Fabulous atmosphere, deep shadows, Venetian blinds, femmes fatale, a picaresque plot that leads from weirdo to weirdo. Everyone in Film Noir lived in a tiny flat that was just one room with a bed and a cooker. And a window for the rain to beat against. 50s fashion was supposed to be terribly ladylike (read "frumpy"), but what the girls wore was soooooo sexy. Tight sweaters, tight skirts, high heels. Anyone would think that psychoanalysts were just running a racket to fleece or blackmail their clients, like fortune tellers. "I'm no swami with a crystal ball." Why, whatever gave you that idea? I must put you under deep hypnosis. (I like the guy who has been at college for 20 years - moving from one seat of learning to another. He must be very educated by now. I suppose he was really selling dope, but this is not made very clear.)
Review of I, the Jury
