Shamus (1973)
Burt looking haggard on his pool table
All of the thematic and narrative tropes of the classic film noir are there: trenchcoats, detectives, shady businessmen, and mysterious women. In an obvious nod to (or theft of, depending on one’s outlook) The Big Sleep, McCoy (played with characteristic chewing-gum-smacking nonchalance by a young and then-rising star named Burt Reynolds) ducks into a corner bookstore in order to watch a man who seems to be connected to his latest case, only to begin brazenly flirting with the cute redhead who works the counter there. McCoy is initially hired to investigate a bizarre murder (involving a flamethrower, believe it or not) only later also to be hired by the attractive blonde sister (Dyan Cannon) of an arms-peddling layabout–a plot device lifted directly from The Maltese Falcon, if not a dozen other films noirs. Clearly the scriptwriter, Barry Beckerman, was quite a fan of Humphrey Bogart (who isn’t?). But for all of the sustained reference to the noirs‘ narrative elements, very little, if any, attempt is made to emulate the visual aspects of those earlier films. Perhaps Kulik felt that this would have been taking the pastiche too far, and maybe there is some wisdom in that idea. However, the result is a film which tells us a story we all know by heart–with shamelessly empty appropriative glee, mind you–but which is also not especially interesting to look at. Far be it from me to give advice with regard to hollow pastiche, but if that’s what you’re after, it seems to me that you might as well go all the way.
McCoy exhibits considerable finesse in his interrogation style
It’s worth mentioning that there is also a great deal of Dirty Harry and Walking Tall to be found in this film’s cinematic DNA: McCoy doesn’t so much interrogate people as maul them. At one point he shoves a man’s head into a garbage can apparently full of rancid lima beans, and only a few minutes later we see him choking another man in an alleyway with a chain. And as if his disdain for men isn’t enough for you to dislike McCoy, there’s the little matter of his attitude toward women, perhaps best summarized with reference to a large poster hanging on his wall in which a nude model’s body is labeled according to the standard cuts of beef. He’s portrayed as a slovenly kind of human pig, sleeping on a pool table (I’m not joking) and eating scrambled eggs out of the pan even when offered a plate. One of the distinctive features of film noir is of course the often dispicable nature of the protagonists, but McCoy is of an entirely different and infinitely less compelling school of unlikability. There’s a world of difference between Joe Morse and McCoy, or between, say Frank Enley and Joe Don Baker as Mitchell. It may be a bit unfair of me to single out Reynolds and Baker as the ultimate male embodiments of post-noir (read: neo-noir) cinematic sensibilities, but in all fairness, it is a rather jarring experience to watch a film which purports to carry the noir banner, but which begins with a flamethrower killing and ends shortly after the death of a character named, hilariously, Colonel Hardcore.
Tags: 1970's, detective, film noir, neo-noir
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