As far as domestic thrillers go, this one begins like any other number of standard Bogart mash ups. After a twisting opening sequence through a neon-spackled downtown LA, a cynical and angry screenwriter by the name of Dixon Steele (as per 40’s style machismo) walks into a bar with a nice-looking dinner jacket, a gin and tonic on the mind and that oh-so-familiar drawl of his. Nasal but not annoying. I was surprised by the tone of the movie, very jaunty. Almost carefree at first. Yet the subject matter, as I suppose is the case with any film noir, drastically shifts once Steele has been accused of murder. Still, it hardly seems like your casual ‘suspicious minds’ story about a relationship wracked with paranoia and mistrust.
