Brian Donlevy is a wealthy business executive who loves his wife, Helen Walker. That's reasonable enough. She's an elegant dish with a voice as mellow as nectar. She's sweet to him too, but behind the smile is deceit, adultery, conspiracy to murder. She has a boyfriend, Tony Barrett, and they intend to murder good guy Donlevy.
The plan is this. Donlevy is about to drive out of town on a business trip and Walker asks him if he'd be kind enough to drive her "cousin", the ruthless Barrett, with him. The considerate Donlevy does so, but once out of San Francisco, Barrett beans Donlevy with a lug wrench and leaves him for dead in a ditch. Barrett's final words before the wrench drops: "This is for me and Irene, sucker." Barrett then makes his getaway in Donlevy's neat Packard convertible but smashes at high speed into a gasoline tanker and is burned beyond recognition. The police naturally conclude the remains are those of Donlevy. They inform the grieving widow, who sobs convincingly, and looks forward to a rendezvous with both Barrett, whom she believes to be still around somewhere, and with the immense wealth that Donlevy has supposedly left her.
Donlevy comes around and gets hold of a paper informing him that he's dead. His wife has made no mention of her "cousin" and Donlevy's most bitter suspicions are confirmed.
I guess I'll have to make this exposition shorter.
Donlevy doesn't go to the police. He wanders into a town in Idaho and gets a job as an auto mechanic at Ella Raines' gas station. It's one of those small Western villages where the blazing sun turns everything pale gold, the poplar leaves flutter when the breeze stirs, a tranquil river flows nearby, everybody knows everybody else, the people are trusting and generous and treat oddballs kindly, and all the men belong to the volunteer fire department. Says Raines' mother to Donlevy: "When you trust folks, you trust 'em." If you didn't already know it was a fairy tale, the music would tell you. In the dramatic city scenes, the score turns into a dramatic frenzy. In the dreamy little town, a melodic flute cops its style from "Peer Gynt", which is apt not only in helping establish the atmosphere but in suggesting Donlevy's embittered solitude. He loves Raines too, but he's no longer capable of making that kind of emotional commitment.
Then it gets complicated. Scraps of evidence -- measured in "shreds," as in "shred of evidence" -- keep turning up that implicate the wife and she winds up in jail. Donlevy decides after a few months that he can't let his wife fry for something she didn't do, so he returns to the city and tells his story. Walker, the quick-witted fabulist and an actress of rare talent, twists everything around to make Donlevy appear guilty of murdering Barrett out of jealousy. Donlevy takes Walker's place in jail and a trial follows. You can guess the outcome.
One thing that bothered me all the way through after Barrett's attempt to murder Donlevy. Why didn't the victim go immediately to the cops? Wouldn't it have been more sensible than hitch hiking to Idaho? I was finally able to figure it out. If he had gone at once to the police there would have been no movie. That's why the Indians always try to shoot the stagecoach passengers and never the horses. It's why Hamlet doesn't kill Claudius after chatting with the ghost.
The acting is all of professional caliber, nothing to be embarrassed about, except maybe Charles Coburns' Irish accent. Ella Raines is pretty enough in a mechanic's jump suit and her hair tucked under her cap, but she's smashing in a bare-shouldered white dress and her lustrous brunette hair loose. Donlevy is a burly presence, more convincing when he's grim than when he's trying to be nice.
Everything else is pedestrian. Arthur Lubin, the director, never simply suggests a hidden motive. He gives you a good clear shot of the sneer, the suspicious glance, the glazed look of adoration. But he has one subtle moment. When the District Attorney asks the court that charges be dismissed against Donlevy and that Walker be arrested, Lubin shows us Walker's surprised face. She turns her head to look at the judge, then her gaze drops slowly and the camera follows it down her arm until we see the bailiff's hand move to cover her wrist.
The plan is this. Donlevy is about to drive out of town on a business trip and Walker asks him if he'd be kind enough to drive her "cousin", the ruthless Barrett, with him. The considerate Donlevy does so, but once out of San Francisco, Barrett beans Donlevy with a lug wrench and leaves him for dead in a ditch. Barrett's final words before the wrench drops: "This is for me and Irene, sucker." Barrett then makes his getaway in Donlevy's neat Packard convertible but smashes at high speed into a gasoline tanker and is burned beyond recognition. The police naturally conclude the remains are those of Donlevy. They inform the grieving widow, who sobs convincingly, and looks forward to a rendezvous with both Barrett, whom she believes to be still around somewhere, and with the immense wealth that Donlevy has supposedly left her.
Donlevy comes around and gets hold of a paper informing him that he's dead. His wife has made no mention of her "cousin" and Donlevy's most bitter suspicions are confirmed.
I guess I'll have to make this exposition shorter.
Donlevy doesn't go to the police. He wanders into a town in Idaho and gets a job as an auto mechanic at Ella Raines' gas station. It's one of those small Western villages where the blazing sun turns everything pale gold, the poplar leaves flutter when the breeze stirs, a tranquil river flows nearby, everybody knows everybody else, the people are trusting and generous and treat oddballs kindly, and all the men belong to the volunteer fire department. Says Raines' mother to Donlevy: "When you trust folks, you trust 'em." If you didn't already know it was a fairy tale, the music would tell you. In the dramatic city scenes, the score turns into a dramatic frenzy. In the dreamy little town, a melodic flute cops its style from "Peer Gynt", which is apt not only in helping establish the atmosphere but in suggesting Donlevy's embittered solitude. He loves Raines too, but he's no longer capable of making that kind of emotional commitment.
Then it gets complicated. Scraps of evidence -- measured in "shreds," as in "shred of evidence" -- keep turning up that implicate the wife and she winds up in jail. Donlevy decides after a few months that he can't let his wife fry for something she didn't do, so he returns to the city and tells his story. Walker, the quick-witted fabulist and an actress of rare talent, twists everything around to make Donlevy appear guilty of murdering Barrett out of jealousy. Donlevy takes Walker's place in jail and a trial follows. You can guess the outcome.
One thing that bothered me all the way through after Barrett's attempt to murder Donlevy. Why didn't the victim go immediately to the cops? Wouldn't it have been more sensible than hitch hiking to Idaho? I was finally able to figure it out. If he had gone at once to the police there would have been no movie. That's why the Indians always try to shoot the stagecoach passengers and never the horses. It's why Hamlet doesn't kill Claudius after chatting with the ghost.
The acting is all of professional caliber, nothing to be embarrassed about, except maybe Charles Coburns' Irish accent. Ella Raines is pretty enough in a mechanic's jump suit and her hair tucked under her cap, but she's smashing in a bare-shouldered white dress and her lustrous brunette hair loose. Donlevy is a burly presence, more convincing when he's grim than when he's trying to be nice.
Everything else is pedestrian. Arthur Lubin, the director, never simply suggests a hidden motive. He gives you a good clear shot of the sneer, the suspicious glance, the glazed look of adoration. But he has one subtle moment. When the District Attorney asks the court that charges be dismissed against Donlevy and that Walker be arrested, Lubin shows us Walker's surprised face. She turns her head to look at the judge, then her gaze drops slowly and the camera follows it down her arm until we see the bailiff's hand move to cover her wrist.