La verdad oculta

In an era obsessed with 'mental health issues', this film about deeply damaged personalities probably has more resonance now than when first released. The 'madness' element was much reduced by 20th Century Fox and Patricia Neal's role as one of the psychiatric patients consigned to the cutting-room floor. Most critics at the time gave it the thumbs down but over half a century on it remains an engrossing if not entirely convincing piece, the strength of which lies in the splendid and in some cases immensely touching performances from a first-rate cast under Charles Crichton's sensitive direction whilst Douglas Slocombe's superb cinematography accentuates the gloom and Richard Arnell's atonal score underlines the derangement.

Listening to the film's obligatory psychobabble brought to mind playwright Jerome Lawrence's observation: "A neurotic builds a castle in the air, a psychotic lives in it and a psychiatrist collects the rent."

Stephen Boyd is a newscaster in London, with a gloomy view of his profession and audience. When his psychiatrist kills himself, he grows angry; if his doctor killed himself, how can he survive? Then the psychiatrist's daughter, Pamela Franklin, comes to him, saying that he was not a suicide. He was a murder victim. Boyd investigates the other patients and comes to suspect he is the murderer.

It's an interestingly written movie about mental illness, with some stellar talent in the supporting roles: Jack Hawkins, Richard Attenborough, Diane Cilento and a screen premiere by Judy Dench. Miss Franklin is superb. The problem is that, despite some beautiful camera work by Douglas Slocombe, there's a lot of talk, too much for a movie, and Stephen Boyd is the lead: a very handsome, very hard-working actor who has no real screen presence and who plays the low-affect depressive to a tee. Director Charles Crichton tries his hardest, but it's too slow and inert to be very interesting.

Does that sound redundant? It's not, you know. Think of all the 'mysteries' that show the murderer in the first few scenes ("The Big Clock", "Sleuth", etc.). "The Third Secret", on the other hand, waits until almost the last scene to reveal the murderer, which makes it a much more satisfying mystery.

But what sets "The Third Secret" apart is an exceptionally well-written script with some of the most intelligent dialogue to come down the pike in years. What a refreshing departure from the current fare, loaded with f-bombs and other obscenities. This picture is written for grown-ups by a grown-up. Couple this with flawless performances from all concerned, and you have a picture worth at least a seven in our rating system.

I can go no higher because this movie is a bit long-winded, with protracted scenes of very capable actors engaged in aforementioned dialogue to the point of tedium. You will, however, enjoy the overall premise - that the death of a well-known psychiatrist was a murder and not a suicide. Very cleverly handled with a twist ending. "The Third Secret" is well worth your time. It's just that it seems to last longer than it actually does.

I first saw this as a kid, in 1970, on tv, and thought the nightmare sequence at Diane Cilento's home to be one of the scariest scenes I'd ever seen on film. After 29 years the impact is somewhat diluted, but overall the film holds together pretty well. Take a look at the extraordinary Douglas Slocombe panavision cinematography, the driven performances of Franklin and Boyd - an underrated actor if there ever was one - the striking set pieces on the Thames riverbank. It should be restored and re-issued on a VERY big screen. Scorsese, where art thou?

The director was Charles Crichton, the starry cast included Stephen Boyd, Richard Attenborough, Jack Hawkins, (terrific and walking off with the movie), Diane Cilento, Paul Rogers, a fourteen year old Pamela Franklin and a certain Judi Dench in her film debut while Douglas Slocombe did the superb cinematography in black and white Cinemascope so why was "The Third Secret" such a load of old codswallop for most of its length. Easy; the script by Producer Robert L Joseph was a stinker.

It's a whodunit but given the material it's hard to care which of psychiatrist Peter Copley's patients bumped him off. The police have it down as suicide but his daughter, (a precocious Miss Franklin), believes it was murder and asks television journalist Boyd, (himself a patient), to play sleuth. Given the funereal pace of his investigation, (and the movie), it's difficult to see what audience the producers thought they might have. Perhaps they felt the cast alone would bring them in but the film has largely disappeared and is now of interest only for its use of London locations and for Judi Dench completists. Otherwise something of a folly.