From the exotic Marrakesh of his previous film Alfred Hitchcock has brought us to the grimy streets of New York for a sombre, documentary-style piece which many believe to be one of his greatest. Adapted by Angus MacPhail from the Life magazine true story by multi-faceted Maxwell Anderson, this tale of the tragic consequences of mistaken identity is utterly compelling and reminds us that truth is not only stranger than fiction but decidedly more disturbing. Interestingly, it was MacPhail who had introduced to Hitchcock the concept of 'The MacGuffin' and here it is JUSTICE that fulfils this function.
The casting of Henry Fonda as wrongly accused but finally exonerated musician Manny Balastrero is a masterstroke as his understated manner and intrinsically upright persona engages our sympathy whilst the real victim of this Kafkaesque nightmare is his wife Rose, played by the excellent Vera Miles. As she begins to crack under the emotional strain the gradual distancing between this loving couple is expertly realised by Mr. Hitchcock.
His first black-and-white film since 'I Confess', the film is Bressonian in style as no one is caught 'acting' and in common with Bresson's 'A Man escaped' there is not a single unnecessary shot although the 'tilt-a-whirl' camera effect of Manny's dizziness in prison is somewhat anachcronistic. The scene of the real culprit appearing whilst Manny is praying is nothing short of inspired.
One must give credit to Hitchcock's dream team of cinematographer Robert Burks, editor George Thomasini and composer Bernard Herrmann. Sadly, when he was for various reasons deprived of their services ten tears later, the effectiveness of his films took a dive.
As a footnote Manny sued for wrongful arrest but had to settle for an insultingly paltry sum whilst the $22.000 he received for the film rights barely covered the costs of his wife's ongoing care. The film's written coda suggests that she fully recovered but alas that was not the case.
Not only is this a superb piece of film-making, the increasing amount of miscarriages of justice that are forever coming to light render it timeless.
The casting of Henry Fonda as wrongly accused but finally exonerated musician Manny Balastrero is a masterstroke as his understated manner and intrinsically upright persona engages our sympathy whilst the real victim of this Kafkaesque nightmare is his wife Rose, played by the excellent Vera Miles. As she begins to crack under the emotional strain the gradual distancing between this loving couple is expertly realised by Mr. Hitchcock.
His first black-and-white film since 'I Confess', the film is Bressonian in style as no one is caught 'acting' and in common with Bresson's 'A Man escaped' there is not a single unnecessary shot although the 'tilt-a-whirl' camera effect of Manny's dizziness in prison is somewhat anachcronistic. The scene of the real culprit appearing whilst Manny is praying is nothing short of inspired.
One must give credit to Hitchcock's dream team of cinematographer Robert Burks, editor George Thomasini and composer Bernard Herrmann. Sadly, when he was for various reasons deprived of their services ten tears later, the effectiveness of his films took a dive.
As a footnote Manny sued for wrongful arrest but had to settle for an insultingly paltry sum whilst the $22.000 he received for the film rights barely covered the costs of his wife's ongoing care. The film's written coda suggests that she fully recovered but alas that was not the case.
Not only is this a superb piece of film-making, the increasing amount of miscarriages of justice that are forever coming to light render it timeless.