Richard Hooker is a guy after my own heart. He was a surgeon and not a very talented writer, but he came up with the idea for a story that is so good and rife with comic possibilities that it became both a classic film and an equally classic long-running TV show, and I hope to God the man capitalized greatly from it.
As preface, you must know that I'm a great fan of M*A*S*H in both its film and TV show incarnations, and own both the 20th-Century Fox Four-Star Edition DVD of the film and the entire "Martinis and Medicine" DVD box of the 11-season TV series.
For those unfamiliar with the general premise, MASH takes place within the shabby tent village of the 4077th mobile army surgical hospital unit stationed near the front during the Korean War, where officer surgeons perform "meatball surgery" on the constantly incoming battle wounded, and spend their spare time in the pursuit of various boozed-up craziness in order to keep themselves from going crazy. These extracurricular rebellious tendencies put them at odds with the by-the-book army brass, but with each immersion in "hot water" they save their skins by dint of their indispensable skills or by atoning via some self-sacrificing heroic act.
Readers in general, of course, often complain about the inferiority of movie and TV adaptations of their cherished novels, but in this case the reverse is definitely true: this book is the inferior realization, which is not to say that it isn't overall a fun, fast and interesting read, at least in the sense that it shows how good ideas can become better realized later in the hands of superior screenwriters. Hooker is of the Ira Levin-Scholastic reading-level school of lit, that is to say a purveyor of entertaining and simply stated stuff perfectly adaptable into better films.
For a MASH fan, the fun of reading this book is partly in discerning where the elements of the book and movie/TV versions converge and diverge.
The movie sticks closely to the book in most cases, but modifies several of the situations and improves upon them. The Hawkeye Pierce-Trapper John-Duke Forrest triumvirate of the novel is retained in the film, but by the time of the TV show was whittled sans Duke, which was no loss at all. The Hawkeye ("Yankee" from Maine) vs. Duke (Southern boy) joshing banter grows tiresome in the book and would have quickly palled on the show. The character of Maj. Frank Burns, the religiously pious privileged arrogant self-righteous hypocrite of the movie and TV series is actually a combination of two characters from the novel, Major Hobson and Capt. Burns in the book. Major "Hot Lips" Houlihan is much the same from the book to the screen, though she is considerably older in the book than Sally Kellerman, the actress who played her in the film. She is barely used as a foil in the book though, and the episode in which she declares the 4077th MASH "an insane asylum" is opened up into a much richer comic episode in the film. The alliance of Burns and Houlihan is barely mined at all for satirical points in the book, a situation corrected in the later screen versions.
The womanizing ways of the wacky surgeons seem more talked about than actually done in the book, mainly because all of the officers in the book are married, which was changed in the other versions to allow them more freedom. The MASH commander, Col. Blake is a rather dull two-dimensional exasperated foil in the book, not much improved upon in the film but improved greatly with the casting of McLean Stevenson in the TV show. An episode late in the novel in which Hawkeye and Duke don women's clothes to avoid inspection duty eventually was morphed into the character of cross-dressing Corporal Klinger in the TV show.
The Last Supper scene--the attempted suicide of the well-hung dentist "Painless"--as depicted the book is poorly realized and peters out (no pun intended) but is improved greatly and made into a classic scene in the film.
There is little outright "anti-war" proselytizing in the book--to Hooker's credit, since it is self-evident--whereas it became heavy handed and de rigueur in the TV series. It's a little surprising to someone used to that aspect of the show to see Pierce and colleagues so casually wield guns in the book.
Though published in the Vietnam era, the book does not seem as overt a Vietnam War critique as the film does. The book's humor is closer to traditional service comedy than the hippie zeitgeist Marx Brothers channeling of the later screen adaptations. And the book causes me to pause and think about whether the "rebellion" of Hawkeye and his mates represents true populist protest or is merely a manifestation of their own elite privilege. Because Hawkeye and friends know they are privileged, elite, and indispensable surgeons, they are allowed to get away with their disruptive behaviors. Is that true rebellion or just another form of good-old-boy white-male privilege? It renders the satirical intents of the story somewhat questionable.
The racist and sexist elements of the story also would make rich fodder for discussion, were I up to it. Suffice it to say, the words bandied about by some of the characters ("chinks", "gooks", "broads", "whores", "fairies") were common parlance for the period depicted.
The book does not escape heavyhandedness, throwing in mawkish elements to ennoble the surgeons in the reader's eye: saving imperiled babies for instance.
For its deficiencies, the book has some good episodes and occasional laugh-out-loud moments. My favorite parts of the book involve the deception-fraught football game (also a famous scene in the film), a Japanese sojourn in which the surgeons quip with incredulous brass and play golf, and a chapter in which they train two by-the-book surgical greenhorns on the realities of meatball surgery.
Much of the humor and situations in the book start promisingly but sputter as Hooker strains to make them crazier, and in doing do so they merely seem forced and random. The best laughs are the unexpected ones, as when the surgeons are told they need to dress better, to which they reply: "I'm partial to English flannel" and "imported Irish tweed," or when names are played upon, as when the surgeons encounter a Colonel Cornwall with: "Cornwallis? I thought we fixed your wagon at Yorktown," or, in the commission of an identity switch, they introduce themselves as Captains Limburger and Camembert (because, as we all know, cheese is always funny).
The book actually ends well, and its downplayed poignancy is more realistic than the Wagnerian grandiosity of the finale of the TV show.
A testament to the resiliency of Hooker's initial story concept in this novel is that the 18 months in which it takes place (the actual Korean War was relatively short-lived) was stretched out for 11 seasons on television without "jumping the shark" often or growing stale or bereft of new story ideas.
I enjoyed the book, but often wondered how it might be regarded as a piece of literature had it been realized by someone like, say, Joseph Heller or Kurt Vonnegut. Whatever the case, I was glad to have finally read it, though it might have been better if I hadn't been sober.