IMDb #241 Review: The Big Sleep (1946)

Source: Wikipedia

There seem to be three distinct detective personalities. The Holmes knockoff, an eccentric bastard who works independently, usually in contempt of authorities but eventually earning their grudging respect (e.g., Auguste Dupin, Hercule Poirot, Gregory House).

There's also The innocuous snoop, usually a kid or a kindly old lady, who attracts trouble by being nice and nosy (e.g., Miss Marple, Father Brown, Nancy Drew).

Then there’s this guy. The hard-boiled detective. The tough loner, tragic lover, nihilistic wisecracker, he haunts the crime-ridden urban sprawl with a solemn sense of duty (e.g., Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Batman). No fun at parties, but objectively cooler, by virtue of being so relentlessly depressing.

Humphrey Bogart lends his sad face and nasal drawl to a private dick (or “shamus,” he calls himself) poking his nose into a blackmail case. Driven by curiosity, dumb luck, and a 1938 Plymouth DeLuxe, he gets back more trouble than is worth $25 a day plus expenses.

Here we have a noir film with all the trappings. Trench coats, fedoras, booze, cigarettes. Chilly, witty banter. Not just one, but two femme fatales, a rich old cripple’s pair of shady-ass daughters. A shamelessly melodramatic orchestral soundtrack. Dames screaming, guys dropping from one slug on the mug.

No discernible message, no social commentary, just pure plot. And what a plot. Lies, corpses, sketchy characters, and gambits pile up, then collapse in an avalanche of befuddling yet profoundly entertaining mess.

I recommend it for daytime sleepers, nostalgic old people (fine, Grandpa, I confess: folks were classier back in the day), and amateur sleuths seeking badass lessons.

114 minutes.