The Eternal Awkwardness of the Writing Career: ‘The Third Man’
The Eternal Awkwardness of the Writing Career: ‘The Third Man’
This classic written by Graham Greene demonstrates that being a novelist has always been a terrible life decision.
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As a professional writer1, author characters are almost always infuriating. They’re either pitched as wealthy, suave assholes2 who spend a few minutes every day fondling keyboards3 in exchange for fat checks, or absolute messes who shamble through their broken life tortured by their mediocrity or genius4, or youngsters living in squalor until they get their big break5. Whenever there’s a character in a show, book, or film that writes I know I’m going to leave the experience pissed off. And probably craving a drink6.
But there is one film that absolutely nails the writer experience. One film that features a writer character that is so pitch perfect it’s stunning. The Third Man isn’t normally remembered as a study of writing as a career—it’s usually remembered for the writing itself, which is Graham Greene perfection, or the muscular, off-kilter direction of Carol Reed, or the fact that Orson Welles is in the film for about ten minutes and is somehow often misidentified as the main character7. Or possibly the music, which is the sort of 1949 earworm you think is kind of corny at first and then you realize you’ve been humming it for weeks.
But it’s Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) that I always remember, because despite the passage of time, I recognize a writer when I see one. Martins is the patsy of the story, a genial idiot who is manipulated and thwarted at every turn but who imagines himself to be pretty bright and perceptive8. I’ve just described every writer in the universe, and it’s uncanny how Greene slipped every hilariously humiliating fact of the writing life into his story.
Mind if I Use That Line in My Next Western?
If you’ve never seen The Third Man, you really should. Holly Martins is a writer of Westerns in the Zane Grey tradition, pulpy books with titles like “The Lone Rider of Santa Fe.” Summoned by his old friend Harry Lime to a shattered post-World War II Vienna being administered by the Allies9, he discovers Harry has died in a car accident. When he learns the accident might have been a murder, and that a mysterious third man (in addition to the two known witnesses) may have interacted with Harry, he decides to investigate10. Hilarity—dark and twisty—ensues.
What’s great about Martins as a writer character is that the script—written by Graham Greene—has zero respect for him, which rings so true it hurts11. He’s kind of dumb, floating through Vienna on a cloud of alcohol fumes and being manipulated at every turn by just about everyone he meets. When he finally does smarten up and accept that his friend Harry is a very bad person, he is instrumental in putting Harry down (literally), but it doesn’t feel like heroics. It feels grubby, and dark.
In the end, he has one final heartbreaking humiliation when he waits for the woman he’s fallen in love with, Lime’s former girlfriend Anna (Alida Valli), after Lime’s (second) funeral. Furious and heartbroken because she loved Harry and hates Holly for bringing about his end, she walks right past him, not even looking at him—an extraordinary unbroken shot that ends the film on a note of despair and desolation12.
But we’re not here to talk about how awesome The Third Man is as a thriller and story—there have been many such essays, after all. No, I want to write about how the film treats Holly Martins in terms of being a professional writer and novelist, because it is pitch-perfect and still rings true 75 years later.
That Sounds Like a Cheap Novelette
First and foremost, the most excruciatingly accurate aspect of Holly’s career: He is in Vienna in the first place because he is absolutely broke (despite publishing several novels)13. Harry offered him a vague job writing for a “medical charity” (that turns out to just be Harry’s penicillin-smuggling operation14) and Martins came running from the U.S., desperate for that paycheck. Man, that is so familiar it burns like a rash: We writers rarely become rich from our work. We rarely even pay the bills. If Harry Lime offered me a job writing for his “medical charity” I’d be there the next day with my direct deposit information in hand15.
Even better, once in Vienna it becomes painfully clear immediately that most no one cares about his writing, or has even heard of his book (save for stolid Sgt. Paine (Barnard Lee), who is depicted as honest and kind but not especially educated or sophisticated). Everyone’s disdain and disinterest for Martin’s work and is both hilarious and on the nose: You publish a book (or, you know, ten books) and you will regularly meet people who not only have no idea about those books, they also clearly do not care about them16.
The fun goes on: Martins drinks too much, and he’s manipulated via flattery by folks who carry his book around like a totem. Greene even gets in the classic writerly humiliation: The Event. Mistaken by Crabbin, head of the British Cultural Re-education Centre, for a serious artist (because Crabbin is both preoccupied with keeping his mistress out of sight and has never heard of Holly Martins), Martins is invited to address the Centre. The event is a complete disaster, with most of the crowd walking out while Martins attempts to fake and flopsweat his way through a literary discussion that is way over his head17.
Believe me: As a novelist who once read to an audience of zero people at a bookstore (well, my Mom was there, smiling at me as if nothing terrible was happening18), this scene hit harder than anything Orson Welles does or says in his legendary ten minutes. I am Holly Martins, and Holly Martins is all of us19.
Of course, none of my friends have the energy or dark brilliance to go to a war-torn city and make bank pushing diluted penicillin that kills a bunch of kids, and if they did I hate to travel, so I wouldn’t go to try and help them. But I will be happy to humiliate myself at a literary event if you promise me two free drinks and maybe a sandwich, because this writing gig is not working out as I’d hoped20.
NEXT WEEK: My Lady Jane and Reveal Fatigue
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I heard that.
You’re one-third right!
Trust me: If you need a way to discourage further conversation, just say “Well, gotta go home and fondle the old keyboard” and people will be happy to see you go.
You’re half right!
You’re … right on this one. Except for the words “young” and “big break.”
To be fair, this is also how I feel after reading or watching things without writer characters.
If Orson Welles had gotten his shit together for five minutes he could have taken over the world.
This does describe most writers, in my experience. Also, yes, A Genial Idiot is definitely in the running for the title of my memoir.
The most distubring thing about this film is that they felt the need to explain this to the audience … in 1949, four years after the war ended. People have forever been dumb.
If you’re thinking that investigating a death in a foreign city when you’re a penniless writer sure sounds like a lot of work, you are my people.
Proposal: All writers are genial idiots. Discuss.
Coincidentally, despair and isolation is how most of my evenings end. Unless you count all these cats as company, which you should not since these tubby bastards haven’t said a word to me in 20 years.
On a completely tangential note, can I borrow $20? I need … medicine.
If I had a penny for every time a vaguely-worded freelance writing job turned out to be some sort of smuggling operation, I’d be kind of rich.
If there was free penicillin involved, so much the better.
People always seem genuinely surprised that my books are available on Amazon, which hurts.
Although the fact that Martins is a professional novelist who has never heard of “stream of consciousness” is a little weird, honestly.
Something the poor thing got to practice a lot during my childhood.
Unless you are, you know, popular and successful.
I should note that the sandwich is optional.