Dear Maltese Falcon,
I tried twice.
The first time, I fell asleep and missed 45 minutes of you, but woke up to see the “who” in this whodunit. And I wanted to give you the respect I’d heard you might deserve, so I tried again.
This time, I had a Diet Coke and planned to type notes constantly; record my stream of thought in an attempt to stay awake.
Twenty minutes in, my eyelids grew heavy and I couldn’t stay awake. Again.
Here’s what I loved about you: Humphrey Bogart. Oh, how I love him. His smarmy smile and nasally voice and the way he puts on a hat…I love all of it. And it was fun to see Bogart with Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet: harbingers of the magic that would happen one year later on the Warner Brothers lot.
I think we might be too different, you and I, and despite Arthur Edeson’s brilliant cinematography, you simply weren’t enough to keep me with you. I appreciate you for the movie you are, and I trust that cinephiles will take plenty good care of you.
I just won’t be one of them.