"It was raining again the next morning, a slanting gray rain like a swung curtain of crystal beads. I was as empty of life as a scarecrow's pockets. I went out to the kitchenette and drank two cups of black coffee. You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women." These days we might call it Film Noir if it were a movie. But before it was influenced by that dark and shadowy French cinema style, it was the classic LA pulp fiction crime genre rife with one-liners, 1930's street slang and sarcastic repartee so cynical and strung out that it can only be call hard boiled. And Raymond Chandler was a founder of this kind of gritty, weather-worn detective fiction. The Big Sleep was his first novel. Of course I had to read it. Any modern story would pad out the mystery with an extra hundred pages of character development and personal involvement. Maybe a love interest or a deadbeat family member mixed up in the wrong crowd. The whole thing ultimately tying back into his personal journey and a moral lesson learned. Growth. Something. Not so for Philip Marlowe. He's not the world's self-proclaimed greatest detective like Hercule Poirot in Agatha Christie's famous novels, nor is he an eccentric genius like Sherlock Holmes. He's really just a regular dick, a private eye, working gigs for a hundred bucks here and there. Nothing special. And this is just one random case which otherwise has nothing to do with him. He's the narrator. He's cold and detached and he knows little more than the reader does as he drives us through the mystery, only pausing occasionally to catch us up on what we missed. The mystery is direct. The rich old General hires him to look into a blackmail case against his daughter, one of two who are nothing but trouble, and whose half-hearted husband has gone missing. He's not hired to look into the missing husband, though, but everyone seems to think he is. While exploring the blackmail case, he discovers an underground smut library that dabbles in racketeering and extortion and he quickly stumbles upon a murder. Then a double murder. They got dirty pictures on the daughter, see, and Marlowe's gotta get 'em back or the old man might die if he knew. He's about to die anyway. Why does everyone keep assuming he was hired to find the son in law? The old man sure liked that son in law, God only knows why. Could it be that's what he wanted all along, when he hired a private detective? Someone who could read between the lines? Get the kinda results the kinda way the coppers couldn't? Most of the action comes in the form of terse dialogue and brash bluffing. Guns are waved around but seldom fired, smart remarks are sufficient. If Chandler gets one thing right, its the snarky attitudes and smooth non sequiturs that bring his characters to life. Everyone is cagey, coy and calculating. Hiding something. Lying, probably. And less than innocent. But does that make them the villain? The suspect? The murderer in question? Not necessarily. He gives every character an angle and a a chance to sputter some sharp 30's LA slang: “Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake.” “Marlowe's the name. The guy you've been trying to follow around for a couple of days." "I ain't following anybody, doc." "This jalopy is. Maybe you can't control it." “Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You’re the second guy I’ve met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail.” “She’d make for a jazzy week-end, but she’d be wearing for a steady diet.” “Go — yourself.” “That’s how people get false teeth.” Philip Marlowe quickly solves the first mystery about half-way through the story. Someone had some dirty pictures of the general's daughter, and the chauffeur who had a crush on her didn't like it so he snubbed that guy, but got bumped off himself. Then this other guy... awe never mind. At the end Marlowe catches some rackateer's male lover who cops to it and sits down with the Chief to hash it all out. Not only did this speed up the plot and help re-orient me within the otherwise arbitrary details, it was surprisingly effective at sucking me in. I had the clarity that comes with a big reveal at the end of a mystery, but still had half the novel left to see where he took it. Casino Royale did the same trick, using an extended denouement to completely change the direction of the story and make it about something else entirely. It worked for me there and it worked for me here. Needless to say, after Marlowe finishes the case and gets paid, there are loose ends still nagging at him and he continues to stick his nose where it doesn't belong. On the one hand, we've seen this sort of thing before. It all comes together a little too easy. On the other, it's evidence of Chandler piecing two short stories together to sell his first novel. Either way, it meddles with the three-act structure most readers have ingrained in their brains in a way that makes it almost impossible to anticipate what's coming next. Another smart choice is when the Femmes Fatales, the two daughters of the general who hired him, attempt to seduce Marlowe on the same night (unrelated). He turns them both down with a higher degree of moral fortitude than expected. It makes for a tantalizing interlude between the two halves of the novel but also ends up being very important to the ending. This seductive femme fatale notion was already a cliche in the 30's so his rejection is a fun subversion that still holds up for essentially the same reason. Marlowe likes a hard drink, sure, and he can bluff and crack wise with the rest of 'em, but he's more philosophical and contemplative. There's no particular chip on his shoulder and he's content to make peace with his adversaries along the way. He's not broke. He's happy making $25 a day plus expenses and solving only one case at a time. He's a together kinda guy, it turns out in the end, and if he seems a little worse for ware, it's not due to any hidden demons or past regrets, just this seedy city and all these shysters he's stuck dealing with day after day. If Chandler has a weakness, though, it's in his narrative descriptions. He relies too heavily on the word was. This is especially a problem in the early chapters when introducing lots of new characters and places. There was this. There was that. She was dressed like this. He was dressed like that. It disappears as the story moves forward, but he occasionally makes the mistake of piling on too many of these in a row. Much of the front end of the story sets up a lot of seemingly useless details and this style of writing doesn't do it any favors. You can assume these details will all contribute to a beautifully elaborate explanation at the end when the mystery is solved, but I'm not sure that's the case here. Sure there are always clues, but a lot of this description is about atmosphere and attitude. In fact, not every aspect of the story is neatly tied up the way you expect, specifically who shot the chauffeur? Raymond Chandler famously explained even he had no idea. It didn't matter. It was about the experience. Conclusion: 4 out of 5 stars. The Big Sleep went on to have two adaptations made to film and probably inspired a lot of others. I wouldn't mind an update since it's been like 60 years. Maybe Leonardo DiCaprio could star, when he gets a little older. Or Mark Ruffalo would be good. Reading something like this after so many decades of influence can really meddle with your expectations. But the way Chandler captures the seedy, despicable underbelly of LA is not nearly as over the top as I would've expected. The short, staccato sentences with flat descriptions give it all a perfectly dry weariness, but never beats you over the head with it. At first I was disappointed he didn't lay it on any thicker with the slang and the sardonic wit, but he paces himself. Doles it out mildly. Doesn't try so hard. In the end it has its own natural balance that still holds up today. Don't Forget to Like and Retweet!
Other Chandler Novels Farewell, My Lovely Ian Fleming's James Bond Series Casino Royale Live and Let Die Moonraker Hemingway To Have and Have Not Islands in the Stream
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