The signature narration style in Film Noir. A bored-looking, world-weary, utterly cynical Hardboiled Detective with his feet on the desk meets a Femme Fatale, while the voiceover gives us his mental play-by-play: Must be black and white, with preference given to grimy offices, frosted-glass doors, half-open Venetian blinds, and a cheap and conspicuously open bottle of hooch. Bonus points for saxophone music or impractically slow ceiling fans. When done well it is always a consistent narrative. Done badly, this monologue just becomes laughable amounts of complaining like a spoiled emo teen.