Sometimes Less is More

How do you handle sex in your books? Or, if you don’t, why not?

by Paul D. Marks

Well, there’s sex and there’s sex. No, I don’t write really steamy sex scenes. If people want that they can go to Fifty Shades of Arousal, romance novels or porn, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t sex in my stories.

I’d say I approach it more obliquely. We know the characters have or have had sex, but we don’t get the play by play like from the Howard Cosell scene at the end of Woody Allen’s Bananas (see link). It’s funny as hell and sort of makes fun of the overly purple sex scenes. 

Click here to see YouTube clip

Just as with violence, I don’t want the sex to be gratuitous. And, believe me, when working in Hollywood plenty of sex and violence were added to scripts strictly to have sex and violence where it wasn’t really needed. Also added were other elements that seemed extraneous. But that’s for another post, I suppose.

I like the sexual relationships in my fiction to reflect on the larger relationship between the characters, as well as being a reflection of their character. In the third Duke Rogers novel I’m currently working on (after White Heat and Broken Windows), a character sleeps with Duke essentially as a way to deal with her own issues of insecurity and doubt. The relationship between her and Duke is tentative and very confusing for Duke, and shows his own ambivalence about relationships. So what they do sexually is less important than conveying the idea that both Duke and his love interest are flawed people with fears and insecurities. And sex is intimated at in other stories and novels of mine. It’s just not explicitly described like in a high school sex ed class.

Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity

Sex scenes can also often stop the forward momentum of a story, especially if they’re not integral to the plot in general. But in particular, it drives me crazy when the characters are on the run, in grave danger, but they have the time and inclination to stop everything and have sex. I think of movies in this regard. We’ve gone beyond the time when filmmakers and screenwriters added sex because there was an opening up of social mores and the end of the Hollywood Production Code. When all that loosened up filmmakers went bonkers adding sex and violence, much of it gratuitous, just because they could.  They were spreading their wings. I like to think we’ve gotten that out of our systems so that when we do have a sex scene it’s more integral to the plot. But seeing some of today’s movies, I’m not so sure about that…

Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice

I like this exchange from In a Lonely Place, one of my favorite movies, between Gloria Grahame and Humphrey Bogart, as they stand in the kitchen. She’s in a robe, all bleary-eyed from having just gotten up. He’s doing his best attempt at making breakfast. They’re not in a bedroom. They’re not having sex. Not even kissing. But as Bogart says, in other words, their little vignette is a good love scene:

Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame

Laurel Gray (Grahame): [referring to a scene in Dix's script] I love the love scene – it's very good.

Dixon Steele (Bogart): Well that's because they're not always telling each other how much in love they are. A good love scene should be about something else besides love. For instance, this one. Me fixing grapefruit. You sitting over there, dopey, half-asleep. Anyone looking at us could tell we're in love.

In the old days, movies had a code, so things were left to the viewer’s imagination. When Rhett carried Scarlett up those stairs, we didn’t have to see the culmination, our imaginations filled in the blanks.

The famous anklet in Double Indemnity

During the code days, you couldn’t show graphic sex, but somehow the filmmakers got the point across. Maybe these bits seem quaint today, but they worked. In both Cain adaptations, Double Indemnity and Postman, sex isn’t even imminent in the scenes where Fred MacMurray and John Garfield first spot Barbara Stanwyck and Lana Turner, but you know it’s there and you know it’s coming sooner or later.  There’s nothing graphic in these scenes, but they’re still steamy as hell. And I would say the beach scene in From Here to Eternity is one of the great sex scenes of all time, yet there’s no actual sex in it. And the one from Ghost World, in particular, I think is played for laughs, making fun of those earlier tropes.

Double Indemnity: We first meet femme fatale, Barbara Stanwyck, wrapped in a towel. A few minutes later she descends the stairs and we see her sexy little anklet. It’s clear she’s seducing Fred McMurray and we don’t need to be hit over the head with it.  

The Postman Always Rings Twice: Here John Garfield sets eyes on Lana Turner for the first time. Again, we really don’t need everything spelled out here. It’s clear what’s going on without having to get all the details.

From Here to Eternity: Possibly the sexiest scene ever filmed and all they do is kiss.

Ghost World: When they cut to the toy “rocking” horse, the implication is pretty obvious and funny at the same time.

So, I don’t think sex has to be particularly graphic to get the point across or to be, well, sexy. In fact, I would argue that too much detail kills a sex scene and is boring. Sometimes less is more.

But if you just need a sex fix, here’s some songs about sex that might do the trick. (I do like these songs, I admit.) Be warned, some graphic content, but these are not obscure songs. My wife says some people don’t get my sense of humor sometimes and I thought these would just add a light, but sexy note, to this piece 😉. And, while I do like these songs, as I say, I’m also adding them here strictly for prurient interest, he said in jest.

Berlin, “Sex, (I’m a…)” 

  

Divinyls: “Pleasure and Pain” 

 

Divinyls: “I Touch Myself”

Lilly Allen: “Not Fair”

Beatles: “Why Don’t We Do it in the Road”  

So, if people want to read particularly graphic sex scenes, I guess my stuff isn’t for them, at least up till now. If a story calls for it in the future, maybe. But if you want some good mystery-thriller-suspense, then I hope you’ll check out my works.

~.~.~

And now for the usual BSP:

A great review of Coast to Coast: Noir at Just Reviews:

Each story is filled with sadness, tragedy and each character experiences death in a different way. The titles alone are eerie and will give you the chills. A fabulous collection of well written noir short stories told in different settings with  characters that work in meat packing plants, feed companies, markets and not very lucrative jobs causing their downfalls and falling for the need to complete jobs that most would turn down. A superb collection for readers that want something odd, different and dangerous.

-- Fran Lewis, Just Reviews

And a very nice review of The Blues Don't Care at The Irresponsible Reader:

Marks hits the right notes with his prose and characters, creating a mystery that appeals on many levels. I recommend this for mystery readers looking for the kind of thing they haven’t read before.

--H.C. Newton, The Irresponsible Reader

Please join me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/paul.d.marks and check out my website  www.PaulDMarks.com

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ReDouble Double Indemnity

What do you think of fan fiction? Have you ever written any?

by Paul D. Marks

Since this is a fairly long post, let me mention my BSP at the head: My story Deserted Cities of the Heart appears in Akashic’s St. Louis Noir, which just came out on Tuesday of this week. Please see the end of this post for more details.

Now to the question at hand:

Like others here this week, I didn’t really know what to make of this question or how to respond. My initial thought to the questions were just to say “I really don’t think about fan fiction one way or another” and “No, I haven’t written any,” and leave it at that. But that would have made for a very short piece. Then I wrote a serious response based on the little I do know of fan fiction. Didn’t like that either. So I decided to try my hand at it. It’s my understanding that in one version of fan fiction, or fanfic, the writer creates a new ending for a well-known work. And what we have here is my fanfic alternate ending for the movie version of Double Indemnity, complete with Product Placement. And I know what I’m doing here is sacrilege (to me too) but hopefully also at least a little bit entertaining.

So, if you haven’t seen the movie there might be SPOILERS (sort of). If you have I hope I don’t ruin it for you. And since I came on this brainstorm late and close to the deadline, it’s probably not as polished as I would have hoped, nor as concise – so sorry if it’s a little on the long side, but hopefully worth a look. 

It also helps if you know the Double Indemnity story. If not, this probably won’t make sense to you. Oh hell, it might not make sense even if you know the story.


We pick up our intrepid hero, uh, anti-hero, Walter Neff in the offices of the Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company in the dead of night. The wounded Neff has been talking into a Dictaphone. His co-worker, Barton Keyes, has been listening to the last part of Neff’s confession of duplicity and………murder. Here we go:

Somewhere in the night, Walter Neff held a handkerchief over the bleeding chest wound. He’d looked around the office for a dressing, but all he found was Newman’s Own. It wouldn’t work so the handkerchief would have to do. He stumbled out of the office into the hall of the Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company. He slumped down. Barton Keyes watched from the open door behind him, unlit stogie in hand. He approached Neff.

“You’re really through now, Walter. All washed up.”

“We can’t all be the King of the World, huh, Keyes. Besides, I wish I had something to wash up with now.” Neff inched down the hall.

“Where do you think you’re going, Walter?”

“Mexico.”

“You’ll never make it.”

“You gonna stop me, Keyes?”

“Me and that gaping wound.”

Neff fumbled in his pocket again. Pulled out a sleek Mother of Pearl-handled revolver (sleek revolver on loan from Zales) with a stainless steel finish. Aimed at Keyes.

“What’s that, Walter?”

“My ace in the hole.”

“And what are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing, if you don’t stop me. Nice gun, don’t you think. I borrowed it from Mrs. Dietrichson.” 

“I’m sure she won’t miss it.”

“I’m sure she won’t.”

“You’ll never make the border.”

“Watch me.”

“No, you watch me, Walter.” Keyes stepped in front of Neff, blocking his path to freedom. Neff’s eyes locked on his, even though Keyes was about a foot shorter. “We should have brought some apple boxes, huh, Keyes.”

“You think of everything, Walter. I’ll make a note to contact the grip department about that.”

“I love you, Keyes, but me and my gat gotta do what we gotta do.”

“I love you, too, Walter.”

Bam!

Keyes hit the ground. Neff took Keyes’ keys from his pocket, including his 20 Year Anniversary Gold Key.

“Sorry, Keyes.”

Neff jammed the handkerchief against his wound to slow the bleeding and a paper towel roll in his pants for his ego (Brawny, of course!). He staggered down the upper hall, limping past Raymond Chandler, still sitting there in that chair unnoticed all these decades. Chandler jerked his foot out, trying to trip Neff. 

“Damn, I hate when my characters get away from me,” Chandler mumbled.

Neff, coughing blood, danced around Chandler. And being Fred MacMurray, he pulled out his Selmer Gold Medal saxophone, seemingly from nowhere, and played a few bars of Coleman Hawkins’ “I’m Through with Love,” and he wished he were. But he knew he wasn’t. He threw the sax over the railing down to the ground floor, slid down the banister. Danced toward Max, the 800 year old night watchman.

“Here, Max.” he said, handing him the keys.

“Why, ain’t those Mr. Keyes’ keys, his gold key too?”

“Keyes won’t be needing his keys anymore.”

“Are they the keys to the kingdom?” Max laughed at his own insipid joke.

“Only if the kingdom is Pacific All-Risk Insurance.”

“What about that special key of Keyes’?”

“What key is that?”

“The glass key.”

“Don’t have it.”

“Well, then can I borrow your rod?”

“No can do.” Neff headed for the front door of the building.

“Don’t catch cold. This weather’ll be the death of you,” Max said.

“Yeah, Max. Sure.” Neff tipped his fedora.

He dashed out of the fog into the rain-slicked street. His car was waiting for him in the red zone in front of the building. Luckily no ticket, especially since three motorcycle cops were standing chewing the fat just across the street. He put the key in the ignition. Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr. It wouldn’t turn over. Movie cars never start the first time, he thought, sweating blood.

After a few tries it turned over. He zigged and zagged through downtown LA, veering straight towards a watermelon cart – ’cause according to Siskel and Ebert there’s always a watermelon cart or similar to be slammed into.

Pedal to metal, racing at a reckless 73, as much as the car could do and fast for the day, he zipped over to Phyllis’ very cool Los Feliz house. Amazing how he could drive through the streets willy nilly and no one called the cops on him. And no cops saw him. 

He screeched to a stop in front of Phyllis’ house. Limped up the walk – first on one leg, then on the other, ’cause the script supervisor messed up – to the still-open door. Phyllis lay on the Spanish-tiled living room floor, coughing up blood. 

“That’s still a honey of an anklet,” Neff said, admiring the anklet on her leg.

“Walter, is that you?” Her eyes opened slowly. They stared at each other, both bleeding buckets – so much that for any mortal people they would have been dead hours ago. Love in their eyes. (Okay, I ain’t no romance novelist.)

“Oh, bay-bee, I’m so sorry.” Neff helped Phyllis to her feet. Stuffed some Kleenex Soft and Soothing tissues into her wound.

He pulled two cigarettes from the pack of Lucky Strikes. Held the box up to the camera (what camera, hey this is my story). Put them both in his mouth and lit them.

“Isn’t that from another movie?” Phyllis said.

“You know what they say, good artists borrow, great artists steal.”

“Did Nietzsche say that?”

“Joe Nietzsche down at the Five and Dime. I don’t think so.”

They smoked cigarettes holding hands, blowing smoke at each other. 

“That’s a nice outfit, what do you call that?”

“It’s a crimson kimono.”

“I like it.” He admired her anklet from Jared Galleria of Jewelry (213-555-1944). “How much did that honey of an anklet cost, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not enough, my husband was a cheap SOB.”

“Well, now he’s a dead SOB. But I love you, baby.”

“Me too, Walter,” she cooed. “You think we can make another go of it?”

“Sure, just get some Mercurochrome so we can get fixed up.”

They moved to the bathroom. She pulled the Mercurochrome, BandAid brand bandages and Bactine from the shelf. “Damn,” she said, turning the three items to face the camera. She slathered Mercurochrome on him and he on her. It was very sensual. They closed with the Bactine and BandAids. 

“Good as new.”

“Good as new, Walter. Straight down the line.”

“Straight down the line, baby.”

“I love you, Walter.”

“The last guy that said that to me didn’t fare so well.”

“You look hot, baby.”

“I am hot, Walter, white hot, with the white heat of a thousand suns.” She returned to the living room, Neff trailing.

“Do you really think we can make it? Do you really think we have a chance?”

“Why not? We’re not any different than any other pair of cold blooded killers.”

“But look, there’s a shadow on the wall. Isn’t that bad luck?”

“Don’t let it spook you.”

The door opened. Channing Tatum walked in.

“I feel dizzy,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Mike, Magic Mike. But I think I stepped into the wrong–”

“Take a hike Magic Mike.” Neff pushed Tatum out the door. He was just about to close it when Nino Zachetti walked in. He had that surly look they hired him for.

“What gives?,” he barked, giving Phyllis the once over. “I thought we were going to hook up tonight.”

“Run off, little man,” Neff said.

“What’s the gag?” Zachetti said.

“Do like the man says, Nino.” Phyllis nudged him toward the door.

“The name is Zachetti. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Phyllis stuck her hand into Neff’s pocket, slid the gun out. She shot Zachetti, philosophically.

“We better lam, bay-bee,” Walter said.

“Yes, Walter. We better lam.”

She packed for every occasion, her travel suit, dinner dress, evening dress, evening gown, after-dinner dress, before-dinner dress, cocktail dress, lounging by the pool dress and matching shoes, handbags and anklets for each outfit. They strolled down the walk to Neff’s car, Neff limping on one leg and then the other. The honeysuckle smells like murder, Neff thought. Why can’t I hear my own footsteps – that’s a bad omen. Wait, it’s cause I’m wearing New Balance sneakers, quieter than quiet. He breathed a sigh of honeysuckle-filled relief. They got into his car, which wouldn’t start, but finally did. They drive by night down to Sunset Boulevard.

“This LA late at night is some place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s a fantastic sight.”

“I feel like I’m being sucked into some kind of exciting vortex with you, Walter,” she murmered, seductively. “What street is this?”

“Scarlet Street, but some people call it the street of chance.”

“I should have known. This is some dark passage we’re on. A truly dark journey.”

“Nothing but a journey into fear.”

“Watch it, Walter. You better take that detour down that sidestreet. Less cops in the dead of night.

“No problem. It’s just a pitfall.”

They drove and drove, down to the border, all the way to the big heat of Acapulco.

“I need a drink, baby.”

“Something cold, Walter. There’s a café. La Mar Azul, sounds pretty.”

They parked where the sidewalk ends, walked across the road. Loud voices spilled out of the café as they entered.

“What’s that yelling?” Phyllis said.

 “You don’t own me,” the woman said.

“If it weren’t’ for you we would never have gone to jail,” her husband shouted.

“Me, don’t you mean you?”

“What goes on?” Neff said to the waiter.

“Oh, that is Señor Joe Guidice and his wife Teresa. They are very noisy.”

“This is my nightmare,” Phyllis said.

“It’s nothing but a little fear in the night.”

“Well, I’m in a lonely place, Walter, a very lonely place.”

“How can you be lonely with all that shouting?”

“What’re you looking at,” Teresa Guidice said, aiming a daggers glare at Neff and Phyllis. Phyllis shot back with her own patented stare. The Guidices slunk away.

“Here is your table.” The waiter sat Phyllis and Walter in the dark corner, knowing they’d want their backs to the wall. He left so they could peruse the menu.
Phyllis rang a bell for the waiter to come back.

“Did you ring, madame?”

“Twice.” She said. “I’d like a slushy margarita made with Gran Patron Platinum Tequila and just a touch of evil.”

“I didn’t know you could get slushy margaritas. I didn’t think they existed yet.” Neff ordered a Captain Morgan rum and Coke. “Heavy on the rum.”

Just then a stunning woman in stunning white stepped into the doorway, framed and silhouetted in the door, the stunning sun beaming around her. A tall man joined her. The man zeroed in on Phyllis. 

“Don’t I know you somewhere from out of the past?” he said to Phyllis.

“How could you? We’ve never met.”

“Sure. Sure. Up at Lake Arrowhead. Phyllis, right? You married that rich guy from Los Feliz.”

“What goes on?” the stunning woman in stunning white said.

“I’m Jeff Baily. You must remember this,” Baily said directly to Phyllis. He was sloe-eyed and slow moving. “This is my, uh, friend, Kathie Moffat. Isn’t she stunning?”

The jealousy grew exponentially in Phyllis’ eyes.

“Seems like I’m the odd man out here,” Neff said.

“Me too,” the stunning woman said.

“You’re no man, bay-bee,” Neff said to the stunning woman in stunning white.

At the same moment, Phyllis and the stunning woman in stunning white both pulled guns. They quickly eyed each other’s pieces to see whose was bigger. Bam! Phyllis shot Baily. He landed on the floor, headed for the big sleep. He fought to open his eyes, a struggle for this actor even when he hasn’t been shot, “Build my gallows high, baby. But make sure you use sustainable wood.” His eyes closed for the last time…maybe.

The stunning woman in stunning white squeezed the trigger. Phyllis squeezed faster. Bam! The stunning woman in stunning white fell to the floor creating a stunning crimson tide. Phyllis turned to 
Neff.

“Give me a kiss, Walter, a kiss before dying.”

“I died a thousand times since meeting you.”

She leaned up, kissed him on the lips.

“The kiss of death?” he whispered.

“Yes, Walter, the kiss of death.”

“You’re crazy, Phyllis,” Neff said with his dying breath.

“Not crazy, Walter, just gun crazy.”

Phyllis looked triumphant. She turned to the camera (yeah, that one), “I’m the Queen of Noir!”

***

There are around 30+ film noir titles (and a couple not noir maybe) in this piece. How many can you pick out? There’s a list at the very end of this post.

Also, I absolutely love both Double Indemnity and Out of the Past and the actors in them, so I hope I haven’t offended anyone’s noir sensibilities by taking some liberties with them. They are two of my three favorite noirs, the other being the Garfield-Turner version of The Postman Always Rings Twice.

Now I guess I will be able to say “yes” to the second question, I’ve written fanfic.

***

And now for the usual delightful BSP:

My story Deserted Cities of the Heart appears in Akashic Books’ St. Louis Noir, hot off the press on 8/2/16. Hope you’ll check it out. I’m honored to be among such a great group of writers. Edited by Scott Phillips.

Publishers Weekly says, “…[I]t’s no surprise that the most notable tales are the work of three genre veterans…” including “…‘Deserted Cities of the Heart,’ by Paul D. Marks (‘White Heat’), [which] charts the fall of loner Daniel Hayden after he meets femme fatale Amber Loy at the Gateway Arch.”

http://www.amazon.com/St-Louis-Noir-Akashic/dp/1617752983/

www.PaulDMarks.com

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Here’s the list of titles (and a handful of extras) in ReDouble Double Indemnity. I hope I didn’t miss any:

Somewhere in the Night

Ace in the Hole

The Glass Key

Out of the Fog 

Crimson Kimono

White Heat 

Shadow on the Wall

They Drive by Night

Sunset Boulevard

LA Late at Night 

Vortex

Scarlet Street

Street of Chance

Dark Passage 

Journey into Fear

Detour

Sidestreet

Dead of Night

Pitfall

The Big Heat 

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Nightmare

Fear in the Night

In a Lonely Place

The Dark Corner

Touch of Evil

Out of the Past

Odd Man Out

The Big Sleep

Build My Gallows High

A Kiss Before Dying

I Died a Thousand Times 

Kiss of Death

Gun Crazy

Truth, Justice, the American Way and a Crazy Me

Looking back over your life can you see the early clues that you were going to be a crime writer one day?

by Paul D. Marks

Oh boy! Well, aside from the seven banks I robbed and my days as a benevolent hitman, sure. But I was disappointed never to make it onto the FBI’s Top Ten.

And while the romance of being an outlaw is tempting, I think my temperament is better suited to that of “crime fighter” and crime writer. And not just because they rhyme.

I have a bit of a different take on how I came to be a crime writer. I was influenced by film noir and crime movies and later by the great writers from Hammett and Chandler on up. But because of certain things in my checkered past I think I’ve always had a strong sense of justice. And, while not getting involved in marches or crusades, I’ve tried in my own way to bring a little justice to this world on a micro level.

Someone who knew me well told me a long time ago that he thought I was like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. I don’t think he meant it as a compliment, but I’ll take it as one. As I tell my wife, who would rather avoid confrontation than fight, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but at least you have to stand up for yourself or others. And I don’t do this as much anymore. I guess I’ve mellowed with age and the sage advice of my wife. And also knowing that I can’t fight every battle.

At some point, I figured out one way that I could make justice prevail was to write about it. I think the below stories illustrate what I mean when I say I think I was born to be a crime fighter-writer.

Everything below has been abbreviated and abridged. Names changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

La Barbera’s/West LA:

Many years ago (decades), my mother, grandmother and two brothers and I went to La Barbera’s (sadly no longer there) on Wilshire for dinner. Dad was out of town. We were seated in a booth. My youngest brother and me on one side of the booth. Mother, grandmother and middle brother on the other. The younger one was, well, young, squirming a little in the seat. The man in the next booth could feel him squirm through the seatbacks. He turned around and started yelling at my brother. Yelling and nasty! He finally turned around back to his companion. I didn’t like what he’d done so I started to mimic everything he said so he could hear it. I also started jamming my elbow into the back of the seat, so he could feel it on his side—yeah, I’m a little nuts, or used to be.

So he turned around, started yelling at my brother again. I said “I did it.” He didn’t respond, just turned away. But I couldn’t stop mimicking him. Well, to make a long story short, after some more back and forth, he ended up at our booth—pulling a knife on me. I had long hair and at that time it wasn’t cool with some people. And I thought everyone in the restaurant would de facto be on his side, especially the UCLA jocks sitting nearby on one side and a Marine in dress blues on another. But the jocks were on my side. One stood up and said, “I saw it, the guy pulled a knife on him [me].” And the Marine kept to himself. Eventually, we were moved to another side of the restaurant. Our original waitress came over to us, put her hand on my shoulder and thanked me for putting the guy in his place since he lived near the restaurant and came in every week with his sister causing trouble. But they couldn’t say anything since he was a customer. A couple other waitresses did the same. That made me feel good. But my mom and grandmother almost had heart attacks...

Dupar’s/Farmer’s Market:



Once again out to eat. With grandmother again and whole immediate family this time, dad included. Man in the next booth was yelling at his kid. Nasty. Deriding him for everything. Humiliating. Young kid, maybe around 5, 6, 7. As I say, because of my background things like this get my back up. “Why don’t you leave him alone?” I said. Uh oh! Paul’s at it again, the family thinks. Tell me to shut up. Nobody pulled a knife this time and the man’s wife finally got him to shut up. But I couldn’t help myself. And when it was over, nobody at my table said anything to me for some time. I guess they thought here goes crazy Paul again.

The Bus/Westwood:

A friend of mine and I were in Westwood which, at the time was a hub of activity. Crowded sidewalks. Lots of street traffic. A bus pulled up to a bus stop. An old man was running for it—“running” as best as he could. The bus driver saw him but didn’t wait. I was pissed. So I ran down to the next bus stop a block or two away, beating the bus by seconds—he was in traffic. When the driver opened the door I said “Why didn’t you wait for that old man?” The driver told me to “&#%*#@$ off” and drove off. I didn’t win that one, but maybe the next time the driver saw an old man running for his bus he would wait for him. Nah, not that guy. —And, of course, I’m abbreviating our conversation, but that’s what it amounted to.

The LAPD/West LA

I can honestly say that I pulled a gun on the LAPD and lived to tell about it. After all, here I am.
According to some people, if the LAPD is known for one thing it's for being trigger happy, ready to bust people up. Well, I'm happy to be able to say that I'm one of the few people to have pulled a gun on two cops and lived to tell about.

* * *

I was living in a four unit apartment building in West LA, a good neighborhood. Three downstairs units, one upstairs unit. I lived in the upstairs unit and had a view of the front door to the middle apartment downstairs from the top of the outdoor stairs. The woman who lived there had been attacked by a guy who tried to rape her. Her face was black and blue from the first attack.

The first time it happened, I was in my apartment (the only upstairs unit in a four unit building) and heard yelling and screaming. I went outside. Sally’s (name changed) boyfriend said something about her being attacked and the guy was in the alley. Her boyfriend and I chased him down the alley. The police came out in force, including choppers that lit up the alley like daylight. But they didn’t’ catch the guy.

Every night after the first I would search her apartment for her when she came home from work, if her boyfriend wasn’t there. I'd let her sleep on my couch. And then she started staying at her boyfriend’s place off and on, so I asked her to let me know if the cops were going to stake out her apartment. She said she would.

Then, one night I’m watching “In a Lonely Place” on the tube (one of my favorite movies) when I heard helicopter noises. I grabbed my politically incorrect pistol, headed to my front door. I opened the door slowly and headed out to the landing at the top of my stairs. I watched a chopper circle above. Then, two scuzzballs came out of Sally's apartment at the bottom of the stairs. Greasy long hair. Big mustaches. Dirty clothes. The bad guy and a friend?

This was one of those situations where you don't have time to think. You have to act.

"Hold it," I said, aiming near-point blank at them only a few yards below. I could have dropped them both before they had a chance to turn around. "Turn around, slowly."

It was just like in the movies.

They did as ordered. Turned s-l-o-w-l-y.

"We're the police," the scuzzier of the two said. "Put the gun away and go inside."

I asked for ID and he badged me, cautiously. That was good enough for me. I went inside. So much for a trigger happy LAPD, though I wouldn’t try this today. It’s a whole different world.

Back in my apartment, “In a Lonely Place” was still on. And then the reality hit. Jesus, they were cops. And I had pulled a gun on them. The movie droned in the background. It could have been anything as far as I was concerned. I was freaking out. Visions of SWAT teams surrounding my apartment flashed through my mind.

The thoughts grew larger. What should I do? Sally hadn’t told me the police were staking out her place, as she’d promised. Now I’d pulled a gun on two cops. I called her apartment. One of the cops answered.

"Are you the guy from upstairs with the gun?" he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Man, you really made me nervous."

Not as nervous as I was when I found out you were the cops, I thought, but didn't say. He was cool. They weren't going to bust me. I had, indeed, pulled a gun on the LAPD and lived to tell about it.
Sally moved out not too long after that. And, shortly after that the Westside Rapist was caught a block away. Not sure if it was the same guy who attacked Sally, but I tend to think it was.

***

So there you have it. My crazy adventures seeking truth, justice and the American Way...and there’s more. But I guess that’s for another time. So when I started writing I naturally gravitated towards telling stories where the bad guys would get punished. What better genre to do that than crime writing. Of course, sometimes, especially in the noir genre, the bad guys don’t get caught, but then there is always the great hand of fate that I can bring down on them as I sit at my computer screen in my captain’s chair and steer my boat to exact revenge and justice in the world. …Okay, so I’m a little over the top but you get the idea.

I don’t do this much anymore – after all, someone might pull a gun on me. And I don’t think the bullets would bounce off my chest.

*** *** ***

Hope to you see at the California Crime Writers Conference:

(http://ccwconference.org/ ). June 6th and 7th. I’ll be on the Thrills and Chills (Crafting the Thriller and Suspense Novel) panel, Saturday at 10:30am, along with Laurie Stevens (M), Doug Lyle, Diana Gould and Craig Buck.

Please join me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/paul.d.marks and check out my soon-to-be-updated website www.PaulDMarks.com

Subscribe to my Newsletter: http://www.pauldmarks.com/subscribe.htm

The Good, The Bad and The Bookly!

Is it true that bad books make good movies and good books make bad ones?

There's no hard and fast rule about whether good books make bad movies or bad books make good ones. There's only about a million factors involved, from the screenwriters to the director, the producer, cast and probably even down to the crafts services personnel. And let's not forget the source material.

Books and movies by their natures are very different beasts and require different aesthetics and elements. Movies have to convey a lot of information in a small amount of time, so overly complicated story lines can drag a movie down. Books can handle information in a more leisurely manner, description of places and people are more important, and you can get more into the heads of the characters, examine their thoughts and feelings. A book has to wrap you up inside itself because it can’t rely on a visual picture to get across the look and feel of the characters and settings. And a movie should grab the essence of the book, without necessarily being true to every detail of it (see LA Confidential below). These changes can – on occasion – make the movie better than the book.

So, some good books make good movies and some good books make bad movies. And some bad books make good movies and some make bad movies. Well, of course, nothing is true all the time. And I wouldn't venture a generality, but it works both ways.

It's hard to narrow it down to a few examples as there's so many choices of each combination. And it's also hard to distill down the essence of why this worked and that didn’t, as each one that I've chosen could stand an entire essay on that subject. Here's a sampling, though I'm sure not everyone will agree with my assessments. And I'm sure I'll offend somebody with each one, but here goes (in no particular order):

Spoilers ahead:

In a Lonely Place (Dorothy B. Hughes): Good book, great movie. This is tied for my second favorite movie after Casablanca. I like it for a lot of reasons, but especially the story of the angry and alienated screenwriter. And I know I may offend some people here, Dorothy B. Hughes fans in particular, but for me the movie version is a huge improvement over the book, and I liked the book, but I didn't love it. The book, as I recall it, is a pretty straight-forward serial killer story. The movie takes the basics of the book and adds an ambiguity that leads to a much more bittersweet and poignant story and ending than in the book. So this is a case where the filmmakers did change a certain essence of the story, but it works out for the better. And if you want to hear a really good song based on this movie check out the Smithereens' "In a Lonely Place," which even cops a couple of the film’s most famous lines: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ro6mucYQeN4

The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown): Bad book, bad movie. Sometimes bad books make bad movies. I know a lot of people like this, but in my maybe not so humble opinion, the book was very poorly written. It's a prime example of a great idea poorly executed. And the movie didn’t try to break out of the cardboard characters created in the book. It concentrated on remaining relatively faithful to the plot and didn’t stray so the movie remained as weak as the book.

Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe): Great book, horrendously horrible, piece of garbage movie: Why? Because, if I recall, as it's been a long time since I've seen it and I won't punish myself with wasting two hours of my life again, the producers didn't have the courage to do the book. The book is filled with various sensitive and controversial elements that deal with race and our perceptions of justice in society and the producers didn't have the courage to do that on the screen, so they turned it into a lame parody of what the book was trying to convey. And the movie was bad on every possible level.

The Godfather (Mario Puzo): Okay book, a fun and quick read, great movie. In fact, one of the greatest American movies of all time. The movie, through great acting, directing, cinematography, a haunting sound track and a terrific screenplay, took a pulpy story about gangsters and made it a saga about family honor, tradition, a way of life and the struggle for the American Dream.  

LA Confidential (James Ellroy): Good book, great movie: Curtis Hanson and Brian Helgeland took Ellroy's sprawling novel, condensed it, pureed it and simplified it, making a tight, cohesive and powerful movie out of it, while still keeping the essence of the novel intact.

Mildred Pierce (James M. Cain): Good, maybe just okay book, good movie (the 1946 version w/ J. Crawford). Here the screenwriters and director took a major liberty with the book. SPOILER AHEAD: In the book the Monte character (Mildred's second husband) does not get murdered. In the movie he does. And this brings more tension, drama and mystery to the movie, without, IMO, messing with the basic integrity of the story line. And while the Kate Winslett mini-series follows the book more closely, to me it was more plodding and in a word, boring. Though I guess I'm in the minority here as on IMDB the Winslett version gets 7.7 out of 10 stars, and the Crawford version 8. So almost a neck and neck tie. Oh well.

The Long Goodbye (Raymond Chandler) – Great book, wretched movie. Okay, I know a lot of people love this movie, think it's some kind of cult classic, etc. To me the only really good thing about it is the location of Marlowe's apartment, the Hightower Apartments in Hollywood, where I once looked into renting a place. Really cool building. But Elliot Gould's Marlowe, despite what some say is a Marlowe for the times (the 1970s), is not Chandler's Marlowe by a long shot. And Chandler was, and probably still is, rolling over in his grave at this one. And now that I've pissed off a bunch of people, I've got the Kevlar helmet and flak jacket ready to take the incoming.

 
And now for a little BSP: in addition to my novel WHITE HEAT, just out is LA LATE @ NIGHT, a collection of noir and mystery short stories. So far available on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback. And other venues shortly too.