Il terrore corre sul filo

Barbara Stanwyck (as Leona Stevenson) is a neurotic woman, confined to her bed. She is married to the very attractive, and mysterious, young Burt Lancaster (as Henry Stevenson). Ms. Stanwyck relies on a state-of-the-art 1940s corded telephone to help communicate her needs. One evening, she picks up her phone and overhears two men plotting a murder; eventually, the crime moves too close to Stanwyck for comfort…

Stanwyck is excellent as the spoiled, arrogant, and wealthy, but, ultimately, helpless heroine of Lucille Fletcher's adapted radio play (the part was originated on radio by Agnes Moorehead). The story picks up some flaws in its extension into a feature film; it is most frustrating as (flashbacks) ((within flashbacks)) (((within flashbacks))) occur; and, the story becomes a little confusing. Still, Stanwyck's fine performance carries the film to an exciting, tense, conclusion.

******** Sorry, Wrong Number (9/1/48) Anatole Litvak ~ Barbara Stanwyck, Burt Lancaster, Wendell Corey

In New York, the spoiled Leona Stevenson (Barbara Stanswick) is the invalid wife of the VP of a pharmaceutical industry Henry J. Stevenson (Burt Lancaster)and becomes aware of a murder that would be committed late night of that day through a "cross-wire", when she overhears two men planning the murder.

Leona tries to find the right number to tell the police and she discovers that her former friend and ex-girlfriend of Henry, Sally Hunt Lord (Ann Richards), had lunch with him. She recalls the first encounter with her husband and parts of her life with him through flashbacks. Along the night, she learns dirty secrets about Henry and she finds that she might be the intended victim.

"Sorry, Wrong Number" is a great film-noir with a suspenseful story and top-notch performances. The screenplay and the direction are excellent and keep the attention of the viewer until the end of the last scene. This movie deserves to be watched more than once and is highly indicated for fans of film noir. My vote is nine.

Title (Brazil): "A Vida Por Um Fio - O Clássico" ("The Life for One Line - The Classic")

Note: On 29 September 2013, I saw this movie again.

An expanded radio play and subsequent TV drama, this film builds terrific tension around a bedridden heiress and her telephone.

Sympathy builds for this unlikeable woman, Leona, played by Barbara Stanwyck. She is a spoiled heiress used to getting her own way, but as we come to see, very much created by her father (played by Ed Begley) who bows to all her wishes.

Her husband, Henry, played by Burt Lancaster, whom she chases and captures from her best friend, initially goes along with being an employee in her father's corporation but eventually starts chafing at the restraints imposed on him.

The movie just about plays in real time with the addition of many flashbacks, one of which secures the knowledge that there is nothing wrong with Leona, it is all psychosomatic based on her mother's fatal illness.

From the moment Leona accidentally overhears a plotted murder for later on that evening, the viewer is taken on a ride that builds suspense and tension to a terrifying conclusion and the movie's title.

Not to be missed. The cinematography is superb, a lot of play in light and shade. Barbara deserved an Oscar but lost. 8 out of 10.

Chrome-plated hokum, Sorry, Wrong Number works despite itself. And works and works. Starting out as a radio drama by Lucille Fletcher in the 1940s, it boasted umpteen performances plus a 1946 production in the nascent medium of television before Anatole Litvak turned it into film noir. During most of its earlier incarnations, Agnes Moorehead created the role of the hysterical, bedridden heiress, the `cough drop queen,' but the film fell into the lap of the First Lady of Film Noir, Barbara Stanwyck. Moorehead was more than a strong enough actress, but Hollywood required a star.

The Irony is that Sorry, Wrong Number is far from her finest hour on screen. Rarely has one been made so aware of Stanwyck `acting' in the most unabashedly actressy way. And the same can be said of Burt Lancaster who, when a role didn't set well with him, communicated his discomfort blatantly. In The Rose Tattoo, against Anna Magnani, he was ingratiating and unconvincing ; here, he's almost as awkward as the henpecked husband in whom the worm has at long last turned.

But maybe Fletcher's slice of devil's food cake calls for mannered histrionics. Ensconced in her bedchamber one sweltering Manhattan evening, her pill bottles and her telephone at her elbow, Stanwyck eavesdrops on a sinister conversation – a murder is being plotted – thanks to a crossed line. This makes her even more restive, and she starts working the phone, tracking down her tardy husband. Litvak `ventilates' these calls, turning them into a series of flashbacks filling in the background to what will prove a very bad evening for Stanwyck. (The sequences on Staten Island, however, could have sprung from the pen of Franklin W. Dixon, the Hardy Boys' puppeteer.)

Unavoidably talky, owing to its source, Sorry, Wrong Number moves inexorably to its preordained end. Basically, it's a gimmick, and one that Hitchcock might have fine-tuned into a nifty infernal machine. Litvak doesn't do badly, though, and the movie's shock value outlasts its staled conventions. Its most chilling moment comes when Stanwyck frantically dials a number that she thinks will give her solace. But her answer is `BOwery 2-1000 – the City Morgue.'

Barbara Stanwyck is marvellous! Although she's a rather unlikeable character, she thoroughly captivates your emotions. She drags you completely into her nightmare - you can't look away and like a real nightmare, the sense of not being in control is chillingly real.

Apart from the flashbacks, which epitomise the film noir tropes of the late forties, this film is Barbara Stanwyck alone and scared and trapped in her trappings of wealth. She's confined in the physical and mental luxury jail cell she's made for herself. It's an exceptional performance of a woman in despair driven to the edge, of knowing something awful is about to happen but not being able to do anything about it. It's a perfect example of how a film can stretch out tension and suspense tighter and more intense with each passing minute.

And I also loved it when in one of the flashbacks, Fred shouts to his wife: Hey Sally, Joe wants a bottle of beer and she obligingly dashes out to the shop: oh how 1940s!