Very sluggish film about the FBI's search for Nazi spies, made in those long ago days when the Feds were the good guys and the Fascists weren't. The screenplay by the pseudonymous Barre Lyndon and the usually good John Monks, perhaps hampered by the docu drama format, fails to provide its main characters with discernible personalities. Therefore, a lot of pressure is on director Henry Hathaway to come up with plenty of action and rapid pacing so as to distract the viewer from this rather important omission. Unfortunately the old curmudgeon falls down on the job and things get pretty darn dull until the last fifteen minutes or so when Hathaway, perhaps sensing that he's helmed a fairly somnolent movie up to now, pulls out the stops in a rousing finale. I won't spoil it for you except to note that it features, among other things, copious amounts of tear gas as well as Signe Hasso channeling her inner Joel Grey. C plus.
Review of The House on 92nd Street
