Farewell My Lovely (1975)

Don’t mind if I do.

Olga’s Notes:

Note1: Watching this film is like being inside one of Edward Hopper’s paintings, namely Nighthawks, or one of Tom Waits’ early songs (his album, Nighthawks at the Diner (1975), was directly inspired by Hopper’s paintings). 

Note2: The role of the fame fatale may have gone to Charlotte Rampling, but the real skirt/ broad/dame etc. of this film is the legendary, the magnificent, and the best drunken fallen lady-angel in the history of cinematography, La Sylvia Miles.

Note3: A faithful and successful recreation of the original film noirs, it is of little surprise that, forty-three years on, “Farewell My Lovely” is as watchable as ever. Young Sylvester Stallone and (younger) Harry Dean Stanton fit in just swell.

What else is a gal supposed to do for fun around here?

Helena’s Notes:

Note1: I see I’m going to have to have a word with Olga about this extremely pathetic tendency to name-drop for no other reason but to put people off wanting to read any of her books and, basically, make us go totally bankrupt. I may be super-advanced for my age in every possible way, but at the end of the day I’m still only a child. So every time Olga subjects me to another dose of her snobbery, that’s basically child abuse. Somebody better do something. Like for example get Kevin Bacon to adopt me. Today.

Note2: First we had the torrent of that indie shit, and now the ol’ black’n’white. I mean. What next. A Rudolph Valentino marathon. Question mark question mark question mark. He wasn’t even all that you know.

Note3: Actually, I like Robert Mitchum. Never used to, until I saw him in that movie where he had LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles. “The Night of the Hunter”, is it. Still gives me the crepes. What now. The creeps. That’s what I said. Well – I did. I suggest you go and have your ears checked out now and again.

Je refuse!