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The heat is wet, suffocating and unbearable. Philip Marlowe is being interviewed by old General Sternwood in the second scene of.

With a sardonic, faint smile that Marlowe appreciates, the old man explains the hothouse atmosphere in which they are meeting: “You are looking at a very dull survival of a rather gaudy life, a cripple paralysed in both legs and with only half of his lower belly. There’s very little that I can eat and my sleep is so close to waking that it is hardly worth the name. I seem to exist largely on heat, like a newborn spider, and the orchids are an excuse for the heat.” Marlowe is sweating profusely. He removes his jacket.

The shirt sticks in patches to his skin. He sips at the brandy the General insists he drink. The General wants to know more about him. “There’s very little to tell I went to college once and can still speak English if there’s any demand for it. There isn’t much in my trade” Diffident, sardonic, quietly oppressed by the perfunctory imperfection of the lives they lead, Marlowe and General Sternwood are a match for each other.

They share two qualities: a disdainful, ironic sense of the fetid world that surrounds them and a dogged persistence which keeps the General alive in his hothouse and Marlowe sane in the equally morbid world outside. Sight & Sound, Winter 1974 From that first exquisitely played scene between Marlowe and Sternwood right on through, the mood and tenor of The Big Sleep are quintessential ‘private eye’. There are other examples of the genre which might now be more popular, but ’ film is the fullest, richest and most resonant. No wonder, then, that interest in it has renewed and intensified now, almost 30 years later. There was something about the feel of those 1940s private eye films – and The Big Sleep most of all – that we find strangely attractive in the 1970s. A year ago Robert Altman translated Marlowe into contemporary terms in. More recently, Robert Towne has fashioned a knowing and loving homage to Chandler’s hero (and specifically to The Big Sleep) in.

In both these recent films the emotional and philosophical raw materials are vividly reminiscent of their predecessor. Los Angeles – seedy, decaying, slow and hot – is the setting; the mood is depressive, sardonic, almost languorous; and, most importantly, the human relation­ships are superficial, abrupt and eventually seen as incontrovertible evidence of a pervasive and deep-rooted corruption of the spirit. Towne’s Chinatown script has been applauded for its introduction of a political dimension into the private eye genre; as J.J. Gittes finds out, the root of the trouble lies in the economic realities of the Los Angeles water system, seemingly the dullest of municipal politics. Yet Chandler’s original novel also has political roots – in oil rather than water – and it was only the studio’s sense of what was permissible that prohibited the film version from dealing with those roots. In any event, although Chinatown may be more politically explicit than was Hawks’ film, what really matters in this genre is the mood that is communicated.

In all three of these films the sickly heat of the inaptly named City of Angels plays a central part in the imagery. As Bogart, Nicholson and Gould stand fully suited in the smoggy sun, wiping their respective brows and wincing at the decay which surrounds them and threatens to overwhelm them, we are brought back again and again to the image of the hothouse with which The Big Sleep begins: “an overgrown garden, rank with weeds.” Like that earlier detective, Hamlet, Marlowe in his various incarnations and J.J. Gittes are blessed with a sad knowledge that something is rotten, politically, that the offence is rank and smells to heaven.