Though ignored upon release, Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe serial came to define an epoch in American history; a scorchingly acerbic portrayal of a Los Angeles consumed by corruption, distinctively Californian malaise pervading each syllable. In the middle of it all, a private detective and his rarely noble, often necessary jaunt through that very labyrinth of perfidy and perversion. Far removed from the brilliance and sophistication of prior detectives, Marlowe closer resembles a man who, perhaps in his youth, idolized the professionalism of Sam Spade before quickly seeing through its deceptive reality. Instead, he became coarse, boorish, rarely supercilious, and intrepid only because economic factors necessitated it, yet in his conflation of work and life, tied to a romanticized view of the detective, a longing for a raison d’etre.
Following the pervasive success of Double Indemnity, Chandler and his work became hot commodity in the eyes of producers and audiences alike. With the noir pathos ready to proliferate across Hollywood, Marlowe turned into prime material for the big screen overnight. Over the years, the vision of the LA writer saw numerous interpretations, most notably by two men who differed so largely that one can’t quite fathom they played the same character.
Dick Powell, who enjoyed great success as a romantic lead in comedies and musicals throughout much of the 1930s and early 40s, might not have been everybody’s first name to come to mind when considering casting a crime thriller, but the actor, presumably stung with presentiments of decline, remained ardent in his desired shift away from what had made him popular. Having been rejected by Wilder for the role of Neff in Double Indemnity, he turned to RKO - who had just recently re-acquired the rights to Chandler’s Farewell, my Lovely - and, despite the author’s initial doubt, became Marlowe. Directed by Edward Dmytryk, at this point vaguely known for his Dalton Trumbo-penned Tender Comrade of the prior year, had made a tiny name for himself churning out profusions of unremarkable, albeit economic thrillers during the War. Murder, my Sweet would be his big hit and Powell’s great revival.
In spite of Chandler’s entirely justified scepticism, and the fact that Powell and Marlowe don’t magically seam together, one may nonetheless argue that it is precisely because of this, Powell’s lack of baggage, that allowed him to slide effortlessly into the role. After all, his crime debut coincided with Marlowe’s on-screen counterpart. It recalls the phrase “fish out of water”, which plays into the identity of Marlowe himself, for he seems to entangle himself in conspiracies far bigger than himself, far outweighing what he seems to know. Much of this resignation to sarcasm comes from him being an outsider, and using Powell - likewise, an outsider - to convey such is intriguing.
Visually, this is made apparent in the opening scene; Marlowe is shown blindfolded - first meant literally, later figuratively - at the police station and most of the encounters he details come at the behest of the other person. Moose visits him at his office, Marriot and Ann do likewise, and Velma even shows up at his apartment. Through it, he is deprived of his agency, that which effectualizes a shamus, instead, becoming an object used by those above him; he is not the mastermind who solves all, but a mere peasant atop a chess table, bludgeoned, drugged, and discarded when stepping out of line. At best, he is treated as if a fruit fly; hated but tolerated as long as he doesn’t leave stains. All that remains is his futile wit, of which he seems often aware, and his callous humor, which he displays by tap dancing along the tiles of the Grayle palace. His lack of agency reaches its peak during the film’s climax, where Dmytryk makes abundantly clear that Marlowe is, indeed, all but a bystander; a scene where he futily watches Grayle kill Moose, being blinded by the vehemence of the shot as he tries to prevent it. The flashback ends, and we return to the image of him blindfolded.
Powell’s ragdolled Marlowe complements many of Chandler’s personal experiences and grievances; aspirations of great meaning, him as a grand prodigy, entering Hollywood as Powell enters the Grayle palace: confident before being consumed and confronted with one’s secondaryness, a realization thereof that spreads throughout the film as much as it does Chandler’s post-1944 novels. Though initially decried, Chandler came to enthuse over Powell’s Marlowe, that is until his second adaptation came to be..
“The Big Sleep is a terrific piece of tomfoolery, a fantasy that has little to do with Chandler’s vision.” Eddie Mueller wrote fittingly of a film that serves as a continuation of the Hawksian ethos of good film over good adaptation. Bogart plays Marlowe and turns him into an intrepid womanizer, who is rarely seen a minute without female companionship. Though initially belittled for his inferior height, Bogie is all but a weakling, as he repeatedly shows in intellectual and physical confrontations alike. His imperturbable gallantry places him in natural opposition to the disarray of both Chandler and Powell. Whereas Powell clung to each victory, no matter how tiny, Bogart is elevated to superhero status, remaining in control, and overcoming each obstacle with a haughty smile and unblemished suit, his sartorial slickness, so typical of Hawks’ protagonists, counterposing the unshaven, messy madness of Powell. As William Everson, in his classic book “The Detective in Film” points out, the novelty of Powell contributed heavily to a good portrayal of Marlowe. He became him more easily than Bogart, who, by 1944, already juggled several identities, Marlowe being just another hue thereof. He was Spade, he was Rick, he was Steve. Entirely in line with Hawks’ aforementioned ethos, the role, then, is a great Bogart rather than a great Marlowe. To rephrase James Ellroy, Bogart was the Marlowe that Chandler had wanted Marlowe to be, but Powell was the one that he actually was.
Both Big Sleep and Murder, my Sweet turned out big successes, necessitating, in the minds of studio heads, further adaptations to capitalize on this newfound interest in the murky. There is reason, however, why many of the following versions are rarely ever discussed. Lady in the Lake, aside from its much-derided gimmick, has little to offer. It is clunky, therefore belying its initial intention of subjectivity, and worst of all, has George Montgomery as a version of Marlowe unrecognizable from the novels, carrying no impetus at all, about as dull, if not duller, as the technique he hides behind.
The Brasher Doubloon was Fox’s attempt at Marlowe, and it is telling that this film turned out the last adaptation of the golden period. Paul Montgomery’s Marlowe is as far away as his namesake was, existing, by now, as a crass parody of what once was considered a noble profession, but given its b-film status, it is allowed the occasionally raunchy and desperate glimmer; especially within Marlowe’s office, which resembles that of Murder, My Sweet.
The 1970s saw a brief revival of Marlowe, his suit worn by both Robert Mitchum and Elliot Gould. The former changes age and location, neither befitting the original vision, but Mitchum imbues him with longing melancholia only an aging star could provide. Gould’s Marlowe, on the other hand, is far more leisured. Now, no longer constrained by studio finery, Gould is allowed to saunter, becoming as much flaneur as dick, carrying with him that very malaise Chandler often insinuated, hidden deeply behind veneers of detachment; a free spirit, not Chandler, but perhaps closest?
Chandler’s novels were scarcely apt material for filmic adaptations, often due to their heavy reliance on prose, and subordination of plot to character and atmosphere. It is then no surprise that many attempts failed, but Powell and Dmytryk struck gold, seemingly understanding what lay beneath the ignorance of a small, insignificant detective.