As nobody desires this post war melodrama, especially the four uncredited directors, it landed with a loud thud near the top of MGM's most notorious disasters. By 1947, Greer Garson was the top leading lady at MGM of dramatic parts, more popular than glamour girl Lana Turner, much more well liked than the eccentric Katharine Hepburn, and the only actress in Hollywood outside of Bette Davis to seemingly be nominated for an Oscar almost every year. For the former Mrs. Miniver and Madame Curie, all it seems that she needed to do was get a script, memorize her part, and gold would strike. Unfortunately, she had flopped with "Adventure", and this, her first film after that, signaled that pairing her with anybody other than Walter Pidgeon, was probably not a good idea. Garson for this film got two leading men,
Quickly rising up the ranks after years of minor parts and sudden success, brooding Robert Mitchum was cast as one of her two leading men here, and the forgotten Richard Hart was cast in the other major male role. What ends up happening here is a screenplay so messed up that upon the initial screening, I'm surprised that Louis B. himself didn't order the film shelved, simply to save face for the obvious fiasco that it is. Too moody and weird, this film has a structure that can only be described as an art house film that just didn't work. It's a post war story about the turmoil that supposed widow Garson goes through when her husband's pal (Hart) shows up to help Garson deal with her grief. Brief flashbacks to Garson marrying Mitchum follow to add confusing twists in the mix. The set direction and photography take over as the stars, but all that remains is an attractive 90 minute bore that seems to take itself too seriously as a piece of art.
While there are a ton of extras in overstuffed crowd scene's, there's only the three actors credited in the opening that ends with producer credit rather than director credit. Several writers are also listed, as is the original novelist, so if the issue is the credited scriptwriter than the director, why did they not settle on at least one. The harsh roaring waves seem to be a metaphor for the crashdown of the film. Worse is the fact that you never really get to care about the lead males, and Garson overplays the nobility, making her saintlike, especially in the over the top musical moments in church where the choir is going way overboard to sound heavenly.
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