What surprised me most about
Murder, My Sweet was not Dick Powell as Philip Marlowe (although that was almost enough of a shock, the little crooner-spooner-in-June-er taking on the big fellow—and not just Marlowe himself, or even "Moose" ("on account-a he's large") Malloy—but that the movie knew Marlowe has a sense of humor—although, come to think of it, having Powell play Marlowe makes absolute sense: as Marlowe narrates his own stories, he relishes his fearless similes, betraying a wit brighter—even, I hazard to add, dizzier—than any other Shamus on the stem. Powell never lets us lose sight of those wise-guy fireworks; his Marlowe is not merely weary of all the hard guys and dolls he has to shoulder past but he's also eager to kid them along, to cast a jaundiced eye (with a glint) over their sloppy mistakes and smug cruelties. So I kept smiling at the movie, even though it was mostly befuddling—in other words, Chandler at his best, interested in leading us through the dark without a firm grip, as suspects, leads, and facts slip away on every page.
So, despite the uncertainties, the literally dead ends, and the recurring pools of blackness into which Marlowe fell, Powell kept moving forward—haphazard but honest about it, managing to both grin and frown at the way things turn out, one random corpse after another, with a kiss from Nulty at the finish.
What surprised me most about Murder, My Sweet was not Dick Powell as Philip Marlowe (although that was almost enough of a shock, the little crooner-spooner-in-June-er taking on the big fellow—and not just Marlowe himself, or even "Moose" ("on account-a he's large") Malloy—but that the movie knew Marlowe has a sense of humor—although, come to think of it, having Powell play Marlowe makes absolute sense: as Marlowe narrates his own stories, he relishes his fearless similes, betraying a wit brighter—even, I hazard to add, dizzier—than any other Shamus on the stem. Powell never lets us lose sight of those wise-guy fireworks; his Marlowe is not merely weary of all the hard guys and dolls he has to shoulder past but he's also eager to kid them along, to cast a jaundiced eye (with a glint) over their sloppy mistakes and smug cruelties. So I kept smiling at the movie, even though it was mostly befuddling—in other words, Chandler at his best, interested in leading us through the dark without a firm grip, as suspects, leads, and facts slip away on every page.
So, despite the uncertainties, the literally dead ends, and the recurring pools of blackness into which Marlowe fell, Powell kept moving forward—haphazard but honest about it, managing to both grin and frown at the way things turn out, one random corpse after another, with a kiss from Nulty at the finish.
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