The Maltese Falcon

Having lived in Malta all my life, I’ve always felt a certain atraction to the Maltese Falcon. I first read it in my twenties, intrigued by the reference to my homeland, and have revisited it a few times over the years. It remains a gripping story, though not without its problems. Hammett’s writing is bravu—crisp, sharp, and full of tension. The atmosphere is steeped in intrigue, with every twist and turn pulling you deeper into a web of deception. Sam Spade is a protagonist worth following: clever, unpredictable, and morally ambiguous. The falcon itself, a shrouded in myth, resonated with me as a Maltese reader. It reminded me of our own rich tapestry of legends, from the Knights of St. John to the history we tell about our islands. Yet, I always felt a slight dissapointed about the novel’s treatment of Malta. The reference to the falcon as a gift from the Knights is intriguing, but the island itself is little more than a name—used for its exotic appeal rather than explored for its culture or history. The depiction of women also feels limited. Characters like Brigid O’Shaughnessy are fascinating but often reduced to stereotypes. As a Maltija, I’ve seen the strength of women in our society, and I found myself wishing for more depth in their portrayals. Despite these shortcomings, the novel remains a classic.