Film review: SORRY, WRONG NUMBER (Anatole Litvak, 1948)

This post is as part of Midnite Drive-In’s Film-noir blogathon. Movie bloggers all over the internet are coming together to discuss a wide range of film noirs, both well-known and less established, so do head on over to that fabulous blogathon and enrich your film knowledge!

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Leona Stevenson is the rich only daughter of a pharmaceutical magnate. She is also invalid, and in NYC from Chicago to consult with a doctor about her health issues. At the start of the fil m, it is apparent that her husband is avoiding her, screening her calls. His absence is even more gaping by the empty chair he leaves, which Leona addresses plaintively. In a stroke of (mis)fortune, she overhears two men’s plots to murder a woman at 11:15pm, with the time meticulously chosen so that the sound of the crime will be masked by a passing train. 

She reports it to the police and then her father, but both efforts fall on deaf ears. As she becomes increasingly agitated alone in the Manhattan apartment, she tries to locate her errant husband, only to inadvertently piece together the context of the phone call she overheard, which she involves her more than she’d care for.

One of Barbara Stanwyck’s four Oscar nominations for Best Actress, Sorry Wrong Number came out four years after her iconic turn as conniving seductress in Double Indemnity. Both are film noirs with a heavy sense of foreboding, but playing a bedridden character, her physical repertoire is limited here. Whilst she slinked around (who can forget that anklet and the way she shimmies down the stairs to show it off?) in Double Indemnity, she spends the majority of Sorry, Wrong Number fretting in bed. It’s a difficult role that only someone with the screen presence and acting guile Stanwyck is blessed with could pull off.

Graciously for her, she does get to stand up at some point in the film: a good proportion of the 

story is told via flashback. We discover how she and her husband (Burt Lancaster) met: he was actually at a dance with a girl called Sally Hunt, who plays an integral part in helping Leona piece together the clues. Leona, never having been deprived anything she wanted in her life, boldly makes a play for Henry. He’s initially put off by her entitled attitude, but, nonetheless, his head is turned by her wealth. Stanwyck conveys her character’s bratty attitude wonderfully: in one scene, she regards her husband with a contemptuous glance in that signature way Barbara Stanwyck looks people up and down. You mirror Lancaster's character's feeling of belittlement when it occurs.

Lucille Fletcher penned the script for Sorry, Wrong Number, which was originally a radio play by her. The translation is effective: few sets are required in Sorry, Wrong Number, and the art decoration of Leona’s grand but stuffy bedroom is conveyed excellently: she has expensive trinkets and bottles, but her loneliness is clear. The moral that money can’t buy happiness is an age-old one in cinema, but this message is conflated with another: money being the root of all evil, which motivates some shady actions by certain characters. Thus, the script, ahead of its time in this sense, touches on an almost Kafkian problem: the more Leona feels her husband pulling away, the more she tries to throw money in the problem, which in turn, makes him increasingly more detached towards her.

The cinematography dextrously plays with light and shade, true to the genre, to create ambiance and dread throughout the film. Also, in the vein of film noirs, there are few truly "good" characters (I would argue only Sally, Leona's former classmate who's love she stole in such a cavalier manner, is), and plenty of murky ones. Even our protagonist, who finds herself in increasing danger, is somewhat hard to take and completely root for, her arriviste persona accentuated by her plush wardrobe, multitude of expensive rings, and Stanwyck's virtuoso performance as a woman who refuses to see what's going on right under her nose, causing the audience to fear the moment the House of Cards will crumble.

The employment of flashbacks and the film being played in real time give Sorry, Wrong Number a real sense of urgency, and the protagonist being confined to their room gives them a powerless sense that makes this film a worthy predecessor to the more polished Rear Window. The beating heart of the film is Barbara Stanwyck; I can’t believe she never won a proper Oscar during her lifetime especially when frauds like Jennifer Lawrence and Natalie Portman have them! As mentioned, Leona is not likeable at all, treating other characters in the film as below her and talking down to everyone. Yet Stanwyck is able to inject sympathy into even an upstart like this! By the end of the picture, she has you rooting for Leona, warts and all.

The Academy gave her an honorary award in 1982, whilst she was still alive, though, for “For superlative creativity and unique contribution to the art of screen acting”, and that is exactly what she has, in spades, here. Without her, Sorry, Wrong Number would have been a fairly exciting film. With her, it’s a complete and utter thriller.

I didn't mean to break it, b-b-b-break it babe.

Funny People (Judd Apatow, 2009)

Adam Sandler plays a jaded comedy star who, on discovering he may die of leukaemia, takes a step back and tries to sort his life out, with the help of eager-to-please Seth Rogen. This film dragged far too much for me, not gonna lie, and a lot of the jokes weren’t even funny. Rogen was charming in his own way, but Sandler, who seems to have three modes, two of which I love – serious actor Sandler and loveable comedy gold Sandler, instead spent most of the movie in the third mode – irritating goon Sandler who laughs at his own unfunny jokes. The subplot with ex-girlfriend Leslie Mann and her husband Eric Bana made me lol, quite a bit, but on the whole, 150 minutes running time was about 140 too many. Not that funny.

The Naked City (Jules Dassin, 1948)

Absolutely wonderful film noir set in New York, both a joy in terms of plotting and tension as well as technical elements- editing and cinematography (particularly the dark, ominous shadows) stunned. New York is caught in both its glory and its fugliness, just how I like it. The Naked City set the tone for many other (and inferior) modern day thrillers, such as The Black Dahlia. As per most crime movies, there's a murder, there's an investigation and there's a case of did-he-didn't he, but it never gets old. If I had any criticisms with this film, I suppose it would be that it resembles plenty other noirs, I’ve seen before, but the film manages to have its own plot and the semi-documentary style gives it an extra edge.

Up (Pete Docter, 2009)
Well, you had my initial reaction and full review here, but needless to say, I loved it. Beautiful, beautiful movie, so witty and cute and featuring that transcendent 4-minute clip at the start which stayed with me longer than any other 2009 film scene, and most other films scenes, come to think of it. "Tonal modulation" is a phrase I use frequently, but that four-minute vignette had it in spades, highlighting the sweet moments and the sour ones of Carl's life. I'm informed that my initial supposition that the bit I'd interpreted Ellie to have been told she was barren was actually being told she had miscarried, and that Disney dared to touch upon this, in their poignant way, completely blew me away. The bright colours, clash of happy and sad, and ultimate portrayal of love in this film is too beautiful.



In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
Nicholas Ray does dark dramas with impending sense of foreboding better than anyone, and this is no different. The chemistry between Gloria Grahame (who deserved more starring roles) and Bogie is incredible, the man himself giving one of his finest performances, a wonderful example of how love can make a man vulnerable. The "did he/didn't he" element lacks a little punch as so many poor imitations have been churned out, but with zingers of lines like “I didn’t say I was a gentleman, I said I was tired”
and “I always go home with the man who brought me”, In a Lonely Place is far ahead of the crap they churn out today. Classic noir.

44 Inch Chest (Malcolm Venville, 2009)
Basically in this movie, Ray Winstone’s wife Joanne Whalley leaves him for another man, completely bruising him. His mates kidnap the bastard that done it leave him in a room alone with Winstone, whilst they wait impatiently outside, wanting him to hurry up and kill him so they can go down to the boozer. The language in this film is coarse for coarse’s sake, with John Hurt in particular doing a none too impressive impression of Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast, with his wild abuse of the c-word. Winstone is, by his own standards, not up to much in this movie (though his woefully underwritten character has a lot to do with that), but Tom Wilkinson, as the hardman with a heart who still lives at home with his mother, Stephen Dillane as the curt accomplice and Ian McShane, playing terrifically against type as a coy homosexual, make terrifically great fun, almost making this movie worth watching.

À ma soeur! (Catherine Breillat, 2001)
Um, ew. I watched this with my best friends Luke and Anna and we were just so sickened throughout. Catherine Brellait needs locking up or something, paedo. I can’t think of any redeeming qualities in this movie whatsoever. The sister in the movie was a particularly nasty piece of work, and the scene in which she gets taken up the chuff by some pervert whilst her little sister watches is beyond grim. This isn’t cinema, this is child exploitation. That said, at least the fat girl in question is a looker.