Hedy Lamarr, she of the perfect proboscis, was a beautiful woman, no matter from what angle she was regarded. In her Hollywood years she'd been glamorized and Sydney Guilaroffed to a tee. Earlier, in her 1936 breakout film, "Extase", she was a little heftier although you'd never notice it except in her nude scenes. Her real name, of course, was not Hedy Lamarr. Nobody's name is that exquisite. In life, she was born to a family of Lichtenberger nobility and was known as Baronesse Sieglinda von Sturmen und Drangen. Really.
At any rate, she looks just fine in this rather drawn-out romantic drama of a woman who is consumed by the need for power and money and rises to the top of the art department of a chic New York magazine, or something like that. She sleeps around recklessly, becomes despondent, accidentally meets a psychiatrist who advises her to "find herself." So she quits being rich, which is always a foolish move, sheds her old identity, and starts life over as a struggling artist in a shabby room. Her neighbor is a fledgling research scientist, Dennis O'Keefe, and they fall for each other. Lamarr, however, is reluctant to reveal her past to O'Keefe, despite the urging of her psychiatrist.
A private eye, hired by one of her former lovers who must be very rich because he's festooned with watch fobs, discovers Lamarr's new identity. The slimy former lover gets her drunk, mates with her in his apartment, and after she dashes out in a guilt-ridden funk, Mr. Croesus is murdered by someone who shall remain nameless here. (Hint: It's William Lundigan.)
Throughout, poor Lamarr is in trouble. Her past imperfect life haunts her. She's hectored by that rich old satyr. She has no artistic talent. Her new life is a revelation and she beams with a tentative happiness, especially when O'Keefe proposes to her, but she still can't bring herself to tell him about her checkered history. But it all comes out in the murder trial.
It's really too long for what it has to say. And nobody turns in a bravura performance. It must be said that Hedy Lamarr can at least "do drunk" better than some others, like Richard Egan and Doris Day, who were positive embarrassments when they tried. Doris Day in "That Touch of Mink." Eww, I wince, just thinking about it. "Good" screen drunks included Jimmy Cagney and Lee Marvin, but that's neither here nor there.
The dialog has some bright spots. Somebody's reply is described as "decidedly acidic." And when the rich jewel collector entices her into his apartment and begins whispering sweet nothings into her ear, she looks at him over her shoulder and asks, "Aren't you going to show me your jewels?" I doubt that last one was intended to be as amusing as it is.
At heart, this is the kind of woman's picture that was common in the 30s and 40s and always found a ready audience. There has never been such strenuous suffering outside of a war movie.
At any rate, she looks just fine in this rather drawn-out romantic drama of a woman who is consumed by the need for power and money and rises to the top of the art department of a chic New York magazine, or something like that. She sleeps around recklessly, becomes despondent, accidentally meets a psychiatrist who advises her to "find herself." So she quits being rich, which is always a foolish move, sheds her old identity, and starts life over as a struggling artist in a shabby room. Her neighbor is a fledgling research scientist, Dennis O'Keefe, and they fall for each other. Lamarr, however, is reluctant to reveal her past to O'Keefe, despite the urging of her psychiatrist.
A private eye, hired by one of her former lovers who must be very rich because he's festooned with watch fobs, discovers Lamarr's new identity. The slimy former lover gets her drunk, mates with her in his apartment, and after she dashes out in a guilt-ridden funk, Mr. Croesus is murdered by someone who shall remain nameless here. (Hint: It's William Lundigan.)
Throughout, poor Lamarr is in trouble. Her past imperfect life haunts her. She's hectored by that rich old satyr. She has no artistic talent. Her new life is a revelation and she beams with a tentative happiness, especially when O'Keefe proposes to her, but she still can't bring herself to tell him about her checkered history. But it all comes out in the murder trial.
It's really too long for what it has to say. And nobody turns in a bravura performance. It must be said that Hedy Lamarr can at least "do drunk" better than some others, like Richard Egan and Doris Day, who were positive embarrassments when they tried. Doris Day in "That Touch of Mink." Eww, I wince, just thinking about it. "Good" screen drunks included Jimmy Cagney and Lee Marvin, but that's neither here nor there.
The dialog has some bright spots. Somebody's reply is described as "decidedly acidic." And when the rich jewel collector entices her into his apartment and begins whispering sweet nothings into her ear, she looks at him over her shoulder and asks, "Aren't you going to show me your jewels?" I doubt that last one was intended to be as amusing as it is.
At heart, this is the kind of woman's picture that was common in the 30s and 40s and always found a ready audience. There has never been such strenuous suffering outside of a war movie.