The fact that the actors are all in wigs, braids, skin-tight pants, buckle shoes, and are pretending to be schemers in Robespierre's France, in frantic pursuit of a little black book of names scheduled for the guillotine, does not force any modifications upon the lurid pulp-fiction idiom of Anthony Mann. And the result is a resounding triumph of myopic modernism over history, romance, make-believe. (This Robespierre guy, see, is just another thug.) The costumes are worn as if they are mere distancing devices, and the harum-scarum cinematic style stands out in bold relief -- the perilous camera angles and violent lighting of photographer John Alton, the actors coached to lead with their chins. Robert Cummings, Richard Basehart, Arlene Dahl. (1949) — Duncan Shepherd
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