Calcuta

Calcutta is far from Alan Ladd's finest hour on the silver screen (nor director John Farrow's, for that matter). His trademark contempt for women and his android-like affect prove unappealing and tedious when not undercut by plausible psychology or fleshed-out co-stars. Here he has nothing but a murky Asian hodgepodge of noir cliches to wade through, the inevitable William Bendix at his side (and, this time, on his side). Trying to solve the murder of a fellow trunk-line pilot working the route from India to China, he drifts from hotel to casino to airfield encountering a rogues' gallery of grotesques. Edith King, as a stogie-puffing Baby Jane Hudson, promises more than she delivers; Gail Russell, the black widow of the piece, is kind of like Mary Astor to three parts water. This is one film from the noir cycle whose obscurity gives little cause for regret.