The Brasher Doubloon: No Small Change

Marlowe offers to help Merle with her "man" problems.

Long considered the redheaded stepchild of all the films to feature Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, The Brasher Doubloon (1947, 20th Century Fox) is usually dismissed as inconsequential. Usually from people who haven't seen it.

Not that you can blame most folks for jumping to that conclusion -- the movie's been notoriously hard to find, never officially released on VHS, as far as I know, and rarely shows up on television. Nor is the Chandler novel it's based on -- 1942's The High Window -- generally considered one of his best.

Most reviews, meanwhile, go back to when it was first released, and following as it did Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep and Edward Dymytryk's Murder, My Sweet, two certifiable classics, it was definitely found wanting. It didn't help that what few stills and publicity shots existed have seemed less than encouraging. Most feature George Montgomery (who?) as Marlowe, sporting a cheesy moustache and a shit-eating smirk -- or a look of bland consternation. In fact, if you're looking for big stars or name directors or acting fireworks, this isn't the film you're looking for. So it's safe to say there wasn't a huge demand -- except perhaps among Chandler obsessives -- for this obscure B-film to be released on DVD.

What home video versions have been released over the years have been of dubious legality and technical quality, if you could find them at all.

And yet, there it was under the tree yesterday, The Brasher Doubloon, all wrapped up with a nice bow on it. A complete surprise, I wasn't even aware it had finally been released as an officially sanctioned DVD -- a mere 65 years after its theatrical theatrical debut. Even better though, is that the film, while slight, is a pleasant surprise.

No, really. It's not bad at all. I'm fortunate, I guess, that Mrs. Thrilling (aka "Santa") is as big a Chandler geek as me. We sat down to watch it tonight, a Boxing Day treat.

And yes, Montgomery does have that annoying caterpillar on his upper lip, and his Marlowe is way too upbeat and perky (although he handles the action scenes well enough, and the disdain with which he tosses a downed goon's now empty gun at him is priceless). Nor will the thespian skills of Nancy Guild, as Merle Davis, the sexually repressed secretary to a bullying, Jabba the Hutt-like dowager, have anyone but the morbidly curious scrambling to find her other films.

But that Bambi-in-the-headlights look is just what the role calls for and Guild nails it. Adam over at OCD Viewer describes her as "a little like a softer-featured Margot Kidder," and he may have something there. Guild has a slightly unhinged vulnerability here that, combined with a watery sensuality, makes her a whole new -- and possibly even more dangerous -- type of femme fatale. No wonder Marlowe generously offers to help her overcome her intimacy issues.

But hey, this is a B-film, after all, and any limitations of dramatic range among the leads (or psychological plausibility in the script)  are more than covered by some truly great character bits and some shrewd casting. Among the best: Mrs. Murdock, the wealthy, overbearing, eccentric harpy of client, possibly airlifted from a Charles Dickens novel, and her foppish weasel of a son Lesley (portrayed by a very young, pre-Mork and Mindy Conrad Janis). Toss in a crew of tough-as-spit bulldog LA cops in need of distemper shots and a parade of grotesque thugs and you've got a show. My faves included the long tall drink of polluted water in the straw boater who confronts Marlowe early on and the twitchy blackmailer who can't quite bring himself to look Marlowe in the eye and instead rubs his finger back and forth on the desk. It makes for one of the best rogue's galleries of geeks and freaks this side of Huston's The Maltese Falcon.

And this is all in service of a clean, relatively straightforward screenplay by Dorothy Bennett (who?) that leans heavily on Chandler's penchant for wisecracks. She took some liberties, naturally, and some of it seems "borrowed" from other, better films, but it follows a more-or-less logical progression, and some strong, sure-handed direction by John Brahm (who?) brings it on home.

And, oh, those camera shots! Some of the location shots of 40s Los Angeles and environs -- from the opulently decadent Murdock mansion in Pasadena to the seedy apartment buildings of an already decaying Bunker's Hill -- are eye-popping. This is not some sterile, carefully reconstructed period piece with all the warmth of a LEGO brick -- this is the real deal.

Were this a better known film, some of those images would be almost downright iconic.

As it is, although the film is not in itself particularly noir (it's alternately too glib and too cheesy, and the too-cute-by-half ending would be more at home in a screwball romantic comedy), the oddball camera angles, stark lighting and freak show characterizations (not to mention some true ugliness that comes slithering out when the true villain is revealed) suggest what might have been.

Don't get me wrong. We're not talking any lost classic here -- it's just a good, solid B-flick -- but The Brasher Doubloon is far better and far more entertaining than I -- or possibly even you -- ever thought it would be. 

Take a chance.  You've got a movie here.

Depp Jam

There's a thread going on right now over at Wicked Company, a mystery writing discussion group started by D.L. Browne (aka Diana Killian, aka Mrs. Thrilling) about reviewing and cruelty and what constitutes a personal attack in a review.

Should a writer's personal life be fair comment in a review?

My first instinct is to go all Nancy Reagan and just say "No.".

But how about if that said writer has used his or her personal life to sell or promote a book?

That's the connundrum that faces me here. And I'd have to say, upon further consideration, "Sometimes."

Not that screenwriter and first time P.I. writer Daniel Depp has gone overboard with the personal stuff, but it's virtually impossible to read his new novel, Loser's Town without becoming painfully aware of who his famous half-brother is. But it's also glaringly obvious that's the way the author and his publishers and publicists want it.

Aging former stuntman turned Los Angeles private eye and weekend rodeo cowboy David Spandau knows more than he ever wanted to know about the movie biz, which may not make him the happiest camper around Tinsel Town, but sure adds an edge and a delightfully skewered "insider's" view to this 2009 debut.

Spandau works for Coren Investigations on Sunset, a swanky "boutique" detective agency that caters to the rich and powerful. Despite his misgivings, Spandau agrees to go to work for heart-throb actor Bobby Dye (a party-loving, good-looking man-child, with a skinny model girlfriend overly fond of recreational drugs in tow -- remind you of anyone?) who's caught up in a nasty Hollywood blackmail scheme. The preliminary buzz on this one made it feel like the start of a beautiful friendship... but actually reading the book harshes that buzz pretty quick.

Not that there isn't some really really good stuff here. Spandau himself is a carefully crafted and intriguing character, with some decidedly Macdonaldesque overtones (the detective, for example, still yearns for his ex-wife), and some of the quirky lowlifes (agents, publicists, gangsters, etc.) who flesh out the story are surprising vivid, suggesting Depp hasn't been neglecting his Elmore.

But all this great characterization (Spandau's sometime assistant is a real piece of work, for example, and the lovesick thug Potts is alternately disturbing and heart-warming) goes for naught because Depp isn't sure where he's going. Sub-plots burst into narrative flames, only to puff out like a wet birthday candle a few chapters later, and Spandau, the alleged hero of the story, is curiously absent -- and not even involved -- in much of what takes place. Not that all major sub-plots simply fade away, though -- some suddenly reappear, long after we've almost forgotten about them. And certainly after we've ceased to care about them.

Which is a real shame. There's plenty of good writing here, and some delightfully wicked takes on the industry (although, honestly, nothing particularly new). But the Johnny Depp-like Dye is curiously flat, as though the author wasn't quite sure how to handle him; worried on the one hand he'd offend and on the other that he'd be accused of sucking up. As it is, whatever resentment and jealousy and contempt might be brewing right under the surface is held in check. After all, everybody loves Johnny, right? It wouldn't do to piss off all those fans. And just to be on the safe side, Depp dedicates the book to "John."

Too bad he hadn't paid as much dedication to his story.

My guess? The Depp name got Daniel's manuscript in the door, even though it was probably good enough to be accepted anyway, but as a result the book got vetted more thoroughly by publicists than actual editors. Because a sharper editor would have insisted on the story being tightened up and would probably have suggested that the author remove some of the more glaring repetitions of descriptions and phrases (sometimes only a few pages apart). And maybe, just maybe, urged the author to drop the kid gloves and just go for it.

As it is, this books reads like a disjointed and failed opportunity. now that the roman à clef trick has been played, Depp is going to find it difficult to build a series around a character who ends up being an extra in his own debut.

The author was born in Kentucky, read Classics at university, and has worked as a journalist, a bookseller and a teacher, and now divides his time between California and Europe, writing and producing screenplays. Maybe he and Johnny have matching villas in France.

Down These Mean Streets A Man Must Go. Wear comfortable shoes.

Doing anything this Saturday, May 30th?

In the LA area?

Not afraid of the big bad city?

If you answered "No," "Yes" and "Bring it on, dude!" to those questions, you really ought to consider The Raymond Chandler Walking Tour. Brian and Bonnie Olson, the authors of the popular guidebook Tailing Philip Marlowe will be conducting a free hard-boiled detective tour of downtown Los Angeles. Included in the tour are the Bradbury Building, City Hall, Bunker Hill, the Oviatt Building and other historic downtown landmarks mentioned by Raymond Chandler in his mystery novels.

And the price is right, too. It's free!

Mind you, you may want to snatch up a copy of the guidebook -- they'll be on sale for a measly ten bucks and will include a complimentary copy of Brian’s new mystery novel To Fetch a Pail.

The tour kicks off at 10:00 AM at Caravan Books, 550 S. Grand Avenue, downtown Los Angeles, and will last approximately two and one-half hours, ending at the Spring Street steps of City Hall.

This sounds too good to pass up. I'm definitely going to try to make it myself, one way or another. Hopefully some of you can make it too. And maybe after we make our rounds, we can find an honest glass of beer somewhere downtown, and pressure Brian and Bonnie into doing a walking tour of Marlowe's Hollywood next...

For further information e-mail Brian or call (213) 626-9944.