Otto Preminger
Laura

Often mistakenly labeled as noir, Laura is actually a psychological mystery with elegant atmospheres, morbid touches, and a subtle decadent vein. Directed by Otto Preminger in 1944, it marks the first - and perhaps the most successful - collaboration with Gene Tierney.

The story is about Inspector McPherson, played by a charming Dana Andrews, tasked with investigating the murder of Laura Hunt, a brilliant advertising executive killed by a shotgun blast to the face. The suspects are a small gallery of notable characters: journalist Waldo Lydecker (Clifton Webb, perfect as the caustic middle-aged misogynist), the very sleazy fiancé Shelby (a young and incredibly ambiguous Vincent Price, before his horror turn), and the aunt, a high society lady played by Judith Anderson.

McPherson has all the makings of a noir detective: tilted hat, sharp lines, disillusioned gaze. But the true soul of the film is Lydecker: a frustrated, brilliant, and venomous Pygmalion who discovered Laura when she was still learning the ropes and decided to educate her to the good life, a My Fair Lady with obsessive undertones. His pen is as sharp as his jealousy.

Meanwhile, in an era when "do not contaminate the crime scene" was still an exotic concept, McPherson settles in at the victim's house under the pretense of searching for clues. He sips whiskey, stares at Laura's oil portrait like a lovesick teenager, and inevitably loses himself in it. Literally: one night he falls asleep on the chair beneath the portrait, only to be awakened by Laura returning home. Alive, well, and not at all disfigured by the shotgun.

It's not a spoiler: this happens halfway through the movie, and from that moment, the real game begins. Laura goes from angelic victim to suspect number one, while McPherson must decide whether to cuff her or give her an engagement ring.

Why isn't it a noir? Too much light, too many bourgeois living rooms, zero dark alleys, and very little voiceover. And above all, Laura is NOT a femme fatale: she is the object of desire, but is never the director of it. She is idealized by everyone, but manipulates no one. She is kind and courteous, in short, not the typical duplicitous female schemer of noir.

Yet the film works magnificently. Thanks to elegant direction, an impeccable cast, and a musical theme - composed by David Raskin - that will become a jazz classic interpreted by hundreds of artists.

A little Italian curiosity: here the film was released under the title Vertigine, and when Hitchcock released Vertigo in theaters in 1958, someone had to come up with the famous (and questionable) La donna che visse due volte. But only in the sick mind of Scottie Fergus, hence another misleading title.

Available in its original version on Internet Archives.