the fountainhead's fascinating semi-sideliners

Today author and philosopher Ayn Rand (1905-1982) was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, with her major claims to fictional fame being 1943's The Fountainhead and 1957's Atlas Shrugged.  Interpretation of Rand's Objectivist philosophy and subtext can turn controversial -- discourse she probably would have enjoyed --  but it is interesting to note that Rand is rarely pigeonholed as a "female writer" and is generally referred to as just a writer.

For me The Fountainhead made a major impression when I first read it in college, but then some years passed and I started to think that Howard Roark and Dominique Francon were rather extreme and I also started feeling less pitiful contempt for Catherine Halsey and even Peter Keating.  Now I read it and get distracted by all the side characters in the many-peopled plot and wonder about their more detailed backstories.  (And kudos to Rand for making them resonate so vividly, whether she intended to or not.)  Like the weak-willed, porcelain-obsessed Lucius Heyer or wily newspaperman Alvah Scarret, or the misguidedly violent sculptor Steven Mallory.  Or the Chinese student artist who works with Roark at John Erik Snyte's architecture office.  The Chinese student never says a word because minorities don't really factor into The Fountainhead, but this nameless artist with no dialogue is as memorable as some of the novel's more heavy-handed characters.  Snyte has the student on staff to draw up plans for final presentation to clients.  In another scene, the Chinese artist steps aside "diffidently, in silence" when a client is brought into the drafting room by Snyte, then he returns to his desk and keeps on drawing unobtrusively, unacknowledged.  You have to wonder about this Asian man living in New York in the 1920s and his artistic training, and what it was like for him to work at a high-pressure Manhattan architectural firm where no one seemed to ever call him by -- or perhaps no one ever really knew -- his actual name.

And let's not forget Jules Fougler, New York drama critic, his voice "slow, nasal and bored."  Fond of wearing gloves and carrying a cane, he resembles two "sagging circles" set on top of each other in a beautifully tailored suit the color of goose shit or merde d'oie as Fougler describes it.

"Examine my case, if you will [Fougler said]...What achievement is there for a critic in praising a good play?  None whatever.  The critic is then nothing but a kind of glorified messenger boy between author and public.  What's there in that for me?  I'm sick of it. I have a right to wish to impose my own personality upon people.  Otherwise, I shall become frustrated--and I do not believe in frustration."

Do we see Fougler again or is he crucial to the plot?  Not really.  But is it interesting to wonder where he went afterwards and/or if he had Waldorf salad for lunch?  Yes, I kind of think so.

the razor's edge and oscar gold

W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge is one of my favorite books, with many fine turns of phrase and dialogue and memorable main and side characters.  The 1944 novel was made into a 1946 film starring romantic leads Tyrone Power and Gene Tierney, along with Herbert Marshall as Maugham himself, gliding in and out of scenes as the worldly but not always present narrator.  Clifton Webb as shrewdly snobbish and haute Uncle Elliott Templeton steals the show, as does Anne Baxter in the more tragic role of Sophie.  Baxter earned an Academy Award for her performance; Webb was nominated but didn't win an Oscar (he did, however, score a Golden Globe).  The 1946 film is very good but doesn't totally capture the essence of the novel -- though that was unlikely to happen in Hollywood at the time.  The 1984 remake with Bill Murray seemed to have high hopes to come closer to the book, but didn't quite make it either for different reasons.

As noted, the original novel is full of great quotes and descriptives, but one of the best lines from the 1946 movie is Elliott's frank observation: "I do not like the propinquity of the hoi polloi." And regarding Maugham's character being invited to dinner, Elliott advises his guests:  "He's an English author. He's quite alright. In fact he's quite famous. So pretend you've heard of him even if you haven't."

Indeed.

(Pictured:  Clifton Webb as Elliott Templeton snobbing it up while Herbert Marshall/Somerset Maugham listens.)

peering through the high window

Raymond Chandler's 1942 novel The High Window isn't his best-known or even his best work, but it is one of his better glimpses into the soul of Chandler's celebrated anti-hero/private eye Philip Marlowe.  There's a very rare coin, an elderly, port-drinking, ethically twisted bulldog of a wealthy widow, the widow's ineffectual son, a fragile and fractured secretary, a wannabe detective, along with the usual beautiful yet cold-hearted women, flinty cops, hoods and other memorable Chandleresque characters.

The plot fabric stretches a little thin at times and the ending has more humanity than dramatic payoff, but all in all, reading Raymond Chandler is a wonderful experience.  His narrative and dialogue are just so good that each page is enjoyable.  Chandler was undoubtedly a writer who adapted well to the screen -- as especially evidenced by The Big Sleep and Farewell My Lovely -- but it's a whole other experience to actually read his work.  Cinematic detective voiceover narration can only capture so much of the finely honed words and descriptions, and when it comes to using voiceover in movies, less always seems better than more.  But would you really want to miss snippets like these:

"From thirty feet away she looked like a lot of class.  From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away."

****

"A large black and gold butterfly fishtailed in and landed on a hydrangea bush...moved its wings slowly up and down a few times, then took off heavily and staggered away through the motionless hot scented air."

****

"She looked as flustered as a side of beef."

****

"I had a funny feeling...as though I had written a poem and it was very good and I had lost it and would never remember it again...."

****

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. -- Raymond Chandler