Hidden Homicide

Confessing immediately that I have never heard of Director Anthony Young, I have to admit that HIDDEN HOMICIDE has left me rather underwhelmed.

The best things about this B noir are: pretty, elegant, leggy Patricia Laffan; the lovely cars of the 1950s, including the shrill police vehicles; Charles Farrell as the slippery Mungo Peddy, unfortunately in a very small part; and the sudden emergence of the villain, concealed from sight for most of the film's 68'.

Griffith Jones never rises above the mediocrity of his role (he does not even convey any witty or sharp one-liners that reflect some intelligence), and his running is too slow to elude police cars, forcing the viewer to suspend his disbelief to considerable extents.

James Kenney steals the show as knife thrower and impersonator but it is Laffan's breath-taking beauty and willingness to trust the male despite appearances that I take away from this noir.

The script suffers from serious and illogical holes: it is difficult to see how the murderer could impersonate the first deceased's wife for four years, and the rescue of Laffan at the end shows what appear to be some scenes in daylight and others at night.

The soundtrack does not help, either. Some wonky drumming, like a poor recording, persists even during the car chases, and I found it unnerving.

Thankfully, it's all done in 68'', and, as indicated above, the big plus is that you get to see some truly wonderful cars.

This film starts with a good if unoriginal premise of a man waking up in a strange house with a gun in his hand and a dead body in the next room.Then there is that old chestnut of the girl knowningredients that whilst there is a dead body in the kitchen Griffiths Jones can't be the murderer.There is subsequently a plot device which is so obvious it partly gives the game away.In the last quarter of the film there is a lot of dialogue explaining the plot.Everything about this film is second rate.Released by Rank,so no surprise there then

What would you do if you woke up in a strange house, not knowing how you got there, with a pistol in your hand and your cousin's body stuffed into a cupboard? If you're Griffith Jones, you talk Patricia Laffan, who knocks on your door, and your reporter friend, Bruce Seton, into helping you hunt for the killer without informing the authorities. They get wind of it soon enough anyway, when Charles Farrell, the antiques restorer and forger across the way also turns up dead.

It's a decently directed and telegraphically plotted murder mystery directed by Terrence Young. It's an efficiently produced second feature, with everyone running around London and the exurban areas, with a nice twist ending, and decent actors. Even so, it works out to be little more than a decent time-waster, although cinematographer Ernest Palmer -- the British one, just as it's the British Farrell in the cast -- gets some good night shooting at the end. It was the end of Palmer's career; he would light one more movie (the appropriately named THE CROWNING TOUCH) and retire. He died in 1964, age 63.

This could have been a good film if it had been handled correctly. Trouble is, it wasn't. The plot idea is pretty fair but it's let down by poor writing, very wooden acting (apart from Bruce Seton) and just about everything else.

There's nothing hidden about the homicide they inflicted on this one. Don't bother.

After opening titles of sinister hypnotic music and swirling water, we're in a London apartment where Michael Cornforth, a writer, (Griffiths Jones) is making ready for bed. The next morning when he awakes he's not only fully dressed and in a completely different place in the sticks – he's also holding a gun! After a bewildered nosey round the gaff, this being a black and white second feature, he of course finds a dead body - in the kitchen. Two Rank charm school types, Jean (played by Patricia Laffan) a bossy nosey parker type certainly, a lesbian possibly – and Marian, a beautiful trance like possibly drug addicted living doll – call round on, of all things, a walking holiday. They're soaked to the skin (it is, after all ,raining) and seeking shelter. This being Britain in the 1950, Cornforth can't tell them to do one so he only goes and lets them in doesn't he. After lots of farcical trying to keep them out of the kitchen stuff while not appearing to be totally odd - and Jean informing Cornforth that her friend is "very nervy and imaginative – always expecting to find bodies under the bed" - Marian upsets the Saxa salt and one textbook scream later discovers the corpse. Not unnaturally the two girls try and bail out. Cornforth prevents this at gunpoint – and then things begin to get really silly. He wants to talk to Jean who then simply goes off with him for a nice chat while leaving Marian in the bedroom without explanation like a naughty child. Cornforth says he can prove he was in London last night as his neighbour Mungo Jerry – or Peddy – saw him. Jean then goes from "You murdered him (not Mungo) didn't you?" to "I can take care of Marian. No one believes her anyway" in the blink of an eye. Why I'm not sure. It can't be Cornforth's charisma. Later on Jean informs Cornforth that she's had Marian sent to hospital. "They've got her under heavy sedation. She'll be out for 24 hours." With friends like that?

All in all Hidden Homicide – in terms of characterisation, plotting and probability - charters new waters of terribleness even by the standards of the British black and white 1950s B movie.