“Dial M for Murder is, as we all know, pure Hitchcock genius. Here we see the true master of suspense at work. Every camera angle, every shadow, every glance is meticulously orchestrated to build tension. The film’s tightly plotted murder scheme unfolds almost theatrically, with precise blocking and elegant, restrained performances. Hitchcock turns a single apartment into a claustrophobic stage of psychological terror, proving once again why he is a master of suspense and of true cinematic brilliance.”
‘Master of suspense‘ twice… Nice! And… no. I’ll tell you what this movie is: boring to the extreme. Jesus Christ! The whole movie, from beginning to end, can be summed up like this: people walking and talking in a house. The End. And if they were at least exciting, crackling dialogues, but no—it’s all in that typical over-the-top 1950s fake-British swoon-‘oh, dàrling!’ (hand to forehead) theater-like boring crap! Exhausting is what it is. Tedious! Coma-inducing. I don’t like this movie. At all.
Right. Rewind for a second. What’s it about? I’ll tell you that too: Tony Wendice (Ray Milland) is a rich, 1950s playboy tennis player living in London with his wife Margot (Grace Kelly). She did some naughty letter writing; Tony found out, and he is now blackmailing his own wife as a prelude to killing her. Nice, no? I wonder if that’s a 50s thing, or if Tony is just your average psychopath. Instead of, I don’t know, couples therapy, maybe, or taking some time away from each other… No, man! Kill the bitch! But then again, probably not, because a real psychopath wouldn’t have fumbled it in such a spectacular fashion. I mean, oops, spoilers.
Now, allow me to explain something to you. I watch movies, first and foremost, to be entertained. That’s it. I don’t look for a deeper meaning, or underlying themes or shit like that. No, man! Have me a drink and a smoke and some fun! And what I really, definitely don’t do is watch a movie and go like, “Hmm, would you look at this beautiful lighting, the director used here… and ooh, that camera angle he uses there is just exquisite…” Fuck that. Or, as Mr. T. would probably put it, ‘I pity the fool!‘ When I do crave something more substantial, I have shelves full of philosophy books that give me all the intellectual nourishment I could ever want. Right next to Stephen King. It’s the same reason I hardly ever listen to lyrics in a song: I don’t care! All I care about is if I like this music or not. Whatever tale or story this or that artist has to tell: keep it to yourself, mate, and crank that bass up. It’s all entertainment! This, however, this monotonous, plodding drag of a movie, in my not-so-humble opinion, is not. There. I said it. You can leave your death threats and tantrums at the bottom of the page.
Is it a masterpiece? Probably. Is it ‘the master of suspense at work’? Sure. Did I like it in any way? No. I did not. Sorry, Hitch!
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