Universal Studios -- known for colossal stupendous productions like "Francis The Talking Mule" and "Abbott And Costello Meet The Invisible Man" -- presents a rather neat little courtroom drama directed by Jack Arnold, who gave us such compelling art films as "Tarantula." I'm kind of making fun of it but I really shouldn't, because, if it lacks poetry, it's still not bad.
Briefly, Jeff Chandler is a high-priced New York criminal lawyer who comes to the little town of Desert Valley to defend some potentate who murdered his luscious wife's rapist. At least we think she was raped. Elaine Stewart, of Montclair, New Jersey, is an outrageous flirt. She's hardly a receding type of personality, and the only evidence is her testimony and her tattered dress.
Chandler gets the killer off but the town is enraged because they liked the murder victim. The local corrupt sheriff (Carson) and his consort (Russell) concoct a frame and charge Chandler with jury tampering, obstruction of justice, bribery, and ordering rare steak for strange women on trains. He defends himself but, as his wife, Jeanne Crain, points out, a lawyer who defends himself has a fool for a client.
For a smart lawyer, he's pretty clumsy. He shouts at Gail Russell on the stand until she faints, or pretends to, winning the sympathy of the jury. Chandler gives the role everything he's got but there's not much there. When he's not shouting staccato at the witnesses, his only other approach to acting is a deep nasal baritone that indicates deep thought. He has strong features, in addition to that masculine voice, and his skull is brachycephalic, shaped rather like a bowling ball.
Jeanne Crain is slender and lovely. The reason she's here, as Chandler's estranged wife, is to return to him when he needs comforting. "When pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel Thou!" Gail Russell was improbably beautiful, vulnerable, and sexy ten years earlier but she'd been pounding a lot of booze lately and it had begun to show, though she was only in her early 30s when this was shot. She died miserably a few years later, a shame.
Lamentably, Jack Arnold is stuck with a plot-driven script with no nuance at all. In "Tarantula", John Agar is allowed to muse after hearing a strange sound in the Mojave: "Everything that has ever walked or crawled has left its mark on this desert." Nothing like that here. George Zuckerman, the writer, hasn't given Arnold much wiggle room with the characters or the narrative. Carson as the murderous sheriff is immediately recognizable for what he is -- a "Southern" type sheriff, you know; the kind that smiles in a friendly-like way while he thrusts his fist down your throat and yanks out your pyloric sphincter. And George Tobias as the worn-out Las Vegas comic is there only to be killed. I kept waiting for it.
The direction, on the whole is pretty slack. When giving his summation to the jury in what appears to be one unending take with few reaction shots, Chandler has a habit of lacing his fingers together as if about to crack his knuckles. He rarely DOESN'T do it. All Jack Arnold had to do was say, "Jeff, do something else with your hands."
Briefly, Jeff Chandler is a high-priced New York criminal lawyer who comes to the little town of Desert Valley to defend some potentate who murdered his luscious wife's rapist. At least we think she was raped. Elaine Stewart, of Montclair, New Jersey, is an outrageous flirt. She's hardly a receding type of personality, and the only evidence is her testimony and her tattered dress.
Chandler gets the killer off but the town is enraged because they liked the murder victim. The local corrupt sheriff (Carson) and his consort (Russell) concoct a frame and charge Chandler with jury tampering, obstruction of justice, bribery, and ordering rare steak for strange women on trains. He defends himself but, as his wife, Jeanne Crain, points out, a lawyer who defends himself has a fool for a client.
For a smart lawyer, he's pretty clumsy. He shouts at Gail Russell on the stand until she faints, or pretends to, winning the sympathy of the jury. Chandler gives the role everything he's got but there's not much there. When he's not shouting staccato at the witnesses, his only other approach to acting is a deep nasal baritone that indicates deep thought. He has strong features, in addition to that masculine voice, and his skull is brachycephalic, shaped rather like a bowling ball.
Jeanne Crain is slender and lovely. The reason she's here, as Chandler's estranged wife, is to return to him when he needs comforting. "When pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel Thou!" Gail Russell was improbably beautiful, vulnerable, and sexy ten years earlier but she'd been pounding a lot of booze lately and it had begun to show, though she was only in her early 30s when this was shot. She died miserably a few years later, a shame.
Lamentably, Jack Arnold is stuck with a plot-driven script with no nuance at all. In "Tarantula", John Agar is allowed to muse after hearing a strange sound in the Mojave: "Everything that has ever walked or crawled has left its mark on this desert." Nothing like that here. George Zuckerman, the writer, hasn't given Arnold much wiggle room with the characters or the narrative. Carson as the murderous sheriff is immediately recognizable for what he is -- a "Southern" type sheriff, you know; the kind that smiles in a friendly-like way while he thrusts his fist down your throat and yanks out your pyloric sphincter. And George Tobias as the worn-out Las Vegas comic is there only to be killed. I kept waiting for it.
The direction, on the whole is pretty slack. When giving his summation to the jury in what appears to be one unending take with few reaction shots, Chandler has a habit of lacing his fingers together as if about to crack his knuckles. He rarely DOESN'T do it. All Jack Arnold had to do was say, "Jeff, do something else with your hands."