I simply cannot believe how slow, dull, boring, senseless, dismally set-bound, and stupid this movie is. Here we have Jose Ferrar, an astrologer-hypnotist who never commits astrology but has a cool Steve Ditko wall display of multiple masks over his bed, vacant-faced kleptomaniac Gene Tierney, who never blinks but has a large wall-display of white plaster roosters; Richard Conte, a hard-as-nails psychiatrist married to Klepto Gene; Barbara O'Neil in a Bride of Frankenstein hairdo; and Charles Bickford as the chief detective, grieving the loss of his wife. These elements do not jell. Tierney shows off her fabulous Oleg Cassini New Look Dresses, the plot drags, there are inexplicable pauses in every conversation, and the only star-power radiates from Constance Collier in a brief turn as a society hostess. Good actors wasted. Cars on back stage lots. The worst Ben Hecht screenplay i have ever seen enacted. One star.
Review of Whirlpool
