This movie is mindbogglingly hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. It has dated terribly but even taking the era in which it was made into consideration this seems little more than the hysterical spawn of Jingoism and Paranoia 101. I can't see it having been good even back in 1945, though as a propaganda poster for the efficiency of the FBI it comes through with flying colours (and shows us, with great stone-faced eagerness, how they are able to isolate and locate the woman in New York they are looking for simply on the basis of the lipstick left on her cigarette butt! Yikes. This is the kind of fantastical ode to American governmental hierarchy that the makers of the subsequent but similarly stupid Big Jim McClain would be proud of). And then there is the narration, sombre and slavish, and about as credible as something from an episode of Police Squad. The only redeeming thing about this film was the location shooting and its occasional forays into the noirish aspects that I was hoping for when I rented this dud in the first place.
Review of The House on 92nd Street
