It's such a distinguished cast and crew, and they look as though they felt they were part of something important--the dark, somber lighting, slow pacing, and portentous music suggest Paramount's "A Place in the Sun" from the year before. But screenwriters John Lee Mahin (can this really be the same guy who wrote the lively, bawdy "Red Dust" 20 years earlier?) and Myles Connolly make elementary mistakes: They make Walker's secret ridiculously obvious without even telling us what D.C. department he works for, and they end scenes arbitrarily. McCarey and DP Harry Stradling, another distinguished name, traffic in irrelevant tracking shots and unimportant details. And McCarey badly misdirects his actors: Hayes and Jagger are way, way over the top, and she gesticulates like a silent-screen heroine. Walker overdoes prissy (which I guess equaled Communist in that climate), and Heflin's underplaying, while not much fun to watch, is refreshing in contrast. Most anti-Red pictures of the day were Bs, and it's instructive seeing what A-picture production values could bring to the party. But the picture's, meaning McCarey's, viewpoint is odious, and even such basic functions as plotting and pacing are substandard.
Review of My Son John
