Mystery novelist Donald E. Westlake created his alter ego, Richard Stark, because his prolific writing couldn't keep up with his regular publishing deal. Westlake was writing and publishing a book a year, but knew he was capable of a higher output than his contract required. The name Richard Stark was chosen as a stylistic reminder of what kind of stories and language he wanted to put between the covers. The Hunter was the first offering from Westlake's new shadow career, and thus, Parker was born, surely one of the most brutal, unrepentant, sociopathic anti-heroes in fiction.
The Hunter
The first book in the Parker series (there's something like 20) is The Hunter, and it's a marvel of economic writing and storytelling. It feels boiled down to its most essential form, with absolutely no fat or filler, and as a result, is almost impossible to put down once you have read past the first page.
The Hunter introduces us to Parker as he storms into New York City on foot, penniless and ragged. He doesn't rest or quit his relentless pace until he has fleeced and angled his way into a fresh suit, filled his pockets with walking around money, and his belly with a thick steak. All told, it only takes Parker the better part of a day to transform himself, using his criminal guile and cutting around society's corners.
Flashbacks tell us that Parker has been double-crossed, by his wife and his business partner, Mal. Their business is hijacking and robbery. They shot him up and left him for dead, stealing his half of the score, 40 grand. The only problem is that they didn't make sure he was dead and now, back in New York after a long recovery and an escape from prison, Parker is on the hunt for revenge. If this sounds familiar, it's not because The Hunter isn't original or vital, it's because Westlake's creation practically created the Revenge genre and has been adapted and imitated so many times that it's progeny have infiltrated every corner of pop culture.
I read the entirety of The Hunter on the toilet over a period of two days. No, I didn't read it over 2-3 hemorrhoid-inducing marathon shits. My wife makes me sit down to pee, so I read The Hunter every time I went to the washroom for two days (perhaps lingering a little longer than is healthy). I feel guilty that I read such a fantastically entertaining book while pissing and shitting, but it just worked out that way. With a new baby in the apartment, bathroom breaks are about the only me-time left.
Anyway, I don't need to really go into the strengths and qualities of the book beyond, "it's damn strong" and "damn quality". I'm more interested in tracking down the above-mentioned progeny and seeing how they measure up to pops.
The Hunter by Darwyn Cooke
First I'll start with Darwyn Cooke's graphic novel adaption, which I actually read prior to the novel, and which kicked off this whole Stark-a-thon in the first place. Cooke's version, as it turns out, is remarkably faithful, retaining the structure, plot and even character names that the cinematic versions surprisingly jettisoned.
Using an interesting Black & White & Blue colour scheme, Cooke (who is one of comics top talents) applies his stylized retro aesthetic to Stark's spare tale of revenge, and the partnership works wonderfully. After reading the novel, Cooke's reverence for the source material becomes immediately clear and yet he's still able to bring his own voice to the work, with beautiful art, great pacing and scene construction. Most of Cooke's comic work, even his super hero books, take on this same 50's vibe (even if comics in the 50's looked nothing like this), but his adaptation of The Hunter feels like the perfect fit for his sensibilities. The most refreshing thing about the book is that Cooke doesn't feel the need to fuck with a good thing. He clearly loves Stark/Westlake's book and thought he'd be the perfect artist to bring it to life. He doesn't try to update the material or modernize it, he adapts his art to fit the story and not the other way around. Which brings me to the cinematic versions.
Point Blank
Point Blank stars Lee Marvin, which is a kick ass start for sure, but he's not really the Parker of Stark/Westlake's creation. Marvin looks to be in about his early 50's in this picture, much older than Parker as I saw him, plus in flashbacks he's seen smiling and laughing, which I can't imagine the character doing. He didn't feel like Parker to me so much as a typical Marvin badass, and evidently the filmmakers thought so too, so they renamed him Walker.
Walker gets double-crossed by his partner Mal and his wife Lynn, same as the book, although the heist has been changed to a less exciting money grab at Alcatraz prison. Walker catches up with his wife in LA, and guilt has turned her into a ghost of her former self, popping pills to sleep and to forget. She takes too many, same as the book, and ends up dead. But Walker's reaction is much softer than that of Parker's, who has already hardened his heart against his enemies. It's these and many other differences, both minor and major, that make we view Point Blank separate from the source material, because while it's disappointing that this isn't a reverent adaptation, it becomes its own beast.
Point Blank gets a pass from my Parker hard-on, because its so damn cinematic and hazily psychedelic. From the stunningly shot credit sequence, to the trippy mind-fuck freakouts, Point Blank is a Lee Marvin movie made by someone who was tripping acid and couldn't help stuffing all the tough-guy machismo of the crime genre into a blender. There is a particularly hypnotic sequence where after Walker learns of his wife's new address in LA, he walks down a long corridor in a wide shot, marching off to hunt her down. His footsteps echo on the soundtrack rhythmically and director Boorman, intercuts between Walker on the hunt, and Lynn, going about her day in a haze, unaware that he is after her, the sound of those footsteps as the soundtrack. It's an inspired sequence, and in this scene and many others, Boorman takes liberties with the visual and structural conventions of the studio action film, and turns in both a quintessentially 60's movie, and something thoroughly modern (The Limey, Pulp Fiction both owe a debt to Point Blank).
Payback
Mel Gibson's Parker-rendition, Payback, exemplifies a lot of what's wrong with both Hollywood in general, and with their attempts to adapt Stark's books, without any of the cool saving graces that Point Blank has. The bottom line: changes and tweaks to Stark's concept that make Payback crappier film, not a better one. Gibson plays Porter and like Marvin's Walker, begs the question: why the name change? It's a simple thing and I don't think Porter or Walker are necessarily better or worse names than Parker, but it's just one of many superficial, needless deviations from the source material that makes you wonder why they even adapted it in the first place.
Much like Point Blank, Payback nixes Stark/Westlake's original heist concept and introduces a quickie robbery involving a literal smash-and-grab head-on collision with a stunt car. I can see why filmmakers avoid the books oringal concept for the heist because it involves South American guerrillas, planes, machine guns and explosions, and of course, none of that would be very interesting or cool in a movie right? The next needless addition Payback adds is a touch of heart and humanity to Gibsons Porter. When he finds his wife dead from a heroin OD, Porter seems broken up about it. He's not exactly racked with sobs, but the amount of remorse Gibson imbues the scene with is just not in keeping with the Parker character, who bricked over his heart the moment he woke up with 2 bullets in his back--bullets his wife put there.
I saw Payback in the theatres when it originally came out about a decade ago (with my grandmother no less, who kept cackling at all the Lucy Liu S&M scenes) and I quite liked it. What stood out for me back then was the seemingly brave decision to have a Mel Gibson character who was a bit of a shit, a low-life doing bad things to other low-life's. But having read the original book it takes its cues from, they didn't make him nearly bad enough. It was almost certainly the vanity of Gibson or the weak-willed meddling of some studio suits, that neutered the true, unforgiving bad-ass-ery of this character, robbing Gibson himself of what could have been one of his most powerful roles.
After indulging this whole Parker obsession for a few weeks, I'm now certain that Hollywood is incapable of giving us a true adaptation of The Hunter, and bringing to life the Parker character in the form that propelled him through 20+ novels. Screenwriters seem incapable of honouring the economy his character (what he doesn't have some long lost love? regret about his mothers death? a former life as a classically trained pianist?). Executives and producers wrongfully assume that audiences won't sit through a movie where a relentless, unsentimental character blasts his way through his enemies, always staying one step ahead, always remaining steady in his quest. Hollywood screenwriting commandments (and they are evangelical commandments) dictate that every character has an arc, that at some point they must feel doubt, must expose their emotions, must undergo a reversal, a change of heart. Parker does not doubt himself. Park does not waver in his quest or heavily reflect on its origins.
Despite all this, I full expect to see more Parker adaptations in the future. What is so disappointing about this is that I know the reason filmmakers keep going back to the Stark/Westlake well is out of a genuine love for the material, they respond to the elegantly simple, but hard-hitting world he created. And Parker is the master of this world. And yet when they adapt, they change all the the essential elements that differentiates it from the rest of the crime pack. How can they love Parker when they don't understand him?
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