This is about what you'd expect from a hastily written and produced murder mystery from 1946. The director must have had the producer looking over his shoulder, taking notes on time and expenses. But even at that, Otto Brower's direction displays a staggering lack of imagination. I'll give one example and let it go.
Near the beginning, a cub reporter is being shown around the police station where most of the action is to take place. His fellow newspaperman walks him past the usual people who show up in police stations with complaints or being questioned for having performed some suspicious act, perhaps First Degree Lurking.
The guide walks the new reporter down the hallway and they pass three sets of cops interviewing people who have business with the police. Each time they reach a new pair, the reporters stop and stand silently while the cop and the complainant exchange a few humorous words, then move on to the next pair, where the routine is repeated, as in a vaudeville skit. Whines one African-American, "She done run off with my car." Detective: "Nothing you can do, that car is community property." Complainant: "But she done took it OUT of da community!" What's irksome isn't the racial humor. That was common enough at the time and often was pretty funny. And it's not even that the lines themselves are no more than slightly amusing. And it's not that this routine -- the camera panning a police station in which civilians are being quizzed one after another -- is so thoroughly familiar. It's that the pair of reporters STOPS, and so does the camera, until each skit is completed, before moving on. All Herr Brower needed to do before the take was give a simple direction to the reporters, like, "You can slow down but keep walking." That would have strained no one's patience and made little demands on anyone's talent.
The performances are good enough. William Gargan is bland as the nice lieutenant who is tempted to knowingly follow a false lead because of a hypothetical imperative. J. Farrel MacDonald -- a great bartender in the same year's "My Darling Clementine" -- is lost in a minor role. A villainous newspaper editor and a sleazy blackmailer look suitably slimy. An old Irish lady who sells flowers on the street isn't nearly as funny or charming as the writers had hoped. John Ireland dominates each scene he's in. The musical score is pedesterian. There is some nice photography by Joe MacDonald, including an outdoor shot (one of only two in the entire movie), in which a big car glides along a wet cobblestone street. A little touch of expressionism in the night.
It's hardly worth describing the plot. An important newspaper wants an innocent young woman arrested for murder for political reasons; her father is running on the reform ticket or something. I may be getting it mixed up with the newspaper in "Boomerang." The Press Room is straight out of "The Front Page," including the oddball who wears a queer coat and is fussy about it. The resolution of the mystery appears suddenly out of a puff of smoke. The writers weren't breaking their backs on this one. A recently dead body gets mixed up with that of "a floater we found a couple of weeks ago", and the wrong bodies gets wheeled around under their sheets. At one point, a live but balmy escapee slips under the sheets too.
You know what? Without too much trouble, the lines could have been rewritten as DELIBERATE gags, see. And you put Bob Hope and Mantan Moreland into the leads. And instead of Carole Landis, you use Dorothy Lamour. And you make the movie at Paramount. And -- voila! -- it's a successful comedy!
Near the beginning, a cub reporter is being shown around the police station where most of the action is to take place. His fellow newspaperman walks him past the usual people who show up in police stations with complaints or being questioned for having performed some suspicious act, perhaps First Degree Lurking.
The guide walks the new reporter down the hallway and they pass three sets of cops interviewing people who have business with the police. Each time they reach a new pair, the reporters stop and stand silently while the cop and the complainant exchange a few humorous words, then move on to the next pair, where the routine is repeated, as in a vaudeville skit. Whines one African-American, "She done run off with my car." Detective: "Nothing you can do, that car is community property." Complainant: "But she done took it OUT of da community!" What's irksome isn't the racial humor. That was common enough at the time and often was pretty funny. And it's not even that the lines themselves are no more than slightly amusing. And it's not that this routine -- the camera panning a police station in which civilians are being quizzed one after another -- is so thoroughly familiar. It's that the pair of reporters STOPS, and so does the camera, until each skit is completed, before moving on. All Herr Brower needed to do before the take was give a simple direction to the reporters, like, "You can slow down but keep walking." That would have strained no one's patience and made little demands on anyone's talent.
The performances are good enough. William Gargan is bland as the nice lieutenant who is tempted to knowingly follow a false lead because of a hypothetical imperative. J. Farrel MacDonald -- a great bartender in the same year's "My Darling Clementine" -- is lost in a minor role. A villainous newspaper editor and a sleazy blackmailer look suitably slimy. An old Irish lady who sells flowers on the street isn't nearly as funny or charming as the writers had hoped. John Ireland dominates each scene he's in. The musical score is pedesterian. There is some nice photography by Joe MacDonald, including an outdoor shot (one of only two in the entire movie), in which a big car glides along a wet cobblestone street. A little touch of expressionism in the night.
It's hardly worth describing the plot. An important newspaper wants an innocent young woman arrested for murder for political reasons; her father is running on the reform ticket or something. I may be getting it mixed up with the newspaper in "Boomerang." The Press Room is straight out of "The Front Page," including the oddball who wears a queer coat and is fussy about it. The resolution of the mystery appears suddenly out of a puff of smoke. The writers weren't breaking their backs on this one. A recently dead body gets mixed up with that of "a floater we found a couple of weeks ago", and the wrong bodies gets wheeled around under their sheets. At one point, a live but balmy escapee slips under the sheets too.
You know what? Without too much trouble, the lines could have been rewritten as DELIBERATE gags, see. And you put Bob Hope and Mantan Moreland into the leads. And instead of Carole Landis, you use Dorothy Lamour. And you make the movie at Paramount. And -- voila! -- it's a successful comedy!