It's a coherent narrative, I guess, and it's not insulting to anyone's intelligence or basic sense of morality. It's just an assault on one's aesthetic apparatus. My eyeballs felt coagulated after half watching this junk and half snoozing through it.
Mickey Spillane plays Mike Hammer, a character he created in some pulp fiction novels of the early 50s. They achieved a certain notoriety at the time. When Private Eye Mike Hammer plugs a beautiful babe in the belly at the end of "I, The Jury," she gasps, "Mike, how could you do this?" And Mike snarls, "It was easy." Well, you don't have to be a literary giant to write hard-boiled pulp fiction. It has a long, if mostly undistinguished, history. Dashiell Hammett gave us a couple of good stories, most notably "The Maltese Falcon." Sam Spade went down in history. Hammett had a fascinating detective story to tell and lots of local San Francisco color. You can still order the Sam Spade Special at Jack's Restaurant, and there is a bronze plaque on the street corner where Miles Archer was killed.
Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe brought a touch of street poetry with him in his anfractuous adventures in Los Angeles. "Her hair was the color of gold in old painting." And, "She gave me a look that I could feel in my hip pocket." I could never follow Chandler's stories and neither could Chandler but what the hell.
Mickey Spillane was different from these earlier stars. He didn't have an interesting story to tell and he'd have to look up "poetry" in the dictionary. The novels were just forgettable junk, like most of the stories in the pulp magazines of the 30s and 40s, with titles like, "Somewhere a Roscoe" and "The Dead Blond." The movie is about as good as his novel -- or it would be if author Mickey Spillane did not play his own hero, Mike Hammer. The guy is bulky and squinty eyed and shapeless. He has the voice of a really bad teacher of algebra. Not even the glossy Shirley Eaton can compensate for his presence or for the absence of an involving narrative. It has something to do with his finding his secretary, Velda or Velma. The story begins with Hammer as an abject drunk picked up and beaten by the cops, but it's impossible to tell the difference between Hammer as drunk and Hammer as reinvigorated private eye.
The sound is scratchy, the photography wretched, and the musical score infinitely repetitive -- a bluesy trumpet with four notes in its repertoire. The director seems to know what a loser he's got here because he makes no attempt to dress up this dreck. Hammer enters a seedy saloon on his quest and you can tell it's seedy because somebody is playing a honky tonk piano in the background as if this were Dodge City.
The good part is I awoke refreshed and alert after that brief nap.
Mickey Spillane plays Mike Hammer, a character he created in some pulp fiction novels of the early 50s. They achieved a certain notoriety at the time. When Private Eye Mike Hammer plugs a beautiful babe in the belly at the end of "I, The Jury," she gasps, "Mike, how could you do this?" And Mike snarls, "It was easy." Well, you don't have to be a literary giant to write hard-boiled pulp fiction. It has a long, if mostly undistinguished, history. Dashiell Hammett gave us a couple of good stories, most notably "The Maltese Falcon." Sam Spade went down in history. Hammett had a fascinating detective story to tell and lots of local San Francisco color. You can still order the Sam Spade Special at Jack's Restaurant, and there is a bronze plaque on the street corner where Miles Archer was killed.
Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe brought a touch of street poetry with him in his anfractuous adventures in Los Angeles. "Her hair was the color of gold in old painting." And, "She gave me a look that I could feel in my hip pocket." I could never follow Chandler's stories and neither could Chandler but what the hell.
Mickey Spillane was different from these earlier stars. He didn't have an interesting story to tell and he'd have to look up "poetry" in the dictionary. The novels were just forgettable junk, like most of the stories in the pulp magazines of the 30s and 40s, with titles like, "Somewhere a Roscoe" and "The Dead Blond." The movie is about as good as his novel -- or it would be if author Mickey Spillane did not play his own hero, Mike Hammer. The guy is bulky and squinty eyed and shapeless. He has the voice of a really bad teacher of algebra. Not even the glossy Shirley Eaton can compensate for his presence or for the absence of an involving narrative. It has something to do with his finding his secretary, Velda or Velma. The story begins with Hammer as an abject drunk picked up and beaten by the cops, but it's impossible to tell the difference between Hammer as drunk and Hammer as reinvigorated private eye.
The sound is scratchy, the photography wretched, and the musical score infinitely repetitive -- a bluesy trumpet with four notes in its repertoire. The director seems to know what a loser he's got here because he makes no attempt to dress up this dreck. Hammer enters a seedy saloon on his quest and you can tell it's seedy because somebody is playing a honky tonk piano in the background as if this were Dodge City.
The good part is I awoke refreshed and alert after that brief nap.