 10 million copies. That's right, 10 million copies per year. Even my mother was a subscriber. Each spring, summer, fall, and winter, she received a new volume, like clockwork. And they were packed with wonderful illustrations. And as for all of those bestselling authors, well, they were not only getting royalties and payments from their original publishers, but now also from Reader's Digest. Wow! No reason to get upset over that, right? Except for the fact that in addition to having already knuckled under to their original publisher's sometimes strident editorial demands, now their work was being emasculated by faceless people at Reader's Digest. Ah, the price of being a professional writer in the 20th century.
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| CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE |
One aspect of Reader's Digest Condensed Books, and perhaps its only admirable one, was that it allowed countless numbers of illustrators to supplement their incomes. With upwards of 250 volumes published, some containing up to five titles, it kept a virtual parade of illustrators busy. In high step among them was Jepson Art Institute graduate, Sanford Kossin.
Los Angeles born Sandy Kossin started out hesitantly in art, retreating briefly back into the family trade, plumbing, before regaining his confidence and forging ahead with his dream. When he eventually moved to New York City he found all the avenues and support he needed to become a successful full-time illustrator. Kossin used varying brush techniques to create outstanding works that were both realistic and abstract, but always unique, colorful and bold. He also became a respected master of caricature and comic imagery. During his lengthy career (he's retired now) he produced scores of illustrations for SF magazines, children's magazines, humor magazines and slick magazines, along with a bevy of book covers. I still get a thrill when I find an unbeknownst Kossin cover in a used bookstore. Kossin was fast and reliable too, once cranking out 19 paintings in 21 days for a special 1963 Life magazine spread. I imagine he knocked out these RDCB illustrations in just a few days. Oh, to be that darned quick without sacrificing quality.
NOW, let's start our comparison for real...
RDCB: Laura Brennan, one among hundreds of passengers waiting to board, had dressed for coolness in a silk blouse and pleated skirt. A cardigan was draper across her slender shoulders. Although still early in the day, it was already hot and muggy beneath the platform's canopy, and Laura envied one young Japanese woman she had seen, who looked as cool and fresh as a flower in the traditional silken kimono. However, comfortable as it looked it would not do for me, Laura thought. she smiled at the image of herself stepping onto the dais dressed like a geisha with the announcement ringing in her ears: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Laura Brennan of the U.S. Army Hospital, Tokyo, will now read her paper on purulent conjunctivitis.' No, not quite suitable... []
DELL: For Laura Brennan, one amongst hundreds of passengers waiting to board, the only statistics that concerned her at the moment were those to do with temperature and humidity. Although still early in the day, it was hot and muggy beneath the cantilevered canopy, the air sluggish and stifling. She was dressed for coolness, wearing a crisp blue check shirt and pleated skirt, with a sleeveless cardigan draped across her slender shoulders, but the climate of Tokyo in high summer defied most attempts at a sensible compromise between fashion and comfort. She rather envied one young girl she had seen, who looked as cool and fresh as a flower in the traditional silken kimono. However, comfortable as it looked, Laura thought, it would hardly do for her, smiling at the image it conjured up of stepping onto the dais dressed like a geisha with the announcement ringing in her ears: 'Ladies and Gentleman, Dr. Laura Brennan of the U.S. Army Hospital, Tokyo, will now read her paper on Purulent Conjunctivitis. No, not quite suitable for such an austere assembly. []
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| Route of the Hikari 109 across Japan |
RDCB: Japan was, overall, a most beautiful beautiful country. Of its four main islands she knew Honshu, the largest of the group, best, but had also visited Kyushu and Shikoku. Hokkaido, to the north was the most remote and she had never been there. What had struck Laura about Japan was how neat the countryside looked; how carefully planned, as if someone had worked to create a formal garden on a national basis. Even the mountains seemed to have been placed according to a master plan, to add drama and contrast.
She and her husband liked both the country and the people. After nine years of living on and around army bases in the United States, they had felt the need for a change of scene and life-style. They were given two options, Europe or Japan, and as they'd already lived for eighteen months in Italy and Germany shortly after they were married, when Matt was attached to NATO, the decision had been easy.
Laura had found a post at the U.S. Army Hospital, just outside Tokyo, and had been able to continue working in her specialty in the hospital's ophthalmic research Unit. Her latest research had led to an invitation to read a paper at the international medical conference in Osaka. Half thrilled, half petrified, she looked forward to discussing her work with some of the most eminent people in the field. []
DELL: ... And it was, overall a most beautiful country. Of its four main islands she knew Honshu, the largest of the group, best, but had also visited Kyushu and Shikoku. Hokkaido to the north was the most remote and least populated and Laura had never been there. What had struck her first on her arrival was how neat the countryside looked; how precise, how carefully planned, as if someone had worked at creating a formal garden on a national scale. Even the mountains and the wilder regions of the interior seemed to have been placed there according to a master plan, to add drama and contrast. She was, as Laura herself realized, viewing it through American eyes, which were accustomed to nature as its most spectacular and grandiose. Nothing here could match her own continent in terms of sheer size and scale and vast empty space, but Japan had its own unique charm and what she could only describe as a 'formal delicacy' a scaling down of the landscape to the level of the comfortably human.
Both she and her husband liked the country and they like the people. After nine years living on and around Army bases in Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and California, they had felt the need for a change of scene and life-style. They were given two options, Europe or Japan, and as they'd already lived for eighteen months in Italy and Germany shortly after they were married, when Matt was attached to NATO, the decision was unanimous. It had been the right one, too, Laura had felt, so far as her career was concerned. She had found a post at the U.S. Army Hospital, just outside Tokyo, and had been able to continue working in her specialist field in the Hospital's Ophthalmic Research Unit. Along with her two colleagues, one American, one Japanese, she had helped develop and perfect several new techniques of diagnosis and treatment, and three articles under their joint names had appeared in the medical press, though Laura was the effective head of the team. Their latest piece of research had been accepted and published by The Lancet, which had lead to her being invited to read a Paper at The International Medical Conference in Osaka. The anticipation of this half thrilled, half petrified her-- standing up in front of two thousand delegates from all over the world-- but deep down she felt confident that the work was academically sound and cogently presented. And she was looking forward to discussing it with some of the most eminent people in the field. []
DELL: In Coach 10, other passengers too were expressing their annoyance, and Kenichi, the Guard, was struggling to preserve a measure of authority as a woman acidly demanded to be told why she was being disturbed yet again.
"Not ten minutes ago I informed one of the other guards that this is my suitcase," the woman said. "How many more times?"|
"Well, you see..." Kenichi said, and immediately ran out of inspiration.
"What's going on, anyway?" asked a man across the aisle. "This is the second time you've been around." He wasn't angry, just curious.
Everyone looked at Kenichi, who gazed hesitantly from one to the other through his rimless spectacles and self-consciously touched the bald spot on the top of his head. "Yes, well, you see, it's to make sure--" he floundered unhappily on '--that no one is carrying anything dangerous.'
"Dangerous?" somebody echoed. "Like what?"
Kenichi nervously cleared his throat but before he could reply the man across the aisle turned to his companion and said, "We had baggage checks like this when I traveled on the Hikari last November. Some crank had phoned in a bomb threat and they had to stop the train and search everything--baggage, Restaurant Car, underneath the train, the lot. Took them over an hour."
The woman was watching Kenichi's face keenly. "Is that what this is all about? Has there been a bomb threat?"
Kenchi opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out, and the silence itself seemed to accuse him, and he said lamely, "Not really a threat, no... more of a hoax, I should say..."
"What do you mean, a hoax?" the woman said shrilly. "How do you know it's a hoax? It could be genuine."
Her voice acted like a spark, igniting a dozen other voices down the coach, questioning, demanding, and Kenchi backed away, waving his hands ineffectually.
"If there's been a threat you should stop the train at once," the man said.
"How do you know it isn't a real warning?" the woman persisted, sitting forward and jabbing her finger at him.
"Yes, it could have been real!"
"Are your damn schedules more important than passengers' lives!" someone shouted angrily.[]
RDCB: Hiroshi looked toward his deputy, who slowly shook his head. Sunaga was right, Hiroshi decided. They couldn't make an announcement just yet. Not until they'd located the bomb and had deactivated it. "No, Yamada," he said. "We can't risk a panic. You'll have to do everything you can to contain the situation."
"For how long? Can you give me some idea--"
Suddenly the controller in section 2 rose to his feet, a hand pressed to his headphone. "Chief, urgent message from Hamamatsu! There's a breakdown on the main line!"
On the illuminated grid the red light flashed below the Hamamatsu station marker... and bearing down on it was the orange blip of the Hikari 109, only seven miles away.
Hiroshi rapped out, "Yamada, there's a breakdown ahead of you. I'm clearing this channel." He stabbed a button on the communications console. To the operator at his side he, "Get me the motorman on Hikari 109." Then, "Engineering section," he called out, "give me everything you have on the breakdown. Sunaga, stand by with readings from COMTRAC."
The operator said, "Motorman on the wire, sir."
"Aoki, this is Hiroshi. There's a breakdown at Hamamatsu on the main line. Reduce speed to fifty-eight miles per hour."
"Understood. Reducing speed to fifty-eight." He sounded calm, and Hiroshi prayed that the motorman's nerves were as steady as his voice. "Chief, the ATC computes we have less than seven minutes to Hamamatsu. Can the track be cleared in time?"
Were in touch with Hamamatsu now," Hiroshi signaled impatiently to the engineer, who was speaking on the telephone. Come on, come on, he thought, fretting away the seconds. []
DELL: Hiroshi looked toward his deputy, who slowly shook his head. Sunaga was right, Hiroshi decided, they couldn't make an announcement just yet. Not until they'd located the bomb and had deactivated it. He said into the microphone:
"How long for? Can you give me some--"
The attention of everyone in the room suddenly switched to the duty controller in Section 2 who had risen to his feet, both hands pressed to his headphones. "Chief, urgent message from Hamamatsu! There's a breakdown on this line!"
For an instant there was total silence as everyone stared at the illuminated grid and saw the flashing red light wink on below the Hamamatsu station marker... and bearing down on it the orange blip of the Hikari 109, only seven miles away.
Hiroshi rapped out, "Yamada, there's a breakdown ahead of you, I'm clearing this channel," and at once stabbed a button on the panel. To the operator at his side he said, "Get me the motorman," and called out, "Engineering section, give me everything you have on the breakdown. Sunaga, stand by with visual display readings from COMTRAC."
The operator said, "Motorman on the line, sir."
"Aoki, this is Hiroshi."
"Yes, chief," came the prompt reply.
"There's a breakdown at Hamamatsu on the main line. Reduce speed to 58 miles per hour." He waited for the confirmation and heard instead only a faint crackle. "Aoki, are you there, can you hear me? Aoki?"
"Yes, understood, Chief. Reducing speed to 58." He sounded calm, and Hiroshi prayed that the motorman's nerves were as steady as his voice. the ATC computes we have less than seven minutes to Hamamatsu. Can the track be cleared in time?"
"I don't know. One second." Hiroshi signaled impatiently to the engineer speaking on the telephone, who held up his hand. "Were in touch with Hamamatsu now," Hiroshi said into the microphone, which felt slippery in his palm. Come on, come on, he thought, fretting away the seconds. []
RDCB: Sato chuckled with pleasure as he dropped the small radio transmitter into his pocket, hefted the case and turned away from the cliff to make his way down the hillside. His grin froze as he saw a dozen white-clad figures jogging up the hill. A keep-fit group. Well, so what? He was innocent enough, even with the case.
Suddenly the tranquil park was assaulted by the whirling clatter of helicopter blades. Sato looked skyward in amazement as a helicopter appeared above the ridge and swooped low enough over the cliff top for him to make out the figure of a balding man, leaning out with a bullhorn to his lips.
"This is Superintendent Hanamura of the special investigation squad. The man on the cliff is wanted by the police. Detain him until my officers can get there. He mustn't be allowed to escape!"
Sato looked around in desperation. The joggers were less than twenty yards away, blocking his retreat. There were too many of them to fight. Backing toward the cliff edge, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The gorge was steep and the water had flurries of white, indicating submerged rocks.
Baring his teeth in a snarl and flinging the case to the ground, Sato did what Bronson would have done. For a moment he stood poised dramatically on the edge of the cliff, and then he jumped. []
DELL: Sato couldn't hold back a chuckle of genuine pleasure as he dropped the small radio transmitter into his pocket, hoisted the case and turned towards the cluster of fir trees on the descending hillside behind him. The grin froze and died. A dozen white-clad figures were jogging up the hill. Puffing and panting and calling out to one another in good-natured banter. A keep-fit group; so what? He was innocent enough, even with the case. And they were too far away to have seen it magically materialize.
His crew-cut head jerked skyward and he stood rooted to the spot as the tranquil, sunlit park was assaulted by the whirling clatter of blades. Sato stared in shocked amazement as the helicopter appeared above the ridge, pirouetted sharply and swooped low over the clifftop, near enough for him to make out the figure of a balding man, leaning out with a bullhorn to his lips.
"This is Superintendent Hanamura of the Special Investigation Squad. The man on the cliff is wanted by the Tokyo police. I want you to detain him until my officer's can get there. He mustn't be allowed to escape! Do everything you can to hold him!"
Sato looked around in desperation. The men in singlets and shorts were less than twenty yards away, blocking his retreat. They didn't look young but there were too many to fight.
Backing towards the cliff edge, Sato risked a glance over his shoulder. The gorge was steep and the water looked dangerous, with flurries of white indicating submerged rocks. All around he saw the semi-circle tightening, drawing closer together as the line of men came on.
Trapped. No escape route-- except one.
Barring his teeth in a snarl and flinging the case to the ground, Sato did what Bronson would have done. For a moment he stood poised on the edge of the cliff and then he jumped, aiming for the middle of the stream where he hoped the water was deepest and there were no hidden rocks. []
RDCB: Directly across the street a concrete ramp led up to the platform of the local railway station, and the detective came to a dead stop as there, ascending the ramp, large as life, was Koga.
This time there'd be no failure, Goto vowed. Unheeding of traffic, he ran across the street and leaped up the dozen steps to the ramp. A train rattled over the bridge and into the station. He saw that Koga had almost reached the platform; now there wasn't a hope of catching him. Squad training took over, and in a single reflex action Goto was down on one knee, holding the Walther in both hands as he sighted along the barrel.
The thin figure was perfectly silhouetted against the sky. Goto fired, and Koga bared his teeth as he clutched his left shoulder and staggered out of view.
Goto raced up the ramp as the train pulled out. The platform was empty. He looked wildly around, then down at a few spots of blood on the tiles. Koga had given him the slip again. []
DELL: Directly across the street a concrete ramp led up to the platform of the district station, and the detective came to a dead stop and stood and gaped as there, ascending the ramp, larger than life, was Koga, his narrow shoulders hunched forward as if to shield himself from prying eyes.
This time there'd be no mistake, Goto vowed, causing traffic to screech to a halt as he ran unheedingly across the street and leapt up the dozen steps leading to the ramp. A train rattled over the bridge and slid into the station. Koga had almost reached the platform. There wasn't a hope in hell of in catching him. Squad training took the initiative and in a single reflex action he was down on one knee, arms locked straight in front of him, holding the Walther in both hands as he sighted along the barrel.
The thin figure was perfectly silhouetted against the sky. Goto didn't even think about giving the obligatory caution. There wasn't time and he wasn't in the mood. Koga had to be stopped. The detective fired and bared his teeth in triumph as Koga lurched forward, clutching his left shoulder, and staggered out of view.
Goto raced eagerly to the top of the ramp and met what he least expected--the train pulling out from an empty platform. He looked wildly around, then down at the few spots of blood on the green tiles. The bastard had given him the slip again. []
RDCB: "Where did you put the envelope?"
"On the counter next to the cash register."
Without a moment's hesitation Matt grabbed a hose from one of the firemen and advanced toward the coffee shop entrance, directing a jet of water ahead of him through the curtain of smoke.
"What the hell are you doing!" Tashiro said, seconds too late. Matt had disappeared into the thick choking fumes.
One arm shielding his head, Matt fought his way through a small lobby and into the coffee shop itself. Floor, walls and ceiling were swathed in orange flame, but he was able to make out the cash register, its paint blistering and bubbling.
Tashiro materialized at his side, yelling in his ear, but Matt ignored him and plunged ahead, spraying water in an arc to clear a path. There was the counter, flames dancing along its surface. Shimmering patterns of heat distorted his vision, so that he couldn't be sure if the envelope was there. Every step was agonizing. He could smell his hair scorching, feel his eyes stinging, but nothing mattered--nothing existed but the counter, four paces away, and the envelope.
He could see it now, a pale brown rectangle curling at the corners. Reaching out, his hand was inches from it when the world caved in. Burning timbers fell on him in a shower of sparks.
He was trapped. Fighting for air and struggling desperately to free himself, he knew he was losing consciousness, His last despairing thought was that he had failed... The train would explode... []
DELL: "Where did you put the envelope?"
The girl had to think for a second. "On the cash desk next to the register. The man asked me..."
Matt didn't wait to hear what the man had asked her. Without a moment's hesitation he ran across the street, grabbed a hose from one of the firemen, and advanced toward the coffee shop entrance, directing the jet ahead of him through the curtain of black smoke.
What the hell are you doing!" Tashiro was seconds too late in reacting. He watched as Matt disappeared into the thick choking fumes, and only then did he stumble forward mechanically after him.
Bent double, one arm shielding his head, Matt fought his way through the small lobby and into the coffee shop itself. Floors, walls and ceiling were alight and a swathe of orange flame sealed off the rear of the room. The heat was intense but the smoke here was less opaque and he was able to make out the square shape of the cash register, its paint blistering and bubbling.
Somebody materialized at his side. He thought it was Tashiro who was yelling in his ear, but he couldn't be sure and he didn't care, and he ignored him and plunged on ahead, spraying the jet of water in an arc to clear a path. He could see the counter now, yellow and crimson flames dancing along its surface, but the shimmering patterns of heat distorted his vision so that he couldn't be sure if the envelope was there. Could he really see it or was it his imagination? Every step was agonizing. He could smell his hair scorching, feel his eyeballs dry and stinging, but none of it mattered--nothing else existed but the counter, four paces away, and the envelope.
He could see it clearly now, a pale brown rectangle curling and blackening at the corners. Reaching out, his hand was inches away when the world caved in and he was blinded and choked as the timber ceiling collapsed on top of him in a shower of sparks, and in the midst of scorching heat and smoke he was dimly aware of a constricting pressure across his chest as if two steel claws were squeezing the breath from his lungs.
He was trapped. Fighting for air and struggling to free himself, he knew, even while it was happening, that he was losing consciousness. His last despairing thought was that he had failed... the train would explode and Laura would be killed. Then he thought nothing more. []
Each editor had to be careful to not lose or even destroy a work's foundational idiosyncrasies, while consistently and even relentlessly reducing each original manuscript page to nearly half its length. It had to have been tricky business, and a certain level of skill and expertise would have been required.
When I searched online I did not find many answers to my questions and there are no reminiscences to speak of from former employees. Did anyone ever go the distance, you know, hired in 1950 and laid off or retired in 1997? In my head I can picture a bestselling memoir:
