This is the kind of mediocrity that makes Old Mother Riley look cutting edge. There's barely one believable frame in the whole movie. For reasons clearly meant to 1) mislead and 2) generate interest the opening sequence finds Trevor Howard driving along what appears to be a coast road in a storm. He turns out to be an archaeologist. So much for suspense. He puts up at a sinister inn where a shabbily dressed Wilfrid Hyde White clearly having been frightened by Dooly Wilson in Casablanca is playing a jaunty version of Clopin Clopant on a beat-up upright ignored by several deadbeats led by Herbert Lom with drinks being dispensed by a young Anouk Aimee as if at Finishing School in Lausanne. It doesn't get any better. Unbelievably Howard really IS what it says on the tin and NOT a British agent, undercover cop, intrepid investigative reporter or anything the slightest bit interesting and the fact that he stumbles onto a gun-running syndicate is more embarrassing than sinister. If you like thrillers sans thrills this is for you and if you mistake Miles Malleson for Claude Rains or even Louis Renault then you got trouble, my friend, right here in Waterfront City.
Review of Golden Salamander
