Sometimes it takes a warm cadaver for people to take notice of forgotten novelists. I had hoped that would happen with James Purdy, above (photo by Robert Giard), who died on Friday the 13th, this past March. But even though the New York Times honored him with a perfunctory obituary, few others in the media paid homage. The “In Memoriam” segment of This Week with George Stephanopolous, for instance, cited several celebrity deaths that Sunday, but made no mention of James Purdy, whom some have argued was one of America’s finest authors. When I mentioned this to Alfred Corn, a writer and friend, he turned to me with obvious surprise and an unspoken “duh” and said “Well, of course not. He was gay.”

I guess that’s what it comes down to in the end, although James Purdy’s work covered a much wider and far more bizarre terrain than simply homosexuality. He wrote of serial killers, society misfits, and what New Directions cited as “the paradox of love and loneliness.” Perhaps you’ve never heard of him. I wouldn’t be surprised, even though he wrote numerous darkly comic novels, including the acclaimed Jeremy’s Version; The Nephew; Cabot Wright Returns; and Narrow Rooms. One of my favorite works of his is Colour of Darkness, an eerie short story first published as 63: Dream Palace. It was the first of his pieces that garnered accolades, thanks to a rousing recommendation from Dame Edith Sitwell who, only occasionally prone to hyperbole, claimed he was the most significant writer to come along in a hundred years.

John Powys called him “certainly the best kind of original genius of our day.” The Times of London said, vis a vis Malcolm, perhaps his best-known novel, “Mr. Purdy writes like an angel… a fallen angel, versed in the sinful ways of man.” Dorothy Parker, who knew a few things about humor, called Malcolm, “The most prodigiously funny book to streak across these heavy-hanging times.” Orville Prescott, who so famously dissed Gore Vidal, championed Malcolm’s young author, stating that “Mr. Purdy is in some danger of becoming the center of a literary cult.”

What also surprised me about Purdy’s death — certainly not unexpected since he was 94 — was that the New York Times obituary felt like it had been rushed into print, without any preparation. It left out two very prominent facts of his wide-ranging career. First, it made no mention of Edward Albee’s play version of Malcolm which opened on Broadway in 1966 and ran a scant seven performances. Not every writer can lay claim to such a monumental flop.

And second, William Grimes, who wrote the obit, completely overlooked the cult film In A Shallow Grave, directed by Kenneth Bowser, starring Michael Biehn and Patrick Dempsey, which was adapted from Purdy’s novel of the same name. It was produced by American Playhouse in 1988. As far as I know it has never been released on DVD.

As a tribute to James Purdy, who lived in Brooklyn and whom I once met briefly at a literary party, I decided to devote last night to rewatching In A Shallow Grave. Sadly, it’s not on Netflix; I had to make do with a scratchy old VHS copy. Of course, I’ve seen the film a dozen times. But I wanted to savor its dark, tortured mysteries yet again. Michael Biehn gives the performance of his career in it, as a soldier returned from the war with severe disfigurements to his face — a far cry from his Terminator beefcake roles. In fact, he is so unattractive in this film that you can hardly recognize him.

Categorized as a gay film when it came out, because it included some homoerotic themes, In A Shallow Grave is anything but. It’s a deeply disturbing film about war, race relations, male bonding, and the redeeming power of love. When the book was first released, the New York Times Book Review stated emphatically: “In A Shallow Grave is a funny…and touching book…a modern Book of Revelation, filled with prophesies, visions and demoniac landscapes. It will bring to Purdy the wider audience he deserves.” Perhaps it still can.

ADDENDUM

Here are links to two fascinating interviews that will illuminate much more than I can say about James Purdy: Here and There.

Burrowing Into Raymond Burr

Forget Bette Davis. Why isn’t there a song entitled “Raymond Burr’s Eyes”?

Recently I’ve been on something of a Perry Mason bender. Thanks to this no-good shoulder of mine, which makes writing and anything else for that matter, difficult, I’ve been on a woe-is-me TV watching binge. Being a couch-potato seems to be the only activity I can engage in that does not aggravate my injury — unless I try and open the refrigerator door in search of a snack.

The problem with being a couch potato these days is that there is absolutely nothing worth watching on television! I’m dead serious. I have over 500 channels available to me, half of which seem to be devoted to basketball games. It doesn’t matter what time of year we are in. There are at least 40 stations of swooshes and slam-dunks and sweat-stained giants. The immensely high scores of these games remind me of the old McDonald’s signs “7,600,000,000″ sold. It’s time to change the rules of the game. Basketball is just too damn easy.

Even that old fave of mine, now in its 25th year (in its second incarnation), Jeopardy, has become a victim of the times. Has anyone else noticed how insidiously they have begun to insert ads into their categories and clues? I don’t mean blatant ads for Alka-Seltzer or Viagra, but there are promotional tie-ins to certain TV shows coming up later that evening or films coming out that week. And occasionally there are questions that lead directly into a commercial that is somehow sinisterly tied to the answer just given. It’s subtle enough that it may just whiz by without your noticing it the first time, but when you have nothing else to do except stare at the tube in disbelief, you start to see a pattern. In fact, just yesterday, there was an entire category devoted to well-known consumer brands, including Armour hot dogs. Is Jeopardy’s producer getting paid for product placement? Merv Griffin must be rolling in his grave.

So in that spirit I decided to forgo commercial television for some DVDs my brother had very generously put together for me a few years back featuring some old Perry Mason episodes. The first time I watched these touchstones of my youth I was absolutely entranced. To see these ancient TV shows, starring the great stout-hearted Raymond Burr, brought back a flood of sweet childhood memories. The show started the year I was born. So by the time I was old enough to turn on the TV myself, I must have been a veteran Perry Mason watcher. Later, of course, I watched them endlessly like a porn-loop in syndication and memorized each episode the way others did their favorite Mary Tyler Moore or Honeymooners shows.

There was always something eternally satisfying about the Perry Mason formula which appealed to my desire for order in a chaotic world. Every storyline promised a deeply gratifying resolution. And each episode was nearly identical. Not just because all of them had an old-fashioned beginning, middle and end, but because the murderer always revealed himself or herself in the courtroom in the last few minutes of the show, followed by a wry denouement between Della Street and Perry Mason and his side-kick Paul Drake.

Watching the slightly grainy episodes on the Hallmark channel, which has been rebroadcasting them for years, I soon realized that at least ten minutes of each episode had been cut out to accommodate the new commercials. It was not until the first authorized DVDs were released a year or two ago that I realized this unfortunate turn-of-events, and it helped explain why I was having such a hard time figuring out ‘whodunnit’ while watching those chopped-up episodes. Whole stretches of dialogue and action were missing.

So it was a revelation to see them again in their entirety, without commercial interruption. Thanks to my local library, I’ve been able to order the first two seasons for free — in sparkling clean restored versions that showcase the stunning cinematography. The earliest Perry Masons from 1957 and 1958, when Raymond Burr was at his thinnest, are like fantastic mini-films noir, cleverly written, well-directed and ably acted with many a surprising star cameo. Watching these in succession, I’ve been like a junkie finally getting his fix. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, due to the sharp pains in my left arm, which make tossing and turning a form of agony that only water-boarding might surpass, and simply put on another episode of good old Perry Mason to get me through those long, dark hours. It’s like a ray of heaven amidst the hell.

What does any of this have to do with my blog — “An Open Book”? Well, the more I fell in love with Raymond Burr as Perry Mason — and those delicious bedroom eyes (which were in fact a startling blue)  — the more I yearned to explore his life and career. Of course, I knew Raymond Burr’s top credits: his terrifying turn in Rear Window as Lars Thorberg, badly dyed wife-dismemberer (above); his maniacal D. A. in A Place in the Sun who bores into Montgomery Clift with sadistic glee; and his one-day’s work on the American-version of Godzilla as “Steve Martin” — a panicky Armageddon-fearing reporter.

I even was faintly aware of his work in the TV series Ironside, a ground-breaking drama about a burly and bullying ex-cop in a wheelchair. Burr also distinguished himself in a series of gritty crime and suspense thrillers during the 40s and 50s, including classics such as Abandoned, Borderline, and Unmasked.

He owed a lot to his predecessor Laird Cregar (see my previous post about The Lodger). In fact, Burr looked a lot like Cregar and suffered similar type-casting. It’s to Burr’s immense credit that he managed to break out of that potential trap and found so many diverse character roles, including Nick Ferraro in His Kind of Woman, holding his own against larger-than-life stars Robert Mitchum, Vincent Price and Jane Russell.

But I knew nothing about the man, his birthplace, family, schooling, and so-called private life. Well, a new book entitled Hiding in Plain Sight: The Secret Life of Raymond Burr by Michael Seth Starr has just come out that purports to answer those gaps in my education. But I’m afraid it fails to deliver. Hastily written and padded with filler (Do we really need to be told the plot of Rear Window again?) it is really just an excuse to ridicule Burr for being overweight, a heavy smoker, and a closeted homosexual. Written in sly, smarmy “Page Six”-style prose, this phony bio is thin on detail and fat with insinuation.

The book jacket informs us that Starr interviewed “thirty people” to write this expose. I’ve interviewed more people to find out if there is a good place to eat in Little Rock, Arkansas. This exercise in banality promises to examine “the totality of Raymond Burr’s career and his personal life, including his relationship with his partner of over thirty-five years, Robert Benevides.” I seriously doubt anyone could accuse Raymond Burr of being a “secret homosexual” when he lived quite openly with a man for so many years. Besides, Burr was from Canada. And if I know anything about Canadians, it’s that they don’t subscribe to the same ridiculously narrow Puritanical values as we do South of the Border. Look at Burr’s gaze at Lizabeth Scott below. Isn’t it just possible that Burr was capable of loving both men and women? Why must his private life be parsed and pigeon-holed so that a presumably straight author can narrowmindedly dissect Burr’s sexual identity in order to make a fast buck? He is certainly not adding any scholarly insight into an iconic figure.

Starr offers the tall-tales that Burr told about his private life as proof that he was ashamed of being gay and fearful that he’d be found out. But like any serious actor, Raymond Burr made a clear distinction in his own mind between his public persona as a star and his private life. Perhaps he went further than most celebrities, concocting two wives who never existed and a mysterious son that no one can trace. But it seems obvious from the sources cited here that Burr had little control over how the studio spin-doctors crafted his press image. And once burdened with these myths, he stuck to the fabrications not out of some bizarre pathological obsession with lying about his past but with a sense of weariness and disdain for the entire process. Many stars have had to battle similar demons. It came with the territory of old Hollywood. One can hardly blame Raymond Burr for the lack of due diligence on the part of papers like the New York Times which printed the studio’s oft-repeated inventions without any fact-checking.

Whole passages of this book read as if lifted from long ago press reports, and are written in an annoying “gotcha” style. Why else would Starr feel it necessary to add “sic” after the word “altho” in a Hedda Hopper column? Doesn’t he know anything about tabloid lingo? He should since he claims to have covered television for the New York Post for a dozen years. If so, he must be as bored as I am by what’s on the boob tube these days.

Nevertheless there are some fun moments hidden among the dross. I, for one, did not know that William Talman, who played Perry Mason’s favorite nemesis, Hamilton Burger, was arrested during an all-nude pot party in Hollywood. I don’t think I can ever watch an episode again without thinking of the bumbling D. A. Burger smoking reefer in his birthday suit. Likewise there are some juicy revelations about a sexual escapade Raymond Burr allegedly had with a drag queen he met in Greenwich Village. Even then Starr seems content to accept the accuser, who first sold his story to Confidential magazine back in the 60s, as a reliable source.

No doubt if this were happening today Burr’s and Talman’s indiscretions would end up exposed on YouTube or some x-rated internet blog. But at least they would be shown at face value without the snooty tone of books like this one. How many times is it necessary for the author Starr to tell us about Raymond Burr’s eating disorder? I think we all know he liked to eat. But what does that have to do with his talent? If I wanted to read a biography of a food addict, there are others to choose from. I picked up this tome because I want to know what made the man who was Perry Mason tick. Not what he had for lunch in between camera shots. Luckily for us, Raymond Burr is his own best monument. He is like Old Ironsides itself. An icon of strength, virtue and intelligence in an era of shameless corruption and dumbing-down.

I’m on the road this week on my way to Austin, Texas. Since I neglected to bring anything to read with me, I thought I’d check out youtube and pore through some old videos. I happened to type in Alan Ladd (one of my favorite actors) and discovered that some kind soul has uploaded an entire copy of his 1949 version of The Great Gatsby, directed by Elliott Nugent. It’s a film I’ve wanted to see ever since I first read the book but it’s been almost impossible to find. I used to scour used video stores for a copy on VHS, with no luck.

This film as far as I know has never been released on DVD and rarely shows up on TV. You can watch the movie yourself (it’s broken up into ten easy-to-view portions). The only bugaboo is that it has Portuguese subtitles, but I found myself fascinated reading them. It was like reading and watching The Great Gatsby at the same time, although with a pronounced Portuguese accent.

You can find the videos here. Gatsby.  I hope the fellow who posted them won’t mind my showcasing a few screen caps here to illustrate my comments about it.

This 1949 version stars Alan Ladd in the title role, Betty Field (badly miscast) as Daisy Buchanan, Macdonald Carey as a stiff Nick Carraway, a tough Barry Sullivan as Tom Buchanan and the always amazing Ruth Hussey as Jordan Baker. Elisha Cook, Jr. (who played the “gunsel” in The Maltese Falcon with such poignant angst) has a bit part. Ed Begley, Sr. plays Myron Lupus (Meyer Wolfsheim, the Arnold Rothstein character.)

The big surprise here is Shelley Winters as Myrtle Wilson. She looks sexier than in any film I’ve seen her in and she gives a knockout performance as the girl who lives above the gas station. Shelley Winters has to be the most underrated actress in Hollywood history.

Die-hard fans of the novel will be disappointed in this 40s adaptation. The producers must have felt that the basic story was not dramatic enough so they jazzed up the script with a lot of bootlegging lingo, changed the time period (moving it closer to the Crash of 29) and added fancy film noir flashbacks. It has a lot in common actually with Orson Welles’s Lady from Shanghai, released a year earlier, right down to the wise old mogul lounging on his yacht. Nevertheless it is light years better than the ghastly 70s Necco-Wafer-color version starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow. This 1949 take has lavish expressionistic sets and dark sinister lighting. Plus it does a smash-up job of emphasizing the evil eyeglasses of Dr. Eckleburg.

And it has Alan Ladd in a bathing suit. What more can you ask for?

There is a scene at the end when Gatsby is shot that is like something out of a film by Jean Renoir. The ecstasy in Gatsby’s face as he is killed is almost erotic.

The earliest version from 1926, starring Warner Baxter, is apparently lost (although a trailer luckily exists). Hopefully one day it will turn up in a vault in some ex-movie mogul’s mansion. I hear that Baz Luhrmann is remaking The Great Gatsby. I hope he sticks closer to the novel than these other efforts. Fitzgerald knew what he was doing. It’s a tale as timeless as the Jazz Age itself and does not need any “improving”.