Marlowe as street cat, skittering through traffic, no clear purpose, shaking off threats and calamities no matter their severity. Also, Marlowe as double-edged blade, poking fun at the sexless bemusement of Chandler's hero while throwing the rot and absurdity of his new decade—the languorous, stultifying existence of Malibu celebs, the nearly always nude granola neighbours—into sharp relief. And finally, Marlowe as faithful friend, blind to the writing on the wall. There's a very good mystery here, threaded with absorbing details and memorable faces. Sterling Hayden's depressed Hemingway-adjacent author just about steals the show, and I'm always happy to see Henry Gibson. But what's even more impressive is the texture of The Long Goodbye's world, which strikes me as remarkably vivid and open-ended. Marlowe's universe has the feeling of expanding organically rather than being ushered through a series of beats by a storyteller's hand. For all its engrossing twists and turns, there's a version of this chapter that's just Marlowe hanging out at home, going for late-night strolls to the supermarket, and eating special brownies with his neighbours, all while the camera floats languidly around him. And I'd happily watch that one too. "Haha. He's got a girl, I got a cat."