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whereas the hard-boiled detective stories of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler have fitted to cinema like a fox in a chicken coop - indeed creating the definitively modern American genre and style in the process - those of what might be called Golden Age fiction have made barely any impression whatsoever. The problem with books like those of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers or S.S. Van Dine (on whose work this film is based), is that they are low on action or variety - whereas Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe traverse the mean streets of LA, working class tenements, bars, offices, wealthy mansions, and meet all sorts of exciting dangers and violence, Golden Age fiction is generally fixed in location, the scene of the murder, usually a lavish country house, and the action is limited to investigating clues and interviewing suspects. This is a very static procedure, plot reduced to puzzle.
This, of course, is as much ideological as anything else, the Golden Age stories dealing with a society hostile to change and movement; the hard-boiled novels recording an urban reality increasingly moving away from a centre (both of authority, and of a city), dividing itself up into hostile, ever uncontrollable and lawless camps. Another major problem with Golden age fiction is character - because we cannot know the answer to the crime until the end, we cannot gain access to characters' motivations or emotions, being defined solely by their potential need to murder. The detective, unlike the anxious, prejudice-ridden private eyes, are simply there to be brilliant, and maybe a little eccentric.
The problem with most films from Golden Age books is that they try to be period recreations of the Merchant Ivory/Jane Austen school, and end up looking silly. There have been successes, for example the radical reworkings of Ellery Queen and others by Claude Chabrol. In the English-speaking world, there have really only been two. The Alistair Sim classic, 'Green For Danger', works because it pushes the form almost into parody, while never betraying the integrity or interest of the mystery.
Before that came Michael Curtiz's brilliant 'The Kennel Murder Case'. The narrative is pure Golden Age. A repulsive character is introduced who gives a number of potential suspects reason to kill him. He is duly murdered in a seemingly foolproof manner, indicating suicide, slumped in a locked room. The caricatured policemen fall hopelessly for the bait. It is up to Philo Vance, gentleman and amateur detective, neither old nor fat, to read the clues more insightfully, open the case out of the confines of the room, and eventually solve the case, the corpse being little more than the pretext for intellectual stimulation.
What is interesting is not this detective plot - which can only ever be unsatisfying as all solutions are - although it is rarely less than entertaining, and full of comical bits of business. There isn't even really an attempt to 'subvert' the image of the perfect detective - there is one alarming scene where a brutal sergeant threatens to rough up a suspect, with no protest from Vance, but that's about it.
What marks 'Kennel' as a classic is its modernity. Curtiz is not generally considered a great auteur, because he has no consistent themes or evidence of artistic development. But he was Hollywood's greatest craftsman, and he is on sensational form here. if the Golden Age detective story is mere puzzle, Curtiz takes this idea to is logical extreme, creating an abstract variation on his source, reducing narrative, character and location to geometry, a series of lines, from the beautiful art-deco sets to the glorious camera movements which suddenly break from a static composition , and, as they glide furiously at an angle, jolt the dead decor to life.
This treatment is appropriate to a story that resolutely refuses realism, it is a pattern that turns the detective plot into a hall of mirrors, like the two central brothers, or the original crime itself, borrowed from an 'Unsolved Mysteries' book. This fantasy world of nasty rich men who collect Oriental relics (shades of 'The Moonstone'?), inscrutable Chinese servants, ex-cons turned butlers, dog-loving fops, Runyonesque cops, is the perfect habitat for Vance, a man who will drop a cruise to Europe on a fanciful hunch, who knows the social world of these people, and yet is tainted by his interest in crime and association with the police, or would be if he wasn't anything more than a thinking machine, William Powell, the greatest American comedian of the decade, bravely subsuming his idiosyncratic humanity.
But if the treatment is rarefied, the climax is spectacularly brutal, involving vicious dogs and attempted murder. The police and the detective, supposed to be preventing crime, are guilty of inciting one.


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