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The opening tour of the nightclub is like a last hurrah for pre-Code mischief, Bette Davis makes a fabulous entrance popping through a bouquet of balloons. "A pathological case fit for a sanatorium," the thrill-seeking socialite in the underworld, "everything from speeding to being pinched in Chinatown raids." Dad (Arthur Byron) is a scolding stockbroker, fiancé (Lyle Talbot) a patsy in her stolen securities racket. Stepsister (Margaret Lindsay) sticks by her side until she vanishes, society reporter (Donald Woods) snoops to the rescue. "Now don't start moralizing." Another larcenous upper-cruster for William Dieterle, cf. Jewel Robbery, trembling with erotic euphoria as she watches her scheme unfolding through binoculars. ("Sour grapes," she snaps at the patriarchal moneybags bemoaning "bad blood.") Antonioni in L'Avventura remembers the narrative switch of blondes and brunettes, the upright inquirer has plenty of suspects to sort through: hotspot owner (Irving Pichel), adulterous executive (Douglass Dumbrille), baleful butler (Robert Barrat). Bobbing in and out is the amoral shutterbug (Hugh Herbert), cheerfully framing shots in grisly situations. (The contorted corpse in a convertible's trunk is just a subject for his camera, "best-looking legs I've seen in months.") Dieterle's velocity (abbreviated scenes, accelerated dialogue, hard wipes) enhances some choice location filming—San Francisco's sloping streets and colonial architecture, a screen crossed by trolleys and blanched with mist, a cacophony of sirens and whistles by the wharf. The mystery is wrapped, the photographer has the final word, "just wanna give it the futuristic touch." Through Dwan's Slightly Scarlet it passes to reach Marnie. With Alan Hale, Henry O'Neill, William Demarest, Gordon Westcott, Lester Dorr, Charles C. Wilson, and George Chandler. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |