This story follows the traditional speech structure -- say what you're going to say, say it, then say what you just said. Or, in Hitchcock terms: have a long dry chat about the crime you're going to commit, flub it irreparably, then spout a series of escalating lies before the coppers figure out what the hell happened.
So a guy wants to murder his cheating wife. Almost understandable. He plays professional tennis, so he's obviously insane. He conscripts another guy to kill her, in this case an old college buddy. He concocts an absurdly convoluted plan that gives them both alibis. (Wait, this is Strangers on a Train, transplanted to London for no reason!)
What could go wrong? The answer is -- I can't say, it's too stupid.
Fine. You made me do it.
She kills the killer in self-defense. With a pair of scissors. Completely by accident, it looked like.
When the dogged detective hunts down the baffling set of clues, he miraculously deduces that there was an accomplice. As the husband frantically conceals incriminating evidence, he only makes things worse for himself. What could be a fantastic black comedy is instead played quite seriously. Kudos to the cast for keeping straight faces.
Boil away the mystery claptrap and what have you got? Three long conversations in the same room, with about ten minutes of things going on. Is it interesting? Sure, if you're into that kind of thing. Hitchcock thrillers, while thoughtfully constructed, don't feel too mentally or emotionally taxing to begin with; once again, cardboard cutouts overreact to patently unfeasible scenarios. You can smell the grease sizzling in the director's brain-gears.
So if you enjoy stuffy Brits playing absurdly complex mind games to achieve contrived conclusions from hypothetical scenarios -- congratulations, both of you!
Whoever you are, stay the hell away from my house.
105 minutes.
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