I lived while she loved me, how we cling to self pity when nothing and no one else is to cling to, and how tragic it is that we bring about to ourselves our own misery, and call it art and artistry and tortuous feeling, and how is it that I might write 'I', instead of 'we', for I will take this myth of hopelessness and misery at its word and swallow every frame, and wallow like a pig in my own loneliness, and love it
A wonderful noir thriller that plays with the notion of innocence, guilt and blind love. Just because someone is innocent of one crime, doesn't mean they are innocent of all. Nicholas Ray plays the suspense at a low boil for the majority of the film, letting doubt and fear gradually build up into a frenzy.
A superb, dramatic nor that stars Humphrey Bogart as a screenwriter prone to violent outbursts. But does that mean he killed an innocent woman? The accusation certainly affects his relationship with Gloria Grahame, with suspicion and tension running throughout the majority of the scenes.
What is supposed to be somewhat personal with Bogart's own demons, turns out to be endurable experience on a first watch but with overgrowing flaws on repeated viewings. Main character feels like he was made from cardboard of different personalities, but without believable psychological component. Supporting characters are just people with the mind of a child, especially infantile and disrespectful female lead.