Where were we? Phyllis Claverling is once more impatiently waiting for Hugh Drummond to make her his wife. She's been left standing at the altar several times already while Hugh -- 'Bulldog' to friends and enemies alike -- goes chasing off to solve ingenious crimes. This time the wedding is scheduled to take place at Drummond's Rockingham estate. Little does Phyllis know that a decidedly odd professor, horrid murder, a secret cipher and a hidden fortune somewhere on the estate will postpone the nuptials once again.
By now John Barrymore, who had lent a faded, poignant but authoritative presence to the part of Colonel Neilson, head of Britain's most secret service, had gone. Colonel Neilson is now played by the fine, skeletal and unauthoritative H. B. Warner, an actor who was much more interesting on the rare occasions when he played a villain. Hanging on in the series is John Howard, bland and manly as Drummond, Reginald Denny as Drummond's twit of a best friend, Heather Angel as Phyllis and, best of all, E. E. Clive as 'Tenny' Tennison, Drummond's aged, efficient and acerbic valet.
Dithering and eccentric Professor Downie shows up at Rockingham just after the wedding party has arrived to inform Drummond and his wedding guests that a fabled treasure in jewels belonging to Charles I, worth at least one million pounds, is hidden somewhere in the dank passages underneath Rockingham Tower. Foolish legend? Professor Downie's corpse, discovered later that evening, implies not.
Once Hugh starts investigating, the clichés of a dark old mansion storyline kick in: Dripping passageways, a spiked ceiling clattering slowly downward, a swirling abyss of tidal water...all good stuff but a little late to save this 56-minute programmer. Before we get to them we have to wade through a four-minute dream sequence in which Hugh flashes back through movie clips to his past adventures and wedding frustrations. This time-wasting sequence is just more semi-amusing distraction that the screenwriters use to eat up time, to economise and to keep us away from exploring the bowels of Rockingham. The serio-comedy mystery is half way over before anyone even starts thinking about creeping down secret passages. By then the writers have told us who the murderer is.
I'm afraid there's not much to Bulldog Drummond's Secret Police except tired comedy unless you, like the Bulldog and Phyllis, thrive on delayed gratification.
By now John Barrymore, who had lent a faded, poignant but authoritative presence to the part of Colonel Neilson, head of Britain's most secret service, had gone. Colonel Neilson is now played by the fine, skeletal and unauthoritative H. B. Warner, an actor who was much more interesting on the rare occasions when he played a villain. Hanging on in the series is John Howard, bland and manly as Drummond, Reginald Denny as Drummond's twit of a best friend, Heather Angel as Phyllis and, best of all, E. E. Clive as 'Tenny' Tennison, Drummond's aged, efficient and acerbic valet.
Dithering and eccentric Professor Downie shows up at Rockingham just after the wedding party has arrived to inform Drummond and his wedding guests that a fabled treasure in jewels belonging to Charles I, worth at least one million pounds, is hidden somewhere in the dank passages underneath Rockingham Tower. Foolish legend? Professor Downie's corpse, discovered later that evening, implies not.
Once Hugh starts investigating, the clichés of a dark old mansion storyline kick in: Dripping passageways, a spiked ceiling clattering slowly downward, a swirling abyss of tidal water...all good stuff but a little late to save this 56-minute programmer. Before we get to them we have to wade through a four-minute dream sequence in which Hugh flashes back through movie clips to his past adventures and wedding frustrations. This time-wasting sequence is just more semi-amusing distraction that the screenwriters use to eat up time, to economise and to keep us away from exploring the bowels of Rockingham. The serio-comedy mystery is half way over before anyone even starts thinking about creeping down secret passages. By then the writers have told us who the murderer is.
I'm afraid there's not much to Bulldog Drummond's Secret Police except tired comedy unless you, like the Bulldog and Phyllis, thrive on delayed gratification.