The detective-film spoof is a time-honored sub-genre about as old as the detective film itself; this high-concept gag film takes on all comers, integrating actual clips from the oldies into the storyline. Alan Ladd, Humphrey Bogart, Barbara Stanwyck, Veronica Lake and the others make their appearances on cue; the fun for movie buffs is in picking up those cues. Oddly, though, after this conceit-and a parody of detective-film style down to the details of camera angles (the better to integrate the clips)-wears thin, there remains only Steve Martin to hold up the whole show on his heavily padded shoulders. And that he does. Buster Keaton may always be king of the ne'er-do-well Philip Marlowes, but few contemporary actors are as cut out for the role as Martin. His Rigby Reardon ("You need a cup of my java") has all the outer trappings of a suave detective, plus a good deal of the intellectual canniness; but he's been saddled with an unconscious that just won't quit. The fear and loathing of the female sex that motivates the great detectives only trips him up (worse, they can hear his voice-over thoughts meant only for us). When you leave the theater, you may never be able to look your C-l-e-a-n-i-n-g W-o-m-a-n in the eye again. Incidentally, the title, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, takes on a new resonance in the film's dedication to costume designer Edith Head, who ought to know.