In 1944 Dick Powell was well known as a squeaky-clean crooner, appearing in movie musicals such as Happy Go Lucky, Riding High, and Star-Spangled Rhythm. By then Powell was in his early forties and wanted to try some meatier, more dramatic roles. He got his opportunity when he signed to the nearly bankrupt RKO Pictures, who promptly filmed and released Farewell, My Lovely.
Powell’s waning fan base came expecting another light musical comedy; what they got was one of the greatest film noirs ever made. Once RKO figured out they’d shot themselves in the foot with the title, they changed it to Murder, My Sweet, and soon enough the studio had a very deserving hit on their hands.
One of Raymond Chandler’s best novels provided the raw material for John Paxton’s smartly written screenplay. Chandler’s plots are notoriously incomprehensible; if I were asked what this film is about, I wouldn’t know what to say other than “murder, deception, obsession.” Murder, My Sweet isn’t plot-driven, it's more like the plot is the vehicle we ride in with private detective Philip Marlowe (Powell), meeting strange and brutal characters in places we’re sure we’ve seen in dreams. When the film comes to a close, I don’t think “Wow, that’s a good story.” I think, “Wow, that’s a great movie!”
The cinematography of Murder, My Sweet is beautiful and gritty at the same time. A dank, dirty feeling hangs in the L.A. air. It’s like walking along the floor of a tropical rainforest—you’re up to your ankles in decay.
Powell’s Marlowe is tart, aloof, funny and cool. But he’s also just, and somehow manages to seem vulnerable at the same time. He wants to do good but doesn’t always know how. Powell also develops chemistry with both female leads, Claire Trevor (femme fatale) and Anne Shirley (girl next door). Eat your heart out Bogie, Powell is at the very least your equal.
The only part of the film that hasn’t aged well is Marlowe’s drug-induced nightmare. Director Edward Dmytryk appears to be attempting a sequence like the one in The Big Lebowski, minus the bowling, the Vikings, and Kenny Rogers.
I don’t know many people, let alone film lovers, who have seen Murder, My Sweet. It’s superior to The Big Sleep (1946), which means it’s the best Raymond Chandler adaptation, and just possibly, the best film noir ever.