Good evening, gentlemen. Our guest is Samuel Spade, a private investigator, a cult figure of noir. The main character of the film “Maltese Falcon” released in 1941. 82 years later, he reappears in the TV series Monsieur Spade (2023), where he unexpectedly finds himself in the French wilderness. The conversation turned out to be difficult.
— Good evening, Monsieur Spade. I heard they made a new TV series about you. How do you feel about this?
— (lights up) With your permission, Mr. Spade. The series. Yes. It’s cruel. I was forced to push this nonsense for sixteen hours without getting tired. Even cherry pudding is smarter than me in this picture. A pompous, disappointed turkey. I never thought I’d get to this point.
— Why did you agree?
— Money. Always money. And yet, these clever scriptwriters thought it would be a good joke to put me in this village. France, wilderness, nuns, vineyards. Silence. Can you imagine? After New York!
— But you had a job. You’re a detective.
— It doesn’t matter anymore. I always just watched. I kept silent. I smoked. And that was enough. In 1941, I could say, “When you get slapped in the face, you’ll take it and you’ll like it,” and it sounded honest. And now I’m giving out monologues about fate, and it makes people yawn.
— Maybe you’re just getting older, Mr. Spade.
— Older? I guess I’ve always been old. You know, I was born a cynic. And in this series, he became something… sensitive. Sentimental. I’m talking about justice. About the past. About how I miss New York. Do you think it’s me? No. These are the ones who wrote this text. They think that an old detective should become wise. But I’ve never been wise. I was angry. (grinning) In the best possible way.
— What about the lead actor, Clive Owen? He’s trying.
— He’s doing great. He’s trying — he’s pulling this load like a dray horse. There’s that wolfish twinkle in his eyes sometimes. But the script does not allow him to turn around. He’s quoting me, not playing me. And it’s not his fault. It’s the fault of those who wrote this text. He’s a good actor in a bad movie. He needed another director. Another screenwriter. Another story.
— What would you say about the camera work?
— (nods) Nicely. It’s too beautiful. All this France — morning fog, vineyards, semitones. Like an advertisement for expensive wine. But noir is not about beauty. It’s about fear. About a stuffy, dirty, sweat- and tobacco-soaked world. Right? But everything is smooth here. It’s decent. There are no devils in this pool.
— And the music?
— The music? For a regular series — it’s great. It’s too smooth for noir. Where are the dissonances that hurt the ear? Where is that sound? Do you remember old Bernard Herrmann? Four flutes, eight French horns, forty-six string players! It was pushing. It made me afraid. Now I have a nice soundtrack (chuckles). You can listen in the car. And don’t flinch.
— Have you watched the series?
– (lights up again) Is this a joke?.. Watched. I watched it to the end. I thought it would get better. Gone. But you should try. Maybe I’m really outdated.
— Would you watch it if you didn’t know the background?
– No. It’s just another series about a bored man in the European wilderness. There are dozens of them now. If I hadn’t known who I was, I wouldn’t have watched the first episode.
— Do you think the audience will look for the original after this series?
– No. Nine out of ten, they won’t even know it’s a remake. And if they find out, they won’t look. Because black and white movies are boring. They want more bright colors, fast-paced film editing. They need a shock. They need the six murdered nuns in detail. They want my bare ass in the pool, repeated several times to be sure. There’s no way without it.
— Is it a shame?
— It’s a shame. It’s a shame for Bogart, who in 1941 created more than just a character — he created the world. It’s a shame for you, the audience. For your time. (becoming thoughtful) …But I don’t really care. That’s their business.
— What would you recommend to those who want to know the real Spade?
— Take the Maltese Falcon. Put it on. Black and white. Primitive. Evil. Everything you need is there… Sorry, I have to go. (puts out his cigarette, gets up to leave)
— And this series?
— And this is just pink pudding. Tasteless pink pudding. Without sugar and without meaning. Like most things around. You were sold a fake. It’s amazing that, with all the wisdom of the ages, huge budgets and artificial intelligence to boot, you remain blind and get such a deplorable result over and over again. This is the scarcity of the mind. This is the impotence of the will. This is a dead end.
— So what do we do, Mr. Spade?
— I don’t know. I’m just a detective. My job is to investigate crimes.
– Thanks.
— Good day, I hope there won’t be any more (puts on his hat and leaves the room).
We talked to Sam Spade. He was angry. He was tired. He was disappointed. And he was right. We don’t need pink pudding — we need a sip of strong black coffee to wake up from this intoxicating and sweet dream.
