If Fallen Angel was a step down for director Otto Preminger, in the wake of the almost flawless Laura, then The 13th Letter is nothing short of a painful plunge down the cellar stairs following the impressive Where the Sidewalk Ends.
A small, respectable community in French speaking Canada is shaken to its foundations by a series of poison pen letters. Dashing doctor Michael Rennie, a relative newcomer to the area, is initially targeted for his questionable moral conduct, but soon others find themselves under the microscope, with all manner of skeletons in the closet coming to life. At one point a theory circulates that the letters might be the work of two writers.
A premise of real promise, but for a variety of reasons the movie fails to ignite. Sets, which no doubt are intended to be haunting and atmospheric, simply look drab and dreary. The characters, Linda Darnell aside, are uniformly one dimensional. It's a community bereft of eccentrics, extroverts, comics, alcoholics (nobody's likely to drink Canada dry).....and it's definitely a village missing an idiot!
Finally, the performances fall into the perfunctory, 'pays the rent' category. Considering the gravity of the situation, there is very little emotion. No outpouring of rage, shock or horror - more, bemusement steadily descending into sombre, melancholy detachment. Rennie even makes the heartrending account of his tragic marriage sound like he's reading the assembly instructions to a flat pack from Ikea. I was never a huge fan of Joseph Cotten, originally selected for the part, but I am convinced that he would have brought a greater warmth and empathy to the role.
One can only assume that the original, the highly regarded Le Corbeau (1943), offered more punch, muscle and personality than this largely languid affair.
A small, respectable community in French speaking Canada is shaken to its foundations by a series of poison pen letters. Dashing doctor Michael Rennie, a relative newcomer to the area, is initially targeted for his questionable moral conduct, but soon others find themselves under the microscope, with all manner of skeletons in the closet coming to life. At one point a theory circulates that the letters might be the work of two writers.
A premise of real promise, but for a variety of reasons the movie fails to ignite. Sets, which no doubt are intended to be haunting and atmospheric, simply look drab and dreary. The characters, Linda Darnell aside, are uniformly one dimensional. It's a community bereft of eccentrics, extroverts, comics, alcoholics (nobody's likely to drink Canada dry).....and it's definitely a village missing an idiot!
Finally, the performances fall into the perfunctory, 'pays the rent' category. Considering the gravity of the situation, there is very little emotion. No outpouring of rage, shock or horror - more, bemusement steadily descending into sombre, melancholy detachment. Rennie even makes the heartrending account of his tragic marriage sound like he's reading the assembly instructions to a flat pack from Ikea. I was never a huge fan of Joseph Cotten, originally selected for the part, but I am convinced that he would have brought a greater warmth and empathy to the role.
One can only assume that the original, the highly regarded Le Corbeau (1943), offered more punch, muscle and personality than this largely languid affair.