Raymond Chandler and Philip Marlow

[Notice: This is my first message in 15 days, and while such tardiness can be excused as procrastination, I have a perfectly feasible explanation--honeysuckle.)

Film noir is one of those art forms that everybody--regardless of their background--seems to like. And who could blame them? The striking visuals, the delicious cynicism, and the wonderful, hard-boiled writing bring something for everyone on the platter. So it was always a mystery, really, that I had not invested more effort into film noir and classic crime fiction.

That all changed this summer, though. Upon the recommendation of seemingly every TV-viewer I knew, I began heavily watching the HBO series "The Wire." Two things: yes, it is as good as you have heard, and yes, I'll elaborate on that statement at a later date. Back to the big picture: my immersion in crime fiction, though, kick started my long subdued appetite for more of the genre, and I figured that there was no better place to start than the very king OF the genre itself, Raymond Chandler.

I should make one thing clear, though--Chandler did not create film noir or the detective crime thriller. While it is difficult to credit one single source for the creation of any art, film noir and its most defining characteristics had two major starting points in Dashiell Hammett's 1930 novel The Maltese Falcon and James M. Cain's 1934 novel The Postman Always Rings Twice. It's all there--the hard-boiled, cynical leading man, the smoldering femme-fatale, and the post-modernist ending of gloom, doom, and inevitability.

So, Chandler did not create the very genre in which he laid. He merely offered a superior example.

Chandler fused the noir of Cain with the detective of Hammett, offering his debut novel, The Big Sleep, in 1939, and introducing his lead character and film noir idol Philip Marlowe.

Reading Chandler, the first thing that struck me about his writing was just how literate the guy was. When we think noir, we think of the more modern neo-noir examples of the genre, such as Sin City, the novels of James Ellroy (more on those at a later date) and any imitator of those trend-setters. And, we know of that style--fragmented, choppy and scant on adjectives. Chandler, though, writes with none of these characteristics.

Written from the first-person perspective of Marlowe, Chandler's prose is crisp, sharp and written with laser-like precision. Meticulous details are exuded on surroundings, rooms, articles of clothing, the physical features of pivotal (and not-so pivotal) characters, and nature, the latter of which occurs as a frequent symbolism in Chandler's work. Granted, the prose is still tough and the vocab hard-boiled, but it is damn well constructed.

After Chandler's prose, the next feature that hit me in the face like a glass of cold water was his dialogue, which is among the sharpest I have ever read. Cutting like a knife, the repartee between Marlowe and his various clients/suspects/villains leaps off the page, hitting you with an immediacy that is both shocking in its frankness and startling in its construction. Consider, for example, this passage of dialogue from The Big Sleep:

She took the photo out and stood looking at it, just inside the door. "She has a beautiful little body, hasn't she?"
"Uh-huh."
She leaned a little towards me. "You ought to see mine," she said gravely.
"Can it be arranged?"
She laughed suddenly and sharply and went halfway through the door, then turned her head to say coolly: "You're as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?"
"Sure."
"You can call me Vivian."
"Thanks, Mrs. Regan."
"Oh, go to hell, Marlowe." She went on out and didn't look back.

Sharp, precise, and very, very good.

I mentioned symbolism earlier, and that aspect of Chandler's writing has been, for me as least, its most remarkable aspect. Crime fiction is not your typical genre where, for example, the rain plays an overarching role of symbolism, such as it does in The Big Sleep. Or, to cite another one of Chandler's books, the fantastic Lady in the Lake, water once again plays a important role, along with the dark wilderness and mysterious lake of a northern lake house resort.

And while these fantastical elements of Chandler's novels justify their masterpiece standing, the one lasting impression that his works leave is that of true film noir, that of the road not taken. Film noir, true film noir, takes us through a merry-go-round of human nature, exposing the dark underbelly of our race and reducing our actions to nothing more than animals in a cage, owned by a bleak and sadistic creator. Chandler write unblinkingly of these truths, making us sadder, wiser, and more nuanced readers as a final result. And can we really ask any more of literature?