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The opening departs from The Asphalt Jungle, and demonstrates John Sturges' taut even keel: New York tavern at night, grumpy barfly roused from stool by jukebox revelers, dark street lit up by gun blasts. Down to civil suits, the counselor is a widower and a recovering sot, a slight fissure in the patented Spencer Tracy solidity. The case at hand finds the neighborhood bigfoot (James Arness) accused of murder, the old pro returns to the courtroom with lapel carnation in place. "Never enter the ring without it." Legal thriller meets family drama, with noir traces creeping into the antiseptic MGM traditionalism. The cozy suburban kitchen dissolves to a tank squirming with eels, at home awaits a doting daughter (Diana Lynn) while the waterfront kingpin (Eduardo Ciannelli) puts his own father to work. The district attorney (John Hodiak) is sized up by the protagonist as a "sullen" ringer. "I used to have your job. Maybe someday you'll be on the other side of the fence when you're trying to save a life," cf. Ray's Knock on Any Door. The homicide detective (Pat O'Brien) sympathizes with the defense's flash of paralysis, the Scandinavian seaman (Jay C. Flippen) shops his version of the truth to the highest bidder, the getaway driver (William Campbell) offers smirking testimony. "People's witness? People's slob!" Sturges composes in deep focus, adds location glimpses to the backlot, allows himself one fancy shot (a tell-tale letter seen from the inside of a locked mailbox). It scratches the surface of the dope trade from Tangiers, and builds to a police dragnet complicated by an uncooperative microphone. The metaphysical expansion is by Losey (Time Without Pity). With Yvette Duguay, Richard Anderson, Arthur Shields, Henry O'Neill, Louise Lorimer, Emile Meyer, Ann Doran, Regis Toomey, Katherine Warren, and Charles Bronson. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |