Carl Reiner
Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

I don't remember when I first saw Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, but as a true noir connoisseur, I found it immediately irresistible. It’s a film that comes from another era, a nostalgic and affectionate evocation of a vanished world. Steve Martin, in black and white, with a crooked tie and a serious look, moves through a script made of clippings: scenes from 1940s noir films, famous characters now gone, dialogues carefully connected with new lines. It’s an affectionate collage, a loving and ironic homage, like an old family album in which you see pictures of people long gone, dressed in outdated fashions that, however, are never mocked, because we know they perfectly belonged to their time and would be utterly lost nowadays.

The director, Carl Reiner, who also plays a key role in the film, creates a small miracle: a work that functions both as a parody and as a love letter to the cinema of the past. There is no sarcasm, no snobbery, only nostalgia, playfulness, respect. Each scene is a temporal puzzle: Steve Martin plays Rigby Reardon, a solitary detective who talks with Barbara Stanwyck and collaborates with his ""assistant"" Humphrey Bogart as Marlowe, without anything ever truly feeling out of place.

The beauty of the film is that it can be enjoyed even by those who know little or nothing about noir, as long as they love good cinema. I watched it again about a month ago with two English friends who are unfamiliar with the genre, and they found it entertaining. The film is full of subtle gags, absurd moments, delightful visual ideas, but above all it has a kind-hearted soul. It’s rare to find comedies that make you smile without shouting, that are intelligent without being cynical.

However, to truly appreciate it, you have to see it in the original language. Not just to be a purist, but because in a film like this, the voices are the film. The lines from the old noirs intertwine with the new dialogues impeccably, and with dubbing, that fabric tears. The Italian voices, all correct and professional, but above all contemporary, can't reproduce the scratchy nuances of Ava Gardner or the snobbish nonchalance of Cary Grant. It's like trying to mend antique lace with tape. Or like listening to a Billie Holiday record covered by a tribute band: the song is the same, but the soul disappears.

Two technical notes deserve a special mention: the cinematography is by Michael Chapman, a longtime collaborator of Scorsese, who here masterfully recreates the smoky atmosphere of noir. The costumes are by the legendary Edith Head, who certainly knew how to dress divas. This was her last film, and her elegant touch can be seen in every detail.

The film was released in Italy with the rather bizarre title "Il Mistero del Cadavere Scomparso", but the difficulty in finding a suitable title is understandable, since a literal translation of the original would have been even more awkward. It is available in the original version on Internet Archive.