Monopoly: A Novel of Atlantic City (Part Two)

Monopoly: A Novel of Atlantic City (Part Two)




Click here to read the first five chapters of Monopoly, with the accompanying introduction.

Chapter 6

Slumped on the sofa, Debbie was staring at the flickering TV set with a gaze as blank and unchanging as an old Conelrad test pattern broadcast at five in the morning. A teen dance show was on the tube, relayed live from happenin' Philadelphia, and Debbie's gaze was lost in the gyrations of the teens boogieing their hearts out up there for the camera's sake, while a disco diva moaned out her orgasmic cries. This was the sight that greeted me in my sunny living room, when I emerged from my shower at two the next afternoon after I got up. A sight out of The Twilight Zone. She looked like a fuckin' zombie. No, I take that back. As soon as I walked in the room, she looked like a hunted animal.

"The TV didn't wake you up, did it?" she asked fearfully.

After assuring her it hadn't, I drifted into the kitchen for coffee. We exchanged some small talk, but it was nothing to engrave on the Lincoln Memorial. Mostly I could tell when she looked at me that she was ashamed; because I'd seen her crying and afraid last night and I knew she'd been violated by the cops, she was worried that in my eyes she was soiled now.

I started breakfast. Life goes on. Initially she was transfixed by the constellation of phosphor dots in the next room, but the smell of the bacon seduced her, as I knew it would. She returned to the kitchen with a little less of the Jonestown look to her.

"I better be going," she said. "Like now."

"Stay for breakfast," I said. "You owe me that."

She glared at me. She actually glared at me. It was the first time she hadn't acted like she was crawling into a hole to lick her wounds and die.

"What do I—" she started to say. "What do I—"

"Where are you going? You got anyplace?"

She blinked at me.

"You got anyplace to go to?"

She took a deep breath and got ready to say something.

"I wasn't just out hitching a ride last night," she said. "I was running away from home. I can't go back. Things are too bad there."

"Your mom?"

"Yeah."

"What about your dad?"

Her dad, it seems, had skipped out when she was two years old, and when last heard from, had mailed them a cheerful postcard from a tavern in Phillipsburg, Montana.

"At least sit down and supply me with a little company during breakfast, okay?" I asked. "I could use that."

She blinked violently and sat down at the dining-room table as if my invitation to breakfast had been as shocking as a hard slap to the face. I served bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice—the great all-American start-up. Although she didn't attack her vittles ravenously, she did eat. God knows I was starved. Afterwards we each sat back and enjoyed a smoke.

"So how are you doing?" I said. "Should I ask?"

She just stared at me. And otherwise, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?

"How do you think I feel? I feel shitty."

"I'll tell you the first thing I think we should do. Contact your mother. What's her phone number?"

Horror. "No. Oh no. I can't let her know. What'd she think?"

"Debbie, your mother has got to know sooner or later."

"No she doesn't. Nobody has to tell her."

"What about the cops? What they did to you? What are you going to do about them? Are you going to let them get away with it?"

She turned her face away. "Leave me alone."

"What about the other girls who're going to come after you? What about them?"

"You mean you think—"

"You think you're the first girl they've done this to around here? Or the only girl? Christ, Debbie, it's probably a regional sport. You think you're going to be the last girl?"

She began sobbing. I got up and smoked a cigarette quietly and looked out the window. Outside, bright sunlight was splashing down on the stippled green lawn. A beautiful summer day at the seashore. A great day to be alive.

When she finished, I got her a box of kleenex, and after she wiped her face and blew her nose several times, I asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"No."

"What's your mother's number? I'll talk to her."

She gave me a number with a 201 area code, 561 prefix. I dialed the number and hung on. The phone rang. Several times.

"Hello?" I got a slurred female voice: middle-aged. "Whoizit?"

"My name is Scott Lawrence. Is this the Miller residence?"

"I'm—Laurie Miller."

"Mrs. Miller, I'm calling from the Atlantic City area. I'm afraid your daughter Debbie has gotten into some trouble."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"She had a run-in with the cops. They nabbed her on what they say is a drug possession charge—"

"Drugs? She had drugs?"

"No Mrs. Miller, it looks like a frame-up, but—something more serious happened. They hurt her."

"How'd they hurt her? Put her on the phone."

Cupping my hand over the mouthpiece, I turned to Debbie. "You want to talk to your mother?"

"Okay," she said hesitantly, and took the phone from me.

"Hello Mom. No I'm—I'm not hurt bad. It's just— What?" She paused. "No I didn't have anything on me. You don't understand. They—" She was cut short.

She sat there listening, wide-eyed. Finally she clamped her eyes shut and the tears began to flow, and she held the phone away from her.

Quickly I snatched the phone and spoke into it. "Hello?"

The line was dead.

"What happened?"

"She hung up on me," she sobbed. "She said I shouldn't of been there in the first place, and anything I got I deserved. She said I could take care of myself. She was drunk."

"Yeah, I guessed that," I said and dialed the number again.

"What is it?" the lush on the other end demanded.

"Now listen Mrs. Miller. I don't think this is the kind of thing that can be adequately explained over the phone, but Debbie's in trouble. Deep trouble. She needs help. And I wanted to contact you—"

"Who the hell are you?"

"Scott Lawrence. A private investigator from New York. And your daughter has been seriously hurt."

"She seemed okay to me." There was a pause as she fumbled with a cigarette and lit it. "She shacking up with you?"

"Mrs. Miller, this conversation doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere. I was under the mistaken impression you—"

"You didn't answer my question. You fooling around with my daughter?"

"Your daughter was gang-raped by five policemen last night," I shouted. "Her rights were violated, among other things. So I'm throwing the book at the bastards who did it. You want to help me?"

A stunned silence. "What did you say?"

Debbie was hunched over in her chair, face buried in splayed red hands. She made no sound, no whimper, but it was terrible, terrible, terrible.

"You heard me. She was coerced into having sex in a jail cell in a small town down here at the shore. Bay City. I was—"

"I don't believe it," she said, followed by a crash as the phone dropped, and then silence.

Debbie raised her head. "Why did you have to tell her?"

"I love dealing with drunks," I said. I yelled, "Hello? Hello?" into the mouthpiece several times, but no response, and then the phone on the other end was hung up. When I tried again, the line was busy. She'd taken the phone off the hook.

"A great lady," I said, and replaced the phone. "I can imagine what your home life must be like."

"I wish I could just like disappear," Debbie said miserably, and pitching forward she disintegrated into hopeless broken sobs. It must be so wonderful to break the news to your parents. Dear Mommy and Daddy: Last night I was fucked by five cops. I was a little shaken up but now I'm fine.

I let her cry herself out, and then after the long drawn-out whuffling sobs had subsided into weak sniffles and occasional whimpers, I assisted her to her feet and escorted her to her room, where I put her to bed.

In the dining room, I sat down at the little pink telephone table and dialed my friend Jim Montgomery of the New York Times, who covered New Jersey state politics out of Trenton for the New Jersey Section, specializing in political corruption stories. He was seldom at a loss for material. Like many reporters, he was an intense, driven, doggedly unhappy person, married to his work, interested in little else but the pursuit of the truth, whatever the hell that is.

When his office informed me he was at the Trenton statehouse, covering today's legislative session, I rang the press room there and finally got him.

"Hello, Scott," he announced in his dry, humorous voice. "What's up?"

"I think I've got a story for you." And I elaborated on what'd gone down—emphasizing how the cops had intimidated Debbie in my presence when she started to blurt out what they'd done and then delivered a pretty thinly-veiled threat if she didn't shut up. I guess I got pretty worked up.

"I can see you're very caught up in this, Scott, but—do you think this is really a story for the Times? I mean, a standard—"

"This is a Hot Springs, Arkansas, deal, Jim. This kind of shit only happens in Mob-controlled communities. Where the cops know they can get away with it. Now I'm taking this all the way. The County Prosecutor's office is investigating and we're suing the city of Bay City and its police department for police brutality, police malpractice, rape, you name it. If you think the Inez Garcia or Joanne Little cases were big, jump back. Wait till the good fathers and mothers of America who flock to Atlantic City learn their sweet little innocent teenage daughters who come down here are getting bent over a barrel by the cops and fucked up the ass. If you're not interested in this story, Jim, I know Tom Evans at the Washington Post is just dying for a nice juicy outrage like this."

"Where's the girl now?"

"Staying at my cottage here in Bay City. It looks like she's my responsibility. Mom is incompetent and Dad's MIA. I'm engaging an attorney for her this weekend. Morris Goodman."

"Goodman? You mean Goodman who used to be with the—"

"U.S. Attorney's office under Lacey and Stern, that's right. He'll stick up for her. You coming down or not?"

"Scott, I'm just about to leave on vacation tomorrow."

"Goddamnit Jim, they picked the girl up off the fucking street and fucked her to death! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Why the hell are you a journalist anyway? I thought you were one because—"

"Don't yell at me. Or use that tone on me. Did the story really happen the way she tells it?"

"The medical report backs her up in every detail. And the honcho from the Prosecutor's office saw the bruises."

"You've done well in corroborating your case from the start. Look. I'll tell you what. I'll talk to my editor, but—I think I could come down tomorrow. Just to take a look around. Any more than that I can't promise."

"It's a deal. When can you make it?"

"How's noon sound to you?"

"Fine. What's happening in Trenton?"

"The usual. They caught an assemblyman from Middlesex County sodomizing a page in the toilet and a state senator from Burlington County is trying to explain why the agribusiness interests have been depositing paper bags full of small-denomination bills on his desk for the last three years."

Jesus defending the woman taken into adultery

"Glad to hear the place hasn't changed."

"What's her name?"

"Debbie. Debbie Miller."

"It sounds like you've got a lot of personal involvement in this case, Scott."

"Man, do you want to live in a world where teenage girls get gangbanged by small-town cops?"

We signed off and I hung up.

When I sauntered out the front door to fetch the morning paper—the Atlantic City Press—and stooped over to pick it up from the concrete path leading to my house, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A cop car. A Bay City cop car. Parked directly across the street from me. They were staking my home out.

Straightening up I gazed at it hard. A brand-new shining ivory-white police cruiser, with the gold Bay City seal on the door. Conover and Rossi sat in the front seat, Conover behind the wheel wearing mirrored sunglasses. They both stared at me coldly.

* * * * *

Nicky Scarfo, former Mob boss of Atlantic City

Chapter 7

The blazing sun beat down on me. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I don't know why it was so hot, or why it took me so long to cross that narrow street, my shoes scraping against the asphalt. But finally I was standing by the car, the paper rolled up in my hand, and Conover was looking up at me with cool insolence, the sunlight glinting off his mirrored shades. For what seemed like a long time, nobody said anything; the cops just stared at me contemptuously. It was dark inside the car. I shielded my eyes from the sun with a hand.

"Anything wrong, officers?"

"We got a call from the Atlantic City Medical Center," Conover said. "Seems there was a commotion at four in the morning."

"Related to some scurrilous rumors someone was mouthing off last night," Rossi said.

"What kind of rumors?"

"Everyone knows that bitch is a fuckin' liar," Conover said.

"She was examined by a doctor in the emergency room last night. There's medical evidence."

"No shit."

Rossi just smiled up at me. "So what? So who you gonna go to? The County Prosecutor? The State Police? The FBI maybe?"

"I just talked to a friend of mine from the New York Times. He's coming down tomorrow to do a story on it."

"Whoopee," Rossi said, twirling his index finger. "I'm shakin'."

"You don't understand how things run in this town," Conover said with an understanding smile.

"Yeah, buddy," Rossi said. "You don't watch it, you'll wind up slapped in jail."

"He looks like a drug user," Conover said, eyeing me. "Don't he look like a drug user to you, Gene?"

"Definitely," Rossi said.

"Take your Abbott-and-Costello routine somewhere else. But don't park in front of my house. Don't harass me. And don't you dare ever, ever try to intimidate me."

"You don't like it?" Conover said, and made an expansive grin. "Call the cops."

With a scowl I wheeled around and stalked back to my house. The paper was still clutched tightly in my hand.

I had just crossed the street and I was just stepping onto the sidewalk when I heard the two car doors open at once, as if by signal, and listened to the soles of their shoes scuff against the macadam as they got out.

"Mind if we come inside?" Rossi said. "There's some things we'd like to discuss."

When I turned around slowly to confront them, they were both facing me, teeth bared in tight grimaces, their hands resting on their gunbelts around their hips.

"What if I don't feel like having you in," I said.

"We got a search warrant," Conover declared happily.

"You think of everything."

"We don't fuck around," Conover said.

"On what probable cause?" I asked.

"The drug connection," Rossi said. "You and the girl. The judge said look into it."

"Let's see it."

Rossi handed it to me. It had the signature, all right.

So opening the screen door, I stepped aside and held it open for them. I wasn't about to enter my house with my back turned to them. "Come in," I said.

Strolling past me, they entered my house confidently and I stepped in behind them, releasing the door.

The screen door slammed shut with a bang. Neither of them reacted. They both stood in the center of my sunburst rug in the living room, coolly glancing around the place.

Compared to the throbbing heat outside, the interior of my house was a haven of cool darkness. Rossi eyed the living room slowly. "Nice digs you got here," he said.

At the mantelpiece over the fireplace, Conover picked up the framed picture of my parents from the Forties. "How long you had it?" he asked inbetween snaps of his chewing gum.

"Ten years."

"You in the service?" Rossi asked, staring at me.

"Yeah," I said. "Americal Division in Vietnam, then I was an MP."

"Nice," Conover said, his gaze wandering around the house.

My heart was hammering and I was clenching my fists at my side. My palms were wet. And black with newsprint from gripping the paper. "What did you boys want to talk about?"

"We had a misunderstanding last night," Rossi said to me in a hard, restrained voice. "The young lady was hysterical. Out of her head. Didn't know what she was saying."

"How do you account for the semen inside her vagina?"

"Maybe she fucked her way down the Jersey shore," Conover said.

"You explain the bruises, cocksucker," I said.

Throwing me a murderous glance Conover advanced a step in my direction, but Rossi blocked him with an arm.

“Maybe she liked it rough,” Rossi said. "Look," he said in a conciliatory tone, "you can understand. You were a cop once. It's one in the morning and out of nowhere the sweetest little cupcake you ever saw turns up by the side of the road when you're on patrol and you get a little carried away. No harm done. It's like the birds and the bees. Natural. Are you gonna stand there and tell me you never got caught up in something like that when you were a cop?"

"You bastard," I said. "Oh you bastard."

"Gene," Conover said, snapping his gum, "I don't think it's workin'."

"Get out of my house."

"We're not leaving till you get one thing straight," Rossi said. "You make trouble for us over this and you won't have a home in this town." He was jabbing his finger against my chest.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, we're tellin' you, asshole," Conover said.

"You can have it either one of two ways," Rossi said in a calm, deadly voice. His eyes were glittering blackly and his chest was rising and falling. "You go your way and we go ours. No trouble. Or you make the mistake of stirring things up, and we come down hard on you."

"And the cunt," Conover said.

Debbie appeared suddenly in the hallway. Without a word she had emerged from her room and now she stood in her bare feet, only a few feet away. Her hair was tousled and her heavy-lidded eyes were still half-asleep. "I heard voices," she said.

Conover grinned delightedly. "Well well," he said.

Rossi smirked. "Miss Miller."

"How's our little girl?" Conover asked warmly.

Debbie blanched in abject shock. It was terrible. Horror catapulted her into full wakefulness. She gazed at them in naked terror, like nothing so much as a tiny mouse that has been clawed severely by two vicious bloodthirsty cats and yet manages to escape with its life, and who emerges the next day into the sunshine, relaxed and confident, only to be pounced on again.

"Lookin' good, Deb," Conover said with a grin.

"We were just talking about you," Rossi said with a small, private smile.

Staring at them agog, she tried to utter words of astonishment, but nothing came out. She choked on her vocal chords.

"Hey hey," Conover said with a malicious grin, "I bet I know why you've got her stayin' with you. You been slippin' it to her, right?"

"Get out," I said under my breath.

"Say, I think I hit a nerve there, Gene. That a fact, Mr. Lawrence? Tell us, Deb. You been keepin' Mr. Lawrence warm at night?"

Debbie was unable to move or speak. She just clamped her eyes shut and began to shiver.

"You mother," I said, staring at Conover.

"If you haven't tried her yet, you should," Rossi said. "She's got a roll like you wouldn't imagine."

"She's tight," Conover said.

"And bright," Rossi said.

"Tight and bright," Conover said. "And hot. Right, Deb?"

Debbie began to sob.

"Debbie, get back to your room," I said. "I'll handle these two. Debbie, I'm talking to you."

"I don't think she hears you," Rossi said.

"You see what you're putting this girl through?" Conover said. "That's what we were talking about."

I took Debbie by the shoulders, and turning her around, steered her back to her room. She fell on the bed and I went out, closing the door shut.

When I returned, Conover and Rossi were smirking at each other in the middle of the living room. I was furious.

"You motherfuckers," I said. "Get the fuck out of my house."

"Not till we get one thing straight, Lawrence," Rossi said. "Are you gonna keep your mouth shut or not?"

"Get the hell out of my house before I throw you out."

"That's an answer," Conover said brightly. "What'd I tell you, Gene? He's a dumb-ass. See, I told you he wouldn't go for it. Well while we're here I think I'll just pay a visit on my girlfriend and see how she's doing—" and he took a step toward Debbie's room.

At that point I went for his throat. I'd been bottling up my fury ever since they'd begun taunting Debbie in front of me, but when I saw that oaf moving toward Debbie's room something just snapped inside me and a blinding rage seized me and I was lunging for him.

For one brief tantalizing moment my hands were clamping around his neck and the bastard was reeling back and gasping in shock and surprise and all of a sudden he wasn't smirking anymore, and then the hard end of a billy was ramming into the pit of my stomach brutally. Rossi's hand

I pitched forward on my knees, holding my stomach and gasping futilely for breath. My diaphragm! I felt like I'd been stabbed with a sword. I was dying.

Standing over me, Rossi was breathing hard, billyclub gripped tightly in hand.

"Assaulting an officer," he said darkly.

Hands clutching his throat, Conover was staggering back. He was amazed. When he recovered, he got roaring mad and advanced on me, swearing, but as he was about to kick the shit out of me, Rossi restrained him.

"Bob," Rossi said, "when are you ever going to learn that the rough stuff went out a long time ago? Now we use persuasion. Now calm down and help me sit him on the sofa. That was a stupid thing to do anyway."

Each taking one of my arms, they pulled me to my feet and dumped me on one of the orange sofas. I was still wheezing for breath. I was also semi-paralyzed. A billy in the gut will make you think twice before moving again.

After I was half-slumped, half-sprawled in the middle of the sofa, Conover and Rossi each sat on either side of me, Rossi still gripping the billy, held casually in hand. The room insisted on spinning around me.

"Maybe there's something you don't understand about our community, Mr. Lawrence," Rossi said by way of making conversation. "Bay City is a real clean pretty little town. A nice little island. No muss, no fuss. It's real quiet around here. And we intend to keep it that way."

"Gene's a thinker," Conover said.

"You see, this here down around Atlantic City, it's a resort area," Rossi went on. "We're a summer community. So we rely on word-of-mouth. And if dirty lying stories ever got out about, well, any sort of trouble down here in Bay City—why, that might scare people off."

"Be terrible for our image," Conover said.

"Right," Rossi said. "Right. Bob understands. So whenever we find anyone in danger of spreading irresponsible malicious rumors around here, why then it's our duty as civic representatives to take that person aside and say—'Hey.'"

"'Hey,'" Conover said.

"'Sir, we don't mess on your turf—and you don't mess on ours.' You understand?" He rested the billyclub on my crotch. "Because we got a philosophy down here."

"You got a philosophy?" I gasped.

"Yeah," Rossi said. "It's okay to do whatever you want to—only just don't get caught."

Conover howled with laughter. Rossi allowed himself a few chuckles, but then his face went grim and he leaned over, staring at me, and pressed the end of the billyclub against my stomach.

"And buster," he said, "we don't intend to get caught."

A long moment of silence passed. Rossi nailed me with his fixed gaze. I was acutely aware of the end of the billyclub poking into my stomach.

Then the billy went away and Rossi turned his head to Conover. "What do you think, Bob?"

"I dunno, Gene. I don't think he's gonna buy it."

"You don't think so?"

"He's a wiseguy."

Suddenly Rossi sprang to his feet and smiled. "Then let's do it."

"What do you mean?" Conover said.

"Look at him." Rossi was staring at me heatedly. He was smiling but his eyes were not.

Conover looked at me. I sat there quietly, hugging my stomach, and said nothing. I was just trying to keep from throwing up.

"He's not going to shut up," Rossi said. "He'll blab the first minute we walk out the door. No, there's just one way to deal with jokers like him."

"What's that?" Conover's mouth was dry.

"You said so yourself, Bob. Look at this guy. He looks like a drug user. No, a drug dealer. A big-time drug dealer from New York. Doesn't he?"

"Why, now that you mention it, Gene, yeah."

"You know, I bet if we searched this house long enough, we could find out where he stashes his heroin."

"I bet you're right, Gene," Conover said excitedly, standing up.

"You start looking around. I'm going back to the car to get the drug identification kit."

"The planted evidence, you mean," I said.

"You're looking at ten-to-twenty in Trenton State, bud," Rossi said, "the prison not the college, and you brought it on yourself." He turned and went out the door.

"Guess I'll start shakin' down the place," Conover said to no one in particular, and stepping into the hallway, disappeared.

I sat there on the sofa, feeling my stomach churn and staring blankly at the wall ahead of me. I felt numb. They were going to frame me on a trumped-up charge and there was nothing I could do about it.

From the next room I could hear Conover's shoes clomping around. He was in the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine chest. He was in my bathroom, rummaging through my medicine chest.

And after checking out the toilet tank and figuring it was a good place to stash the dope so it could be "discovered," he would turn around and step out into the hallway, and the next place he would visit would be Debbie's room. His hand would close around the knob, and he would open the door slowly...

I stood up quickly, my heart slamming against my ribcage. I felt heat burning my armpits. My head was turned to the side and I was staring at the source of Conover's movement.

This was my house. I didn't have much in this world, but one of the things I prized most was having a safe, secure place to come home to. A place of my own. A place where I would not be disturbed.

I was not going to let them walk all over me.

Head buzzing, I stepped quietly into the hallway so that I could look into the bathroom. His back to me, Conover was pawing through the medicine chest. I flashed on the way he'd intimidated Debbie last night, and then I went nuts.

Acting swiftly, I moved into the bathroom and slammed my left fist into his left kidney, smashed my right fist into his right. He moaned and jerked upright, clawing at his back, and before he could utter a cry I grabbed him by the collar and rammed his head into the tile wall, then shoved him into the old-fashioned white enamel bathtub. He slipped and crashed into it, hitting his head with a crack.

"Help! Help!" I cried, and stationed myself behind the bathroom door. Blood was singing in my temples and I was light-headed.

Thudding footfalls were galloping through the house. As soon as a gun gripped by a hand was thrust through the door into my field of vision, I threw my shoulder against the door, slamming it shut on the wrist. Outside Rossi cried out in pain and his hand jumped open, the snub-nosed police revolver clattering to the floor.

Throwing the door open I saw Rossi standing there in the hallway, and while he was grabbing his wrist I kicked him high between the legs. He howled and collapsed in pain on his knees, clutching his groin.

Grabbing him by the collar, I slammed him up against the wall and screamed, "You motherfucker! Don't you ever come into this house again! You hear me? Don't you ever set foot in here again, and don't you ever, ever, ever—" and here I snapped his head against the wall each time "—try to threaten me again!"

Just then the hallway door opened and Debbie stood in the doorway, looking at me on my knees, slamming a cop up against the wall. "What's all the—" and then she stopped dead and stared at me woodenly.

"Get back inside your room!" I yelled. "Let me take care of this!"

She blinked and shut the door quickly. Scowling I turned my head and glanced into the bathroom, from which low moans were originating.

Conover was stirring in the bathtub. Falling over on one side, Rossi was cupping his groin, his face wrinkled in agony, and his eyes were clamped shut. Flinging him away I stood up and stepped into the bathroom to attend to Conover.

The cop lay stretched out on his back in the tub. His crewcut head was lifted a few inches and his face was screwed up into a grimace. Blood was streaming out of his nose. He was a real hurtin' little cowboy. Two shots in the kidneys delivered with triphammer force will do that to you.

Stooping over, I reached down and relieved him of his .38 Police Special and his billyclub. "Hey fucker," I said with a warm smile. "How does it feel to be on the receiving end for a change?"

He coughed and slumped against the enamel. Picking up the toilet plunger in the corner I prodded him with it and he whimpered.

"Why aren't you answering me?" I asked. "Where's the snappy comeback? I thought you were the tough guy with the funny answers who liked to dish it out. What's wrong? Where's the cop wit?"

A few feet away Rossi tried to sit up and collapsed on his side.

"You fucking bastards," I said, reaching down and seizing Conover by the collar. "I hate you fucking small-town cops. I was on the Philly force eight years and I never saw shit like this."

Out in the hallway Rossi groaned. "Ohh, my balls," he muttered, rocking back and forth. "My fucking balls."

The former Brigantine Hotel, originally built by Thirties Harlem messiah Father Divine for his "angels"

"You must be crazy," Conover croaked, "if you think you can get away with this. Your ass is grass."

"No it's not," I said cheerfully, and stabbed the hard wooden tip of the plunger into his belly. He doubled over in agony. "Because if you so much as dare breathe a word about this when you report in, I'll have some friends of mine from South Philly bounce your asses from here to Camden." It was a bold lie but I thought it might work. "You got it?" I poked him in the ribs.

"Yeah, yeah," he yelped quickly.

"Good." I hauled him up by the collar. He stood on shaky legs. "Now get out of here." He stepped out of the tub and I shoved him out of the bathroom. "And take your partner with you."

As he assisted Rossi to his feet, I said, "And I don't want to see either one of you around here ever again. Understand?"

"Yeah, we understand," Rossi said, leaning against the wall, and began coughing.

"So fuck off," I said.

"Can we have our guns back?" Conover asked.

"I'll put them in your car." While Conover helped Rossi make a few faltering steps into the living room, I went outside, emptying the shells from their revolvers, and dropped them in the back seat of the cruiser along with their billyclubs. When I turned around, Conover and Rossi were staggering out the front door, and the screen door slammed shut behind them. I stood and watched while they stumbled down the concrete path. As they approached the car I went over to them. "You'd better go home and get cleaned up before you report for duty."

"Right," Conover said and assisted Rossi into the prowl car.

"Don't bother the girl again either," I said. "Because I'd just love an excuse to kill you both."

I stood on the front porch, hands gripping the waist-high black iron railing that enclosed part of it, and watched while the cop car turned around and faltered its way back up the street, like a crippled animal. I stared at it intently as it made a left-hand turn onto Bay Avenue. I still wanted to kill somebody.

* * * * *

Comments from readers are always welcome. You can reach me at: wolcottwheeler@gmail.com

If you're a publisher or editor who might be interested in publishing my novel Monopoly or seeing additional chapters, please feel free to contact me at: wolcottwheeler@gmail.com

READ THE MOVIE/SEE THE BOOK: PART I

ART BY ARTISTS

‘90s chic good taste in all things literary

by Nick Zegarac

Cinematic adaptations of literary masterworks are nothing new. Transcribing literature for the movies has become a time honored tradition, almost as ancient as the art of making movies itself. However, the delicacy required in transmutation from book to celluloid has often made for much consternation amongst the Hollywood elite and many an empty coffer and sleepless night in the executive bedroom after the film’s failed debut.

Consider this: how could the movies, with all their infinite wellsprings of talent and production values, make any Shakespearean tragedy appear to be dull, placid and stultified?

Yet, time and again, Shakespeare on screen has proven all too fallible to pitfalls – the bard’s lyrical language becoming as clotted, unclear and overly theatrical as any of the B-westerns produced by Monogram Pictures in the mid-1930s. Even today, some 100 years after the birth of movies, audiences continue to wait for definitive screen versions of The Merchant of Venice, King Lear and As You Like It among others.

Yet, Shakespeare is but one of many sacred authors that the movies have tried – mostly in vane – to resurrect for the ‘new’ medium. Ernest Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald are two others. Occasionally, through perseverance, a gentle director’s touch, and the skilled appreciation from a gifted screenwriter, the trick and magic of delivering a relatively faithful adaptation to the big screen has been achieved, though purists would argue against such nonsense as finite movie visuals substituting for either the written word or imagination of any reader.

During Hollywood’s golden age, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer became the most prolific purveyors of literary adaptations. There are few critics even today who do not regard the studio’s incarnations of David Copperfield (1935), A Tale of Two Cities (1935), Anna Karenina (1935), Pride and Prejudice (1940), Madame Bovary (1949) and Julius Caesar (1953) - among others - to be among the definitive screen adaptations of their respective literary masterworks, each introducing the masses to time-honored literature they might otherwise not have had either the time nor the inclination to invest in for themselves. With MGM’s formidable decline in the late 1960s, and its complete demise by 1979, Hollywood seemed content to let the great sacred cows of literature molder with its own celluloid past.

In retrospect, the decision seems obvious – fueled by the Government Consent Decrees (that fragmented the film establishment and effectively brought an end to their ‘monopolies’), the studios (or what was left of them after the ruthless deluge in economizing) focused their efforts on cheaply made independent productions: gritty street dramas (Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore 1974, Taxi Driver 1976); escapist horror films (Carrie 1976, Halloween 1978) and occasionally, the gamble on a moderate budgeted sci-fi blockbuster (Close Encounters of a Third Kind 1977, Star Wars 1977). These latter examples, with their potential for enormous box office returns on a limited investment were perceived as safe bets, particularly in the late 1970s and early ‘80s – as much of a guarantee as clever (if shortsighted) market research could predict.

To be certain, there were large scale entertainments in development during this same period, such as Irwin Allen’s The Towering Inferno 1974, but these were rare exceptions to the norm and most certainly geared to take advantage of the contemporary cynical public fascination with destruction on a grand scale.

By 1983, the movie going landscape was awash in quick and cheaply made disposable entertainments. Some caught the public fascination and became relatively successful. Others were easily relegated to the $1.99 bin at their local video retailer after the proliferation of the home video market mid-decade made even the greatest films of their generation little more than collectable VHS and/or Beta cassettes. Ironically, the resurrection of great literary masterworks on the big screen was owed largely to a blind-faith gamble made by the Ladd Company in 1984 on a costume epic that had little to do with great literature or indeed, cold hard fact.

Milos Forman’s Amadeus (1984) is a gargantuan period recreation of composer Wolfgang Mozart’s Austria – brilliantly woven from, and held together by, the entirely fictional play by Peter Schaffer. The film might have owned more to that briefly reinvigorated popularity for biographical stories (bio-pics), jumpstarted in earnest with Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi (1982) and carried over into Sydney Pollack’s Out of Africa (1985), except that Amadeus is the tale of two men (Mozart by Tom Hulce and court composer, Salieri – nee F. Murray Abraham) who never actually met in real life – hence, any biographical interest in the film remained a moot point. Amadeus is not Mozart’s life, but rather a sort of gripping bedroom melodrama that incorporates only the most superficial tidbits of truth to thread together its absurdly made-up plot.

Nevertheless, immediately following the film’s triumphant debut and litany of Oscar nominations and wins, the costume drama – long thought of by the Hollywood establishment as archaic and most certainly dead – suddenly came full circle, back into vogue. Any doubts that hardened critics may have had about this rebirth and cannibalization of ‘the classics’ was further laid to rest when Columbia Pictures premiered director David Lean’s opus magnum, A Passage to India (1984) later that same year.

In retrospect, Lean’s final epic (based on, and remaining faithful to E.M Forster’s brilliantly structured novel) is a much more worthy contender for demarcating the resurrection of literary/film adaptations. Yet, upon its debut, A Passage to India was generally maligned by several prominent film critics as a thinly veiled attempt by Lean to recapture the glorious successes of Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and Doctor Zhivago (1965). Judged inferior to both, and, in the shadow of Forman’s overwhelming success with Amadeus, A Passage to India remained a quiet, slightly discarded masterpiece for several years to follow, though its reputation has since steadily grown.

In point of fact and in retrospect, A Passage to India does tend to run on a bit ‘long in the tooth’, as it were – much more the grand celebrated relic and holdover from Lean’s best period in films (1955-65) than a much needed update to the sub-genre of literary melodrama in contemporary films. Its performances are solid and textured, the best probably being Alec Guinness’ Godbole. Lean was heavily criticized at the time for not using a real East Indian actor in the role, though Guinness’ assimilation into the part of Arab Prince Feisel in Lawrence of Arabia (1962) failed to generate similar critical outrage.
Interest - both in E. M. Forster’s literary works and period costume melodramas in general – had not been lost on a pair of filmmakers working in Britain. With the release of director James Ivory and producer Ismail Merchant’s A Room With A View (1985), made in partnership with the BBC and released theatrically in the U.S. for Warner Bros., Hollywood once more began to realize the box office potential of literary adaptations.

In terms of box office gross, A Room With A View was hardly a blockbuster, but it garnered respectable returns and critical accolades – both hallmarks as prelude for the saturation of book to film adaptations that was to follow. Moreover, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, with their own long standing appreciation for this type of movie making, and the public – who had virtually abandoned costume drama in the mid-60s and 70s - were beginning to warm to the exercise once again.
Ironically, looking back at the 1980s in film history – a cinematic landscape overly populated by R-rated slasher films (Friday the 13th 1980, Sleep Away Camp 1983, Nightmare on Elm Street 1984), campy and crude sex-comedies (Bachelor Party 1984, Splash 1984, Weird Science 1985, My Chauffeur 1986, Mannequin 1987) and teen driven angst-ridden diversions; (Sixteen Candles 1984, The Breakfast Club 1985, St. Elmo’s Fire 1985, Pretty in Pink 1986) – not to mention the proliferation of mindless sci-fi adventures that followed the debut of Steven Spielberg’s E.T. (1982) – arguably still the most intelligently produced and stimulating of this latest cycle in intergalactic nonsense – serious projects like A Passage to India and A Room With A View must have seemed fool-hardy folly at best; expensive and dangerous to the overall fiscal prosperity of the ‘new’ Hollywood that had been built on astute market research and ever increasingly clever press promotions.

All the more impressive then to reconsider that with a change from one decade to the next, the ‘new’ Hollywood steadily increased its stakes in producing some of the finest yet literary-to-film adaptations. Not surprisingly, the most recent investment in this sub-genre required one more nudge from abroad; another film made by Merchant Ivory: Howards End (1992).



“HERE TO REPRESENT THE FAMILY…”
RESSURECTION with Howards End

Based on E.M. Forster novelized critique of Edwardian England’s rigid class distinction, the filmic adaptation of Howards End made several key changes to Forster’s text, including a softening in the character of philistine businessman Henry Wilcox (Anthony Hopkins) to create a minor, yet pleasing romantic love interest for Margaret Schlegel (Emma Thompson) – the emotional and grounding center of the story.

Shooting in and around London, the production utilized the rustic Peppard Cottage (itself an almost exact replica of Forster’s own Rooksnest in Henley) as the fabled house from whence all subsequent narrative and class struggles between the Wilcoxes, the Schlegels and a third couple – the Basts - derive.

Actress Emma Thompson, who had auditioned for the part of Margaret with her husband/actor Kenneth Branagh (then, enjoying a minor renaissance of his own with the visceral filmic adaptation of Shakespeare’s Henry V 1989) was pitted against one of England’s most celebrated – yet internationally underrated – actors of his generation, Anthony Hopkins. The teaming of Hopkins and Thompson proved enough of an interest to break the ceiling in Thompson’s own career. She had already appeared opposite Branagh in Henry V and Dead Again (1991), but it was Howards End that effectively introduced her to American audiences as England’s “most brilliant, talented actress…since Vanessa Redgrave.”
As they say in the business, timing is everything. Howards End’s premiere was ably abetted by Anthony Hopkins formidable mark on American movies via The Silence of the Lambs (1991), coupled with his justly deserved Oscar win for the role of Hannibal Lecter. Hopkins win generated a virtual overnight groundswell of American celebrity for the actor. His instant fame became the catalyst for launching Howards End – a debut nearly sabotaged when Orion Pictures filed for bankruptcy and threatened to delay the film’s premiere. Instead, Sony Picture Classics assumed the responsibility of marketing and releasing the film.

Heralded by Newsweek as “a crowning achievement…a film of dazzling splendor… powered by a dream cast” Howards End’s miniscule budget of $8 million was virtually eclipsed by its world wide $70 million profit and a litany of international accolades and awards.

At roughly the same interval as Howards End was wrapping its principle photography, Branagh’s version of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing (1993) was preparing to go before the cameras. Branagh’s knack for avoiding the misperceived pitfalls when translating that most celebrated of English playwright’s masterworks into engaging films had already been established on Henry V. Moreover, Branagh’s acclaim on both continents was then in modest competition with his wife’s – a minor conflict that would prove the couple’s undoing later in the decade.

For Much Ado About Nothing, Branagh infused a bawdy – yet slightly whimsical - liberation into the comedic underpinnings of the play; reinvigorating without contemporizing the conflict between Hero and Claudio. “I want this to be a fairytale…” said Branagh, “Beautifully dressed and lovingly photographed…that can be very frightening at times. Like all good fairytales, there’s a strong undercurrent to the story. It’s also very very fiery.”
The chief problem for Branagh, however, proved to be in his central casting choices which, apart from Emma Thompson as Beatrice, left much to be desired. Though undeniably good looking, the film remains populated with rather frozen performances, the worst among them Michael Keaton’s Dogberry and Keanu Reeves’ Don John. Nevertheless, the film proved popular with audiences, though it was overlooked for even a single nomination at Oscar time.
This slight on both the film and Branagh’s reputation as the premiere purveyor of filmed Shakespearean entertainments did little to sway the momentum in his wife’s career. Riding the crest of her Oscar win (Best Actress for Howards End), Thompson was reunited with Ishmail Merchant and James Ivory for The Remains of the Day (1993), based on Kazuo Ishiguro’s Booker prize-winning novel and transcribed for the screen by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, who had also written the screenplay for Howards End. Once again, Thompson’s costar was Anthony Hopkins, causing some critics to glibly nickname the project the ‘Em and Tony show.’
Initially, The Remains of the Day had been brought to the attention of director James Ivory by actor Remak Ramsay. However, the novel had already been optioned by director Mike Nichols and Columbia Pictures by the time Ivory decided he would like to become involved. For reasons unclear and undisclosed, Nichols eventually opted not to direct the film, assuming a co-producers credit instead.
In transcribing the book into screenplay, author Ishiguro openly admitted to Jhabvala that he had ‘made up’ the duties of an English butler entirely from imagination for his novel. To refine these duties and reflect an air of authenticity for the film, Jhabvala suggested the crew hire a real life butler as consultant – a move seconded by Anthony Hopkins who felt particularly ill at ease in the part of Stevens. Enter retired Buckingham Palace steward, Cyril Dykman – a man whose fifty year career ‘in service’ to the Royal family was beyond reproach.

Meanwhile, Columbia Pictures was also embarking on a home grown literary film adaptation a continent away, with director Martin Scorsese and The Age of Innocence (1993). Based on Edith Wharton’s scathing indictment of social hypocrisy, and published to acclaim in 1920, the novel had been made into a movie no less than three times before, the most celebrated version in 1934, starring Irene Dunne as the Countess Olenska.

In resurrecting Wharton’s particular brand of affectation and keen glibness for social critique and commentary (a contemporary slant on Jane Austen), director Scorsese imbued his film with a rigid discipline that was quite uncharacteristic of his own directorial style.

Shooting in and around Troy New York, and even going so far as to redecorate a Pi Kapp Phi fraternity house to replicate the opulence of the Mingott home, no expense was spared on this opulent recreation of New York’s turn of the last century aristocracy. The top heavy cast was capped off by star turns from Michelle Pfeiffer as Olenska, Daniel Day Lewis - her tortured would-be lover, Newland Archer and Winona Ryder as his seemingly innocent wife, May. Though Oscar nominated (and winning for Best Costume Design), in retrospect the film is a rather costly and dull excursion for which box office response remained tepid.

Undaunted Columbia Pictures pushed onward with director Gillian Armstrong’s Little Women (1994) – an all together more poignant and satisfying adaptation that became a modest, though well deserved box office triumph.

Filmed twice before, first as a vehicle for Katharine Hepburn in 1933 and later, as a glossy MGM Technicolor remake in 1949, Armstrong’s adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s celebrated tale tread a more balanced repartee between the March sisters; Jo (Winona Ryder in this version), Amy (Kirsten Dunst/Samantha Mathis) Beth (Claire Danes) and Meg (Trini Alvarado). It also made the most of its male counterparts, most notably, Christian Bale as Laurie. “It was the theme of family, support and love – sisterly love in particular – that drew me to this project,” said Armstrong. Released for the Christmas season, Little Women was embraced by both the critics and the public. By all accounts, the decade was gearing up for another round of literary costume melodramas.

READ THE MOVIE/SEE THE BOOK: PART II

“MY ANGEL, MY SOUL, MY OTHER SELF”
PAST GLORIES/FUTURE REFLECTIONS

The last great filmic venture to emerge from Columbia’s contribution to literary adaptations harkened all the way back to 1984 and Milos Forman Amadeus. Under director Bernard Rose, Immortal Beloved (1994) became an intense and engaged detailing of the flawed and tragic life of composer Ludwig von Beethoven. Once again, more speculation than fact proved the order of the day in this relatively faithful bio-pic.

The crux of the film’s narrative derives from a mysterious letter found after Beethoven’s death bequeathing all of his worldly possessions to an ‘immortal beloved.’ Although scholars and musicologists have yet to agree on the origins of this mystery woman, director/writer Rose chose to conduct my own research from original sources, letters, court transcripts, conversation books and most of all, Beethoven’s music. “I soon realized,” Rose would later write, “…that there is no imaginable way of conclusively proving such a thing as the recipient of an unaddressed letter a hundred and ninety years ago.”
Not that that stopped Rose from trying. Buttressed by a formidable performance from chameleon character actor, Gary Oldman, and a stellar screenplay which kept one guessing until the very end, Immortal Beloved emerged as a probable fiction – fairly accurate, but wholly satisfying as epic entertainment, perhaps most efficiently summarized by film critic Roger Ebert as “…clearly…made by people who feel Beethoven directly in their hearts.”
In April of 1995, awash in professional success, Emma Thompson embarked on her own literary adaptation; this time on Jane Austen’s timeless novel, Sense and Sensibility. By then, she had toiled on the script for nearly a year, a tenure made more problematic by tensions in her already crumbling marriage to Kenneth Branagh. Investing herself in her work, Thompson and director Ang Lee (who had never read Austen until Columbia Pictures passed him a copy of Thompson’s script), began the arduous task of whittling down her screenplay to a manageable size, making many continuity changes along the way.

The story concerns two sisters, Margaret (Thompson) and Marianne (Kate Winslet). The latter is predisposed to believing in the ethereal platitudes of love, while the former has a temperament that is greatly reserved. Margaret is drawn to Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant), the son of a wealthy family who will be disinherited by his scheming sister, Fanny (Harriet Walter) – married to Marrianne and Margaret’s brother, John (James Fleet), and, who now occupies the estate that should have rightfully been divided between the sisters.
Frequent inclement weather during the May shoot, and the rather turgid conditions while living abroad and obscurely in the countryside of Devon England, did much to dampen the clothing though not the spirits of both cast and crew. In fact, a quiet infatuation had begun to develop on set between Emma Thompson and costar Greg Wise (cast as Marianne’s suitor, John Willoughby). The ‘soon-to-be’ romance made for a more pleasant atmosphere – along with several ‘wild’ after hours parties that had everyone in stitches. By the time the film wrapped principle photography in July, Wise and Thompson had become lovers. The two would eventually marry in 2003. Upon its release, Sense and Sensibility was declared a masterpiece with Thompson winning the Golden Globe for her script.
A minor lull in the cycle of literary melodrama followed, with Mel Gibson’s Oscar-winning historical/fiction epic, Braveheart (1995) nicely filling in the gap. Based loosely on the myth and legends of William Wallace (Mel Gibson), the screenplay by Randall Wallace follows the bloody carnage between the English armies amassed by King Edward I (Patrick McGoohan) and the growing army of dissidents under Wallace’s command. In the film, Wallace’s supremacy on the battlefield infuriates Edward, but in point of fact, Wallace’s great conflict was with the British crown and not necessarily its peoples who were divided amongst Scots, Welsh and British descent.
Screenwriter Randall Wallace had never even heard of William Wallace until a 1983 trip to Edinburgh, after which he became fascinated and bewitched by not only the legend of ‘Scotland’s greatest hero’ but moreover by an almost complete lack of documented texts written on the man and his accomplishments. Instead, Randall relied heavily on a little known 15th century poem by Henry the Minstrel as the basis for his enveloping action yarn.
At best then, Braveheart is a liberal approximation of Wallace’s life and times – a flowing, vibrant exercise in filmic fabrication from start to finish, touched off with the most superficial of concrete information to go on. Nevertheless, upon its premiere Braveheart was embraced by the public and critics as an instant hit – riding the crest of public fascination for ‘period pictures’ all the way to, arguably, its well deserved Best Picture Oscar.

…AND ONE CLEAR CALL FOR THEE

Amidst the overwhelming critical and financial success of Braveheart, director Oliver Parker’s rather turgid remake of Othello (1995) passed almost quietly unnoticed during the summer season. By all accounts the steam in Shakespeare’s staying power at the box office had run its course – an assumption ignored by Kenneth Branagh and the front offices over at Castlerock Entertainment.
On January 3, 1996 rehearsals began inside mammoth sets built at England’s Shepperton Studios on arguably Shakespeare’s most celebrated drama in the English language – Hamlet. To date, none of the many other screen incarnations of this celebrated play – not even Laurence Olivier’s Oscar winning 1948 version - had dared to venture into a full textual adaptation. To many in the Hollywood community, the excursion seemed badly timed, due to the fact that Warner Bros. had resurrected this great Dane not five years before in a truncated (and badly maligned) film starring Mel Gibson in the title role. Were audiences ready for another Hamlet so soon?
Branagh believed that they were and evidently was backed by Castlerock’s committed $18 million investment on the project. Updating the timeline to an undisclosed early 20th century afforded Branagh the opportunity to reenact the play’s most celebrated soliloquy ‘To be or not to be…’ in front of a full length, double-sided mirror, thereby magnifying the distinct ennui already inherent in Hamlet’s emotional malaise.
Shot almost entirely at Shepperton, the production also took advantage of breathtaking Blenheim Palace for exteriors under less than perfect weather conditions. Near the end of principle photography, executive logic at Castlerock nervously encouraged Branagh to prune his film down and release two competing versions – the complete 4 hr. play/film in a limited roadshow engagement and an abridged general release print running just under 2 hrs. Branagh balked at this suggestion, and, after some minor wrangling, had his way. Only the full length version was released to limited engagements but overwhelmingly positive reviews. In the intervening decade, the film’s reputation as the definitive Hamlet has only continued to grow.

During most of the first five years of the decade, Hollywood and British filmic interests had been hard at work establishing a resurrection of the literary film sub-genre. This overwhelming attention to detail inherent in each production had by 1996 become standardized benchmarks that more often than not exceeded audience expectations. However, there seems to have been a definite shift in consistency immediately following Branagh’s adaptation of Hamlet. Whether or not Castlerock’s impending financial disaster and liquidation had anything to do with Hollywood’s sudden disinterest in making and remaking more great novels into films is debatable.

Certainly, the marketing campaign put forth on Douglas McGrath’s Emma (1996) – ‘If you loved ‘Clueless (1995) you’ll love Emma!’ seemed more intent on providing a sufficient distance between the film and its Jane Austen roots, despite the fact that little likeness between Clueless and Emma existed. McGrath’s screenplay for Emma is perhaps the least bound to Austen’s own evocative language, relying heavily on a more broad interpretation of the story, characters and dialogue. Set in 1800s England, the story concerns a meddlesome matchmaker, Emma Woodhouse (Gwyneth Paltrow) and her dedication to finding a suitable husband for wallflower, Harriet Smith (Toni Collette). The plan however goes predictably and comically awry.
Miramax Films, who only a year later would be aggressively marketing The English Patient (1996) as a time-honored book to film adaptation, were rather laissez faire in their marketing campaign on Emma. Despite enthusiastic reviews and respectable box office, the film quietly came and went from circulation, with Gwyneth Paltrow’s glowing performance as the heroine ironically overlooked at Oscar time.
Increasingly, the general tone in Hollywood after Emma’s release began to shift its focus to faux incarnations of history and/or historical events; a trend begun with yet another recanting of the mythological Camelot – this time as First Knight (1995), and continuing on through to films like Elizabeth (1998) and Shakespeare in Love (1998). Rather than tread over established literary lineage, particular preference was now being given to weighty history-fiction properties – films in which historic events and/or characters were borrowed (or in some cases, pilfered), greatly revised and inserted into plots concocted by screenwriters that had little – if anything – to do with actual event. James Cameron’s Titanic (1997) is perhaps the most obvious of this latter trend and ilk, eschewing real life stories about passengers on the ill-fated luxury liner to instead graft a fictional account of tragic love between two characters who, in reality, were not even on board the ship when it sank.

For the rest, literary adaptations fell out of favor almost at an instant, with final exceptions to the rule coming in just under the wire to round out the decade on glorious high notes.

The first of these was Randall Wallace’s inspired revision of Alexander Dumas’ The Man in the Iron Mask (1998), a film of immense scope and visual flare, made slightly awkward by the casting of Leonardo DiCaprio in the dual role of Louis XIV and his twin brother Phillippe. Despite toiling on various film and television projects for nearly two decades, DiCaprio’s most satisfying achievements to date had come in two films with a cult following; What’s Eating Gilbert Grape (1993) and The Basketball Diaries (1995). Yet, his star had retained only a modest luster immediately following these films, a stalemate lifted upon the release of Cameron’s epic soap opera Titanic (1997) – the most expensive and successful movie ever made.
Perhaps wary of DiCaprio’s limitations in costume drama (in Titanic, for example he is never anything but utterly and fatally contemporary amidst the rest of the vintage trappings), director Wallace chose to surround his star with stellar support provided by Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, Gabriel Byrne and Gerard Depardieu – all ably assimilated into this costume epic as the musketeers. Wallace further masked DiCaprio’s shortcomings with a nimble screenplay that moved more methodically through the back story involving the musketeers and their involvement in palace intrigues. Indeed, the tragic romance between Louis XIV and Christine (Judith Godreche) is the most undermined of the film’s narrative threads.
The second to last offering to round out the decade was Oliver Parker’s remake of An Ideal Husband (1999) based on the scathingly sexual comedy by Oscar Wilde. A social satire with most of its obvious titillation relatively tame by today’s standards, the story concerns successful politico, Sir Robert Chiltern (Jeremy Northam) whose marital fidelity to wife Gertrude (Cate Blanchett) is put into question with the arrival of the scandalous Mrs. Laura Cheveley (Julianne Moore). More an exercise of manners, the filmic incarnation remained faithful to Wilde, though a somewhat awkward contribution to the sub-genre of literary filmic masterpieces.
Possibly the error is in the film’s brisk plotting, running a scant 98 minutes. Wilde’s words are far more appreciated when contemplated in their written form, primarily because his wit takes time to properly digest, something the constant bantering of the film’s protagonists and ever changing tableau behind their sordid characters leaves much to admire. Nevertheless, the film remains a quiet, unassuming diversion worthy of a second glance on home video.
The last of the lush and lavish Shakespearean adaptations to emerge from the decade was Michael Hoffman’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1999); arguably the most sophisticated incarnation of this celebrated play and starring Michelle Pfeiffer as Titania and muscled Rupert Everett as her King - Oberon. Populated with an all star assemblage that included Calista Flockhart, Christian Bale, Kevin Kline and Stanley Tucci as Puck, the film moved along nimbly enough through time-honored and hallowed ground, treading lightly over the bard’s most complex speeches and more often than not, proving satisfactory entertainment.
However, by far the most impressive and entertaining of these final flowerings in literary costume melodramas remains director Andy Tennant’s Anna and the King (1999), a lavishly produced spectacle photographed in Malaysia. The Thai government had originally agreed to at least consider 20th Century-Fox’s request to film in the country where the original story takes place (present day Thailand was, at the time of the story, the province of Siam).
The Thai have never embraced the stories put forth and published by Mrs. Anna Leonowens – school teacher to the King of Siam’s many children, or those featured in the Margaret Landon’s novel that lionized Leonowens as a figure exuding great authority and dictates over Siam’s cultural/political change and its king.

In America however, the book had enjoyed an almost perennial success, chiefly from the continuous stage revivals of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical version: The King and I. The film version of The King and I (1956) had made Yul Brynner an international star. But its roots were firmly grounded in Fox’s own Anna and the King of Siam (1946), starring Irene Dunne and Rex Harrison. It was renown British star, Gertrude Lawrence who had been responsible for bringing the ‘46 film and Landon’s novel to Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein’s attention; a contribution for which stage and screen lovers of the story since owe an eternal debt.
Director Tennant’s version is perhaps the most authentically accurate of all filmic incarnations. The narrative closely adheres to the ’46 film, while applying a subtext of political unrest and racism exuded by the British against the Siamese. Unlike the previous films, Tennant’s employs legitimate Orientals where necessary, most notably in his casting of action star Chow Yun Fat as King Mongkut.

As portrayed by Jodie Foster, Anna Leonowens is not the divining force or even a catalyst for social change, as she remains merely a window into the British mindset that is held close and in high regard by the king – allowing him the opportunity to formulate his own intensions and actions toward the political factions that would usurp his authority and render Siam a protectorate province.

In the final analysis, Anna and the King is superior film making, marking a valiant conclusion to the ‘90s fascination with costume dramas. In a decade rife with more quality filmic product in almost all genres than most in the last 40 years, the end of the 1990s documented a decided downturn in both Hollywood and the public’s fascination with this sort of grand costumed entertainment.

Though the trend carried over in various transmutations during the early 2000’s with films like Baz Luhrmann’s psychedelic reincarnation of Bohemian France in Moulin Rouge (2001) and Robert Altman’s tongue-in-cheek revisitation on the old Sherlock Holmes-styled murder mysteries for Gosford Park (2001) the overwhelming quantity and underwhelming quality in our contemporary cinema has once again reverted to quickly made and slickly marketed disposable entertainments.

Such was the case of most films at the start of the 1980s – big on promotion but decidedly small on production value – keenly aimed at the wallet, but less effectively focused on the heart. Is this merely the start of another cycle that will eventually return to the literary drama on screen in years to come – or has vintage literature at last run its course at the movies. Only time will tell.

@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).