Murder, My Sweet

Murder, My Sweet

Moose is a wonderful character. Almost comical, but wholly tragic, a man of few words, but a lot of muscles. I have mentioned my feelings on the femme fatale trope before, The fact that this big dumb lug is played by a woman falls into so many awful stereotypes, but there's just something likable about the hulking murderer. He, like certain goons from Blazing Saddles, is a mere pawn, and maybe that's why I have sympathy for him.

This is a great Philip Marlowe story. A twisty plot that's not too twisted. A lot of quippy dialogue that doesn't feel forced or out-of-character for anyone. And a seediness to it that isn't quite as seedy as it should be, unfortunately, but still enough to get the point across. Powell is no Bogey, but he's solid. The ending is a bit too pat, but it has a few great moments to it. And the mystery is compelling, with enough ripples that when you think you've got it all down, there's a bit more added in. Notably, often, Moose.

And then there's that dream sequence. The drugged out nightmares Marlowe has are just wonderfully effected with the exposures and filters, creating the smoke effect, the door sequence, and those floating hypodermics. It's startling to see in the middle of this film this bizarre trip through a narcotic haze, but it's also refreshing. It helps the film rise above the noir tropes that I don't much care for, certainly.

December count: 73/100.