Yesterday was an all-time great. For our viewing pleasure, the Brattle served up an old but welcome Bogart-Bacall item; for our dining pleasure, Adams House served up not only bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches but also toasted frankfurters; and then, to crown the day with some more viewing pleasure, Steve Allen had as his guests on television Louis Armstrong, Van Cliburn and Peter Ustinov. Clearly it was one of the finest Sundays it is this reviewer's pleasure to remember.

Now the excesses in gastronomy of Adams House and the excesses in artistry of Mr. Allen may not be of immediate concern to the Brattle viewing public, but they are, in a sense at least, relevant to the general mood which seemed to prevail at that hotel for the psyche. The sense was one of gladness, indeed pleasure, for Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were home again, and I feel certain I am taking no liberties when I say for my brethren viewers that the return of Bogart and Bacall fully made the day for all of us; this, in spite of the inclemency of the cumulus.

Lest my readers fear this reviewer became drowsy during the proceedings, let him speedily assure them that such was not the course of events, for The Big Sleep is imbued with as many dark shadows, black roadsters, languorous blondes, scotch whiskeys, rainy nights and attendant mackintoshes, muggings, pluggings, and gratifying resolutions as any of the epics of Bogie's prime. Lamentably, he is not in such a condition today; he is the sort of man the People could use in the White House. But I digress.

It was my misfortune to arrive on the scene late, with the result that many allusions to certain characters, both quick and dead, were difficult to place. Raymond Chandler's story is complex, and it seems that a William Faulkner, who later rose to some measure of literary fame, has tampered with it along with two other fellows who were attempting to make a living out in Hollywood about 15 or 20 years ago; and Mr. Faulkner, according to certain critics, has never excelled in the virtues of simplicity anyhow. But this is quibbling, and with the movie the CRIMSON can have no cavil.

Bogie looks perhaps a bit weary; it is his nature, because life is a comedy of self interest in which the most diverting characters practice violence, and that is always tiring. In this particular film, the source of the violence is a blackmail scheme, and the violent action skits in diverse directions, usually accompanied by Mr. Bogart. And where he goes, goes Miss Bacall.

Miss Bacall, who in actuality was Mrs. Bogart and also Den-Mother of the Hombly Hills Rat Pack (a fraternal social order of which Mr. Bogart was Head Rat), is in the movie as beautiful and talented as she ever was and is. She rats on him on occasion, but, I can assure future viewers, in the end she is all right--with viewers and Bogey too. She is a nice kid who falls in with a bad crowd. In fact, the only thing seriously wanting here is a chase of some substantial dimension, and I feel it my duty to say so. Otherwise, the movie is a totality of experience, and will bring much viewing pleasure to all.