The Maltese Falcon (1941) - Uncut English Version

“Well, if you loose a son it’s possible to get another. But there’s only one Maltese falcon…”

And this was only the beginning – one could say- for the director, who not only founded what was later to be known as American Noir, but managed with his first directorial debut to shape a whole cinematic era, creating a timeless film, unfading in the history of our beloved art.

But....
While this might have been the beginning for a somewhat boldacious review on the larger-than-life, cinematic Maltese Falcon, yet, I believe that above all else such a gesture presupposes a confession, necessary on my part, to the (equally) boldacious readers. Besides, I think I owe it, for a multitude of reasons.

With regard to my taste and cinematic development, the director/auteur in question is not only a widely recognisable figure in the long history of cinematic art. He is first and foremost an artist of (bottomless) inspiration, (mentoring) talent and an object of (personal) admiration, both for the way he conducted his earthy life and for the indisputable value of his work. Therefore, the present piece (more a personal tribute than a film review) is a subjective look and not an objective approach to the Falcon. So now I can take the whole thing from the beginning.

Filmed in a still incubatory era for Western cinema, The Maltese Falcon was there at the birth of three major components of its thereafter development. First of all, the film releases the 42-year-old Bogart from (relative) obscurity, granting him one of the defining roles in his career (along with the mighty High Sierra of the same year), and giving us an idoladored actor whose performance bewitches even in its nth repeat. Second, it announces the directorial presence of Huston, who upon realising that screenwriting is not fulfilling him, embarks on a directorial debut, which in turn resulted in a mythical now film. Third and foremost, The Maltese Falcon will signal the birth of American Noir, presenting cinema goers (and especially the devoted fans of the genre) with a perfect measuring device, against which they were to judge the noirs to follow. And in my opinion few were the films that have achieved so much with such meagre means to their disposal.

Of course all of the above meant very little back then. Cinematic history had already been written in the 1930s with Hawks, Capra, Vidor, Whale, the Marx Brothers and Chaplin being the major celluloid soloists (Keaton would be my personal preference for reasons which far exceed the limits of this piece). With such cinematic history to live up to, the anticipated success of Huston’s Falcon – being the third attempt to adapt the Dashiell Hammett novella – was limited, a thing of wonder bearing in mind that it was left to a vagabond, insignificant and inexperienced director.

Yet it was Huston’s creative restlessness, story-telling genius and professional dedication that transformed the film into a pioneering masterpiece. “Every scene to be shot is to be the key scene of the film” advised the studio producer, and Huston set out to realise exactly this. A diamond falcon, imperious, ageless and magnificent as this one is, becomes the object of desire for many of film’s characters (prophesying the profit-driven Sierramadrics). Its power lies not in transforming people, but in magnetising those with the most intense, self-centred, indelible features. A vain Mafioso (Greenstreet), a deceiving female (Astor) a small-time crook of short stature (Lorre) and an unscrupulous private eye (Bogart) will clash and confront each others’ lies, quick-witted minds and instincts, in order to find themselves in the most desirable position in the whole story.

The Private Eye, who happens to combine the features of all of the above characters, will be the first beloved of the Hustonian universe. With the camera accentuating his expressive powers, Bogart defends an outdated code of honour; he will scorn and reject the stuff that dreams are made of, at the same time as he rejects the (doubtful) love of the female, leaving only echoes of false promises and lost opportunities to reverberate in an empty room. He will end up alone, alone in uncompromised honour; the loner who never surrendered to anyone but us, who until today, seventy years later marvel at the strength and integrity of his character.

And this was only the beginning...

Chris Zafeiriadis
(Translated by Sylvia Karastathi)