This is the perfect comfort film (and I don't mean Lance Comfort). You've rung in sick, it's raining outside, you've got a big piece of buttered toast ready and then this comes on afternoon telly. Except it doesn't anymore; it's all Jeremy Kyle and his irksome ilk: "I married my lesbian dad."
Anyway, The Vicious Circle stars good old dependable Johnny Mills pants as a doctor caught up in a erm vicious circle. It's one of those innocent man gets tangled up in something nasty but he doesn't know who to believe and he ends up questioning his own sanity. Commonplace everyday events become loaded with meaning or else take on a whole new meaning: a man, Lionel Jeffries, claiming to be a reporter, isn't a reporter and can't be traced; a disembodied voice on the telephone, claiming to be a film director friend, is an impersonator. In the most effective moment of the film Mills returns to his friend's flat (Derek Farr) to find a party in full swing except it's only a gramophone record of party noise playing in an empty apartment. Oh and there's also a neurotic female patient who says she found a dead body with a candlestick next to it while strolling on the common (the police find the candlestick in Mills' golf clubs.) The building blocks of civilised society trust and taking things at face value become eroded and all we are left with is paranoia and fear. Not that you'd know it to look at Mills. It's a stiff upper lip and a nice round of golf all the way. It's how they did things back then, you know.
The problem the film has is that it asks us to trust Mills (would you trust a man who wears a cravat under his polo top?) and so we never doubt Mills' innocence. After the police reveal that they believe him too the suspense drains out of things and we're only left with the question of who's behind it all and why.
Anyway, The Vicious Circle stars good old dependable Johnny Mills pants as a doctor caught up in a erm vicious circle. It's one of those innocent man gets tangled up in something nasty but he doesn't know who to believe and he ends up questioning his own sanity. Commonplace everyday events become loaded with meaning or else take on a whole new meaning: a man, Lionel Jeffries, claiming to be a reporter, isn't a reporter and can't be traced; a disembodied voice on the telephone, claiming to be a film director friend, is an impersonator. In the most effective moment of the film Mills returns to his friend's flat (Derek Farr) to find a party in full swing except it's only a gramophone record of party noise playing in an empty apartment. Oh and there's also a neurotic female patient who says she found a dead body with a candlestick next to it while strolling on the common (the police find the candlestick in Mills' golf clubs.) The building blocks of civilised society trust and taking things at face value become eroded and all we are left with is paranoia and fear. Not that you'd know it to look at Mills. It's a stiff upper lip and a nice round of golf all the way. It's how they did things back then, you know.
The problem the film has is that it asks us to trust Mills (would you trust a man who wears a cravat under his polo top?) and so we never doubt Mills' innocence. After the police reveal that they believe him too the suspense drains out of things and we're only left with the question of who's behind it all and why.