The Maltese Falcon, Or How To Address a Classic

How does one review an all time great?

A mount rushmore film for the noir genre, The Maltese Falcon has come to be understood as one of the pioneers of cinema’s most atmospheric genres. Layers upon layers of deceit confuse, blind, and lead audiences down a case spiraling in on itself in this tale dripping with chiaroscuro excellence. It feels as though someone is always being played, a rouse always afoot, a plan never not in motion. The film can be tense; even nearly a century after its release, The Maltese Falcon proves it has what it takes to stand toe to toe with cinema’s greatest noir’s. But can it beat them?

As a young twenty something aspiring towards a future of filmmaking, returning to the classics is essential, not just for a more robust knowledge of film history, but for inspiration. Great artists steal after all; looking to the past to reinvent the future is a practice as old as art itself. Iterations upon iterations, simulations of reality simulated twice over; “classic” is a mythical label of quality that demarcates those that represent the very essence of a medium, as every work within it continues to be inspired years after the great's did it first. There would be no Brief Encounter, se7en, Blood Simple, or any other of the genre staples without Bogart’s breakout performance as the cold and steely Sam Spade. Those groundworks are defined by their ability to define: they inspire and embolden others to continue new and interesting works based on what they’ve accomplished, and oh what they have. The Maltese Falcon introduced the jaded anti-hero in a puzzling, layered scenario. Vertigo similarly popularized the protagonist driven by obsession, as well as proving the capabilities of creatives working within a confining studio system. And Citizen Kane essentially invented modern cinematography as we know it. These staples of the medium, the classics, shine boldly amongst their contemporaries and those they inspired for not just “doing the thing,” but being the first to do so. But once again, and be prepared for my seemingly crude, but nonetheless present, respect for these generational works, I must ask, do they shine brighter? 

I considered this after my first viewing of The Maltese Falcon. As a self proclaimed film noir fiend, I knew this movie was essential viewing, and what better time to relinquish yourself to the best a medium has to offer than an off-shoot rainy Sunday with nothing better to do? I sat with my eyes on the screen, ears to Bogart’s lips, taking notes while being consumed by the slithering plot that utterly refused to be grasped. The falcon is fake, Brigid is imprisoned, and Spade wanders into the night, audiences unsure if his brutality and coldness was ever hiding any humanity at all. The twists and turns continued to engage up until the final seconds of the film, with Brigid’s tears being overshadowed by the jail cell-like elevator doors. The entire experience was engaging and worthy of the label “classic.” Oh, and a bit unimpressive. 

Don’t get me wrong, at the time of release, The Maltese Falcon must have been enough to send audiences in groves to the newest pieces of noir, but after nearly a decade of innovation in both the genre and medium of film itself, I could not help but feel I’ve seen The Maltese Falcon before. I saw the harsh lighting in The Big Sleep, the corruption and deceit in ChinaTown, the morally dubious protagonist in True Detective, and so on and so on. The film’s greatness has found its way into newfound generational works that have only continued to reinvent the genre and alter its aesthetic and narrative trajectory. That is, obviously, not to say The Maltese Falcon has nothing to offer. Bogart’s performance alone is cold and coy enough to keep any fan of the genre still smiling with vicarious satisfaction at their own slyness. However, I will say that by having years of experience watching films inspired by The Maltese Falcon and others of that period, it left me feeling as if the most original noir of the time was ironically uninspired, even overly tame in some cases. They were still working out the kinks of what made this style tick, no one’s perfect on their first try. This felt apparent whenever the main antagonist would reveal key information with a level of bluntness that distracted instead of engaged, or moments common to idiosyncratic 40s technology like a continuity error with Bogart leaning back in one shot cutting to him broached forward in another. Beyond complaints and technical errors, there are some elements of the film that, while innovative and worthy praise in their own right, I simply enjoy less than other iterations. I’m sorry, but Nicholson in ChinaTown will always be my hardboiled hero, more so than Sam Spade could ever be. All of this to say that I’ve begun to question how one assesses the classics, as well as the responsibility of the critic, and audience, in doing so. 

I did not enjoy The Maltese Falcon as much as Roger Ebert did, who gave the film a perfect review when stating it gave birth to the noir genre. While there is undoubtedly a level of film knowledge that distinguishes our reviews and opinions, this fits neatly into the phenomena of whatever is claimed by the dominating voices of culture as “classic” never being enjoyed nearly as much by consumers. A reason for this dissonance are the ways in which the two demographics, audience and critic, view and review a film. Stated as plainly as possible without intent to offend: mainstream audiences and critics tend to have different characteristics of what makes a “good” movie. You know the ones, there are the “popcorn flicks,” films meant to entertain without as much focus on filmmaking craft that are mostly enjoyed by larger audiences while being heralded and remembered by few. Meanwhile, the critic finds greater entertainment in “the classics,” the films that entertain and engage by delivering stories through the medium’s uniquities, and tend to underperform in the moment and last a lifetime in legacy. While the two demographics are rarely in accordance when opinion polls come around, it seems as if they are especially divided on the classics. Just as it can be assumed a serious film critic might have a negative opinion on the latest MCU blockbuster, it can also be reasoned that the average audience member wouldn’t enjoy the majority of film’s on the BFI’s top 100 films of all time. In fact, I found myself in this same scenario. As previously mentioned, aspiring film buff writing here, meaning I felt essentially obligated to watch the 100 best movies ever. Objectively. So it came to my surprise when I randomly chose News From Home and felt…disappointed. “I didn’t like one of the greatest movies ever? What’s wrong with me?” Suddenly I felt as if my filmmaker identity was stolen, that my time holding a camera was over if I couldn’t see the magic in…a film entirely composed of static shots of New York. With no narration. Save for a few letters. For an hour and a half audiences are treated to beautifully framed shots of a disgusting New York, but that’s it. Does it embody the defining element of cinematography, which is to meld themes and visuals to tell a story purely with video? Absolutely, and it passes with flying colors, but did I like it? Well, that’s where the confusion comes in, as that question only evolves into its logical conclusion: If a film bores me to tears, but the dictators of art consistently speak to its importance and quality, then how do I judge a classic? In other words, what actually dictates my personal review of a film, how much I liked it, or how “good” it is?

It seems like an obvious answer: both! There is an inevitable overlap between what you like about a movie and what you think makes it a quality film, but that doesn’t mean they’re mutually exclusive. First, there’s the discussion on what makes a “good” movie, but for brevity’s sake, we can look to the classics and see it’s usually the case that a “classic” is deemed such for its impact and innovation on the medium, amongst other elements. The divide is clear in every relative who claims 2001: A Space Odyssey is the worst movie ever because it’s “boring,” but how pretentious does it sound to explain to Grandpa that Kubrik actually is a genius because monkeys and robots and baby aliens and, oh yeah, evolving the medium forward in visuals and themes? In this example, 2001 exists in the  liminal space of film criticism that represents this article's focus: the difficulty in determining what makes a classic, a classic, and what should be the criteria for critiquing a film, entertainment or critical analysis?

I believe the answer lies in subjectivity, and the fact it’s an impossible question to actually answer. A film’s quality cannot be determined by entertainment factor or innovation in isolation, the overlap between the two categories is impossible to avoid, which I believe reveals the importance of the critic and viewing them not as a monolithic dictator of personal taste, but as subjective individuals whose opinions help constitute a web of film knowledge. This clarification is important because I do not want the argument I presented to imply that the critic's opinions should supersede the viewer’s own. While it may be intimidating for the monolithic critics of culture to call a film you despise the greatest art known to man, it is important to realize that critics are not monolithic. While some opinions may feel inescapable, rarely is a film’s reception universal, and critics have different tastes. They’re people, not arbiters of the truth, and the truth of film is this: you enjoy what you enjoy, and no one should shame you for doing so.

However, one should be open to expanding their horizons as well. I briefly mentioned feeling insecure about not enjoying News From Home due to its status in the film world, but what am I supposed to do if I just find a movie boring? I cannot, and should not, pretend to enjoy a film everyone claims is medium defining. Rather, the responsibility of the viewer is to remain subjective while understanding why that film was deemed a classic in the first place. Watching News From Home on autopilot without conducting any preliminary research or post-viewing reading and calling it bad is a simplistic way to approach such a piece. Its importance is known, and that importance is not linked to its entertainment factor, so what else makes it great? This is the thought process I want to follow as a viewer of the classics and aspiring critic. I want to make room for subjectivity in my reviews and opinions, but not have that subjectivity overshadow the objectivity of an innovative classic. Similarly, I don’t want the alternative opinions of serious critics to pressure me into saying I enjoyed a film I simply did not. A film is not purely reviewed on entertainment value or medium specificity, and in that way, it is crucial to acknowledge both in one’s assessment of a film, especially one as confusingly great as many of “the classics” are. 

Film criticism is not in danger. Audience opinions are not being consumed by critics. The masses are loud enough to shame whoever they’d like for saying The Last Jedi was good, actually. But that does not mean review criteria is unanimous. In fact, film criticism and discourse thrives because it is not. What works for one person doesn’t for another, and the conclusion I come to after pondering the nature of that relationship is this: Do not relinquish your subjective opinion to the all powerful critic consensus, but open yourself, as a viewer, to hearing the reasons in which “bad” films are “good” (whatever those terms mean at this point), or at the very least, significant for the medium. So for me, the ideal review comes from being an informed, curious, and subjective critic of film. It’s the only way I know how.