I loved the movie. I also saw it so long ago that I had completely forgotten about its plot, other than the final scene with Elliot Gould shooting his former friend (and quite clearly the major point of divergence between the novel and the movie).
As often happens with (good) noir books, I really enjoyed it. And this time I didn't feel guilty about it in the slightest - it had been years since I had read anything by Chandler (or Hammett, or anyone of those writers) and it was long overdue.
Obviously Marlowe is still a bit too smug, and the first-person narrative gets a bit on my nerves as I don't think I'd be able to recall every single verbal exchange I had in the past like he does. But then again, I'm not a private investigator (or an author for that matter!). Still, despite any potential qualm about the genre in general, for me Chandler remains one of the great storytellers of the 20th century.
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