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This is the story of a pimp, who ostensibly falls in love with his hooker. He still sets her up to be murdered by her trick, though.

This, I suppose, is considered to be romantic by the director, which becomes understandable, when you watch Grant and Bergman fondle each other with every sign of disgust. Hitchcock’s interest in the fairer sex seems to be limited to slashing them in showers or strangling them with neckties.

It’s kind of a pity, since there really isn’t much else to look at until those last ten admittedly effective minutes. Even an abundance of ridiculous camera angles can’t break the tedium.

Claude Rains is the midget colliding with the iceberg with the terrible accent. If you can survive Ingrid Bergman tipsy, you can survive anything.

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