Leonard Cohen: Bird on a Wire
Palmer's film is that rare concert doc that isn't for established fans only.
I don't know what I expected from "Tony Rome," but the news that Frank Sinatra was playing a Humphrey Bogart-type private detective wasn't exactly electrifying enough to lure me out to the big Swingers' Preview.
Surprisingly, however, "Tony Rome" actually is a detective story of the Bogart type. Sinatra is no Bogart, which won't come as news, and "Tony Rome" is no "The Maltese Falcon." But it plays the detective game by the rules, and that's something.
In well-made detective movies, you have a plot, a real, honest-to-goodness plot. No gimmicks. No neo-Nazi villains in underwater pads. No exploding cigarette lighters. Just a detective, who is a hard-working, hard-drinking guy who has been unlucky with dames and plays the horses and has a lot of cynical dialog.
This guy gets involved in a seemingly innocent job, like tracing somebody's lost husband or escorting a drunken daughter home to her millionaire daddy. Then it turns out that something valuable is missing. It can be a maltese falcon or a diamond ring or anything just so it's something that (quavering violin in echo chamber) Men Will Kill For.