Phantom Lady (1944)

Phantom Lady is one of those strange films that seems to crawl with dankness and disease -- filled with characters troubled by unsettled lives and unhappy, even dire prospects for the future, none more so than its protagonist, Scott Henderson (Alan Curtis), who finds himself accused of the murder of his wife. Robert Siodmak's expressionistic adaptation of Cornell Woolrich's novel is very faithful to its source, translating the author's vision of a dark, threatening, shadowy world to the screen in stunningly vivid fashion. Scott Henderson's nightmare (really two nightmares -- the murder accusation, and the fear that he did imagine the woman he spent the evening with) seems all too real; the movie is filled with eerie characterizations and images. These include Franchot Tone's quietly, almost humorously menacing fixation on his hands, all the more ominous because it is so understated most of the time; the bartender's guilty countenance; the callous, crude courtroom audience at the trial, eagerly awaiting the death sentence; the depiction of the trial itself (which, in exclusively audio terms, is a nearly pure sound montage of accusations, tense cross-examinations, and summations); and Elisha Cook Jr.'s priapic drum solo (his playing was reportedly dubbed by Buddy Rich, but his image is closer to Gene Krupa in the throes of satyriasis) as he and Carol exchange signals of seduction at a bizarre, shadow-laden jam session. Yet all of those ominous, off-kilter elements are balanced to some extent by the carefully placed moments of humor -- the two detectives discussing their ice cream preferences, and the moment backstage at the theater, amid a race against time and the hunt for a killer, when the camera pans past an aging Shakespearean actor (Cyril Delevanti) trying to impress a dancer stretching one leg behind her ear with reminiscences of what John Barrymore said to him about his Polonius. Siodmak, working closely with cinematographer Elwood Bredell, production designers Robert Clatworthy and John B. Goodman, and soundmen Bernard B. Brown and Joe Lapis, created a veritable symphony of visual and psychological shadows in this acclaimed and enduring film noir, one of the best realizations of any of Woolrich's books. And one so expressionistic in its lighting, design, and editing, that had it been shot in Germany 13 years earlier, not a thing about it would necessarily have been presented differently...not even the artwork attributed to Tone's Jack Marlow, which is one of those elements that keeps popping up in greater detail as the film progresses, adding new elements and layers of fascination with these characters and their interactions. It's all about as perfect as a movie of this type and vintage gets, with some of the best work of its rich, varied cast -- for Alan Curtis certainly, as the hapless Scott, and Fay Helm as the psychologically wounded Ann Terry; and while Ella Raines and Thomas Gomez did lots of fine work in this era, their performances here are among their best; Gomez's little monologue midway through the movie about paranoiacs, which is amazingly sensitive and sophisticated for its era, is delivered with great poignancy and honesty, convincingly the statement of a homicide expert who wishes he were in another line of work, and helps establish the basis for Tone's understated portrayal of a habitual killer. The movie is special even in its vision of New York City, which seldom looked more artfully yet offhandedly forbidding in a release from a major studio. ~ Bruce Eder, All Movie Guide