It’s about surfaces … an affectless hot detective in the hot California sun, a hot car, a hot woman who exchanges trite relationship platitudes with the hot detective. I’d never seen Bullitt, but had heard of its important place in the pantheon of 1960s mood pieces. I was disappointed to discover that, unless you’re satisfied with mood alone, this film ultimately carries little weight; except for the ’68 Mustang, it’s pretty much all show and no go.
The plot is labyrinthine, filled with double crosses and unpredictable twists. But it comes off like an academic exercise; none of it touched me. I couldn’t help but feel that the complexity was just a way to paper over the fact that, emotionally, there’s nothing going on.