Richard Powell's novel The Philadelphian has not worn well. It was a best-seller in 1956 and was made into a "blockbuster" film, starring Paul Newman, in 1959. We watched the movie (called, for some reason, The Young Philadelphians) on TCM and I was sufficiently intrigued that I ordered up the long-forgotten novel through our blessedly-efficient Interlibrary Loan. Gosh, what a disappointment! The Philadelphian is a pot-boiler, I'm afraid, very mid-century. It's got it all — three-generations of rags to riches, heroic army service, blighted romance and cheesy sex, and a contrived climactic courtroom showdown. Powell's prose is flat, unstylish, at its best "journalistic," but marred by flights of tough-guy pseudo-Hammettian or Chandleresque prose: "He came slowly downstairs from the bedroom, with the pulse of blood hammering inside his skull like a rivet gun"; "Her head felt like a boiling tea kettle, and her thoughts kept escaping from it like steam"; "The applause had been a cheer for the underdog. Later it had developed that a wolf was romping around in underdog's clothing". Frankly, I'm surprised that the novel achieved such popularity in the years of my youth. Sorry to say but it's a trashy piece of writing.
The film is a bit better; more honest and more disciplined, hugely reliant on Paul Newman's youthful charisma.
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