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The year is 1941 and Joltin' Joe DiMaggio is on a hitting streak, and that is about the only thing in life that world-weary Philip Marlowe takes any pleasure in.
This is a workman-like adaptation of the novel by Raymond Chandler. Dimple-chinned Robert Mitchum at 58, an underrated actor with charisma and star appeal, is unfortunately a bit over the hill as Chandler's hard-nosed, realist gumshoe Philip Marlowe, especially when romancing the babes. Still he does a good job and seems almost made for the part.
The main babe that needs romancing here is Charlotte Rampling who plays Helen Grayle, a scheming, trampy, psychopathic, sexy thing on the make for anything she can get. She's the lovely who goes farewell--well, one of them.
Sylvia Miles got a supporting actress Oscar nomination for her portrayal of Mrs. Florian, one-time show girl turned lush. And Sylvester Stallone, looking almost as young as a choir boy, had a bit part as an anonymous thug. Jack O'Halloran played the very dense and obsessed Moose Malloy with a steady moronic malevolence. John Ireland is the good cop and Harry Dean Stanton the bad one. Kate Murtagh is the madam from hell who likes to throw her considerable weight around.
Comparing this to the original from 1944 entitled "Murder, My Sweet," staring Dick Powell and Claire Trevor, I have to say it is more realistic and edgier, and wonderfully atmospheric, but not as enjoyable, perhaps because Mitchum seems a little dead compared to Powell. But that is entirely the point, as Chandler's intent was to showcase a Philip Marlowe near the end of his tether, a man oppressed with the vileness of life and ready to toss it in.
In either case, the convoluted plot involving the missing "Velma," various Los Angeles dives, dead bodies aplenty, and lots of police and political corruption remains somewhat opaque but still manages to hold our interest.
See this for Robert Mitchum, one of Hollywood's greatest with over a hundred and thirty films to his credit, a man who personified nonchalance on the screen, a guy who felt equally at home in a "B" Western as in a dramatic feature, a man who mesmerized audiences with seeming indifference.
The year is 1941 and Joltin' Joe DiMaggio is on a hitting streak, and that is about the only thing in life that world-weary Philip Marlowe takes any pleasure in.
This is a workman-like adaptation of the novel by Raymond Chandler. Dimple-chinned Robert Mitchum at 58, an underrated actor with charisma and star appeal, is unfortunately a bit over the hill as Chandler's hard-nosed, realist gumshoe Philip Marlowe, especially when romancing the babes. Still he does a good job and seems almost made for the part.
The main babe that needs romancing here is Charlotte Rampling who plays Helen Grayle, a scheming, trampy, psychopathic, sexy thing on the make for anything she can get. She's the lovely who goes farewell--well, one of them.
Sylvia Miles got a supporting actress Oscar nomination for her portrayal of Mrs. Florian, one-time show girl turned lush. And Sylvester Stallone, looking almost as young as a choir boy, had a bit part as an anonymous thug. Jack O'Halloran played the very dense and obsessed Moose Malloy with a steady moronic malevolence. John Ireland is the good cop and Harry Dean Stanton the bad one. Kate Murtagh is the madam from hell who likes to throw her considerable weight around.
Comparing this to the original from 1944 entitled "Murder, My Sweet," staring Dick Powell and Claire Trevor, I have to say it is more realistic and edgier, and wonderfully atmospheric, but not as enjoyable, perhaps because Mitchum seems a little dead compared to Powell. But that is entirely the point, as Chandler's intent was to showcase a Philip Marlowe near the end of his tether, a man oppressed with the vileness of life and ready to toss it in.
In either case, the convoluted plot involving the missing "Velma," various Los Angeles dives, dead bodies aplenty, and lots of police and political corruption remains somewhat opaque but still manages to hold our interest.
See this for Robert Mitchum, one of Hollywood's greatest with over a hundred and thirty films to his credit, a man who personified nonchalance on the screen, a guy who felt equally at home in a "B" Western as in a dramatic feature, a man who mesmerized audiences with seeming indifference.