After witnessing an incident on a foreign ship off California coast, a U.S. Treasury agent aboard a Coast Guard vessel decides to further investigate the matter by following a crime trail leading to China, Egypt, Lebanon and Cuba.
Shortly after a bank robbery, gangster John Wheeler and his henchmen hide in a small apartment, awaiting for the rest of the gang to arrive.Also in the apartment are Wheeler's girlfriend, Laura and the gang's surgeon, Dr. Frank Matson. Wheeler asks Dr.Matson for a few headache pills.After taking the medication, Wheeler is shocked to find out that he has been poisoned by the doctor and he will die in 48 hours unless he receives the antidote from Dr. Matson. Matson takes the bag containing the bank loot and also asks Laura to join him in escaping the gang. The doctor tells Wheeler that he will give him instructions via a phone call to help Wheeler find the antidote once the doctor will safely be far away with the bank loot and the girl.Wheeler has no choice and allows Dr.Matson and Laura to leave the apartment with the bank loot.However,their getaway is fraught with unforeseen dangers, including a vengeful Wheeler who is determined to recuperate his bank loot and his girl and kill ...Written by
James Mason shows that existentialism's absurdity happens.
Well, James Mason is smooth, handsome, and cultured with the classy accent from across the Atlantic pond. The synopses around these same websites do sort of spoil the story's suspense-fullness, but I'll try not to decapitate it too much. Wm Conrad was soon if not already Marshal Dillon in GUNSMOKE on the radio, as I'm of that vintage when childhood radio-listening was a pre-occupation. Dan Duryea is blah, bland, and bluh. Sorry, but I like that cruddy alliteration too much not to waste it out of context here, but Mr. Duryea at least has such an interesting surname. I recall brands and commercials from radio in the 1950s, but now back to film noire, a bleak French phrase that's over-utilized though you give us a more-better descriptive category. In Rock Hudson's brief role he sounds so d young. But no Doris Day, so it can't be the cornball if not pswaydo-sophisticate mid 1950s Rock Hudson technicolor movie. Read Bosley Crowther's hatchet/nasty review, because you'll see why he was one of a kind, before my time, and so now I realize why candid film critics are not invited to cocktail parties and funerals, unless it's the burial of an assassinated film critic.
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