Cotten is a happily married assistant bank manager in Los Angeles. Every day he follows the same unexciting routine. And one day he decides to vary that routine by filling a suitcase with a million bucks stolen from his bank and absconding with his unwitting wife, Teresa Wright, to Rio de Jeneiro. He swipes it on a Friday afternoon, figuring that he'll be able to reach Brazil before Monday, when the bank will discover the loss.
He must catch a flight to Amarillo, then another to New Orleans, then another to Rio. Like Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis in "The Out of Towners," if something can go wrong, it does. Cotten is interrupted or delayed at every important juncture. He must smash some glass to get the money, so he's behind schedule. The LA streets are choked with traffic, which puts him farther behind. A flight is delayed by an electrical storm. New Orleans customs gets suspicious because his suitcase weighs 115 pounds. They open the case, find the cash, and delay him further by querying him and trying to reach the bank manager. I didn't think a million dollars could weight 115 pounds but according to my calculator, 115 pounds of bills of any denomination is equal to 52,210 bills.
All this time, Cotten is growing more querulous and his wife more curious about what's going on. Cotten is chewing everybody out and paying exorbitantly for privileges that will advance his schedule. Imagine paying $4.50 for a room at the Hotel St. Charles. If you reserved a room at the Royal St. Charles today, you'd pay $150.
All of that is beside the point. You and I know very well that Joseph Cotten and Teresa Wright aren't going to wind up living happily ever after in Rio de Janeiro. The code wouldn't let them. The usual scenario would have Cotten caught at the last minute by the authorities. Maybe his suitcase would fall to the airport tarmac and ejaculate 52,210 bills of various denominations, which might then be caught up in erratic whirlwinds by the propeller wash, just like poor Sterling Hayden's in "The Killing." But that won't quite do either. Joseph Cotten is clearly a likable guy who is suffering from a momentary lapse in his categorical imperatives. It would be a brave move to cast him as a serial killer ("Shadow of a Doubt") or murderer ("Niagara") and this isn't a brave movie. Joseph Cotten is you and I, and we don't want to wind up dead or in jail.
So how does the writer/director get him out of his conundrum? Simple. His wife discovers what's up, leaves him in New Orleans, and goes home to her kids. Cotten broods over his circumstances, wanders around for a while, accompanied by one of Dmitri Tiompkins' less notable scores that still adds some juice to the story. See, the problem for the viewer is that it's easy to see where the plot is taking us. The delays and frustrations build up, one on top of another, until the viewer is as irritable as Cotten himself. Let the horse have the touch of the spur.
Cotten is his usual reliable self, although he's not too convincing when he's bawling out innocent airline stewardesses. Teresa Wright is equally forthcoming as the puzzled wife, although she's blond here and somehow it detracts from the enormous appeal she had in "The Best Years of Our Lives." Could she ever be anything but innocent? Can you picture her as a gangster's moll? As a reckless young lady wearing a skimpy bathing suit and getting happily smashed on pina coladas at the swimming pool of some ritzy hotel in Rio? I can't. I can't get farther than the skimpy swim suit.
It's not a bad movie. There is no relief from the suspense. The ending, in which Cotten simply changes his mind and returns the money, is unbelievable. And I kept thinking, with all that potential, what a director like Hitchcock would have done with the story.
He must catch a flight to Amarillo, then another to New Orleans, then another to Rio. Like Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis in "The Out of Towners," if something can go wrong, it does. Cotten is interrupted or delayed at every important juncture. He must smash some glass to get the money, so he's behind schedule. The LA streets are choked with traffic, which puts him farther behind. A flight is delayed by an electrical storm. New Orleans customs gets suspicious because his suitcase weighs 115 pounds. They open the case, find the cash, and delay him further by querying him and trying to reach the bank manager. I didn't think a million dollars could weight 115 pounds but according to my calculator, 115 pounds of bills of any denomination is equal to 52,210 bills.
All this time, Cotten is growing more querulous and his wife more curious about what's going on. Cotten is chewing everybody out and paying exorbitantly for privileges that will advance his schedule. Imagine paying $4.50 for a room at the Hotel St. Charles. If you reserved a room at the Royal St. Charles today, you'd pay $150.
All of that is beside the point. You and I know very well that Joseph Cotten and Teresa Wright aren't going to wind up living happily ever after in Rio de Janeiro. The code wouldn't let them. The usual scenario would have Cotten caught at the last minute by the authorities. Maybe his suitcase would fall to the airport tarmac and ejaculate 52,210 bills of various denominations, which might then be caught up in erratic whirlwinds by the propeller wash, just like poor Sterling Hayden's in "The Killing." But that won't quite do either. Joseph Cotten is clearly a likable guy who is suffering from a momentary lapse in his categorical imperatives. It would be a brave move to cast him as a serial killer ("Shadow of a Doubt") or murderer ("Niagara") and this isn't a brave movie. Joseph Cotten is you and I, and we don't want to wind up dead or in jail.
So how does the writer/director get him out of his conundrum? Simple. His wife discovers what's up, leaves him in New Orleans, and goes home to her kids. Cotten broods over his circumstances, wanders around for a while, accompanied by one of Dmitri Tiompkins' less notable scores that still adds some juice to the story. See, the problem for the viewer is that it's easy to see where the plot is taking us. The delays and frustrations build up, one on top of another, until the viewer is as irritable as Cotten himself. Let the horse have the touch of the spur.
Cotten is his usual reliable self, although he's not too convincing when he's bawling out innocent airline stewardesses. Teresa Wright is equally forthcoming as the puzzled wife, although she's blond here and somehow it detracts from the enormous appeal she had in "The Best Years of Our Lives." Could she ever be anything but innocent? Can you picture her as a gangster's moll? As a reckless young lady wearing a skimpy bathing suit and getting happily smashed on pina coladas at the swimming pool of some ritzy hotel in Rio? I can't. I can't get farther than the skimpy swim suit.
It's not a bad movie. There is no relief from the suspense. The ending, in which Cotten simply changes his mind and returns the money, is unbelievable. And I kept thinking, with all that potential, what a director like Hitchcock would have done with the story.