A young war widow has gone on with her life, falling in love with an attractive man. Strangely, she begins to receive disquieting messages that suggest her husband might be still alive. Who would want to perpetrate such a cruel hoax on a blameless citizen ? And why ?
This is a thriller with an enormously original intrigue - as it should be, since it is based on Margery Allingham's marvelously clever and inventive novel of the same name.
The movie is at its evocative best when describing a London shrouded in an oppressive smog. It's a world turned dark and grey, where vast blankets of polluted fog fill the streets, to the point where people can't find their houses and dogs can't recognize their masters. Every now and then one can catch a glimpse of some disquieting scene, such as a group of raddled, unhinged veterans moving serpent-like towards ever grimmer destinations. ("Tiger", by the way, is to be commended for its bravery in describing the long-term human cost of war. It's easy for authorities and politicians to say "John Smith survived the war and re- entered civil life", but what if John Smith, upon his return, discovered that he had lost his job, neighborhood and family ? Or what if the horrors of war had coarsened and unhinged him so badly that he became a danger to himself and to others ?) The smog, of course, isn't just an environment in which wicked things happen : as an air pollution problem verging on a disaster it is a wicked thing itself, looking for babes and innocents to devour.
Still, I'm not entirely sure that "Tiger" succeeds in capturing the tone of Allingham's book, which was a skillful mix of the mundane and the grotesque. I need to add, immediately, that filming the book can't be easy : it must be as difficult as trying to bottle the elusive scent of a rare mountain flower. As a result some of the scenes fall flat or sound strangely off, such as the discussion between a kind, possibly even saintly canon and his attacker.
There is also a sequence involving a hazardous and torturous climb over some rocks. Here the problem seems to be technical in nature ; it's not hard to imagine a bad-tempered crew trying to lug heavy equipment over an ungrateful surface. One can almost hear an aggrieved voice saying : "Go on, sunshine, thesp as much as you want, but stretch that leg two inches more to the left and it's bye-bye to an Astrolux-XZ-350, and it won't be me who's going to pay a thousand pounds out of his own pocket". The effect of this sequence, predictably, is less than blood-curdling.
However, the movie is a useful introduction to the delightful novels of Allingham, who was one of the great Ladies of Crime. In her own way she was fully the equal of luminaries such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers.
This is a thriller with an enormously original intrigue - as it should be, since it is based on Margery Allingham's marvelously clever and inventive novel of the same name.
The movie is at its evocative best when describing a London shrouded in an oppressive smog. It's a world turned dark and grey, where vast blankets of polluted fog fill the streets, to the point where people can't find their houses and dogs can't recognize their masters. Every now and then one can catch a glimpse of some disquieting scene, such as a group of raddled, unhinged veterans moving serpent-like towards ever grimmer destinations. ("Tiger", by the way, is to be commended for its bravery in describing the long-term human cost of war. It's easy for authorities and politicians to say "John Smith survived the war and re- entered civil life", but what if John Smith, upon his return, discovered that he had lost his job, neighborhood and family ? Or what if the horrors of war had coarsened and unhinged him so badly that he became a danger to himself and to others ?) The smog, of course, isn't just an environment in which wicked things happen : as an air pollution problem verging on a disaster it is a wicked thing itself, looking for babes and innocents to devour.
Still, I'm not entirely sure that "Tiger" succeeds in capturing the tone of Allingham's book, which was a skillful mix of the mundane and the grotesque. I need to add, immediately, that filming the book can't be easy : it must be as difficult as trying to bottle the elusive scent of a rare mountain flower. As a result some of the scenes fall flat or sound strangely off, such as the discussion between a kind, possibly even saintly canon and his attacker.
There is also a sequence involving a hazardous and torturous climb over some rocks. Here the problem seems to be technical in nature ; it's not hard to imagine a bad-tempered crew trying to lug heavy equipment over an ungrateful surface. One can almost hear an aggrieved voice saying : "Go on, sunshine, thesp as much as you want, but stretch that leg two inches more to the left and it's bye-bye to an Astrolux-XZ-350, and it won't be me who's going to pay a thousand pounds out of his own pocket". The effect of this sequence, predictably, is less than blood-curdling.
However, the movie is a useful introduction to the delightful novels of Allingham, who was one of the great Ladies of Crime. In her own way she was fully the equal of luminaries such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers.