An adaptation of a very early Ross Macdonald novel, or in other words nearer the slam-bang manner of Dashiell Hammett than the surgical delicacy of later-Macdonald: he wasn't yet himself in 1947. Compared with the Byzantine structures of The Galton Case and The Chill, this one would seem to have been deboned of plot: there is only one suspect in the central murder case, and the entire action consists of trying to annoy him into a confession. (The movie's only qualification as a mystery is that the actual murderer turns out to be someone else altogether.) However, the callowness and abrasiveness of the hero, or anyway the callowness and abrasiveness of the actor in the role, are in a peculiar way an asset. On the one hand, they fit in well with the witlessness of his wisecracks, which not even a Humphrey Bogart could redeem. On the more important hand, they contribute to our lack of confidence in him, our outright mistrust of him, as any sort of detective-avenger. The fact that he gets beaten up three times in the first half-hour contributes here, too. And all of this ought to contribute to the general suspense. Somehow it doesn't. The lack of confidence in him, more than any lack of affection for him, becomes a bit of a liability as the action rolls heedlessly on and the hero starts to enjoy an amazing streak of beginner's luck. Judd Nelson, Ally Sheedy; directed by Michelle Manning. (1986) — Duncan Shepherd
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