The world of the London theatre is the charming background in which Hitchcock and his writers have engineered to give an adequate cast some glossy and amusing things to do in this jerry-built disappointment. But these things, while witty independently, add up to very little continuous stimulation or tension in spite of the master's trademark fluid camera. They are merely an arbitrary deposit of dexterous or quaint sections, devoid of any real angst. And, consequently, that which one most customarily expects in a Hitchcock film---that is, amassed suspense---should not be expected here.
Rather we get a tedious yarn about the ways in which a student actress attempts to protect her unrequited sweetie from a murder charge. We get a lengthy and elaborate staging of what might in principle be characterized as a counter-chase, with the young lady trying simultaneously to get proof and smear the trail. And we also get a blasé look-see at a budding romance, when the young lady replaces her fondness onto the pleasant young detective on the case.
In the sequence of these speckled events, we watch Marlene Dietrich give a show of glossy and sad theatrics in the role of a wicked musical star. We watch her callously and neatly dupe the accused man, Richard Todd, and we see the latter's breathless pains, in wide-eyed tumult, to forestall being caught. Wyman's dual-identity mischief gives Stage Fright more kick than its core mystery, as the central absurdity comes off as hokum at best, impertinent at worst. Wyman is the star of the show, upstaging Dietrich handily as well as a gathering of unexceptional men acting opposite her.
We are also allowed to observe Jane Wyman's various ploys to save Todd from exposure. We watch her use her dramatics to insinuate herself as Dietrich's maid, with a number of close calls at being caught herself. We see her charm Michael Wilding, who plays the detective lightheartedly, and we ultimately have the honor of watching her make some pleasant love.
But most outstandingly, in the itinerary of this picture, we are brought into dealings with Alistair Sim, the long-faced and sad-eyed English comic, who plays Miss Wyman's dad. And the pleasure of watching him marshal his intellect and wherewithal to help his daughter in her activities is one of the real joys of the film. He and Dame Sybil Thorndike, who plays his caustic wife, and a toothy lady named Joyce Grenfell, who does a hilarious bit as an attendant of a shooting-gallery at a theatrical fair, are the standouts in the show, and that should give you some suggestion of how the prominence has been placed.
Without a doubt, one is keenly wary, after watching this haphazard film, that Hitchcock was much less concerned with his overall narrative than in separate scenes. One has the unnerving feeling that he so much enjoyed the parts that he lost, or didn't even bother about, compelling and coherent development. Certainly his audience follows in their gratification of the parts, but whether they will be quite as indifferent to the lack of shape or substance is something else.
Rather we get a tedious yarn about the ways in which a student actress attempts to protect her unrequited sweetie from a murder charge. We get a lengthy and elaborate staging of what might in principle be characterized as a counter-chase, with the young lady trying simultaneously to get proof and smear the trail. And we also get a blasé look-see at a budding romance, when the young lady replaces her fondness onto the pleasant young detective on the case.
In the sequence of these speckled events, we watch Marlene Dietrich give a show of glossy and sad theatrics in the role of a wicked musical star. We watch her callously and neatly dupe the accused man, Richard Todd, and we see the latter's breathless pains, in wide-eyed tumult, to forestall being caught. Wyman's dual-identity mischief gives Stage Fright more kick than its core mystery, as the central absurdity comes off as hokum at best, impertinent at worst. Wyman is the star of the show, upstaging Dietrich handily as well as a gathering of unexceptional men acting opposite her.
We are also allowed to observe Jane Wyman's various ploys to save Todd from exposure. We watch her use her dramatics to insinuate herself as Dietrich's maid, with a number of close calls at being caught herself. We see her charm Michael Wilding, who plays the detective lightheartedly, and we ultimately have the honor of watching her make some pleasant love.
But most outstandingly, in the itinerary of this picture, we are brought into dealings with Alistair Sim, the long-faced and sad-eyed English comic, who plays Miss Wyman's dad. And the pleasure of watching him marshal his intellect and wherewithal to help his daughter in her activities is one of the real joys of the film. He and Dame Sybil Thorndike, who plays his caustic wife, and a toothy lady named Joyce Grenfell, who does a hilarious bit as an attendant of a shooting-gallery at a theatrical fair, are the standouts in the show, and that should give you some suggestion of how the prominence has been placed.
Without a doubt, one is keenly wary, after watching this haphazard film, that Hitchcock was much less concerned with his overall narrative than in separate scenes. One has the unnerving feeling that he so much enjoyed the parts that he lost, or didn't even bother about, compelling and coherent development. Certainly his audience follows in their gratification of the parts, but whether they will be quite as indifferent to the lack of shape or substance is something else.