Everything David Thomson writes is interesting, and he is a master stylist, but this is one of his lesser works. It is more like a short think piece than a robust book. It is very short, very lyrical, and worth (just) the price of admission. In many ways it is more of an essay on Lauren Bacall than on Bogart. I think Thomson overplays the differences between Chandler's Marlowe and Bogart's -- a good example of the "bitter witnessing hero on the streets" motif is the little Harry Jones scene (with the immortal Elisha Cook, Jr.) where the little man sacrifices himself in a nothing room in the middle of nowhere for a nothing woman. What is this if not Philip Marlowe's world?