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Critic Reviews
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Monsieur Spade is a smart, thoughtful, two-fisted resurrection of a valuable intellectual property due to enter the public domain in 2026.
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One of the best recent TV originals, a smart, sexy, deeply philosophical piece of storytelling that values things like dialogue, character, and theme over the high concepts that have defined so much TV in the 2020s. .... Clive Owen gives one of his career-best performances as an aging Sam Spade.
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A show that draws narrative energy from unexpected sources and comes at you from oblique angles. Although it’s completely different from that first season of True Detective, it is one of the only shows I’ve seen in the past decade that has come close to reproducing its texture and density.
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It’s hard to say if Owen’s performance is a worthy tribute to Spade (you get the sense that they could have called him anything, and the “Spade” persona doesn’t really add much beyond a shortcut for backstory), but what’s undeniable is the subtle strength of his performance, and the understated brilliance of the show itself.
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“Monsieur Spade” is rich in period details and is really the equivalent of a jigsaw puzzle, one with numerous pieces that might seem all but impossible to connect before Spade sweeps in and fits them into place with just the right amount of aplomb and snark. Get ready to give those brain cells a workout and witness Alfre Woodard steal the show in its final episode.
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While “Monsieur Spade” indulges in escapism, it’s also a compact crime yarn that does right by both its setting and its predecessors.
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The network has not only shown it can still play in the creative big leagues, but that the best efforts to capitalize on existing intellectual property often involve making a big bet – with “Monsieur Spade,” both geographically and thematically – and coming away with a hand full of aces.
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The best thing about the series is how it’s infused with detailed, traumatic history.
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The 6-episode limited series is so classy and made with such style, you don’t notice its flaws at first. Most of that comes down to Owen’s performance as the gimlet-eyed Spade.
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Whatever the demerits of Owen’s performance, it isn’t fatal to an enjoyable series; he gets the job done, and is particularly good in his scenes with Bossom, whose Teresa he regards with paternal annoyance. And the series departs on a final shot and line so lovely it’s worth the getting there.
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Mr. Owen manages to keep things on track, despite the series' frisky attitude toward time itself.
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Uneven but fun to watch, “Monsieur Spade” eventually yields a suitably baffling ending, delivered via an exceptional cameo I’d hate to ruin. The show’s main flaw is its MacGuffin. .... The series collapses, by the end, into a narrower, more parochial sense of its stakes.
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Owen’s performance transcends the languid plotting in the first episode of Monsieur Spade. Will Owen make us forget about Bogart’s portrayal of Spade? Absolutely not. But he does a good job of bringing Spade into a more of a modern context.
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This results in Monsieur Spade being a somewhat fuzzy thing. I was consistently intrigued by the series, especially for Owen’s interestingly prickly work and the beauty of the surroundings, but it isn’t always clear why Frank and Fontana were inspired to reconsider Sam Spade, and their approach isn’t always compelling.
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Monsieur Spade does an impressive job of dress-up without ever feeling especially vital or insightful. Too often, Spade is merely part of a fussy, ornate narrative mosaic, and despite a strong supporting cast, few of the suspects, love interests, damaged souls, and very clearly secret agents who cross Spade’s path are as interesting as the venerable private eye.
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Clive Owen does a great job delivering witty dialogue, and he’s bolstered by some strong supporting actors, but that’s not enough to redeem a clumsy attempt at bringing the legendary PI out of retirement.
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While it may invoke tropes from the 007 films and Christie’s mysteries, Monsieur Spade’s heavy-handed setup and unsatisfying ending prevent it from rivalling those works.
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Unfortunately, the miniseries never quite lives up to all that assembled talent, nor does it ever really justify the idea of placing a much older Spade so far outside his and our comfort zone. It’s not without its charms — Clive Owen‘s magnetism chief among them — but it’s fairly low-energy, and much less stylized than you would expect from Frank as director and co-writer.
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