The Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes.

Red lamp alert! The review includes a little disclosure of the plot.

Noir in cinema and books are two opposite sides. If Hays Code put restrictions that were largely based on Christian values, while hardboiled literature was loose–featuring not honorable protagonists and characters with lecherous behaviors–and doing everything with low tastes. It created a contrast between novels and their adaptations on silver screens. If the original sources were pulp materials, the flicks based on them could be a high class. I was amazed how to such transforming during my research. The serious try was The Fallen Sparrow, written by Dorothy B. Hughes.

Reading dozens of pages and then looking at the end places revealed how the adaptation with John Garfield took the best, removed the needless, and interpreted the episodes better and ideal. Kit McKittrick in the book is insolent and rude human against living and touchable in the flick–and I adore the personality the actor presented. No intrigue with fiends, who already are men with unpleasant appearances while their film personalities haven’t these hallmarks and you don’t see anything exposing them as evil. Hearing the footsteps was in the right places and the line of the lead hero’s reaction is excellent feature in the 1943 movie. In the book, the protagonist just shook his head when began to listen them, and they dramatically disappeared. The relationship between Kit and Barby in the movie is totally better for a story and that adds to mystery and noir than their more closeness in the Hughes’ novel. I love the Garfield’s film has a lack of romance, which makes stand out among noirs. The book inserts unnecessary background involving relatives, the main hero’s intention to marry on Barby amid searching the murderer of his friend and everything that puts the investigation aside.

The author of the book is a more sophisticated writer in comparison with usual poverty of prose from that kind of literature. Nevertheless, she could write things such as “The map of Ireland on his face wasn’t phony.” Or depiction of a maid was the insults: “she said with stupid eyes on his gum drop”, she was called a “dumb girl” twice, and between that: “She didn’t look up to a meal. He said, “Bring me a double brandy and soda.” She certainly wasn’t too smart and he warned, “Don’t mix it, just bring me the tray. Never mind about food. I’ll be going out.”” Hughes could also write an opposite thing in a single sentence: “The noisy tables waited in incongruous silence.”

I stopped when the dialogs became a word salad. It was a messy writing where you don’t understand who commits the action and says this line. Turning pages forward, I found the behavior of characters doesn’t relate to their personality and their acts have no motifs. A person who is a murderer allows the protagonist to come her closer that opens to him to hit off the gun. The killed person was the closest friend to the main hero, but he isn’t angry with the human that did that act, and he says to that personality about having a time to flee before arriving of law enforcers.

The elements of pulp literature continued to be for decades ahead, and it helps to understand about such books, as the novel The Godfather that belongs to this abyss of writing.