Sonha, Meu Amor

Slick suspenser from United Artists. Courtland (Ameche) has an elaborate plot to kill his wife, Alison (Colbert), get her money, and shack-up with mistress Daphne (Brooks). Good thing Bruce (Cummings) takes a covert romantic interest in Alison otherwise she'd be toast. The material may be derivative but director Sirk knows how to smooth out the rough spots, maybe too much so. The suspense never really kicks in. I suspect that's because Ameche's too bland to generate needed menace. (Perhaps he was looking to modify his nice guy screen image, but not too much.)Thus bad things happen to a drugged-up Alison, but in serial fashion without the driving dark force behind it. Instead Coulouris (Vernay) conveys what evil sense there is. As a result, the narrative builds, without intensifying.

Nonetheless, the movie has its moments—the train's sudden passage that had me clutching my chair, the sudden shattering of the office door, the plunge through the corkscrew staircase. But most memorable to this noir fan is Hazel Brooks. She's the most commanding spider woman I've seen in years of viewing. Icy, majestic, sensual, no wonder Courtland conspires to dump the ordinary-looking Alison. I love that scene where she sits, bare legged, in an elevated queenly chair while commoner Courtland supplicates from below. I wish there were more bio on her all-too-brief career.

All in all, it's decent noir but minus the character edges to make it memorable.

This thriller starts off with Claudette Colbert asleep on a speeding train and screaming soon after awakening because she has no idea how she got there. At home husband Don Ameche is being interviewed by the police after he calls them because of her disappearance the previous evening. This will be just the first in a series of bizarre circumstances for Colbert.

This film is nicely photographed and has some impressive sets. It also features Robert Cummings as a nice young man Colbert meets who becomes interested in her, George Coulouris in thick horn rimmed glasses playing a creepy guy, something that came very naturally to George Coulouris, and Hazel Brooks, looking very seductive and slinking around, much as she had recently done in another independent production of considerably more fame today than this one, Body and Soul.

Once you realize, however, that this is another Gaslight-type thriller (and it gives its hand away fairly early), it all starts to seem like territory a little too familiar. It also gets more than a little silly when the husband puts a sleeping potion into his wife's hot chocolate at night which seems to make her highly susceptible to any suggestion that he may whisper into her ear once she falls asleep.

For myself, recalling the charm that Colbert and Ameche had brought to the screen almost a decade before when they appeared in director Mitchell Leisen's sly, sophisticated comedy bauble, Midnight, I was a little dismayed to see them together again under these Gaslight circumstances. Still, Sleep, My Love, while far fetched at times, is an adequate thriller for fans of the genre.

Alison Courtland (Claudette Colbert) wakes up in the middle of the night on a speeding train, she has no idea how she got there...

Staring Claudette Colbert, Robert Cummings, Don Ameche, George Coulouris, with support coming from Rita Johnson & Raymond Burr. Directed by Douglas Sirk, adapted by St. Clair McKelway (Cy Endfield & Decla Dunning uncredited) from a novel by Leo Rosten, scored by Rudy Schrager and Joseph Valentine provides the cinematography.

Practically brushed aside by its director, pulled from pillar to post by the genre assignment police, and called everything from a woman's melodrama to a psychological film noir, Sleep, My Love is a film that one could easily be led to believe is just not very good, or at best, confusing. Nether of the last two statements apply as far as I'm concerned.

Firstly it has to be said (since every amateur reviewer in the land has done thus far) this is closer to the likes of Gaslight (Re: Thornton Square et al) than any femme/homme fatale driven piece of cinema. Secondly it should be noted that it's no surprise Sirk turned his nose up at the finished film, because it's a far cry from the "woman's" pictures that would make and solidify his career. What we get is a tight, if formulaic, story, that is mostly acted competently and is filmed quite excellently with an expressionistic bent by Valentine.

Very early on in the piece we are privy to just what is going on, something that those who crave a mystery element may find an irritation. But here's the thing, the atmospherics on offer are enough to carry the viewer through to the finale, where, we await the outcome of the villainous dalliances that have made up the plot. Along the way we have been treated to a number of potent scenes, such as the rushing train opener and a balcony hold your breath moment. Then there's the house itself, wonderfully moody with its looming staircase, it's constantly swathed in shadows as Valentine utilises it to the maximum to make it an imposing character all by itself. In fact fans of shadow play should love the goods here since the film is 98% filmed with shadows.

There's some issues (naturally). Ameche is weak as the treacherous husband, and when one finds that the hulking and deathly sullen eyed Burr is underused, one can't help think that the film would have greatly benefited from those two swapping roles. Hazel Brooks as the "other woman" is also badly underused, an annoyance since what little we do get hints at a sizzling and murky affair that begged to be fleshed out more in the noir tradition. And boy what a pair of legs did our Hazel possess!

It's a damn fine film in spite of the little itches, one that deserves a bit more support than it actually gets. As for what genre it does belong to? Well psychological melodrama filmed in a film noir style sits about right one feels. 7.5/10

Sirk delivers the goods. I don't know what it is about these "Gaslight" scenarios that I love so much, maybe it's just so delightfully devious. Okay, so the story is pretty damn predictable, but it's a really fun movie. Claudette Colbert (teamed up once again with Don Ameche, although in a far different way than MIDNIGHT) isn't great, but it's kind of a tricky role and she pulls it off pretty well. And for once, I enjoyed a Robert Cummings performance. Unfortunately, Raymond Burr doesn't get much to do and neither does femme fatale Hazel Brooks, although she does have a fantastic entrance, as we see her shapely legs coming down the stairs. But the performances aren't the film's strength. It has terrific pacing, some amazing shots (the whole thing is photographed very nicely) and even some good bits of comedy that manage not to undercut the tension. The Chinese wedding, for example, takes a good portion of time away from the action, but it's a delightful scene that establishes the relationship between Colbert and Cummings. Maybe this isn't a groundbreaking noir, but I really enjoyed it, especially for the entertaining (if somewhat routine) plot and superb cinematography.

Sleep, My Love is Douglas Sirk's crack at Gaslight. Dabbling in drugs and Mesmerism, Don Ameche rigs up psychotic "episodes" starring his wife, Claudette Colbert, so he can inherit her money. Befriended by Robert Cummings during one of these arranged "fugue" states, she unwittingly enlists an ally whose affections, and suspicions, grow. (The film takes on inadvertent Charlie Chan overtones when Cummings goes sleuthing with his blood-brother Keye Luke, who often played the Honolulu detective's eldest offspring.)

Unlike Cukor's claustrophobic Gaslight, with Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer, Sleep, My Love is less psychologically nuanced and more plot-driven. It benefits from Hazel Brooks, delivering an icily stylized vamp turn as The Other Woman; she appeared in one other noir, Body and Soul, during her disappointing brief career. George Couloris (the guardian in Citizen Kane) adds color as a confederate of Ameche's, while Raymond Burr is wasted as a minion of the law.

That leaves the three principals as well as some problems. The amicable Ameche can't summon up the cold, controlling menace that Boyer spread through Gaslight; his adversary, the equally amicable Cummings, succumbs to terminal blandness. Colbert is more problematic. Unlike the languorous, instinctive Bergman, she made her name in part due to her quick wits; you can't buy her as a submissive wifey who hasn't cottoned on to her husband's philandering -- at the very least -- without having it spelled out to her by Cummings, whose acumen seems as low-wattage as his star power. (On the other hand, she was to find herself in a similar pickle the next year in The Secret Fury.) Sirk's direction here, as in Lured, lacks the distinctiveness he showed in his other noir, Shockproof, and was to develop lushly in the haut-fifties melodramas like Written on the Wind for which he is justly renowned.