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Recently widowed Lynn Markham (Joan Crawford) returns to her late husband's beach house to take up residence until a buyer can be found. She returns to a house in which police are looking at something on the on the beach beneath her house, there's a broken railing on her balcony, and random items of mens clothing can be found strewn throughout the place. What's going on here? Lynn soon finds out that her last tenant, Eloise Crandall, fell off of her balcony to her death and the police are still trying to decide if it is an accident or homicide.

A beach bum (Jeff Chandler as Drummy) has moored his boat to her pier, and apparently thinks he can pick up with Lynn where he left off with Eloise and doesn't seem to have the phrase "personal space" in his vocabulary. Lynn is not just another bored lonely near middle age socialite. She's an ex-specialty dancer from Vegas and she can see right through Drummy. However, time and the solitude she says she's always wanted begin to have a negative effect on her x-ray vision. Nobody dresses to the nines every night just to pace the floor of their dark empty beach house.

Drummy's story - he's hired beefcake by a couple of refined card sharks, Osbert and Queenie Sorensen, who need a steady flow of cash through loans and ill-gotten gambling debts to keep them in the lifestyle to which they are accustomed. The source of that cash had been Eloise, but now the Sorensens are eying bigger fish - next door neighbor Lynn Markham.

Throughout the film a cop investigating Eloise's death will pop up out of nowhere (Charles Drake as Lieutenant Galley) spouting come-ons mixed with veiled warnings while flashing bedroom eyes. Does he suspect murder or is he just trying to squash the competition by casting Drummy as a murder suspect?

So who if anyone did kill Eloise Crandall? Drummy to get rid of her? The card sharks to make sure she didn't go to the police about the ruse? Someone else I'm not telling you about just to keep it interesting? Watch and find out. Watch and find out if Lynn thinks she's getting so close to the truth that she thinks she is in danger too.

This is A1 late-career Joan Crawford material all the way.- great fashions, good speeches, Joan tough yet vulnerable, and angry confrontations mixed with pure lust. Plus great beefcake shots of Jeff Chandler and the fact that no female seems immune to this beach bum's charms even though he's not exactly your prototype ideal man of the 50's ... or maybe that's exactly WHY they pant after him! After all, Ward Cleaver clones might be dependable, but variety is the spice of life. I highly recommend it if you can find a copy.

Glossy trash has wealthy, beach front-living Joan Crawford wooed by shady gigolo Jeff Chandler. Low-brow fun, an adaptation of Robert Hill's play "The Besieged Heart", with steamy clinches and page after page of florid dialogue. Director Joseph Pevney seems to be a perfect match for Crawford: he's obviously tough on the unyielding actress and doesn't let her get away with many "Mildred Pierce"-isms. Crawford also seems to have been personally swayed by hunky Chandler, who doesn't let her hog the spotlight. However, neither star is guided with a trace of self-effacing humor, which turns the proceedings into straight-faced camp. Some of the lines are howlers. **1/2 from ****

This is a case where an aging Joan Crawford was just about done with good leading parts and the studios were only offering her "B" level scripts like this. Films were beginning to change and Crawford was not to far off from the last phase in her career. This story begins with an older drunken woman named Eloise Crandall (Judith Evelyn) chasing after her boytoy Drummond Hall (Jeff Chandler) but when she goes onto the balcony she falls over and dies. Was she pushed? Lynn Markham (Crawford) moves into the house and soon meets her neighbors like Drummond and the older couple that he lives with (Natalie Schafer and Cecil Kellaway). Their is also a nosy detective hanging around named Lieutenant Galley (Charles Drake) who thinks that Eloise may have been married. Drummond tries very hard to get Lynn to like him but she's very cold natured. One night she's lonely and horny and makes up with Drummond and they become close. Lynn finds the diary of Eloise and finds out that the neighbors are card sharks and that she was set up for her money. Also, the real estate agent Amy Rawlinson (Jan Sterling) is secretly in love with Drummond and Lieutenant Galley makes very obvious advances on Lynn! Lots of melodrama in this story and it runs like a soap opera. Chandlers character is such a pushy bum! Two seconds after meeting Crawford he is in her house making breakfast and putting his hands on her. He paws her like a Tijuana whore on a Friday night! And I thought it was funny that six foot four Chandler would come onto a woman that stands five foot in heels. Crawford is a tough woman in this film and really cracks Chandler a couple of hard ones. The dialogue is over written like when he asks her how she likes her coffee and she retorts with "Alone". Not a bad little subplot involving Sterling either. She's pretty hot looking and you have to wonder why Chandler was never attracted to her. The one scene that stands out for me is when Chandler is on Crawford like a grizzly bear and she cracks him and he responds by tearing her dress off! Rape, anyone? But of course this just turns her on. Overly melodramatic and it does have its share of laughs but at the same time you can't stop watching it. You can credit Crawfords screen appeal for that. Silly film is worth a peek at Crawford entering a part in her career that was winding down from serious roles.

Few case studies of Hollywood stardom rival Joan Crawford's in their curiosity. A certified star from the time of last silent movies and the first talkies, she fell from favor more than once only to be restored in ever newer incarnations, largely through the boundless reservoirs of her will.

And if there is an era that defines the Crawford that we remember most vividly, it's the decade-plus, from her Oscar-winning turn as Mildred Pierce in 1945 through her last `really top' movie, The Story of Esther Costello in 1957. In her valiant assault, as she moved into middle age, against time's winged chariot, she had vehicles built around her that helped define the canons of camp but retain a fascination that transcends camp. This dozen or so includes: Humoresque, Flamingo Road, her second Possessed, The Damned Don't Cry, Harriet Craig, This Woman Is Dangerous, Sudden Fear, Torch Song, Queen Bee and Autumn Leaves. Though we may howl at some of them (or at parts of them, for they range from rather good to quite dreadful), we're always aware – at times discomfitingly so – of the human drama that underlies and links them all: the Joan Crawford story.

In Female on the Beach, she plays a recent widow taking up residence in the coastal California home her wealthy husband owned. Her arrival proves ill-starred, for a broken railing on its deck marks the spot where its previous tenant – another woman battling age and isolation – plunged to her death. Did she jump or fall – or was she pushed? It unfolds that she had fallen prey to a youngish beach bum (Jeff Chandler) operated by a pair of older con-artists (Cecil Kellaway and Natalie Schafer); Crawford is targeted as their next mark.

Obsessively guarding her privacy, however, she proves to be a tough nut to crack. Her too familiar realtor (Jan Sterling) is swiftly shown the door when she makes the mistake of taking Crawford for granted. And Chandler, turning up unbidden in Crawford's kitchen one morning, encounters that same rough hide; asked how she likes her coffee, she icily replies `Alone.'

But tanned muscles and prematurely grey temples do not count for nothing in affluent oceanside communities, so Chandler slowly wins over the armored Crawford. But the course of true love never did run smooth, as the Bard of Avon warns us. Crawford just happens to find the dead woman's indiscreet diary (it's hidden away behind a loose brick in the fireplace!), a sad yarn of being cheated in card games and bilked for loans by the larcenous old couple while being strung along by Chandler.

No fool she, Crawford hands the gigolo his walking papers. But then she sinks into a sump of liquor and self-loathing, staggering around waiting the phone to ring like a torch-carrier out of a Dorothy Parker story. Finally, of course, Chandler does call and, better yet, wants to marry her! But fate has a few final cards to deal, including an uninstalled fuel pump Crawford had bought for Chandler's boat....

That staple of genre cinema, the woman-in-jeopardy thriller, generally features dithery, hysterical young things as straw victims. Crawford in jeopardy, by contrast, turns all the conventions upside down. The coquettish bulldozer she has constructed of herself at this menopausal juncture in her life, with her face as fiercely painted as a Kabuki mask, seems designed to repel – to crush – any threats. (Of course, like most such postures of domination and intimidation, It's a construct of fear – her fears of falling short as a serious actress, as a mother, as a woman; fears of aging and no longer being able to lure her directors and costars between the sheets; fears of not mastering her own unachievable goals.) The facade of control and self-sufficiency proves all the more arresting when it comes under siege from the cumbersome twists and turns of these situations held over from nineteenth-century melodrama.

Hence, Female on the Beach and its ilk. An indomitable woman of a certain age flies solo into the perils of mid-life, only to triumph against all odds. That was the life Crawford was living at mid-century, the life reflected in these films, by turns appalling and transfixing. Not since the Brothers Grimm has such a string of cautionary tales been issued.

This film is a lot like an extended Perry Mason episode, which isn't surprising since it's from exactly the same era. I would add, also, that it's beautifully photographed in a noir style.

I have a friend who pointed out that the first half of the movie consists of Joan Crawford repeatedly throwing people out of her house, which is kind of fun to note; perhaps it's an indication of a bit of clumsiness in the script. One could also perhaps say that Crawford leans a bit too much on toughness in her characterization and not enough on the bewilderment the character would have felt as she unwittingly walks into the situation she finds herself in.

The film does keep the suspense going, though, in that it continues to fan the ambiguity of who the house's previous occupant (recently dead as the movie starts) really was and what her relationship was to the various supporting characters. The film is full of manipulative characters with mixed motives, so you find yourself drawing conclusions about the dead character, but then resisting those conclusions because it seems like you're being led to them by pretty slippery characters.

Overall, the film is definitely worth a look; sums up the type of movie Joan Crawford was best known for. To get a look at her lighter side, try "Love on the Run," one of a handful of comedies she did, in which she co-stars with Clark Gable.