The Maltese Falcon (Movie Review)

"Everybody has something to conceal." ~Sam Spade, Maltese Falcon (1941)

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Lately I've been watching a load of classical films in which "trust" plays an integral role (in that the protagonist finds him/herself unable to trust anyone). From what I recall of American lit courses, the inability to trust is a long-standing issue in this nation's fact & fiction. But I'd extend that dilemma to mankind as species, or animal-kind as a kingdom. We are, to quote Lily Tomlin, pretty much "all in this alone."

It's this message again that seems to drive the suspense behind the film-noir hit, The Maltese Falcon (1941). I'll admit to having never read the novel and wonder if that may have flavored my appreciation for the film. But, as it is, I was pretty much in awe of Humphrey Bogart from beginning to end. He's the sort of guy the critics are talking about when they discuss someone who has "presence." He's more than a pleasure to watch on screen — he's larger than life, as is the case with few celebrities.

Bogart's character, Sam Spade, is a private detective whose partner is killed when a mysterious female, Brigid O'Shaughnessy (Mary Astor) spins a tall tale to get another man followed. Spade finds himself accused of that crime... and then still another crime when the man his partner was following also turns up dead. Eventually Spade encounters two other shady characters, each of which tells a different tale in an effort to secure Spade's loyalties in their quest for the Maltese Falcon (a mythical relic sought with the same fervor as, say, the Holy Grail). But they also each accost him at some point... trying to gain his trust with words, and then pulling out weapons the moment his back is turned.

(One of these characters even goes so far as to be willing to turn his right-hand man — who he considers to be "like a son" — into a patsy because "if you lose a son, its possible to get another" whereas "there's only one Maltese Falcon.")

But Spade isn't innocent in all of this. We learn he cuckolded his partner, even though he didn't have fond affections for the adulteress wife. Spade is a master of deceit, which makes him anything but a reliable narrator (and perhaps even more duplicitous than his adversaries). There are points, even, when the audience might suspect Spade is guilty of one or both murders — something we never fully want to believe, in large part because we are trained to see such battles in absolute polarity (good vs. evil; virtue vs. vice; etc.).

We're a culture that believes firmly in black print on white paper, unable to process the mess of gray smudges in the margins. Maltese typifies this, reminding me of just why I so often find myself smirking at news headlines, and the content of history books.