The movie has all the right elements -- a good cast, serial murderer, innocent man on trial, circumstantial evidence, some fine noirish photography, courtroom drama full of ritual and wardrobe. And it doesn't come together.
Rex Harrison has been having an affair with a showgirl, partly out of a desire to help her find herself. (The viewer is permitted a slight snicker here.) The girl winds up killed in her own bedroom, victim of a serial killer, Anthony Dawson, always a fine ne'er do well, whose motive are unclear but, judging from the hints we're given, run along the same lines as those of Jack the Ripper.
Circumstantial evidence all points to Harrison, who discovered the body by accident, then fled the scene because he's happily married to Lilli Palmer and didn't want his involvement to become public. He's arrested and faces the hangman.
It may be hard to believe but the plot has so many gaping holes in it that it sinks by the bow. On top of that, the dialog has no sparkle, and the courtroom scenes, which I ordinarily relish, are limp and rather dull. They seem to drag on, repeating things we already know, the sort of exchanges that are usually skipped over in movies about trials.
Not to fault that nearly impeccable cast, though. I prefer Harrison in comic roles, where he excels, but he carries off this business pretty well. Lilli Palmer as the supportive wife is luminescent with innocence. And the Chief Prosecutor (or whatever his title) is Denis O'Dea -- the young Irish street singer in John Ford's "The Informer." But is he STEELY here, or what? That dry, menacing, insinuating voice. It could freeze an entire lake.
Anthony Dawson as the killer gets your attention too, although he does it by being too obviously nuts. He was better as the more suave murderer in "Dial M For Murder." Here, he's pop-eyed with his delusions and, for some reason, he follows Lilli Palmer about and tries to ingratiate himself with her. I didn't understand it. But then I didn't understand a lot of things. Harrison had had an argument with a bartender at the time of the murder, yet the bartender is never called up. Another witness that could save Harrison dawdles around while his shrewish wife orders him not to get involved.
The elements are there, and they're satisfactory, but the weaknesses are so glaring that it all evens out and the movie is routine. Want to see a more gripping and trickier flick? Try "Witness For The Prosecution."
Rex Harrison has been having an affair with a showgirl, partly out of a desire to help her find herself. (The viewer is permitted a slight snicker here.) The girl winds up killed in her own bedroom, victim of a serial killer, Anthony Dawson, always a fine ne'er do well, whose motive are unclear but, judging from the hints we're given, run along the same lines as those of Jack the Ripper.
Circumstantial evidence all points to Harrison, who discovered the body by accident, then fled the scene because he's happily married to Lilli Palmer and didn't want his involvement to become public. He's arrested and faces the hangman.
It may be hard to believe but the plot has so many gaping holes in it that it sinks by the bow. On top of that, the dialog has no sparkle, and the courtroom scenes, which I ordinarily relish, are limp and rather dull. They seem to drag on, repeating things we already know, the sort of exchanges that are usually skipped over in movies about trials.
Not to fault that nearly impeccable cast, though. I prefer Harrison in comic roles, where he excels, but he carries off this business pretty well. Lilli Palmer as the supportive wife is luminescent with innocence. And the Chief Prosecutor (or whatever his title) is Denis O'Dea -- the young Irish street singer in John Ford's "The Informer." But is he STEELY here, or what? That dry, menacing, insinuating voice. It could freeze an entire lake.
Anthony Dawson as the killer gets your attention too, although he does it by being too obviously nuts. He was better as the more suave murderer in "Dial M For Murder." Here, he's pop-eyed with his delusions and, for some reason, he follows Lilli Palmer about and tries to ingratiate himself with her. I didn't understand it. But then I didn't understand a lot of things. Harrison had had an argument with a bartender at the time of the murder, yet the bartender is never called up. Another witness that could save Harrison dawdles around while his shrewish wife orders him not to get involved.
The elements are there, and they're satisfactory, but the weaknesses are so glaring that it all evens out and the movie is routine. Want to see a more gripping and trickier flick? Try "Witness For The Prosecution."