Dick Powell was one of those classic Hollywood actors who was so laid back, so cool, so quick with the one-liner that he made most other actors seem positively dull. Even in the tightest of corners, he could always manage a suitable quip and in this outing (as Laurence Gerard), he has his fair share...
He's ably supported by Walter Slezak (as Melcior Incza what a name!) who once again plays a double-dealing con artist always looking for the main chance in this case, trying to make a few more dishonest bucks helping or is he hindering? -- Gerard track down the dirty traitor Marcel Jarnac (a short but fine performance from Luther Adler) who is responsible for Gerard's wife's death in France towards the end of World War II.
So, the quest in on. Along the way, Gerard travels from London, to France, to Switzerland and finally to Argentina where he finally begins his search in earnest. From that point until the end, the twists and turns in the plot remind me of the confusion that permeated The Big Sleep (1946). Cornered, however, does arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, unlike the Bogart classic which still puzzles viewers today (I've read that even Bogart remained unclear about the plot of The Big Sleep also).
However, back to this one...
Overall, I liked this film for its great use of darkness, shadows, excellent mise-en-scene, as befitting film-noir, and the sharp dialog; I thought, however, the pacing of the story was a bit slow at times and that some of the cuts were often very jerky, thus resulting in uneven narrative transitions. And the really big omission is the absence of an effective femme fatale. The rest of the production was okay and, for 1945, was equal to other B-movies of the genre.
Dick Powell went on to do more film noir (Johnny O'Clock, Pitfall, Rogues' Regiment and others) until 1954 when he opted for the emerging TV juggernaut. So, if you've missed this one up till now, it's worth the 102 minutes out of your life just to listen to Dick Powell and watch him grimace while he cracks sardonic jokes...
