Chandler Again

The Mr. and Mrs. Buce readaloud club has finished its perusal of Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep (yes, I know it is short, but we were distracted). On sober reflection, I'd reaffirm the point I suggested earlier: Chandler is surprisingly funny. In particular (and especially in the first half, before the plot gets into high gear), he is the all-time grand master of the semi-absurb throwaway simile:

• "...using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work showgirl uses her last good pair of stockings."

• " I seem to exist largely on heat, like a new-born spider."

• "Drawing one lip slowly across the other with a funereal absorption, like an undertaker dry-washing his hands."

That's in the first five pages. Later we get "as sore as an alderman with the mumps," "as limp as a fresh-killed rabbit," and "as nervous as dowagers who can't find the rest room."

This is all wonderful, but here's the thing: read it aloud and it is almost impossible to avoid mimicking Garrison Keillor doing Guy Noir. You know Guy, on the twelfth floor of the Acme Building, trying to find the answer to life's persistent questions? Guy is supposed to be a parody, and good fun it is, but a parody of what? My point is that Chandler seems to have mastered the art of subtle self-mockery, up to the edge of self-parody, at the start. And I think it is distinctive him: I don't remember any such subversisve comedy in Dashiell Hammett or James M. Cain.

We followed up our literary endeavor with a movie version--the original Howard Hawks retelling, from 1946. The snappy dialog is all there, though I don't hear the self-mockery--evidently we took it more seriously then. Note also: (1) Humphrey Bogart's range is remarkably narrow--there really are only one or two parts that he can play well; and (2) it's hard to think of any movie more firmly rooted in a particular place and time. David Thomson ranks it high on his list of all-time favorites, and I can see why.

Addendum: a propos of not very much, i'm impelled to note that there is one bit of narrative equipment at which Chandler is appallingly awful. I mean the mechanics of the human body. At one point, we have the lovely lady falling backwards into Marlowe's lap, and then (evidently without relocating) kissing him on the face. Later, we have Marlowe undertake a display of pistol marksmanship while his hands are cuffed behind him. I see that not even Hawks could stomach that one: he put the cuffs in front.