Le Secret du Dr Whitset

Stephen Boyd is a newscaster in London, with a gloomy view of his profession and audience. When his psychiatrist kills himself, he grows angry; if his doctor killed himself, how can he survive? Then the psychiatrist's daughter, Pamela Franklin, comes to him, saying that he was not a suicide. He was a murder victim. Boyd investigates the other patients and comes to suspect he is the murderer.

It's an interestingly written movie about mental illness, with some stellar talent in the supporting roles: Jack Hawkins, Richard Attenborough, Diane Cilento and a screen premiere by Judy Dench. Miss Franklin is superb. The problem is that, despite some beautiful camera work by Douglas Slocombe, there's a lot of talk, too much for a movie, and Stephen Boyd is the lead: a very handsome, very hard-working actor who has no real screen presence and who plays the low-affect depressive to a tee. Director Charles Crichton tries his hardest, but it's too slow and inert to be very interesting.

I first saw this as a kid, in 1970, on tv, and thought the nightmare sequence at Diane Cilento's home to be one of the scariest scenes I'd ever seen on film. After 29 years the impact is somewhat diluted, but overall the film holds together pretty well. Take a look at the extraordinary Douglas Slocombe panavision cinematography, the driven performances of Franklin and Boyd - an underrated actor if there ever was one - the striking set pieces on the Thames riverbank. It should be restored and re-issued on a VERY big screen. Scorsese, where art thou?

In an era obsessed with 'mental health issues', this film about deeply damaged personalities probably has more resonance now than when first released. The 'madness' element was much reduced by 20th Century Fox and Patricia Neal's role as one of the psychiatric patients consigned to the cutting-room floor. Most critics at the time gave it the thumbs down but over half a century on it remains an engrossing if not entirely convincing piece, the strength of which lies in the splendid and in some cases immensely touching performances from a first-rate cast under Charles Crichton's sensitive direction whilst Douglas Slocombe's superb cinematography accentuates the gloom and Richard Arnell's atonal score underlines the derangement.

Listening to the film's obligatory psychobabble brought to mind playwright Jerome Lawrence's observation: "A neurotic builds a castle in the air, a psychotic lives in it and a psychiatrist collects the rent."

Does that sound redundant? It's not, you know. Think of all the 'mysteries' that show the murderer in the first few scenes ("The Big Clock", "Sleuth", etc.). "The Third Secret", on the other hand, waits until almost the last scene to reveal the murderer, which makes it a much more satisfying mystery.

But what sets "The Third Secret" apart is an exceptionally well-written script with some of the most intelligent dialogue to come down the pike in years. What a refreshing departure from the current fare, loaded with f-bombs and other obscenities. This picture is written for grown-ups by a grown-up. Couple this with flawless performances from all concerned, and you have a picture worth at least a seven in our rating system.

I can go no higher because this movie is a bit long-winded, with protracted scenes of very capable actors engaged in aforementioned dialogue to the point of tedium. You will, however, enjoy the overall premise - that the death of a well-known psychiatrist was a murder and not a suicide. Very cleverly handled with a twist ending. "The Third Secret" is well worth your time. It's just that it seems to last longer than it actually does.

Just to elaborate on certain comments about Pamela Franklin; she was born in 1950, and 'The Third Secret' was made in 1964, which made her... 14. Not 18, although she may have seemed precociously mature for her age - but then, that's very much part of the fabric of the film. Her scenes with Boyd carry a sexual tension that film-makers and society in general were brave enough to confront at that time. Indeed, don't films from the 60s and 70s (until Star Wars brought serious cinema crashing down) seem terribly grown up? Although Charles Crichton was an Ealing man, his work here is more reminiscent of the Woodfall school of British realism, and light years away from his comedic timing in 'The Battle of the Sexes'. It's hard to deny that the dialogue gets a bit stodgy at times - a pity, since the screenplay contains a great many sly clues to the solution which can get lost amidst the psycho-babble. This was made at a time when much of the UK's cinema was in the hands of serious craftsmen and women - their films are exemplary lessons in thoughtful, considered cinema. However, in this case, fine technique fails to overcome a wordy screenplay, although it's a close-run thing.