Tag Archives: dashiell hammett

Feminist Fridays: The Women of The Maltese Falcon

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, feminist fridays, lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

Chapter Three of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon is titled, appropriately enough, “Three Women.” It opens with Sam Spade chastising his exhausted secretary, Effie Perine, for allowing Iva Archer, his dead partner’s widow, into the office. Spade is impatient with the woman–his secret lover–and extricates himself from her clutches as soon as possible. He later attempts to track down the elusive Miss Wonderly, who has checked out of her hotel in the wake of Miles Archer’s death.

As with much of the original novel, “Three Women” is translated almost verbatim into John Huston’s screenplay for the 1941 film. And of the three screen adaptations of The Maltese Falcon, Huston’s version best captures each of these women in the cinematic flesh. Through astute casting and subsequently strong performances, the film fleshes out three very different (yet familiar) female archetypes: the helpmate, the “spider,” and the conniving bitch. Spade’s interactions with the three women whose lives are intertwined with his own–Effie, Iva, and Wonderly (soon to be revealed as Brigid O’Shaughnessy)–reveal much about his character, and also illuminate how the über-masculine Spade rejects the very notion of femininity, even while he is, in some ways, very much at the mercy of the so-called “weaker” sex.

Effie (played by Lee Patrick) is the woman who knows all of Spade’s faults and accepts him for who he is (for the most part). Though he is somewhat affectionate in his regard for her–more so than with any other woman in the film–there is little indication that their relationship is, or has ever been, sexual. If anything, Effie treats Spade almost maternally. But theirs is ultimately a business arrangement: as his secretary, she keeps his life in order and follows his instructions to the letter, the very definition of a “Girl Friday.” Perhaps because of this, Spade does not treat her with the same shrouded contempt and judgment with which he views the other female figures in the film–though he still objectifies Effie, much as he does Iva and Brigid, by calling her “angel” in lieu of her given name.

Of the female characters, Iva (Gladys George) comes closest to stereotype as the prototypical “woman scorned.” She thinks enough of herself and her charms (the “web” in which she believes she has trapped the man) to assume that Spade killed Archer just to be with her. But his reluctance to see her after Archer’s death, and his disgusted facial expressions when she throws herself into his arms, indicate that Spade has lost interest in the woman. Spade finds Iva’s weeping–put-on though it may be–a nuisance, and she becomes an albatross around his neck when her fury over his short-sighted rejection of her (and the drama surrounding her) leads to Iva informing the police about their affair. In this case, Spade underestimates the trouble that a woman could cause him, and it ends up putting even more pressure on him as he tries to unravel the mystery of the black bird.

And then there’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Of any character in the film, she most matches Spade in both wits and manipulative prowess–as I stated in yesterday’s entry on the film, Brigid and Spade are, in some respects, two sides of the same damaged coin. But Brigid is somewhat more transparent than her male counterpart; her breathless speech and inability to look Spade directly in the eyes (notice how she’s always looking past him or to the side or up at the ceiling in many of their scenes together) mark her as a liar almost from the start. And Spade sees right through what he calls Brigid’s “schoolgirl” act; he does not believe her initial story when she hires him, and he does not believe anything she subsequently says. Knowing Spade distrusts her, however, does not stop Brigid from using her feminine wiles to try and ensnare Spade … and it works, to a degree–the man simply can’t help himself. One could argue that, with the two of them, the attraction is merely sexual, and an extension of Spade’s aggressive nature. The first time he kisses her, Spade grabs her face roughly and practically forces her lips to meet his–it’s an act of pure, possessive lust, not affection. And yet it works, because Brigid instinctively understands and accepts his aggression, because it’s an equally important part of her own nature. The fact that Spade even appears to entertain the thought, however briefly, of allowing Brigid to get away with Archer’s murder indicates the level to which she got to him–when he offers to wait for her, and hopes aloud that they don’t “hang [her] … by that sweet neck,” it’s the biggest concession Spade will allow in regards to the weakness of emotional attachment. Of course, that’s pretty much ruined with his next statement: “If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” Quite the romantic, that Sam Spade.

It’s also worth noting that these women are not the only “feminine” characters whose paths cross Spade’s in the film. Just as there is a trio of female foils, there is a triad of male figures whose masculinity–at least in the eyes of Spade himself–is so negligible that they could be considered another “womanly” group within the film (in fact, there seems to be a theme of “threes” within the film–three women, three male criminals, three identities for Brigid, etc. … though the significance of that may be minimal, at best). Peter Lorre’s character, Dr. Cairo, can also be considered a feminine influence on Spade–and a decidedly unwelcome one, at that. Spade’s ire is raised from the moment Effie hands him Cairo’s gardenia-scented calling card, and is heightened when the foppish man enters the detective’s office. Spade takes a great deal of pleasure in bullying the effeminate Cairo, first by essentially emasculating the criminal by disarming the man of his (phallic) weapon, and later through physically imposing his brute strength on Cairo with a solid punch to the jaw. In Spade’s mind, Cairo is the epitome of weakness–a man whose appearance and demeanor are overtly feminine–and the man must thereby be punished. That same mindset extends to the gunsel, Wilmer (Elisha Cook, Jr.); Spade enjoys teasing Wilmer, casting doubt upon his abilities and then taking visible delight when Wilmer attempts to “man up” by threatening to kill Spade. And Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), though in many ways the most masculine of the film’s evildoers, is, by virtue of being Wilmer’s supposed lover, included in Spade’s derision. When the detective tries to turn Gutman against Wilmer, he does so by reminding Gutman that there is always another “son” (read: lover) out there, but only one gold-encrusted falcon. Spade’s expression during this scene hints at his distaste at the relationship between Gutman and Wilmer, but despite his own rejection of the very concept, Spade is not above using it as a means to an end.

The movie ends with Brigid being taken away to jail, but the book revisits the other two women in Spade’s life, ending with his return to his office, where he must face Effie’s disapproval and Iva’s continued presence in his life. There is a sense, however, that Spade will reject both–that he will ignore Effie’s feelings about what he has done to Brigid, and that he will, at some point, cast Iva out for good, for ultimately, Spade’s rejection of the feminine is an essential part of his character. His rough-hewn exterior–crude, hard-boiled, sometimes cruel–exists, in part, because it differentiates him from the “weaknesses” that affect others. He doesn’t demonstrate outward compassion after Archer’s death because doing so would mark him, too, as somewhat weak. The same goes for his final confrontation with Brigid; to allow her to get away with murder, all in the name of love, would be the action of a soft man, not a strong one. After all, sympathy and emotion are feminine traits, not to be tolerated in a “real” man. The most Spade can manage without compromising his self-made image is an occasional pat on the head for Effie, whose non-sexualized persona is no threat to Spade’s seemingly hard-won masculinity.

“I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, lit adaptations, noir, private eyes are watching you

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the third and final film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to this movie, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie. And if you’ve never seen any of the film versions or read the book, be warned that we will be discussing elements of their respective endings in all of our posts this week.

The Maltese Falcon (’41) has been judged by many critics to be the greatest detective story ever filmed. The influential 1955 book A Panorama of American Film Noir (1941-1953), initially published in France by film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, declared Falcon the first true example of Hollywood film noir. Notable critics such as Roger Ebert have labeled the movie as one of the best of all time. And the American Film Institute has cast several laurels in Falcon’s direction: it landed at #31 on the most recent AFI Top 100 Movies list (in 2007); came in at #6 in the “Mystery” film genre; and its closing line, “The stuff that dreams are made of,” was chosen as the fourteenth-best movie quote of all time.

Of course, as with any film, its “greatness” is a matter of subjectivity. Falcon does have its detractors. Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference to the American Style (first published in 1979) describes the film as a “caricature” populated with “one-dimensional” characters, stating that the film suffers from “textbook camerawork” and a “general attitude of contemptuous misanthropy.” And the author is certainly entitled to his opinion. There have been films that have been, by and large, critically lauded over the years which I am … well, less than enamored with. But I do think this review is short-sighted and almost aggressive in its criticism of the movie, particularly in its assessment of the film’s misanthropic nature, which is a necessary extension of creating a cinematic world where the lines between “good” and “evil” are so blurred as to be nonexistent.

For all that the first two screen adaptations of Dashiell Hammett’s book got wrong, the final version gets everything just right. The movie follows the book almost precisely–very little is excised in the translation to the screen, and Hammett’s pitch-perfect dialogue is recreated virtually word-for-word. By and large, the actors are far superior to their predecessors, bringing new depth to these characters. The movie even looks better than the other two versions: its gritty appearance and washes of darkness perfectly encapsulate the story’s mood.

First-time director John Huston was greatly influenced by Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, which was released in theaters five months before Falcon. Hallmarks of the earlier film can be seen in the way Huston and cinematographer Arthur Edeson populate their movie with a wealth of shadowy shots and low, almost menacing camera angles (Edeson, incidentally, also worked on Satan Met a Lady). When making plans for filming, Huston took a cue from Alfred Hitchcock and story-boarded the entire movie before shooting, plotting out even the most minute details before the camera even started rolling.

Arguably the best element about the entire film is the casting, for Huston wound up with the perfect actors for the leading roles, particularly Bogart as the combative, dark, and enigmatic Sam Spade. Part of the credit for Bogart’s casting, interestingly enough, goes to actor George Raft, who turned down the role of Spade, paving the way for Bogart to take on the defining role of his own career. In fact, Raft can be credited with inadvertently promoting Bogart from supporting actor to leading man in the early 1940s: he also turned down the role of Roy Earle in 1941′s successful High Sierra (due largely to Bogart’s urging), and some sources even claim that Raft also turned down the part of Rick Blaine in Casablanca (though still other sources emphasize that this was merely a rumor). Huston had worked with Bogart on Sierra–he had co-written the screenplay for the movie with W.R. Burnett–and the two had become friends. Bogart, for his part, enjoyed working with Huston and would go on to star in Across the Pacific (1942), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Key Largo (both in 1948), and The African Queen (1951) for the director.

A trio of effective villains serve as worthy foils for Bogart in Falcon. Sydney Greenstreet, in his first film appearance, is impressive in both his bulk and his mannered menace as ringleader Gutman. Gutman is the gentleman criminal, hiding his thuggish qualities behind a cultured veneer (and a loyal gunsel/lover, Wilmer, played with leashed fury by Elisha Cook, Jr.). The actor’s smooth voice and high-class accent only add to that facade. Greenstreet was reportedly so nervous before filming his first scene–the monologue in which Gutman explains the origins of the falcon–that he asked Mary Astor to hold his hand before stepping in front of the camera. But there is no sign of this in his polished, masterful performance, and he went on to garner an Oscar nomination for his debut.

This movie also marked the first onscreen partnering of Greenstreet and Peter Lorre–the two worked so well together that they would eventually costar in nine more projects over the next decade. Though both Gutman and Cairo, Lorre’s character, are homosexual, Lorre is given the decidedly “gayer” character. Rather than go over the top with his portrayal, Lorre subtly conveys Cairo’s orientation through his mannerisms–particularly the way he plays with his cane, as he caresses it and moves it near his mouth in a way that highlights its phallic nature. His reactions to Spade’s bullying are even more telling; he is no physical match for the detective, succumbing to a faint after a single punch, and he (perhaps wisely) relies on a gun to do his convincing for him. Lorre breathes realism into a potentially campy character, and ultimately makes a big impact in his few front-and-center scenes.

But the strongest villain, by far, in the entire film is Astor’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Her cold, calculating nature is a mirror of Spade’s own: they are two sides of the same damaged coin. Astor is a revelation in the role, which is a great departure from her previous “good girl” screen persona–but is, funnily enough, much closer to her controversial off-screen life. In the wake of her divorce, details of Astor’s personal diary, in which she reportedly wrote about her sexual conquests, came to light, and her image in the public had suffered. Whether or not that experience colored her portrayal of Brigid doesn’t really matter, though–however she did it, Astor managed to perfectly capture the darker nuances of the character in a way that few actresses of the time likely could. [Side note: I will further address Brigid--and the other female characters--in a separate post.]

The Maltese Falcon is, in a word, brilliant. The film is populated by a cast of characters whose actions and behavior is morally repugnant and off-putting. Yet Bogart and company, led by Huston’s steady, guiding hand, bring a level of sympathy to these not-so-good people. Spade’s an unmitigated asshole–unfeeling, harsh, and not at all above betrayal and subterfuge if it gets him what he wants–and Bogart plays him full-out, warts and all. Still, there’s something almost disturbingly sexy and enticing about Spade. He’s as appealing an anti-hero as has ever been created. In the end, Falcon works because we want to see what these rather reprehensible people, doing everything they can to assuage their desirous greed in an unclean world, will do next. Their interactions are just that damn entertaining.

Tomorrow: we’ll wrap up our week-long look at The Maltese Falcon with a Feminist Fridays post examining the female characters in the 1941 film.

“Bugle, bugle, who’s got the bugle?”

Posted on by under lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you, remakes suck

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the second film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to the 1941 film, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie.

In 1935, Warner Bros., unable to re-release the somewhat racy 1931 version of The Maltese Falcon due to stricter enforcement of the Production Code, decided to film a second version of the novel. The studio assigned an unenthusiastic William Dieterle to the director’s chair, an unwilling Bette Davis to the leading lady role, and pre-Code heartthrob Warren William to the pivotal role of Sam Spade … er, I mean, “Ted Shane.” The end result, released in 1936, was nothing short of underwhelming; to call the film a “misfire” is a severe understatement (the term that comes to my mind is “clusterfuck,” in case you were wondering).

The job of adapting the book into screenplay form was given to Brown Holmes, who had also worked on the screenplay for the earlier film. One would think that his previous experience with the material would result in something that was greatly similar to the original production. But the resulting script was merely a loose adaptation of Falcon. Now, when I say “loose,” I mean LOOSE. The screenplay ultimately had little in common with the source material. Holmes, in what appears to be an attempt to imbue the film with a farcical sense of irreverence, changed the characters’ names (and even one character’s gender), their personalities, and even the film’s “MacGuffin,” for the fabled gold-and-jewel-encrusted falcon was changed to an ivory ram’s horn stuffed with gems. Elements of the plot were altered to the point that any similarities to Falcon seem, in hindsight, almost coincidental. In short … this just ain’t Hammett’s story.

Satan’s “Spade” figure lacks the subtlety and the ambiguity of Hammett’s characterization. In fact, there’s nothing very subtle about Ted Shane–he’s painted as greedy, ambitious, and an unrepentant womanizer. Every woman he meets is greeted as “Kitten,” regardless of her actual name. William plays the role almost tongue-in-cheek; Shane is not meant to be taken seriously, despite the seriousness of the trouble he’s in. There is no sense of mystery to Shane’s motives. If Ricardo Cortez’s Sam Spade values women above all, and Humphrey Bogart’s values self-reliance, then William’s Shane is most concerned with gain–monetary gain, romantic gain, ego boosts, and whatever else he can get. In this sense, Shane is perhaps the most mercenary of the Spade incarnations … though this is undermined greatly by his sheer goofiness. After all, can you really refer to a man who imitates King Kong as a “mercenary?”

Davis absolutely loathed the experience of making the film. The actress, who demonstrated a keen eye for quality throughout much of her career, knew the script was bad and that the part of Valerie Purvis virtually reeked of “vapidity,” as she would later state in her memoirs. But while Davis may not have wanted to make the film, she simply did not have it in her to deliver a half-assed performance, regardless of the weaknesses of the concept. As a result, Davis is easily the best thing about Satan Met a Lady. Valerie is scripted as more antagonistic than other versions of Brigid O’Shaughnessy–she is combative from the start, and instead of manipulating Shane through her feminine wiles, Valerie (at least initially) relies on a pistol to get her way. Because of this, she is a much less effective female foil for the detective. Still, Davis manages to make an impact when she’s onscreen, bringing a steely determination to Valerie that belies the character’s sometimes insipid dialogue.

The “vapidity” Davis complained about is evident in all of the female characters in the movie. Miss Murgatroyd (Marie Wilson), the parallel to loyal secretary Effie, is a shrill, ditzy, whiny combination of worldliness and naivete. Astrid (Winifred Shaw), the wife of Shane’s doomed, shlubby partner Ames (Porter Hall), is a flirtatious man-eater whose role in the plot is reduced to irrelevance. And this film’s “Casper Gutman” figure, the stout Madame Barabbas (Alison Skipworth), lacks the menace and suavity befitting a purported criminal mastermind. None of these characters can hold a candle to their literary and (other) cinematic counterparts.

Equally ineffective are Satan’s versions of Dr. Cairo–now a dapper, tall Englishman named Travers (Arthur Treacher)–and the “gunsel”–now a baby-faced “nephew” of Barabbas, Kenneth (Maynard Holmes). Travers spends much of the film apologizing for trashing Shane’s apartment and office while complaining that Shane’s behavior is “not cricket.” Kenneth threatens to kill the teasing Shane, and has in fact murdered other characters in the film, but his comically young appearance and whining tone make you doubt his ability to kill a bug, let alone a person. The effort to paint these characters in a “funny” light ultimately weakens whatever impact they may have otherwise had.

That’s the problem with the entire film, truth be told. In the end, though Dieterle and company try to make the movie work as a comedy, the audience is not laughing. It’s almost impossible to take a story with the darkness and verve of The Maltese Falcon and turn it into slapstick–well, successful slapstick, anyway. Satan Met a Lady stands as a prime example of how literary adaptations can go horribly wrong when the source material is utterly bastardized on the way to the big screen.

Tomorrow: Hollywood finally gets The Maltese Falcon right.

“You have a lot of trouble with your women, don’t you, Sam?”

Posted on by under lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the first film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to the 1941 film, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie. And if you’ve never seen any of the film versions or read the book, be warned that we will be discussing elements of their respective endings in our posts this week.

In 1931, The Maltese Falcon was first produced by Warner Bros. This initial film version stars Ricardo Cortez as Sam Spade and Bebe Daniels as the devious Ruth Wonderly, and also features Una Merkel as Effie, Thelma Todd as Iva, and Dudley Digges as Casper Gutman. The movie is directed by Roy Del Ruth, whose career was mainly filled with B-pictures, including a number of musicals (Gold Diggers of Broadway, Broadway Melody of 1936 and 1938, DuBarry Was a Lady). Due to its status as a pre-Code film, and the judgment of the Hays Office that the film was not fit for reissue once stricter enforcement of the Code began in 1934, this version was unavailable for years. It was finally shown on television in the 1960s, where it was re-titled Dangerous Female in an effort to distinguish the movie from the better-known 1941 version.

There are elements of this movie that work, and that is mainly due to its relative faithfulness to Hammett’s dialogue and plot–though several scenes are cut to accommodate an abbreviated running time of only 79 minutes. But overall, when placed up against both the source material and the later film, this Falcon is a rather pale production.

Cortez plays Spade as both the smooth womanizer, secure in his own charms, and the gruff, hard-bitten private dick. It makes for an odd combination, and in the end, it doesn’t really work. Throughout most of the film, his Spade wears a perpetual smirk, which seems odd given the circumstances in which the character finds himself. Cortez is, by turns, jocular and unfeeling, and his almost jaunty nature is jarring at times, making the scenes in which Spade grows angry or defensive ring false. Cortez ultimately suffers in comparison to his successor, as he lacks the gravitas and determination that Humphrey Bogart would bring to the role a decade later.

Furthermore, some of Cortez’s affectations are entirely incongruous to the character. Filing his nails while questioning Miss Wonderly? The action is so out of place as to be laughable. And I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t believe for a single second that Sam Spade would be caught dead in a pair of polka-dotted pajamas. The scene in which Spade is awakened by the news of Archer’s death loses some of its gravitas due to the strangeness of the detective’s attire.

The film goes out of its way to establish Spade’s popularity with the female sex. The movie opens with a shot of Spade’s office door, where two embracing shadows can be seen through the frosted glass. The door opens, and the camera pans down to a shot of a woman’s legs as she adjusts her stockings and straightens her seams. All the shot needs is a train shooting through a tunnel at full speed–just to drive home the fact that the couch in Spade’s office has recently gotten quite a workout.

Additionally, the film emphasizes the sexual tension between Spade and his faithful secretary, Effie. The two have obviously engaged in a sexual relationship in the past, and their flirtatious behavior–Effie sitting on the arm of Spade’s chair, Spade’s nuzzling her neck–hints that the arrangement likely continues in between Spade’s other conquests. Effie accepts Sam’s womanizing and even enables it, as when she ensures that he takes a phone call from his erstwhile lover–Mrs. Miles Archer, his partner’s wife–and encourages him to see new client Miss Wonderly by declaring that the girl is a “knockout.” It’s all part and parcel of her role as the ultimate “Girl Friday”: loyal and true to the very end, even when the boss is knocking boots with half the women in San Francisco. Merkel comports herself well in the role, but this film’s characterization of Effie is no match for Lee Patrick’s performance in the 1941 version. Patrick’s Effie is loyal but no-nonsense, faintly disapproving of Spade but unwilling to voice it, and the relationship between boss and secretary is fond but platonic (and thereby much more believable in the latter film).

One of the few strengths of the ’31 version comes from the performance of a supporting player who is onscreen all of five minutes. The character of Iva plays a minor role in both versions, but Thelma Todd makes more of an impact in the small part than her ’41 successor, Gladys George. Instead of skulking in the shadows and causing trouble for Spade, Todd’s Iva confronts the detective directly, threatening him in a jealous rage over seeing Wonderly in Spade’s apartment (“wearing MY kimona!”). Todd is great in the role, one of the few she had in mainstream full-length features during her sadly-abbreviated career.

But it is in the relationship with Miss Wonderly where the 1931 film is able to distinguish itself somewhat from the latter production. Daniels’ take on Ruth Wonderly is less desperate and, ultimately, less effective than Mary Astor’s later performance–her motives are more transparent (Daniels’ facial expressions lack the key element of subtlety in many scenes); she is more defiant and snappish toward Spade; and she does not have the same breathless (and seemingly effortless) guile that Astor’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy so capably displays (note that in the 1931 film, Wonderly is the character’s actual name, and she does not go by an alias–this element was likely cut due to the shortened running time of the film).

The movie is much more explicit in its insinuation that Spade sleeps with Wonderly–though he supposedly spends the night on the couch, a shot of the bed the next morning shows a distinct headprint on the pillow next to the sleeping woman. The film also includes a couple of daring scenes, even for the pre-Code time period: one in which Daniels is shown taking a bath–though she is only shown from the shoulders up, it’s quite obvious the actress is, at the very least, topless–and another in which Spade demands Wonderly strip so he can search her for a missing $1000 bill–though the stripping is not shown on-camera, Daniels throws various articles of clothing at Spade’s head while she undresses (this stripping scene was a key scene in the novel, highlighting the level of Spade’s distrust of the girl, but was excised from the 1941 film as per the rules of the Code).

Wonderly’s peccadilloes are also spelled out more explicitly in this movie. When negotiating with Spade for possession of the falcon, Gutman implies that the detective is merely the latest in a long line of infatuated male suitors: “Miss Wonderly’s admirers have been many, sir, and she has used them to her advantage.” In other words, in case you couldn’t grasp the leering meaning behind Gutman’s claim, Miss Wonderly is, in his estimation, little more than a common whore.

Of course, Gutman’s own peccadilloes leave him little room to criticize anyone, let alone the admittedly deceptive Miss Wonderly. When Spade demands that Gutman’s “boyfriend,” Wilmer, be given to the police as the “fall guy,” Gutman’s initial refusal gives way to his greed. Though Gutman claims that he views Wilmer as his “son” (which adds a disturbing dimension to their relationship, considering Gutman is having sex with the boy), he soon begins to agree that there will be other “sons,” but only one falcon. Digges’ take on Gutman is somewhat histrionic, in that he flaps his arms and acts more agitated than the calmer Sydney Greenstreet in ’41. The end result is that this Gutman serves more of a comic relief-type role, as in the scene when he slaps Cairo’s napping, newspaper-covered face with a fly swatter. It’s hard to take him as a serious threat, as he lacks both Greenstreet’s civilized menace and his intimidating bulk. Indeed, the ’31 Gutman is not referred to as the “Fat Man” in this film–the actor simply does not have the girth to carry it off.

All of this is not to say that the first 75 minutes of the film are necessarily bad. It’s quite watchable, and if you’ve seen the 1941 movie, it’s a fun exercise to compare and contrast the two (despite the decided weaknesses of the ’31 cast in comparison to that of ’41). There are some obvious similarities in these movies, as each is pretty faithful to the original novel–several scenes mirror one another almost precisely, and some snatches of dialogue are virtually identical.

It’s only in the last five minutes that the 1931 Falcon dissolves into sheer, unadulterated “what-the-fuckery” (for lack of a better term) that will leave you scratching your head and asking, “Why?” For some reason, the filmmakers found it necessary to leave viewers on an upbeat note by grafting an epilogue to the end of the movie. After Wonderly has been taken away and convicted (the results of the ensuing trial are revealed to viewers through a series of newspaper clippings onscreen), Spade goes to visit his jailed paramour and informs her that he has been made the chief investigator for the District Attorney’s office. He stares at her longingly, reaching a hand through the bars to touch her, and leaves. On his way out, he tells the guard to give the girl anything she wants … “good food, cigarettes, candy.” When the guard asks who should be billed for it, Spade gives her a broad grin and tells her to send the bills to the DA’s office.

This ending is disconcerting because it is inconceivable that Sam Spade–the solitary, morally ambiguous rebel against authority–would accept a position working for “the man.” Spade revels in his combative relationship with the police–after all, most of them (with the exception of Polhouse) distrust Spade and think he has more in common with the criminals than the “good guys.” In the scene in which Spade is interrogated by the DA and the police, the detective’s attitude and derisive tone indicate the depth of his loathing for them. It doesn’t make sense that Spade would then agree to essentially become one of them (even if he does apparently plan to stick them for all of Miss Wonderly’s expenses). It is also strange to see Spade–particularly Cortez’s version, who values his propensity with multiple ladies–obviously yearning for the now-inaccessible Wonderly. We know he loves her–he admitted as much before sending her away for Archer’s murder–but that moment of vulnerability feels like an odd coda to a relatively solid yarn.

Tomorrow: a look back at Satan Met a Lady (1936).

“What’s this bird, this falcon, that’s everybody’s all steamed up about?”

Posted on by under lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

“Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting ‘v’ under the more flexible ‘v’ of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, ‘v.’ His yellow-gray eyes were horizontal. The ‘v’ motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down–from high flat temples–in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.”

And so the world was introduced to private detective Sam Spade in Dashiell Hammett’s 1930 novel The Maltese Falcon. In the ensuing years, Spade has become the archetype for a particular brand of antihero in the mystery/crime genre–the hard-boiled, unsentimental, brooding, and unshakable lone-wolf detective. It was an appealing personality for many “pulp” mystery and crime fiction writers in the 1930s and beyond, evidenced by the Spade-like qualities found in the characterizations of Raymond Chandler’s popular Philip Marlowe and Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer, among many others.

The Maltese Falcon began life as a serialized story in Black Mask magazine. Black Mask, founded in 1920 by H.L. Mencken, was the preeminent source for crime and detective fiction in the 20s and 30s. Popular authors whose work was initially published in the magazine include Hammett, Chandler, Carroll John Daly (whose Race Williams is considered by many to be the “first” example of the hard-boiled detective character), and Erle Stanley Gardner (who would later find his greatest fame as the creator of Perry Mason). 

Sam Spade was not the first detective character created by Hammett; that distinction goes to “The Continental Op,” who first appeared in the pages of Black Mask in 1923. The Op, whose real name is never given, is a shadowy operative of a San Francisco-based detective agency (incidentally, Spade, too, is based in Frisco). In three dozen short stories–several of which were combined to form Hammett’s first two published novels, Red Harvest and The Dain Curse–the Op uncovers the truth in each case through shrewd intellect and manipulation of the suspects. The Continental Op demonstrates a savvy (and sometimes cynical) understanding of human nature that Hammett would revisit in the Sam Spade character seven years later.

But Spade shares little else with his precursor. Spade’s cynicism is marked by a streak of bitterness, an underlying element of misanthropy that colors his perceptions of the world and everyone in it. His motivations are ambiguous, at times; he seems almost entirely lacking in sentiment, and his personal moral code is equally unclear. He is a modern-day Byronic hero, the loner outlaw brimming with masculine appeal. Men want to embody some of his cool machismo, and women (such as famed writer Dorothy Parker) “moon” over his rugged sexuality. With The Maltese Falcon, Hammett inadvertently created a sub-genre of detective stories populated with similarly disaffected male protagonists. But while there were quite a few imitators, there was, in the end, only one Sam Spade.

Hammett’s work, with its distinct characterizations, intriguing plots, and quick-witted dialogue, was quite appealing to Hollywood. Over the years, several of his works were adapted for the big screen. His 1931 novel The Glass Key (reportedly Hammett’s personal favorite of all of his work) was filmed twice, first in 1935 with George Raft in the lead role, and again in 1942, this time with Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. His last novel, 1934′s The Thin Man, appeared on the screen later that same year, starring William Powell and Myrna Loy–it eventually gave rise to a series of six films under the “Thin Man” banner, although the subsequent productions featured no input from Hammett. And The Maltese Falcon was adapted for the screen three times, in 1931, 1936, and finally, in its greatest incarnation, in 1941.

Tomorrow: a look back at the first Falcon movie.