I’m not sure how or when Robert Altman came to be introduced to the collected works of Raymond Chandler, but in the annals of fortuitous couplings, it stands pretty much near the top, challenging Puzo/Coppola or Towne/Polanski for Me Decade supremacy. Drilling down with even more specificity – in this case, the iconic character of Philip Marlowe – it’s the sort of beautiful friendship that makes an alternate version impossible to imagine. Just as Altman was born to make The Long Goodbye, the private eye genre, reaching its pinnacle with Marlowe, was born to be perfected by the one filmmaker known for shattering stereotype and convention. Naturally, he’d cast Elliott Gould as the world-weary detective, ensuring that the mystery itself would take a backseat to the sort of mumbling, anti-hero cool impossible with someone more grounded. You suspect that Gould very well may get his man, but it’s just as likely he’ll take the more circuitous route to get there. It’s a rambling, uncertain journey, but infinitely better for the confusion.
Any critic/reviewer (or whatever the hell I am) worth their salt could spend 1,000 words on a dozen different elements of The Long Goodbye, from the opening ten minutes (Marlowe hunting down cat food for his beloved feline at 3am) to Mark Rydell’s Napoleonic gangster who’d rather be at Temple, but knows he has to smash a Coke bottle in his lover’s face to get Marlowe’s attention (“That’s someone I love; you, I don’t even like”). Or the genius of casting baseball legend Jim Bouton as a particularly nasty piece of work who, as expected, gets exactly what he deserves. And then there’s Sterling Hayden as Roger Wade, a towering, Lear-like figure who bellows and boasts with such conviction, you know damn well he’s going to walk into the ocean to end the charade. Minor characters with heft and wit. Signs advertising “Steak & Chips, 85 cents”, because 1973 was beyond awesome in that regard. Headlines about plane crashes and hijackings. Nasty nurses and duplicitous doctors. And yes, the catchphrase to end them all: “It’s OK with me.” Because laid back and indifferent is just about the only way to survive a Los Angeles teetering on the brink.
All that and more, with rich detail we no longer feel the need to bring to our artistic endeavors. Name the road taken, it ends in brilliance. I’ve seen this movie at least a dozen times and I’m still coming to terms with it. Pity the day I ever truly figure it out. As with anything, it’s all the better for remaining a ball of confusion. Which brings me to what might be the biggest treat of them all. Certainly the biggest laugh. A set piece so remarkable, it stands on its own for all time. I have no idea what Altman was thinking and frankly, I hope they never recover the memo that gives it away. I speak, of course, of the hospital scene. Right after Marlowe is hit by a car and transferred via ambulance (fun fact: Altman himself is one of the drivers), we see the room. Two patients, only one of whom is identifiable. Marlowe, yes, but another. A mere mummy of a man, wrapped top to toe in gauze. Not a patch of skin remains visible. He’s the most glorious character I’ve ever seen, and yet he’s with us for barely a minute. But it’s sixty seconds we’ll never forget.
Who is he? Why is he here? What in the world brought him to the condition where he needs a full body wrap? No one, including the nurse, is willing to say. But he makes his presence known, a process that includes gibberish and random gestures. He has a point of view, but no one’s getting any of it. Marlowe tries to comfort the poor man (“You’re gonna be okay, I’ve seen your pictures, too”), but all is lost in the translation. The man hands Marlowe a mini harmonica, insisting he keep it. Okay, but to what end? And why (how?) did he manage to hold on to it after being either burned or broken? A keepsake for a loved one? A clue? A “thank you” for even minimal kindness? Knowing Altman, none apply. It’s one of those “just because” kind of things. Because he found it amusing and wanted to fuck with us all. And, just as likely, because he once knew a guy similarly wrapped and he wanted to pay homage. Here’s to the courage that traffics in the absurd. A creed Bob lived and breathed, for the benefit of us all.
As with every brief cameo that leads nowhere, I imagine a backstory. A future. A sequel of nothing but. And yet, I’m ever so glad we get nothing but this moment. We know that Marlowe will never forget him, and that’s enough. He may get shot, beaten, and stabbed repeatedly, but he’ll never have it as bad as that guy. Maybe he’s a ghost, a figment of Marlowe’s fevered imagination, or the predictable result of a serious head injury. Some have speculated that it’s Roger Wade himself, plucked from the ocean just in time. Any and all interpretations are valid, and yes, I subscribe to each and every one of them. I’ve even heard a credible account that it’s the front gate guy who loves Hollywood impersonations. He perfected Barbara Stanwyck and Walter Brennan, so why not the Invisible Man? Hell, maybe it’s Marlowe himself, disembodied and floating to eternity. No clue, and I don’t care. Every movie deserves such a character as this but, in the end, they’re more appealing as special occasions. Rare birds that make us smile at the audacity. The Altman way.
Leave a Reply