The Big Sleep (1946)

 "I don't slap so good around this time of the evening..."

I'm beginning, now I've seen enough 1940s film noirs to at least begin to have opinions about them, to bloody love them. Oh, some of the social attitudes of this film have dated a bit- see the quote. But the writing, the direction, the acting, the dialogue... these are real people, and the film feels somehow more modern and more grown-up than any modern film. Then again, William bloody Faulkner co-scripted.

I've read the original novel, but in another century. I remembered literally nothing so watched the film unspoiled, but loved all the Raymond Chandler tropes- the several femme fatales in this film; the witty dialogue; the fact that, should thinhgs be threatening tomfizzle out, a man with a gun will appear.

Yet the complex and very Chandleresque plot- at once intricate and probably improvised- comes across well on film. And the chemistry, and very unconventional romance, sort of, between Marlowe and Vivian Rutledge, is exquisite. But we know that Bogart and Bacall are always going to be sublime. It seems they were having an affair during filming. That's not surprising.

Martha Vickers deserves enormous praise too, though, as a decadent drug addicted spoiled little rich girl. She's extraordinatry. And so are the twists and turns of the plot. You can even forgive the film for featuring loads and loads of torrential rain.., in LA.

This film is superb. If you haven't seen it, do so. It really is that good.

Murder on the Orient Express (1974)

 “Trial by twelve good men and true... is a sound system

I have read, probably, more of Agatha Christie's ouevre than not, although all of it- and it startles me still that I should happen to be of an age to say this- not much less than thirty years ago. Her plots are of course unparallelled: writing in an age where the tropes of the whodunit were well-estabished, she subverted and played with them, and did so with unmatched cleverness. In that respect, she was a genius.

Alas... he characterisation and prose were bloody awful, and she kept her snobbishness  close to the surface of her writing. I, in turn, have become rather more of a prose snob over the last few decades. Functional prose I can cope with. Bad prose I cannot. I prefer Margery Allingham.

However, there are always screen adaptation, which provide the wonder of Christie's plotting without the pain of her prose. This is a particularly sublime example, with a cast to die for, partly- Lauren Bacall, Ingrd Bergman- from Hollywood's golden age. Yet Albert Finney is incrddible. At first, having known only David Suchet as a screen Poirot, I didn't want to like him. Hercule Poirot, unlike Sherlock Holmes, is not a part known for many actors. Yet Finney's subtle and mannered performance makes the film. So does Sidney Lumet's visually creative directing style which nevertheless serves the plot well, masterfully combining subtly sublime camerawork- the backstory of the baby at the strt is particularly well done- with clear storytelling.

Sadly, I remembered over the decades who killed the late Mr Ratchett, so I was unsueprised, and noticed a few of the clues. But this is a hugely successful and enjoyable adaptation.