The Window

A little boy learns the value of truth-telling in white-knuckle, claustrophobic fashion— a memorably done movie in all departments. No need to dwell here on the consensus strong points.

Seeing this taut little thriller in a small western town when I was 10 not only scared the heck out of me, but influenced my perception of urban life for years to come. Seeing the film again 60 years later, I'm impressed with producer Dore Schary's insistence on the grimness of the tenements, at least by later suburban standards. There's no attempt to glamorize or even varnish the family's dingy, cramped flat. Whether on NY location or on an RKO sound stage, the lighting remains dark and oppressive. Of course, that not only heightens the noirish atmosphere, but also lends an uncommon degree of realism to the family's working- class environment. After all, Dad works the nightshift, while Mom helps with the extended family, leaving little Tommy home alone. And that, I believe, amounts to more than just a handy plot device. And get a load of the on-location ruins where the kids play at the beginning—looks like something out of post-war Europe. No wonder MGM went after Schary in an effort to become more socially relevant in post-Andy Hardy America. There may be a lot of Hollywood in the melodrama itself, but the look and feel is definitely not Hollywood of the time. What a fine little film that's still edge-of-the-seat excitement. And, if I recall correctly, I was an especially good little boy for a long time afterward.