If New York's serious-minded critics had as much to say about the success of movies as they do about legitimate stage attempts, "The Big Sleep" would already be mouldering in its grave. Crowther and company slashed at it for "incoherence" as they gave it thumbs down with a typical sneer. What they failed to comprehend was that this latest Bogart-Bacall opus thrills while it confuses and is likely to leave its audiences just as interested as bewildered.

Somewhere between Raymond Chandler's novel and the screen of the neighborhood theatre all mention of pornographia and nymphomania--the specific subjects of the original--has been trapped in the meshes of the Production Code. What is left of the Chandler touch is the dialogue and the general aura of pointless brutality which has distinguished other films of the Cain-Chandler genre.

As it turns out in the film, the story involves a young widow, Vivian Rutledge (Bacall) and a mysteriously all-knowing private dick by the name of Marlowe (Bogart). Marlowe is hired to investigate the facts behind the blackmailing of Vivian's maniae young sister Carmen; but as he investigates, he unearths mystery after mystery and murder after murder instead of mere blackmail. Amidst the razzle-dazzle, the spectator knows nothing except that Marlowe is never surprised.

Even without motivation, however, the characters and events of "The Big Sleep" are fascinating. Bogart outwitting a thug in his own suave, self-assured manner is a good scene even when you are in the dark about what either one of them wants. And inter-play between Bogart and Bacall has not even yet lost the sheen of "To Have and Have Not."

The fancy for films of violence in the "Double Indemnity" or "Postman Rings Twice" mode may or may not be a passing one; while it lasts, at least, "The Big Sleep" should hold its own among the rest --clarity and the critics notwithstanding.