Hidden Homicide

A novelist, Michael Cornforth (Griffin Jones) goes to bed in London and wakes up with a gun in his hand in his cousin's country cottage. Walking around, he finds his cousin in a kitchen closet.

Two women appear at the door, soaked from the rain, asking to come in. One of the women goes into the kitchen for tea and drops something on the floor. Looking for a broom, she finds the body, screams, and faints.

Michael attempts to explain the situation to Jean Gilson (Patricia Laffan). For some reason, she believes him. This is a major hole in the story - there is no explanation for her behavior.

Michael's investigation, with the help of Jean and a friend, reporter Bill Dodd (Bruce Seton), puts him on the trail of his cousin's wife, who supposedly is in Australia. Since Michael is in line to inherit, and since someone is trying to frame him, this is perhaps about money.

These B noirs were part of a quota system in British film. It's not bad; in fact, there are some fun scenes. There's a neat twist, actually a double twist, at the end.

Hidden Homicide is directed by Tony Young and adapted to screenplay by Young and Bill Luckwell from the novel "Murder at Shinglestrand" written by Paul Capon. It stars Griffith Jones, James Kenney and Patricia Laffan. Music is by Otto Ferrari and cinematography by Ernest Palmer.

A novelist wakes up to find a gun in his hand a relative murdered nearby. Did he do it?

Who cares is the serious answer after sitting through this most turgid of "Z" grade Brit crime mysteries. There's just about enough material here to have made a half hour episode of some low rent Private Investigator show, but even then the logic holes and crumbling direction would struggle to hold the attention of the intelligent of mind. Also features one of the most irritating musical scores of the 50s (shudder). 2/10

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.

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.

Hitchcock would have loved this plot and would surely have made something great of it, with all its kinky sexy problems, with all this double play, with all this ghost parade of the past with an unresolved murder four years ago, and a very innocent man in the middle of it, being tucked into it and drowned in murders around him, a typical Hitchcock hero of an ordinary man being forced into intrigues which he can't understand the slightest detail of. And who would in his place? If you some time have woken up somewhere without an inkling of an idea where you are or why or how or whatever got you into this position, you will understand the case of the poor Griffith Jones and his awful predicament. Fortunately there is a rather matter-of-fact lady with a stiff upper lip to make an effort of helping him out, while his great aid in this inextricable situation is his old friend Bill Seton, a crime reporter, who seems to know exactly how to deal with a hopeless business. The plot is intricate, far-fetched, hopelessly bizarre but actually makes sense in all its crooked ways, and at least the three searchers will be relieved to finally find out that they were chasing too many ghosts while only one was real. 70 minutes is too little for a complex intrigue like this, you easily drop out and miss important details, it is too compressed for a great thriller, while more space would have provided the audience with better possibilities of reflection and understanding.