Gloomy, moody and boozy are words all readily associated with film noir, but talky?....probably not. Therein lies this movie's dilemma; a surfeit of babble and gabble, but a woeful paucity of Sturm und Drang.
Permanently inebriated hotel detective Max Thursday, (Zachary Scott) is rudely awoken from his torpor by estranged wife (Faye Emerson), who deserves credit for safely negotiating the obstacle course of discarded bottles en route to his bedside, where she greets him with the harrowing news of their infant son's disappearance.
Sporting a hangover of colossal proportions, Scott's investigations lead him to the shifty Doctor Elder. Having spotted the name St. Paul on a note pad and concluding that it was unlikely to be preparation for a Bible study, his next recollection is awakening in police custody, with hangover mark two and the news that the dodgy doctor has been murdered. His former boss, police captain Sam Levene tries to call the tune (fortunately, he doesn't attempt to sing it!), but Scott insists on pursuing the case himself.
His next move leads him to a smuggling syndicate, where the awfully nice man on the door directs him to hypochondriac big shot, Varkas- a man with his finger on the pulse....literally. Varkas offers him a lead to scarred bad boy Stitch Olivera, though upon seeing his mugshot and learning of his ruthless reputation, he would probably have preferred a lead to Lassie! This ought to have developed into a compelling mystery, but it simply sinks into a morass of largely listless, lackluster, verbose narrative.
Scott spends too much time groaning, grouching and grumbling about everything from his traumatic, acrimonious exit from the police force to malfunctioning cigarette machines. Too much time is wasted showing him lighting up or reaching for a bottle. Yeah....we get the picture, Scott has a drink problem, particularly when he is unable to obtain a drink. Further time elapses with him repeating other people's lines. Example: EMERSON-Jeff is missing. SCOTT- Whaddya mean Jeff is missing? Finally in one bizarre segment Scott squanders an inordinate amount of time, telling anyone prepared to listen, that he has very little time!
The performances are solid enough, but this low budget offering appears to be the result of much perspiration and very little inspiration. Long before the final reel, plagued by personal demons, wearied by the gravity of what lies ahead, Max Thursday must be yearning for Friday night.
Permanently inebriated hotel detective Max Thursday, (Zachary Scott) is rudely awoken from his torpor by estranged wife (Faye Emerson), who deserves credit for safely negotiating the obstacle course of discarded bottles en route to his bedside, where she greets him with the harrowing news of their infant son's disappearance.
Sporting a hangover of colossal proportions, Scott's investigations lead him to the shifty Doctor Elder. Having spotted the name St. Paul on a note pad and concluding that it was unlikely to be preparation for a Bible study, his next recollection is awakening in police custody, with hangover mark two and the news that the dodgy doctor has been murdered. His former boss, police captain Sam Levene tries to call the tune (fortunately, he doesn't attempt to sing it!), but Scott insists on pursuing the case himself.
His next move leads him to a smuggling syndicate, where the awfully nice man on the door directs him to hypochondriac big shot, Varkas- a man with his finger on the pulse....literally. Varkas offers him a lead to scarred bad boy Stitch Olivera, though upon seeing his mugshot and learning of his ruthless reputation, he would probably have preferred a lead to Lassie! This ought to have developed into a compelling mystery, but it simply sinks into a morass of largely listless, lackluster, verbose narrative.
Scott spends too much time groaning, grouching and grumbling about everything from his traumatic, acrimonious exit from the police force to malfunctioning cigarette machines. Too much time is wasted showing him lighting up or reaching for a bottle. Yeah....we get the picture, Scott has a drink problem, particularly when he is unable to obtain a drink. Further time elapses with him repeating other people's lines. Example: EMERSON-Jeff is missing. SCOTT- Whaddya mean Jeff is missing? Finally in one bizarre segment Scott squanders an inordinate amount of time, telling anyone prepared to listen, that he has very little time!
The performances are solid enough, but this low budget offering appears to be the result of much perspiration and very little inspiration. Long before the final reel, plagued by personal demons, wearied by the gravity of what lies ahead, Max Thursday must be yearning for Friday night.