because of course literary noir is always so often a world filtered through the cynical view of its first-person narrator, so it makes so much sense to literalize that on film.

Having never seen the film before, I couldn't tell, as the minutes flickered by and the point-of-view stayed firmly interior, if it was going to continue the experiment all the way through—it felt like it was tantalizing the audience who'd seen Bogart's name above the credits, but on the other hand it was actually telling a coherent story, not distracting the viewer with too many shots of hands turning door handles or faces coming into focus; it felt artificial only in the scenes where Parry showered, shaved, changed into his new pinstripes, and not once did we get a glance in the mirror, just laying the razor down by the sink and steam. I'm glad that it switched when it did, but I really like that Delmer Daves pushed it as far as he did. I didn't realize until I came home and tossed him into IMDb that he was the director responsible for The Petrified Forest (1936), which I love. And get to see on a big screen in October, apparently. w00t.

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