The pacing's all wrong. The premise is nifty and should be fail-safe, but the director, Otto Preminger, paces and scores it as if it were a lush melodrama. Coupled with the oppressively dark lighting, the result is a jumble. The sense of desperation doesn't build. The story is like glass - you keep wanting to grab hold somewhere and you keep sliding off. It doesn't help that Dana Andrews is like a slab of cement in the lead. His asphalt features and clipped, stony demeanor do not lend themselves to audience identification. He's got his inner torment in a choke-hold and isn't going to let anyone share it with him. The whole thing is out of whack with several key scenes missing by a country mile. Preminger's "Laura" worked so well because it was an atypical Noir in that it was set primarily amid the opulence of the privileged - where he felt most at home. He had no aptitude for the dirt and squalor of the streets - he's out of his element here. His direction seems handcuffed.
Review of Where the Sidewalk Ends
