When we first encounter Frances Amthor, she’s surrounded by a bevy of young beauties at a makeshift table. Whores, to be exact, but don’t let her hear you say that. Four or five working girls, by my count, and from all appearances, twice as many sandwiches. Dressed like a matron, or perhaps a nurse with a lucrative side hustle, Frances is a woman of many appetites. More to the point, she’s LA’s most renowned madam. Built a business from the ground up like so many during the Depression, and she’s not about to let anyone – even one so smooth and refined as Philip Marlowe – challenge her well-earned position. Pay your fee, have your girl, all will be well. Threaten the bottom line and things are going to get interesting.
Let’s cut to the chase, the old broad doesn’t like private dicks. She likes smoking even less. Light up in her house of pleasure, you’re going to get a mouthful. Four hard slaps to Phil’s kisser, to remind you who’s in charge. Add to that, a withering insult:
“I think you’re a very stupid person. You look stupid, you’re in a stupid business, and you’re on a stupid case.”
And so he is. Like all of Raymond Chandler’s finest work, convoluted doesn’t even begin to cover it. Still, that’s the dish we ordered, and it’s coming out hot. And since it’s 1941, respecting gender equality is something not even the academics have entertained. A dame belts you, a dame gets belted in return. Hard, and with feeling. Frances is knocked back, but if you’re the sort who has to manage a stable of submental mattress candy as well as rock-hard drunks trying to squeeze in extra time, you’ve moved beyond being bested. She’ll wipe the blood from her mouth and finish with the day’s receipts. In the black, as usual. She’d be a feminist icon if the broads had a lick of self-respect.
The single scene would be enough to elevate Ms. Amthor into the pantheon, but she has an encore that only the 1970’s could produce. Sure, it means her untimely death, but when that same death involves a pre-Rocky Sylvester Stallone, the cinematic gods have your full attention. Seems Jonnie (Sly) is sweet on one of the madam’s most prized ladies. Girls, with all honestly, only none of us want to hear the truth. Maybe she’s the heir apparent, or perhaps she’s being held in escrow until the Mayor himself pays a visit. Regardless, Jonnie hasn’t earned the right. He’s served the outfit with dedication, but he’s still just a dumb lug. If you know Frances, you know she draws her lines in bold type.
Predictably, Frances erupts. Not on my watch, Jonnie, and the tart is going to get the beating of her life for her trouble. Jonnie’s a company man, but he’s still a man with a penis. To this day, no one knows if he was defending the girl or his own fragile ego, but there’s never been a better time to have a piece. Shots ring out, the old cow falls dead. Seems she’s mortal after all. A titan of the industry, but far from bulletproof. She’ll be missed, yes, but life will go on. Everyone not scared off will remain good and horizontal until global war cuts into profits.
A shame, really. What might Frances have done to survive? Doesn’t seem like the Rosie the Riveter type, but entrepreneurs are always pushing boundaries. Maybe she’d have been shipped out to the sands of Europe, or a tour of the Pacific Theater. The USO could always use new talent. Only now we’ll never know. But for a brief moment in time, amidst a motion picture with Robert Mitchum and the criminally alluring Charlotte Rampling, a beefy mama-san steals the show. Few would have it any other way.
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