To depict Philip Marlowe is to have a conversation with film history. The famous private detective has been portrayed by Humphrey Bogart, Elliott Gould, Robert Mitchum, James Caan, and countless others. Directors like Howard Hawks and Robert Altman made Marlowe movies. Comparisons are inevitable, so when it was announced Liam Neeson would portray the character in a Neil Jordan film, there was a moment for cautious optimism. Neeson is a reliable screen presence, and while Jordan has lost a step in recent years, his films Mona Lisa and The Crying Game are hallmarks of neo-noir. But their latest collaboration Marlowe is a disaster from the start, a lumbering throwback that is built on several fundamental miscalculations. At least the film is a useful, unintentional reminder that great artists do not necessarily have great judgment.
The miscalculations are not immediately apparent. We learn through a title card that the film is set in 1939 Los Angeles, and the first scene involves Neeson’s Marlowe taking a case from Clare Cavendish (Diane Kruger), a mysterious new client. So far, so good, right? We have the muted colors, confident Dutch angles, and moody shadows we expect. Jordan, along with screenwriter William Monahan, are shaking off the proverbial cobwebs, which in turn re-familiarizes us with the rhythms of a hard-boiled procedural. And yet, even in that first scene with Neeson and Kruger, something feels off. There is no chemistry or tension between them, and while they certainly look the part, it all unfolds like we are watching a cosplay of noir, not the real thing. Maybe this is because Jordan filmed all of Marlowe in Europe, with interiors in Dublin and exteriors in Barcelona? That is only part of the problem, although it is increasingly funny that with one notable exception, there are no American actors in the cast.
Jordan’s larger misstep, one that begins with that first scene and continues through Marlowe’s exploration of the Los Angeles underworld, is that he never gets the mood quite right. There are evocative images, like the reflection of a neon nightclub scene in a puddle, and yet that is not enough. Neeson’s Marlowe is closer to a detective from Dragnet or Law & Order, a straight arrow who remains undisturbed by the violence and multi-tiered conspiracies he encounters. Starting with Bogart’s performance onward, there was always an existential angst that drove Marlowe. Yes, he seeks the truth and maybe falls in love along the way, but there is weariness behind him, in his dialogue in particular. Here we have a Marlowe seemingly without cynicism, romance, or vulgarity. He may have a conscience, although the details of the case never quite challenge it.
The frequent action in Marlowe only underscores the latest iteration of the character. Neeson beats up thugs as if he reprises the characters from the Taken franchise. In a crucial scene, Marlowe outsmarts Danny Huston’s Floyd Hanson, a nasty club-owner who has a drug business on the side. Indeed, the detective hardly seems disturbed that someone attempted to drug him and lock him in a closet. This kind of unwavering confidence, or competence in the face of corrupt political power, is to miss the point. At its most fundamental, noir is a genre about incompetence. Characters like Marlowe, Sam Spade, or Jake Gittes attempt to do the right thing, then are punished by the result, which in turn suggests that the individual is powerless. By being consistently nonplussed, this film and its hero are conventional to a fault.
Another distracting factor, one that leads to unintentional comedy, is Marlowe’s age. Liam Neeson is in his early seventies, which would put him well past his prime as a detective, and yet the role suggests he is playing someone twenty years younger. It would not be an issue, except the dialogue constantly references Neeson’s age, including his World War 1 service, which put him in his forties when the conflict occurred. Almost all the actors are miscast this way, except for Jessica Lange who plays Clare’s mother, Dorothy (who, we should add, is practically depicted as a crone well beyond her prime, despite her being only three years older than Neeson). She chews the scenery, seemingly the only actor who understands the kind of mannered scenery-chewing this film requires, which is little surprise since she does not need to worry about getting her accent right.
You may have noticed a lack of mention of the plot of Marlowe, which takes the character on a whirlwind tour of the Los Angeles underbelly. That is because, in the grand tradition of Marlowe adaptation, the particulars of the story are beside the point. In the adaptation of The Big Sleep, the writers and Hawks were so confused about the labyrinthine plot that they could not figure out where one of the bodies was hidden, and Chandler was not so sure, either. The journey matters insofar as an opportunity to explore mood, or a fatalist philosophy. The anecdote of Chandler’s missing body seemingly does not matter to Jordan, who adapts a malleable character so dutifully that he forgets why he matters. It also does not matter to Neeson, who utters the line “I’m getting too old for this shit” without suggesting believes it.
Photo courtesy of Open Road Films
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