The catastrophe just around the corner is the premise for Fritz Lang's first unabashed film noir. Settling stuffily into middle age, Edward G. Robinson lectures on criminal psychology at Gotham University (est. 1828). One morning he packs his wife and kids onto the train for a summer in Maine, then repairs to his club for dinner, a brandy or two, and a comfortable snooze in a wing-chair.
A portrait in a gallery next door had caught his attention, however, so before heading home he gives it a second glance. Suddenly its beautiful subject (Joan Bennett) looms up behind him, reflected in the glass. They flirt rather formally, stop for a drink, then head back to her apartment under the pretext of viewing more of the artist's work she'd posed for. Suddenly a man Bennett has seeing on the sly with barges in and, enraged, tries to throttle Robinson, who stabs him with scissors. And suddenly Robinson's complacent life lies in shards.
He decides, for the sake of his and Bennett's reputations, to dump the body along a stretch of rural road upstate, then part ways forever with this woman from the window. But, far from a nobody, the murdered man turns out to be a wealthy developer, whose death claims headlines. And his bodyguard (Dan Duryea) pays a visit to Bennett, to blackmail her.
A shrewd and cultivated man caught in the vise of circumstance, Robinson proves his own worst enemy. When fellow club member Raymond Massey, a police inspector, chats casually about the crime, Robinson blurts out details that only the killer could have known. And as the jaws of the vise squeeze ever more tightly, Robinson devises ever more desperate stratagems to hide his guilt and protect Bennett...
While Robinson proves reliably expert, Bennett invests her part with a reserved, almost remote, air that lends to the uncertainty. Her cool contralto beckons, but she plays hard to get. Her arrangements with her dead paramour suggest something sordid but she's not quite the tramp she would be the following year in Scarlet Street (again opposite Robinson and under Lang).
The sure-footed Lang simply uses a public clock down the street from Bennett's brownstone to log in a precise chronology of the fateful night. That befits a plot which leans toward the clockwork, but plausibly so. Or rather, does until just its last few minutes. For all intents and purposes, the movie ends, convincingly and satisfyingly, with Robinson slumped in a chair, clutching a drained glass. But MGM wasn't yet ready for the uncompromising vision of the emergent noir cycle, and must have recoiled in horror. So a whimsical wrap-up was hastily grafted on. Some would argue that, in consequence, the movie falls into the valid subcategory of `oneiric' noir. Others would argue that it's just a craven cop-out, at cross purposes with all that's gone before. Luckily, The Woman in the Window displays enough artistry and integrity that it really doesn't matter all that much either way.
