Showing posts with label Dick Powell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dick Powell. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 23, 2019

This Day in Literary History (Zane Grey, Prolific Creator of Westerns, Dies)


Oct. 23, 1939— Zane Grey, a bored dentist who took up writing and quickly became synonymous with Westerns that became omnipresent in bookstores, movie theaters and TV sets, died at age 67 of heart failure in California.

Graham Greene invoked, with considerable irony, the influence of Grey on contemporary literature in his screenplay for The Third Man. In a moment of comic relief in the novelist’s dark vision of postwar Vienna, author Holly Martins, a woebegone generator of pulp fiction, stumbles when he finds himself in an unexpected exchange with a questioner at a lecture in the city:

MAN: “What author has chiefly influenced you most?”

MARTINS: “Grey.”

WOMAN: “Grey?  What Grey?”

MARTINS: “Zane Grey.”

The English moderator at the lecture then steps in:

CRABBIN: “Oh, that is Mr. Martins' little joke, of course.  We all know perfectly well that Zane Grey wrote what we call Westerns—cowboys and bandits.”

In other words: Grey wrote genre fiction—hardly to be taken seriously.

Grey never was acclaimed as a stylist, but millions of readers regarded him as a top-notch storyteller. And scholars of popular culture should take him very seriously indeed as someone who achieved considerable commercial success.

To be sure, Grey was not the inventor of the Western (John Jakes, in his introduction to Great Tales of the West, credits two Eastern authors, James Fenimore Cooper and William Gilmore Simms, as the “grandfathers” of the genre).

But, through relentless self-disciplined and travel to many locales, Grey put out, in roughly three decades, book after book—60 westerns alone—that readers snatched up eagerly: titles such as Last of the Plainsmen, Heritage of the Desert, West of the Pecos, and his most successful work, Riders of the Purple Sage.

Gifted with unquenchable energy, Grey soon transplanted the genre to a medium where the wide-open spaces celebrated in this literature could be enjoyed in nearly literal form: the motion picture.

Far earlier than other authors such as crime novelist Joseph Wambaugh, Grey recognized the importance of this medium and sought to control the product. In 1920 he even formed his own production company, Zane Grey Pictures Inc. When Jesse Lasky bought the firm several years later, the unit would comprise the core of westerns made under the aegis of Lasky’s company, Paramount Pictures.

According to John Milton Hagen’s Holly-Would!, at one time, every one of Grey’s books had been adapted for the screen. I am unable to prove or disprove that assertion. But the entry on Grey in the Internet Movie Database lists 117 story credits for him.

Among the actors who appeared in films based on his work were such luminaries as John Wayne, George Montgomery, Tim Holt, Randolph Scott, Buster Crabbe, George O'Brien, Tom Mix, Roy Rogers, Barbara Stanwyck, and Richard Dix.

As another medium—television—searched for new content in the 1950s, the work of Grey resurfaced through the efforts of a longtime admirer, Dick Powell. In 1956, the veteran actor-director launched the first anthology series devoted entirely to westerns, Zane Grey Theatre

Its half-hour format eventually limited Powell’s initial determination to adapt all of Grey’s novels. But by the end of its run of more than 100 episodes in five seasons, it aired pilot episodes for such western series as Trackdown, Black Saddle, The Westerner, Johnny Ringo, and most famously, Chuck Connor’s long-running The Rifleman. And one of the writers on its staff, Aaron Spelling,  became one of the most successful producers in TV history.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Quote of the Day (Raymond Chandler, on an ‘Inconspicuous’ Gangster)



"Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.” ―Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely (1940)

This quote is a pretty good example of why the work of mystery novelist Raymond Chandler (1888-1959) endures, even as the world that inspired him is gone. The simile about the tarantula feels fresh, even surprising. It practically makes you laugh aloud as soon as you read it.

I was reminded of the novel in which this quote appears last night. In channel-surfing, I came across, on Turner Classic Movies (TCM), Murder, My Sweet, the 1944 adaptation of Farewell, My Lovely. I came in about 15 minutes after the film started and stayed to the end. Because I missed the initial scenes, I have no idea if screenwriter John Paxton and director Edward Dmytryk used this line. More’s the pity if they didn’t.

I’m not sure exactly how true the film, a pioneering example of film noir, remained to the book. But it’s certainly the case that Hollywood couldn’t get enough of Chandler in the 1940s. According to TCM’s Robert Osborne, no less than four actors played hard-boiled private eye Philip Marlowe within a four-year period: Robert Montgomery (Lady in the Lake), George Montgomery (The Brasher Doubloon, an adaptation of The High Window), Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep), and Powell.

It’s not hard to see why Hollywood was attracted to his work, even when the plots got so complicated they almost became preposterous. It’s that voice: thoroughly streetwise, completely wised-up about the human propensity toward sin, especially when exhibited by the powerful—and, perhaps for that reason, on the side of the underdog. It sounds less like someone from Los Angeles, Marlowe’s ostensible turf, than from the mean streets of New York in the Thirties and Forties—maybe an Irish-American detective, now freelancing.  

The surname of Chandler’s now-immortal private eye would seem to contradict that idea, given the author’s Anglophilia and consequent acknowledgement here of another writer who brought drama and poetry to terrible violence, Christopher Marlowe. But Chandler’s mother was Irish, and in “Try the Girl,” a short story from which he cannibalized much of Farewell, My Lovely, Chandler’s hero sports a different name: Ted Carmady.

(The image accompanying this post, from Murder, My Sweet, features Powell on the right as Marlowe and, on the left, Mike Mazurki as the “inconspicuous” gangster, the appropriately named “Moose” Malone.)