His first novel
The Big Sleep (1939) achieved the sort of popular
acclaim and critical hat-tossing that all writers dream about.
Before that
he'd written twenty novelettes for "Black Mask" and other
pulp magazines with nothing but small change in his pocket to show
for all that effort. After Big Sleep, he could write his own ticket.
He followed quickly with Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The
High Window (1942), and The Lady in the
Lake (1943). Then a hiatus until The
Little Sister (1949), The Long Goodbye (1953), and Playback (1958).
I was recently invited to participate in a WEA symposium, entitled "An
Evening with the Great Detectives". Previous speakers had detailed
the deductive powers of Hercule Poirot, the unfailing courtesies
of Charlie Chan, the courtroom tactics of Perry Mason, and the antisocial
vices of Sherlock Holmes. Between Poirot and Holmes, they'd managed
to steal all my thunder. By the time the chairman turned to me, eliciting
my thoughts on Philip Marlowe, I had little left to say. Desperately,
I addressed the audience, inviting them to compile a list of Chandler's
novels and movies and choose their favorites.
Surprise! Surprise! The Big Sleep easily topped both novel and
movie lists, with Lady in the Lake, a distant second as favorite
novel.
Inadvertently, I caused considerable confusion by citing Double
Indemnity as a Chandler movie. Which it is. Chandler was actually nominated
(along with co-writer Billy Wilder) for an Academy Award for Best
Screenplay. But few people in the audience of sixty or seventy fans
knew anything at all about Chandler's separate movie career, even
though most of them could reel off the titles of at least four Marlowe
novels. None recognised The Blue Dahlia (1946) as a Chandler movie
either, even though this one was an original, and, once again, Chandler
had been nominated for an Academy Award.
I came away realising that it's very difficult to change the perceptions
that even really intelligent people have tucked away in their minds.
The overall convictions they held were two: (1) that Chandler was
the creator of Philip Marlowe [Correct!] and (2) that Marlowe was
featured in four or five novels [Actually seven or eight]. Full stop.
Beyond The Big Sleep (1939), Lady in the Lake (1943), Farewell, My
Lovely (1940), The High Window (1942), and The Little Sister (1949)
lay a complete blank. In fact, only a few of the really rabid fans
knew The Little Sister. There was no recall at all of The Long Goodbye
(1953) or Playback (1958), let alone the unfinished Poodle
Springs completed by Robert B. Parker in 1989.
To just about everyone present, a Chandler movie was purely and
simply a film version of a Chandler novel. Most were surprised
by my insistence
that (with one exception only) Chandler had nothing to do with their
screenplays, even though I admitted that Chandler was actually working
in Hollywood at the time. (He was under contract to Paramount. Oddly,
only two of the main studios held no screen rights to any Chandler
novels. You guessed it! Paramount figured as one of the two).
I couldn't summon up courage to tell them that, using their definition
of a Chandler movie, my favorite was The Brasher Doubloon. Instead
we lapsed into a re-hash of how fascinating a movie The Big Sleep
is and what wonderful dialogue had been handed to Humphrey Bogart
and Lauren Bacall in that legendary scene where the two stars slyly
relate their preferences for slow horses and fast jockeys.
I blame a combination of bad television and good publicity for
the perpetuation of these half-truths, which it's well-nigh impossible
to shake. Tempting as it is to join the throng, here for the record
is a quick overview of Chandler -- all of Chandler -- on the screen.
To date, there are sixteen big-screen movies, either based on
a
Chandler novel or screenplayed by Chandler.
First off is The Falcon Takes Over (1942), which hardly marks an
auspicious beginning for Chandler or Marlowe on the screen. RKO purchased
the screen rights to Farewell, My Lovely for a song and had no qualms
in making it over for Michael Arlen's character, The Falcon, who
figured in a series of sixteen "B" movies, starring George
Sanders (the first four), John Calvert (the last three), and Sanders'
real-life brother, Tom Conway (the ones in between). By the humble
standards of the series "B", however, The Falcon Takes
Over is reasonably entertaining. Chandler's tense plot is preserved
more or less intact. Only the characters have been changed. Sanders
makes The Falcon suitably suave, whilst Lynn Bari provides a spirited
heroine.
The second Chandler movie, A Time to Kill, augmented
the odd trend of the first. This time, The High Window was the
novel, Michael Shayne
the series character usurping Marlowe, Lloyd Nolan the star, 20th
Century-Fox the studio. Unfortunately, the Shayne series was running
out of both puff and money at this stage. Not only was it lensed
quickly and on the cheap, but the script bowdlerised the novel,
retaining just the bare bones of the plot whilst eliminating
all its wit, sophistication,
atmosphere and tension.
Reversing the trend, on the third occasion Chandler's name hit
the screen, the movie, Double Indemnity (1944), was based on
a James
M. Cain novel. Chandler collaborated with director Billy Wilder on
the script of a film that has since become a cult classic, thanks
to the strength of its stars -- Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray
(of all people) as the heavies, Edward G. Robinson as the hero --
as well as its bizarre murder plot and steamy situations.
Chandler then worked on a most unlikely vehicle, a Rachel Field
weepie, And Now Tomorrow (1944), in which a dedicated but impoverished
young
doctor (played with an air of complete bewilderment by super-tough-guy
Alan Ladd, here numbingly miscast) falls in love with a rich but
deaf socialite (Loretta Young).
Finally, late in 1944, when Chandler's popularity and critical
esteem were at their height, RKO seized the opportunity to dust
off the
song-bought Farewell, My Lovely and film it straight. They couldn't
resist changing the title to Murder, My Sweet, but otherwise this
is pretty well as authentic as Chandler ever got on the screen. Marlowe
was sensationally played by Dick Powell who, sick to death of his
namby-pamby screen image as a lightweight crooner, talked the studio
into re-inventing him as the tough, resilient, cynical private eye
-- a role that he was to play with minor variations and only one
or two exceptions for the rest of his acting career. Powerfully directed
by Edward Dmytryk, the movie not only won the Edgar Award for Best
Mystery of the Year, but took millions at the box-office. Twelve
years later, Chandler declared that Powell deserved recognition as
the nearest cinematic equivalent of Marlowe and that Murder, My Sweet
was the best screen adaptation of any of his novels.
In the meantime, however, Chandler still hadn't found his "write" niche
at his home studio, Paramount. True, his next assignment, The
Unseen (1945), seemed ideal -- at least on paper. Based on a book by Ethel
Lina White (who wrote the original novels for both Hitchcock's Lady
Vanishes and Siodmak's Spiral Staircase), the movie somehow ended
up as more of a lightweight ghost story than mystery-suspense. Spooks
were not Chandler's forte, but he was brought into the picture to
give the supernatural proceedings a bit of rationality. He did his
best, but complained to all who'd listen that it was time the studio
used his talents in the right direction.
Finally, the contractee's voice was heard by studio management.
Given the go-ahead for an original suspense thriller, Chandler
set to work
on The Blue Dahlia (1946). In many ways vintage Chandler, with lots
of atmospheric touches, cynical dialogue, a fabulous femme fatale
(Doris Dowling) and an embittered hero (played with an appropriate
lack of emotion by Alan Ladd), the completed script hit an unexpected
snag. The Navy Department complained to the studio that portraying
neurotic veterans as potential killers violated the senior service's
no-no code. A compromise was reached forcing Chandler to re-work
the ending of the movie. That he did so under protest is evident
by the slip-shod, utterly unconvincing way he "remedied" the
situation. In fact, when he revised his last word on Blue Dahlia,
he tore up his contract, vowing never to work in Hollywood again.
If Chandler's reputation was dented by The Blue Dahlia, it was
certainly retrieved by the release of Howard Hawks' The
Big Sleep in September
1946. Luminaries like William Faulkner (winner of the Nobel Prize
for Literature, plus two Pulitzer Prize awards), Jules Furthman (Academy
Award nominee) and cult favorite Leigh Brackett (as well as Hawks
himself) worked on the script which added to the flavor and color
of the novel without detracting or undermining its sleazy characters,
sharp dialogue, seedy atmosphere and confused plot. In public estimation,
it remains the most popular and quintessential Chandler novel on
the screen, -- an impression re-inforced by the belated release of
an earlier Hawks version which sticks closer to Chandler but doesn't
have the same Bogart-Bacall chemistry.
The next Chandler movie proved to be not only the most controversial
of all adaptations, but one of the weirdest films ever produced by
a major Hollywood studio, -- in this case Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the
home of dripping-with-glamour, ultra-escapist, strictly non-controversial
and solidly conventional entertainment. It all came about because
Louis B. Mayer, the titular head of the studio, regarded himself
as the "father" of M-G-M's vast family of artists and technicians.
Mayer took his paternal duties very seriously, generally preferring
to chastise and deflate his "children", rather than enourage
and praise. But like all proud fathers, he had a few favorite sons
(Arthur Freed, Albert Lewin, for example) whose whims he'd occasionally
indulge. In 1946, Mayer was especially proud of Bob Montgomery, who'd
returned to the studio with a chest full of medals after nearly five
years of active service in the navy. Like many actors, Bob had an
itch to direct. He didn't need second sight to realise this was exactly
the right time to tell Mayer what he wanted. "Granted," said
Mayer, without any argument.
Montgomery then explained that it wasn't any ordinary old film
he wanted to direct. It was Lady in the Lake, a property that
the studio
had already purchased and indeed readied for the screen. He detailed
to Mayer his revolutionary idea in which the camera itself would
substitute for the leading actor. Every last bit of the movie would
literally be seen through Marlowe's eyes-and Marlowe, though voiced
by Montgomery, would be played by the camera.
To everyone's amazement (including Bob's), Mayer, the king of Hollywood
conservatives, not only gave this extraordinary project the go-ahead,
but agreed to finance the movie on a top "A" budget and
give Bob a share of the profits! The canny Mayer's only stipulation
was that the director/star produce a test reel to demonstrate that
the many technical problems involved could be successfully licked.
An initial screenplay was already on hand. By arrangement with
Paramount, Chandler himself had originally been engaged to adapt
Lady in the
Lake. Unhappy with the resulting 175-page screenplay ("Too long" and "too
loosely organised"), M-G-M had turned to Steve Fisher, a highly
experienced freelancer. Fisher tightened the story and gave it greater
continuity. Then, of course, he had to re-work the whole script when
Montgomery was assigned to direct.
As expected, director Montgomery cast himself as Marlowe (we hear
his voice, but only actually see him a couple of times -- as a reflection
in a mirror). When Chandler heard what M-G-M were doing with his
Lady, he phoned the producer telling him quite bluntly that not
only
did he think
Montgomery's subjective camera idea "old stuff", but that
it was a gimmicky novelty that wouldn't work in any sort of feature
film, let alone Lady in the Lake.
Despite Chandler's reaction (it's reported that he "loathed" the
finished picture. Certainly he spurned M-G-M's offer to include his
name on the screenplay credit), the movie garnered some highly enthusiastic
reviews and earned back its million-dollar negative cost on its initial
North American release. It also established a cult reputation which
has served it well. Of all the Chandler/Marlowe movie adaptations,
only The Big Sleep is held in higher regard today.
By contrast, my favorite Chandler novel-turned-movie, The
Brasher Doubloon (1947), has no present-day reputation at all. A now unfashionable
leading man, George Montgomery, is regarded (with some justification)
as "the worst Marlowe on the screen" whilst the movie is
described as "a contemptible violation of everything Marlowe
and Chandler stood for." On the other hand, I look at the movie
as an original. I don't care if it's faithful to Chandler or not.
My personal opinion of The High Window rates it as the least interesting
of all Chandler's finished novels. Whilst its style and dialogue
often exhibit that prized Chandler gloss, the support characters
are mostly dreary as hell and the plot downright stupid. Stuck with
inferior material like this, director John Brahm has spun absolute
wonders. The opening windy-day-in-Pasadena sequence is often cited
in film noir text books as a perfect example of atmospheric movie-making.
It's a shame Brahm's dynamic direction is often vitiated by George
Montgomery's lecherous lead, but the rest of the cast, led by the
intriguing Nancy Guild, aberrant Fritz Kortner and treacherous Florence
Bates (the most powerful performance of her career) more than make
up for these stellar shortcomings.
Alfred Hitchcock induced Chandler to break his self-imposed exile
from Hollywood for Strangers on a Train. Here we have another screen
classic -- like Double Indemnity -- for which Chandler is not given
due credit. Part of this lapse is due to Hitchcock himself who, in
later interviews, constantly derided Chandler's contribution. "The
work he did was no good," Hitch complained to many a celebrated
critic. But good old Hitch had used it anyway. Adapted from a Patricia
Highsmith story, the Chandler hand is evident not only in the inward-twisting
plot and contrastingly classy and gaudy atmosphere, but in the tensely
nervy and often cynical dialogue, -- and even more particularly in
the characterisation of the festeringly bizarre but remarkably personable
psychopath so brilliantly played by Robert Walker.
Twenty-two years after Lady in the Lake, The Little Sister braved
MGM's lion logo in Paul Bogart's dejectedly directed Marlowe
(1969). Wooden-faced James Garner enacted a thoroughly flat
and uninteresting
Marlowe in what jerkily emerged on the screen as a tediously spun
out, weakly plotted, ineptly characterised and ultimately boring
experience.
Robert Altman's film version of The Long Goodbye (1973) also
offered little succor to Chandler devotees. Far from the comparatively
suave heights of Powell and Bogart (where Marlowe's suit may
be
a bit rumpled,
his face occasionally unshaven), the habitually dishevelled Eliott
Gould, stunningly miscast as a bumbling, mumbling derelict slob
of a Marlowe, was joined by a colorless model-turned-Barbie doll,
Nina
Van Pallandt, and a supposedly enticing former film hero, Sterling
Hayden, -- marking his screen return in a character role in which
he stubbornly and loquaciously out-stayed his original welcome.
By contrast the 1975 Farewell, My Lovely had both critics and
fans rejoicing. The direction revelled in atmospheric ambiance,
whilst
the acting from stars to bit-players pegged close to perfection.
Robert Mitchum made a surprisingly persuasive fist of a sardonic,
world-weary Marlowe a-drift in realistically tawdry 1940's
art deco sets. Mitchum proved so believably charismatic in
the part,
director
Michael Winner signed him to reprise his impersonation in a
re-make of The Big Sleep (1978). A costly project with lots
of star power,
this one was doomed to failure from the start. Critics were
honor-bound to compare any new version unfavorably with the
original, but
the re-make's demise became irremediably inevitable when Winner
decided
to re-locate the story from 1940s Los Angeles to 1970s London!
This failure of near-a-quarter-century ago marks the end of Raymond
Chandler on the big screen. True, there have been TV movies
such as Blackmailers Don't Shoot (1989) and Poodle
Springs (1998);
but perhaps it's time -- more than time -- for a Chandler movie
revival.
How about Mel Gibson as Chandler? or Russell Crowe? And what
about Playback, the seventh and final completed Chandler/Marlowe,
which
has never been filmed? |