Los Angeles, 1941.

A run-downstreet ofseedy shopfronts andblinkingneonsigns. Musicfrom
somewhere features a lonely horn. Thecamera pans up to asecond-story
window of aflophouse. In the window,his hatpushed back,his tieundone,
Philip Marlowelights anothercigaret and waits for the cops to arrive. He
is ready to tellhis story.Theseopening shots are soevocative of Raymond
Chandler's immortal Marlowe, archtypicalprivate eye, haunting the
underbelly of Los Angeles, that if we're Chandler fans we hold ourbreath.
Is the ambience goingto be maintained, or will this be anothercampy
rip-off? Half an hour into the movie, werelax. "Farewell, My Lovely" never
steps wrong.It is, indeed,the mostevocative of all theprivate detective
movies wehave had in thelast few years. It is not asgreat as Roman
Polanski's "Chinatown,"which wasconcerned with largersubjects, but in
thegenreitself therehasn't beenanything this good since Hollywood was
doing Philip Marlowe thefirsttime around. Onereason is that Dick
Richards, thedirector,takeshismaterial andcharacterabsolutely
seriously. He is not uneasy with it, as Robert Altman waswhen he
had Elliot Gouldflirt with seriousness in "The Long Goodbye:" Richards
doesn't hedgehisbet.And neitherdoes Robert Mitchum, inwhatbecomeshis
definitiveperformance. Mitchum is one ofthe greatscreenpresences, and
at 57 he seems somehowto be justnow coming of age: He was born to play
the weary, cynical, doggedlyromantic Marlowe. Hisvoice andhis face and
the way helightshiscigaret are all exactly right, and seem totally
effortless. That'shistrademark. In a good Mitchumperformance, we are
never aware he isacting. And it is onlywhen we measure thedistances
betweenhischaracters that we can seewhat he is doing.