In his Preface to the “The Third Man,” Greene explains that this short story was written only for the purposes of becoming a film script and therefore shouldn’t be taken too seriously. But it’s still a great example of Greene at his best. It hardly matters if the facts are bare and sometimes confusing, what is dazzling is the narration. The story is a first-person narration by Colonel Calloway of Scotland Yard, who is currently working in the British Sector of divided Vienna immediately after the end of World War II. Calloway manages to become invisible for pages on end as he gives us a very omniscient third-person narration of the adventures and misadventures of Rollo Martins, the writer of “cheap novelettes” who comes to Vienna to find his friend Harry Lime (played by Orson Wells in Carol Reed’s famous film in 1949), who seems to have been run over by an automobile just before he arrived. When Calloway reasserts himself and returns with his first person narration, it feels like someone has just pulled the blinders off, widening one’s vision to see where one is really standing. “The Fallen Idol” is a very short story that was also made into a Carol Reed film of the same name in 1948.

In 1950, Graham Greene published a volume containing the novella of THE THIRD MAN and the short story "The Basement Room," given the new title "The Fallen Idol" to match the name given it in the movie version.
THE THIRD MAN, of course, was a 1949 film for which Greene had written the screenplay. He'd worked closely with the director, Carol Reed, and, in his preface to the novella he states that the novella was written in preparation for the writing of the screenplay. He points out that the film is the finished product and that the novella had not been written for publication.
He'd also worked with Carol Reed a year or two before, when Reed directed THE FALLEN IDOL. "The Basement Room", which, as I've said, is the source for the film THE FALLEN IDOL, had been published about ten years before. The short story itself, then, is the finished product. Greene was quite pleased with the film version, so it may be safe to say that both the story and the film are finished products.
The novella of THE THIRD MAN, as entertaining as it is, must count as an oddity. It is amazing how much of it stayed in the film, but the part I like best, involving police and soldiers from the four occupying forces in post-war Vienna, is minimized in the film to mere atmosphere. If you are new to Greene, you'll see how sophisticated he is in this novella, but the interior struggles he usually presents are not as much at the forefront as in his other works. They are there, of course. It is well worth reading. I wonder what my perceptions of it would be if I had not seen the movie first. But this is one case in which the movie SHOULD be seen first, because it is, as its author states, the intended finished product, not the novella.
Greene's prefaces to the novella and to the story show him at his affable best. I do recommend reading them AFTER you read the novella and the story. This way you'll take in Greene's artistry. The shop talk must always come second.

Greene manages to evoke some feelings of dread and unease. Interesting reflections on justice and righteousness

When I was a young boy, I grew up under the shadow of my elder sister. She was four years older than me and was, despite the usual share of pampering love and affection that a younger child gets, inevitably entitled to her own share of importance and what's more, she was astute, from a relatively tender age, of the seamier, murkier side to life around her.

It was at the age of ten, for instance, when I learned what she was going through as she crossed the frontier of adolescence and the revelations disturbed me a great deal. It was a couple of years later when she told me of her first boyfriend and from then on, she told me about all her boyfriends, about the time when she first got drunk and of all the other things she had done, without our parents knowing about it. Our conversations used to be full of her secrets and my earnest promises to keep her secrets, my heart suddenly burdened with a new responsibility that it had to bear at all costs.

Because I had admired my sister, because she had worked hard at school, despite her abysmal grades, and had earned her rightful place as a doted-upon daughter in our family, because she had the rare quality of calling a spade a spade and being honest and unpretentious about it, because she never judged people and while she could be cruel to those who judged her, she would never look down upon them too. She was, in a way, my idol.

What happens when an idol falls in grace?

I think that is what this brilliant, haunting, perfectly paced story by the one and only Graham Greene tries and succeeds in answering and it is an answer that would not be too reassuring. Filmed memorably by Carol Reed, even as Greene himself tweaked the central narrative arc in a crucial aspect to make it more easily palatable for the frustratingly demanding British censors, "The Fallen Idol" is nevertheless a fascinating film, scripted with the same concise clarity as to be found in most of Greene and directed with a confident skill at nuance and emotional depth.

The story, however, was originally named "The Basement Room" and with good reason - this is a story, not only about a young boy and his flawed idol, his broken, all-too-imperfect hero "coming clean" one night about his secrets but also about class divisions and what do they represent - the green baize door, clearly belonging to Greene's own childhood, separates the clean, sanitised and scrubbed world of Phillip and the sordid, murky allegorical world of marital discord and infidelity of his hero Baines. Just what does happen when these two worlds, one harmless and frolicsome, and the other puzzling and morally grey, fuse with each other? Naturally, things go bump at night and a boy's sense of heroism and life is twisted on its head, for once and for all.

An unforgettable story, written with skill, emotion, drama, wry irony. But then, this is to be expected from Greene.

Three stars for Third Man and five stars for the incredibly distilled novella Fallen Idol.

Early spy flicks that set the tone of Greene's style.

La versione scritta de Il terzo uomo è di fatto una "traccia" per la sceneggiatura di quel film meraviglioso con Joseph Cotten, Alida Valli e Orson Welles (1949): impossibile non rimanerne delusi, soprattutto se si è amato il film, capolavoro di bianco e nero, ombre e suggestioni in una Vienna post bellica. Tre stellette.

Cinque stellette invece per The Fallen Idol che è una perla. Noir perfetto nei modi e nei tempi, senza sbrodolature né elementi superflui. Un racconto lungo, più che un romanzo, una chicca per appassionati (ma Graham Greene si legge ancora?).

These are an 'odd couple' of stories. They are both derived from the films of the same names which were both directed by Carol Reed. Yet, they are each somewhat different than those films. It is almost as though Greene was trying to improve upon perfection. The Third Man, a novella, is told in a slightly removed first person narrative by Callaway, which if you've seen the film, will most likely have Trevor Howard's wonderful voice speaking to you. It's an interesting style that serves as a reminder that this is more than just a screenplay. The writing here is brilliant and I found myself rereading certain passages because of the beauty of the language. I would classify this work as typical Greene which I mean in the most complimentary way. The Fallen Idol, here just a short story, is told in a straight third person narrative. For its brevity, this is a story that didn't entirely hold my interest. I found it slightly opaque and hard to follow and there seemed to be an underlying purpose which I was missing entirely. There were also minor differences in the characters but telling the same basic story. Nevertheless I would certainly recommend this pairing to anyone with an interest in Greene's work or Greene devotees who somehow missed these stories.

Like duty-free chocolate liqueurs.

Holy shit, that was spooky! I mean, yes, the story is nothing special in itself, but the atmosphere was great and I loved Philip's childish point of view, it made it even scarier.

Third men:
Quando comecei a ler o livro achei muito engraçado a forma como o prefácio é iniciado, onde o autor começa por dizer “ the third man was never written to be read but only to be seen “, achei este único bastante interessante e curioso.

Ao avançar na história, está frase revela o seu significado , apelando a todos os nosso sentidos, visual, auditivo e como leitor é nos revelado ao longo da história pequenos detalhes que estavam debaixo do nosso nariz, assim como estavam para as personagens.
O suspense e a ação são desenvolvidas através do título do livro, e pelo assunto pelo qual a história vai girar, e pelo ambiente de pouco movimento e em pubs, criando o ambiente da 2 guerra mundial na fronteira entre a Viena e a Alemanha.

Conclui-se a história com o aparecimento do terceiro homem e da criação de novas etapas para as outras personagens. Achei a escrita um pouco confusa pois num momento entendia o que se passava e noutro já estava perdida sobre o que estava a acontecer.
Achei um bom livro que fala sobre a confiança que temos em nós e nos outros, acabando por haver sempre situações de dúvidas e dificuldades que acabam por ser resolvidas pela conversa.




The fallen idol
O livro é um suspense muito bem escrito e que cria um ambiente de nervosismo e ansiedade, sem o leitor saber o que poderá acontecer a seguir. São apresentadas várias personagens com caracteres diferente, mas que cada um tem um segredo que tem de proteger acabando por envolver uma criança nessa situação, e como se pode esperar a criança acaba por não o conseguir guardar.

Este livro aborda temas muito interessantes que abrangem desde a proteção dos segredos até à liberdade que todos nós lutamos por alcançar.

Gostei muito da escrita e do envolvimento que o autor cria com o ambiente e as personagens, ao usar uma casa antiga com um aspeto degradante e as personagens que não são jovens e que têm segredos a serem protegidos mesmo no leito da morte.

In Postwar Britain, the concept of “belief,” the trusting in the existence of something without tangible proof, was considered quaint and naïve. The “believers” in this period are viewed with the same sympathetic mirth as those who sleep with their doors unlocked only to have their mattress full of hundred dollar bills raided in the night. The viewers feel deep compassion for these people, combined with a peculiar envy for their innocence that is quickly combated by a “well, they had it coming” grimace. This compassionate vindictiveness is captured in the literature of the time. In George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, a dystopic government eventually thwarts Winson Smith’s belief in the existence of a possible future without Big Brother. In Kazou Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, Mr. Stevens’ belief in his employer’s goodness, and thus his value as a small influencer of the world’s improvement, is crushed with his acknowledgement of Mr. Darlington’s role as Hitler’s pawn. In both cases the “believers” are faced with overwhelming evidence that contradicts their belief, however, it is only with reluctance that the protagonist eventually accepts the truth. Similarly, Rollo Martins in Graham Greene’s The Third Man doggedly sticks to his belief that his best friend, Harry Lime, is a good person, despite the evidence to the contrary. Martin’s belief in the goodness of Harry Lime, despite its erroneousness is what sets him apart in a world without faith or optimism. There is virtue attached to a character that refuses to acknowledge the corrupt state of the world, retaining faith in the notions of friendship and loyalty. Thus, Rollo Martins, through his naive beliefs, points towards a better world.

When Major Calloway informs Rollo Martins that Harry Lime, “was about the worst racketeer who ever made a dirty living in this city,” (Greene, 25) Martins is entirely unwilling to accept this fact, even though it comes from a police officer, a person of authority. Martins immediately begins to size up the space between him and Calloway to see if he can reach him to hit him. At this moment Calloway thinks, “Martins, I began to realize, was dangerous.” Martins dangerousness, however, does not simply boil down to his propensity towards violence, rather it has more to do with his unwillingness to accept information, his questioning of authority, and his resolute belief that Harry Lime is a good man, a victim of police incompetency. Martins immediately places his suspicion onto the police and away from Harry Lime, “I’ve always hated policemen. They are always either crooked or stupid.” (Greene, 26) Martins goes as far to associate himself with Harry Lime’s work, so firm is his belief in Harry’s innocence, “Because if Harry was that kind of racketeer, I must be one too. We always worked together.” (Greene, 26)

Martin’s naïveté is highlighted when he recalls their early friendship, which provides the reader with a view of Lime to which Martins is entirely unaware, “But what things he did think up! He was a wonderful planner. I was far better at subjects like History and English than Harry, but I was a hopeless mug when it came to carrying out his plans…I was always the one who got caught.” (Greene, 24) While Martins remains blissfully oblivious of the implications of this statement, Calloway and the reader are immediately suspicious. Calloway replies, “That was convenient for Lime,” (Greene, 24) suggesting that Harry had manipulated Martins in the past, and perhaps is not the hero that Martins believes he is. Martins catches the insinuation in Calloway’s statement and replies angrily, “What the hell do you mean…That was my fault not his. He could have found someone cleverer if he’d chosen, but he liked me.” (Greene, 24) While Martins places the blame on himself for being caught after executing Harry’s plans, he similarly places the blame on the police for Harry’s alleged reputation as a racketeer. “I suppose there was some petty racket going on with petrol and you couldn’t pin it on anyone, so you picked a dead man. That’s just like a policeman.” (Greene, 24) Martins’ denial of the possibility of Harry’s culpability highlights his loyalty as well as his foolishness and naïveté.

When Calloway produces evidence of Harry’s wrongdoing with his dilution of penicillin, Martins cannot help but question his belief in his friend, however it takes Calloway several attempts to convey the reality of Harry’s crimes. “They begin to dilute the penicillin with coloured water, and, in the case of penicillin dust, with sand. I keep a small museum in one drawer in my desk, and I showed Martins examples. He wasn’t enjoying the talk, but he hadn’t yet grasped the point.” (Greene, 80) Martins’ faith in Harry Lime is so firm that he cannot initially understand the severity of Lime’s crimes. He replies, “I suppose that makes the stuff useless.” (Greene, 80) Calloway explains that the harm caused by the diluted drug is worse than simple ineffectiveness; indeed, the diluted penicillin caused infections, unnecessary amputations, and deaths. Then Calloway plays his trump card, bringing up the undisputable evil of poisoning innocent children. “But perhaps what horrified me most was visiting the children’s hospital here. They had bought some of this penicillin for use against meningitis. A number of children simply died, and a number went off their heads. You can see them now in the mental ward.” (Greene. 80-81)

Martins’ loyalty to Harry is so paramount, that even the use of innocent children doesn’t entirely convince him. He replies, “You haven’t showed me any evidence yet…” While Martins is determined to believe in his hero, Harry Lime, without any evidence to his goodness, he is unwilling to accept the horrors his hero is accused of without sufficient evidence. Once the proof is presented, however, Martins feels his world crashing around him. “If one watched a plane dive from its course, I don’t suppose one would chatter, and a world for Martins had certainly come to an end, a world of easy friendship, hero-worship, confidence that had begun twenty years ago in a school corridor.” (Greene, 82) While the reader watches the dissolution of Martins’ belief in Harry Lime, Martins still questions the charges leveled against his hero. “Are you certain that he was the real boss.” (Greene, 82) Martins’ faith stretches far enough to invent yet another conspiracy that could clear his friend, “Suppose…someone had got a line on him, forced him into this racket, as you forced Harbin to double-cross…And they murdered him in case he talked when he was arrested.” (Greene, 82-83) Even after Martins is presented with evidence against Lime, he is still determined to explore every avenue that could possibly clear him. He is unwilling to give up his belief until he is entirely certain of Harry’s culpability, until he is faced with Harry himself.

It is only when Martins is faced with Harry Lime’s lack of guilt at his victims’ deaths that Martins’ belief in Harry’s goodness is finally crushed. Martins says, “Have you ever visited the children’s hospital? Have you ever seen any of your victims?” (Greene, 104) Martins’ use of the word victims shows his acknowledgement of Harry’s guilt. Harry reinforces Martins’ condemnation with lack of empathy for his victims:

Victims?…Don’t be melodramatic, Rollo. Look down there…would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving—for ever. If I said you can have twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stops, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money—without hesitation? Or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spare? Free of income tax, old man. Free of income tax. (Greene, 104)

Harry’s commoditization of human beings with his monetary language, this behavior is in direct contrast with Rollo Martins worshipping of Harry Lime. He sees Lime asbeing larger than life, while Harry sees humans as dispensable dots. His lack of concern for his girlfriend, Anna Schmidt further dehumanizes Harry when he admits to setting up her arrest. “The price of living in this zone, Rollo, is service. I have to give them a little information now and then.” (Greene, 105) When Rollo asks would have happened her he replies unconcernedly, “She’d have been sent back to Hungary. There’s nothing against her really. A year in a labour camp perhaps.” (Greene, 105) The success of Harry Lime is achieved by his use of the people who believe him, the people who love him. Thus belief, as much as it is innocent and noble, also makes one vulnerable to manipulation.

As Harry Lime dies, he whispers to Rollo Martins, “Bloody Fool.” (Greene, 117) Rollo explains to Calloway that he wasn’t sure who the words were referring to. “I don’t know whether he meant that for himself—some sort of act of contrition, however inadequate…—or was it for me—with my thousand a year taxed and my imaginary cattle rustlers who couldn’t even shoot a rabbit clean.” (Greene, 117-118) It’s also possible that Harry Lime is calling Martins a bloody fool for continuing to believe in him throughout their friendship. Indeed, Martin’s assertion that Harry could be capable of any sort of contrition shows that he is still a “bloody fool” when it comes to Harry Lime.

While readers view Rollo Martin’s belief in Harry Lime as virtuous, they also look at him in frustration. Martins’ refusal to accept Lime’s guilt when there is more evidence for it than his innocence may be glorified loyalty; it could also be called naïve and stupid. Rollo Martins’ idealism and optimism remind readers of the world they wished they lived in, while bringing awareness to the danger of reality. Belief without evidence puts one at risk for manipulation and deceit, and crushing disappointment. Postwar Britain was clearly in a cynical state, longing for the ability to believe, but struggling with the risks of doing so.