There is a deliberateness to its approach of exposition, a fact that may not surprise many viewers, but one that was certainly refreshing for me - even if it ultimately served as a reminder of its genre conventions. The specifics of its characters are learned along the way and the plot navigates us to further observe and scrutinise them, rather than prioritise immersion in its plotting. The Maltese Falcon, through its course, slowly uncovers the hard-edged shadings of humanity, whose essence are filled with greed, scepticism, and callousness; perhaps shaped by the socioeconomic and political conditions of the 1930s.

Hammett doesn't preach but seems to appreciate its readers to look beyond its plot's face value. The pursuit of the titular object, when taken literally and physically, is rather bland and underwhelming. Chapter after chapter, we are treated to a serving of these characters that intends to withhold obvious insight. Eventually a realisation of their entire character through the crumbs that were left and the space for reflection that was offered to his readers.

Whilst I do not consider myself an aficionado of the genre, with my greater experience instead found in its cinematic counterpart, I do recognise the tropes that are often attributed to it. That being said, with the novel's littered display of abasement and apathy, a significant connection between myself and the characters is missing. It is a story that I am able to extend an intellectual appreciation for but nothing beyond it.