Director: Robert Altman.
Starring: Elliott Gould, Sterling Hayden, Mark Rydell, Nina Van Pallandt, Henry Gibson
This review by Robert Nijman.
Det. Green: Your name Marlowe?
Philip Marlowe: No, my name is Sidney, uh, Jenkins.
Det. Green: Come on inside, Marlowe, we want to talk to you.
Sam Spade. JJ ‘Jake’ Gittes. Philip Marlowe. Easily the three coolest private detectives in cinematic history. And when I say easily, I of course mean subjectively. And how couldn’t they be? Humphrey Bogart, directed by John Huston. Jack Nicholson, directed by Roman Polanski. And Elliott Gould, directed by Robert Altman. The latter being cool in a very unconventional way, mind you, but more on that later. Altman, the legendary director Gould tried to get off of M.A.S.H. a few years earlier, apparently wasn’t out of place when helming Raymond Chandler detective story The Long Goodbye. Which is a good thing, as the result is a timeless classic that focuses on just that: being timeless.
Chandler’s Marlowe is the savvy detective type in his natural habitat: the smoky setting of the private eye thriller – see 1946’s The Big Sleep. A character as far from 1973 as the kind of pictures that originally spawned the genre. Indeed, Altman renders the 70’s Marlowe incompatible with his surroundings – the movie is made two decades after the novel came out, and the world has developed. Marlowe hasn’t. He’s a guy who still believes in the kind of moral code that comes with the territory of being a private detective. A guy that stands up for and defends his friends, even when they’re on questionable grounds – and maybe even at his expense. A guy that casually says “here’s the address where I’m going, in case you lose me in traffic” to the muscle hired to follow him. A guy who doesn’t stop smoking, ever – even though no one else seems to anymore. He does so in Every Single Scene, by casually flicking matches off of any inanimate object he happens to pass. His general attitude just doesn’t seem to belong in that modern world of 1973. But he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t stray from the boundaries of the law either, even though that usually is the case with hero private eyes in these types of narratives. At least not until the very end, when apparently he does start to mind – but let’s not go there.
Screenwriter Leigh Brackett, who adapted the novel, has also worked on The Big Sleep, 27 years prior. Another story surrounding Philip Marlowe, then embodied by Bogart. But the plot doesn’t make a lot of sense this time around, and can be summarised just as easily as it can’t be. There’s a murder, a possible suicide, a disturbed writer and his sexy, trapped-in-marriage wife (Hayden and Nina Van Pallandt), some generally quite random bad guys led by a local crime boss, and a cat. There are even some supporting roles by Henry Gibson and Mark Rydell, but that doesn’t matter either. Not to us, not to Marlowe. “It’s okay with me.” Because The Long Goodbye isn’t about plot. It’s about setting. Atmosphere. Genre. Story telling, rather than story – the camera is always moving, never static. Dynamics of an era far gone, or at least of an individual who inhabits an altogether different time than the 70’s setting allows him to. Altman and his cinematographer have created a stage for the inimitable Marlowe to roam free, and to do what he does. And does so well.
Sterling Hayden meanwhile, probably best known as Captain McCluskey in The Godfather and/or General Jack D. Ripper in Dr. Strangelove, is simply brilliant here as a latter day Hemingway in the most important supporting role, as troubled writer Roger Wade. Altman let him write all of his own lines, adding gravitas to the scene stealery already encompassed by Sterling’s spectacular performance. His MacGuffin-ish turn, if the plot ever had one, would’ve easily been the movie’s highlight – if it wasn’t for Marlowe. There’s even a hint of The Dude in Hayden’s Wade, although alcohol tends to have an entirely opposite effect on the unhinged, yet very successful writer. If White Russians make Jeff’s Jeffrey even more laidback, the Aquavit of Wade’s choice makes him a tad aggressive and uncontrollable, ultimately leading him to have an Old Man and the Sea episode all of his own – neatly conforming to the characterisation above.
So why is Philip Marlowe not only as cool as I think he is, but even mentioned along with such objectively awesome dicks as Spade and Gittes? Because he’s just so out of place, so misunderstood in his time – or better yet, he is the one that cannot grasp the times. His cool comes from being different in other ways than we usually find in cinematic heroes. He’s offbeat. Idiosyncratic. Quirky. He doesn’t fit into the Chandleresque social circles we find him in, be it the county jail, the bad guy’s lair or the Hollywood style lavishness of a gated community. Meanwhile, Altman has a thing or two of his own to say about the world, especially that Hollywood part of it. It’s no secret the director is contemptuous of the Tinsel Town Way. He pokes fun at it at every junction. Marlowe often speaks the way we’d expect a movie hero to, and so do his adversaries. The gatekeeper at the Malibu community offers stunning imitations of quintessential movie stars, ranging from Jimmy Stewart to Cary Grant by way of Walter Brennan. And part of the theme is Richard Whiting’s Hooray for Hollywood – the other part being a single John Williams song, performed in umpteen different arrangements. It’s Altman’s way of saying: ‘Here’s a film-noir type detective story, set in Los Angeles in the 1970’s. Go figure.’
Marlowe doesn’t belong, either. Not to anything besides Gould, that is. It’s almost scary how well his typical mannerisms fit the part. He’s completely out of touch. Much like Ace Ventura, or that guy from Blast from the Past. Or even the likes of OSS 117’s Bonnisseur de la Bath, and Le Grand Blond’s François Perrin – although never wandering off into the realm of balls-out comedy and slapstick, thankfully. (Nor explaining why I would pick these two French, Austin Powers – type characters, for that matter). He is an absolute delectation to follow for the full length of a movie, is what I’m saying. The way he mumbles to himself for a considerable part of it, showcasing an epic inability to keep an inner monologue. The way he cracks wise whenever the situation does or doesn’t ask for it, when he’s being questioned by either the cops or the bad guys. (“Is this where I’m supposed to ask, what’s all this about, and you say shut up, I ask the questions?”). The way he stands near your window, peering in and quietly observing and ‘detecting’, instead of kicking down doors and taking names – the way a tough detective, or maybe Bogart’s Marlowe, might have. The way he dotes on his cat to the point that he drives to 24h grocery stores at 3 a.m. for the special kind of Courry Brand it likes, when there are – quite literally – dozens of gorgeous women next door he doesn’t pay a lot of attention to. Women, who’re usually at least semi-naked, fully stoned and twice as nuts, it being the early seventies. He doesn’t mind. Well, if “it’s okay” with you, Marlowe, it’s fine by me.
