Orson Welles takes a nose-holding leap toward Low Camp with a pulp thriller (narrated, first-person, in Welles's unctuous Irish brogue) about a gullible, ham-fisted sailor who is sucked into a murder scheme, making him the patsy. The cast of characters is peopled by twisted, obscene predators -- Rita Hayworth in a blond hairdo styled like shampoo lather, the pop-eyed Everett Sloane tottering around with leg braces and canes, Glenn Anders whining and whinnying through a sweaty mouth. The famous fun-house sequence is a virtuoso turn, all right, although Welles does not trouble to find a plausible way into it or out of it. (1948) — Duncan Shepherd
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