24 September 2015 | robtcohen
James Mason shows that existentialism's absurdity happens.
Well, James Mason is smooth, handsome, and cultured with the classy accent from across the Atlantic pond. The synopses around these same websites do sort of spoil the story's suspense-fullness, but I'll try not to decapitate it too much. Wm Conrad was soon if not already Marshal Dillon in GUNSMOKE on the radio, as I'm of that vintage when childhood radio-listening was a pre-occupation. Dan Duryea is blah, bland, and bluh. Sorry, but I like that cruddy alliteration too much not to waste it out of context here, but Mr. Duryea at least has such an interesting surname. I recall brands and commercials from radio in the 1950s, but now back to film noire, a bleak French phrase that's over-utilized though you give us a more-better descriptive category. In Rock Hudson's brief role he sounds so d young. But no Doris Day, so it can't be the cornball if not pswaydo-sophisticate mid 1950s Rock Hudson technicolor movie. Read Bosley Crowther's hatchet/nasty review, because you'll see why he was one of a kind, before my time, and so now I realize why candid film critics are not invited to cocktail parties and funerals, unless it's the burial of an assassinated film critic.