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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.