The history of cinema is replete with examples of films that, through the vagaries of time and cultural shifts, attain a peculiar notoriety long after their initial release. These works often secure their place in the annals of film history not for their inherent quality but due to incidental details that crystallise their significance retroactively. A case in point is Gordon Douglas’s 1968 crime drama The Detective, a film that, when judged purely on its own merits, is a middling attempt to grapple with the social upheavals of its era. Yet its legacy has been bolstered by its position as an early example of neo-noir cinema and its unflinching, albeit problematic, treatment of homosexuality—a subject that would later become a focal point for activist discourse. While the film’s ambitions are evident, its execution is marred by structural flaws and uneven storytelling, rendering it a curio rather than a classic. However, its survival in cultural memory—and its indirect influence on a later blockbuster—underscores the capricious nature of cinematic legacy.
The protagonist, Sergeant Joe Leland (Frank Sinatra), is a no-nonsense New York City detective whose relentless dedication to duty clashes with his personal life’s turmoil. Married to Karen Wagner (Lee Remick), a younger, sexually liberated woman whose infidelity exacerbates their crumbling relationship, Leland deals with a professional environment rife with corruption. His colleagues, including the racist and brutal officers he clashes with, contrast sharply with his integrity, though his boss, Captain Farrell (Horace McMahon), grudgingly acknowledges his effectiveness. A high-profile murder case tests Leland’s resolve: the victim, Teddy Leikman (James Inman), a homosexual heir to a wealthy family, was bludgeoned to death in his opulent apartment, his body grotesquely mutilated. Leland swiftly identifies Felix Tesla (Tony Musante), a mentally unstable former lover of Leikman’s, as the perpetrator. Tesla confesses and is executed, but Leland’s promotion to lieutenant is short-lived. A new case emerges when Norma MacIver (Jacqueline Bisset) approaches him, insisting her husband Connor MacIver (William Windom), a wealthy accountant who recently staged a flamboyant suicide, was murdered. Leland’s investigation reveals a web of politically connected clients involved in a property scam, as well as threats from shadowy figures intent on silencing him. The film’s twist—revealing a connection between Leikman’s murder and MacIver’s death—serves as a contrived attempt to tie the narrative’s loose threads, though it underscores the systemic corruption Leland battles.
As one of the earliest neo-noir films, The Detective reflects the genre’s evolution from the shadowy, black-and-white morality tales of the 1940s to a more socially conscious, colour-saturated form. The MPAA’s abandonment of the Production Code in 1968 freed filmmakers to address taboo subjects with greater candour, though The Detective does not lean heavily on nudity or graphic violence. Instead, its boldness lies in its explicit portrayal of homosexuality—a theme that would later draw attention from activists and historians. The film’s narrative frames homosexuality as both a societal scourge and a catalyst for psychological unraveling. Leikman’s murder is depicted as a consequence of his inability to reconcile his sexuality with the era’s moral rigidity, while Tesla’s psychosis is portrayed as stemming from internalised shame. This framing, while progressive for its time in acknowledging homosexuality’s existence, reduces homosexual characters to tragic figures defined by their marginalisation—a stance that would later be critiqued for its reductive view of queer identity.
The screenplay, based on the 1966 novel by Roderick Thorp and written by Abby Martin, attempts to voice a critique of systemic corruption, urban decay, and racism through its protagonists’ dialogue. Leland, despite his blue collar background and lack of “proper” education, uses every opportunity to deliver lines that position societal inequities as the root of crime. Black detective, played by Al Freeman, Jr., ironically a member minority most likely subject to experience police brutality, employs torture inspired by Nazi methods to extract information from a suspect—a jarring, if thematically resonant, choice that underscores the cyclical nature of oppression. Yet Martin’s message is delivered with little subtlety, relying on exposition-heavy monologues and contrived plot mechanics. The film’s social commentary, while earnest, feels heavy-handed, as though the script prioritises didacticism over narrative cohesion. Scenes of Leland’s failing marriage, which dominate lengthy flashback sequences, further dilute the central mystery, shifting focus to melodramatic domestic strife rather than the crime-solving plot.
Gordon Douglas, directing for Sinatra after their prior collaborations, makes stylistic choices that undermine the film’s potential. Joseph Biroc’s cinematography lends the film a glossy, colourful aesthetic, and Jerry Goldsmith’s score provides a suitably tense underscore, yet the direction falters in its handling of dialogue scenes. Characters frequently address the camera directly, a technique that disrupts immersion and creates an awkward, stagy quality. The extended flashbacks detailing Leland’s marital collapse are particularly grating, their drawn-out pacing draining momentum from the investigative plot. Douglas’s decision to prioritise interpersonal drama over procedural thrills leaves the film feeling disjointed, its ambitions diluted by uneven pacing and miscast priorities.
Despite its flaws, The Detective enjoyed modest commercial success, buoyed by Sinatra’s star power. The film’s release in 1968 capitalised on his enduring appeal, though critics were largely underwhelmed. Reviews noted its pedestrian pacing and uneven performances, yet its box-office performance ensured its place in the actor’s filmography. However, its cultural resonance would only grow decades later, as historical context lent it unintended significance. The film’s unambiguous portrayal of homosexuality positioned it as an early entry in a nascent discourse on homosexual representation in cinema—a discourse that would gain momentum in the 1970s and beyond.
The film’s most ironic legacy emerged in 1979, when author Roderick Thorp revisited Leland’s story in the novel Nothing Last Forever. The book, which centres on a retired Leland confronting a terrorist siege in a skyscraper, was eventually adapted into Die Hard (1988). However, Sinatra’s advancing age necessitated recasting the protagonist, transforming him into the younger John McClane (Bruce Willis). The resulting action masterpiece, now a cornerstone of the genre, owes its existence to Thorp’s original inspiration—and, indirectly, to The Detective itself. This twist of fate is emblematic of the film’s peculiar status: a flawed, almost forgotten work that inadvertently fathered one of Hollywood’s most enduring franchises.
The Detective is a product of its time—a well-intentioned but uneven attempt to blend social commentary with procedural thrills. Its historical significance stems not from artistic innovation but from its role in the evolution of neo-noir and its inadvertent contribution to a blockbuster decades later. For all its flaws, the film endures as a curious footnote, a reminder that even the most unremarkable works can, through the passage of time, carve out an unexpected place in cinematic history.
RATING: 5/10 (+)
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