(by rmax304823 on 6 January 2003)

SPOILERS I don't think such effort would have been put into this film had it not followed so closely upon the heels of the superlative "Chinatown." It isn't as original or, generally speaking, as well done as "Chinatown" but it's the most admirable adaptation of Chandler that's come to the screen so far.
The opening musical theme sets the tone for the rest of the film -- a melancholy trombone over some lush and wistful strings. (In "Chinatown" it was a lonely trumpet, and the incidental music was more original, even though by Goldsmith.) The photography here is by the same artist, Alonzo, and equals that in "Chinatown," although the tone is darker. The interiors are shadowy and menacing. There are only one or two brief, sunny outdoor-California scenes, and none of the beauty of Echo Park at mid-day.
The period detail is outstanding, right down to the cheap tumblers with those three or four colored rings that Jesse Florian guzzles bourbon from. And the time is evoked equally well by references to Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak in 1941 which, like any optimism Philip Marlowe might show during the story, finally ends. (DiMaggio picked up his hitting streak again for another incredible number, but that doesn't belong here.) And, yes, the Grail mansion is resplendent but this is a movie about the seedy parts of Los Angeles, as Mitchum's idiosyncratic voiceovers keep informing us. "It was the kind of place I was always afraid I'd wind up in -- alone and broke." Some of the other felicities are as funny as they were intended to be: "My bank account was trying to crawl under a duck's belly." "She threw me a look I could feel in my hip pocket."
The plot is hard to follow. All Chandler's plots are hard to follow. They're annoying. And he was sober while writing this one too. If you miss Mitchum's wrap-up explanation at the end, I guarantee you will never connect fai sui jade with Velma Galento. Hawks used to complain about his version of "The Big Sleep" that nobody could figure out who committed one of the murders, not even the director.
The performances, however, are uniformly fine, especially Mitchum's He was at that point in his career when his face -- his whole demeanor -- was beginning to sag. True he's big, and he's been through a lot and he can take it, but he's beginning to tire and go soft. It's reflected both in his voice and his appearance. He has the appropriate ambivalent relationship with the police. The chief, Nulty, is a political animal but sympathetic in his own way. His assistant, played by Harry Dean Stanton, is a corrupt cop and is seen pocketing a silver cigarette case at a crime scene. (Their exact equivalents can be seen in "Chinatown.")
There is some nudity in this film. Of course it wasn't in the novel. But it's not out of place. A few brief glimpses in a cathouse and they have an almost hallucinatory quality corresponding to Mitchum's mental state at the time. Sylvia Miles is superb prancing around with a buzz on, trying to resurrect her wrecked voice and equally wrecked body. The other performances deserve compliments too. Charlotte Rampling has been criticized but I'm not sure why. She oozes a kind of sensual deviance. Jack Halloran, alas, isn't really that good. Except for his devotion to Velma he's clumsy, selfish, and not at all sympathetic.
There are some editorial touches here that make this something more than another cheap imitation noir. Moose picks up a heckler in "the colored joint" and throws him onto a table with hardly any show of effort. Cut to a joint shot of Mitchum glancing over at the black bartender as they exchange looks conveying the general idea that this behemoth is nobody to jerk around. For those who think Mitchum somnambulates through his films, watch the scene in which Madam Anthor slaps his face and he pauses, then lets out a horrifying feral shout, lunges out of his chair and belts her.
It's a worthwhile film, maybe with somewhat more appeal for middle-aged or exhausted people. Mitchum's speech to Nulty towards the end is actually rather moving. "Thanks, Nulty, but that's not what I need right now. I need a lot of life insurance. I need another drink. I need a vacation, a house in the country. Everything I touch turns to s***. I've got a hat and a coat and a gun, and that's it." That kind of dialog stands out like a tarantula on a slice of angel-food cake.
You know something? In the entire film we never once see the inside of Mitchum's house or apartment. The guy seems to be homeless. No wonder he's tired.