First of all, I find the handling of George's character very elegant. The first time I saw it I bought it completely--how he was wonderful until illness and despair drove him into psychosis. Upon my second viewing I realized a few things that give his character a different slant.

We see from Ellen's flashback to their meeting and courtship that although he is quite dashing he is also sly, self-serving, manipulative, and somewhat malicious. This is shown by the way he tricks her and takes advantage in the hospital room and then laughs at her. We also see in the beach and airport scenes that he relishes taking her away from his own best friend. Anyone with a real heart--get the symbolism there--would feel a little regret about that.

Later, after he is established as an invalid, his isolation and anxiety become evident as he intersperses rational conversation with sudden flights of mania and paranoia. His delusions seem ridiculous compared to Ellen's obvious devotion and worry, but we do wonder if perhaps he isn't right about the involvement of the doctor (his best friend of old). Maybe the poor doctor is guilty of secretly wishing George into the grave, leaving the way clear to pursue Ellen; or maybe he's too noble to ever think such a thing. Regardless, George believes he does.

There is a lovely scene before he dies where we see precisely what his relationship is to these people and what he has planned for them. He describes for Ellen his childhood toy, the ship in a bottle, and the neighbor boy who touched it when his back was turned and whom he savagely attacks in return. Before his mother can force him to give up the ship in apology he purposely dashes the bottle to the floor, destroying it.

The parallel between the ship and Ellen is obvious--something lovely, fragile, and completely captive. He has contained Ellen within their house without allowing her to form friendships or interests and he expects her to exist solely for him, just as he wanted no one else to touch or look at his ship. Now he believes his friend is secretly planning against him, or maybe he's making that up as a form of justification for what he's about to do. Now that he thinks he's dying, he's furious to be giving up his wife to the other fellow in rather the way he was expected to reward the covetous neighbor boy. Just like the scene in his youth, he acts to damage his rival and ruin the prize. The only difference is that now with maturity he can plot and scheme rather than strike out impulsively. I wonder if he truly believes in their "plot" or if this is his crafty, nasty way of shattering the ship all over again.

The moments with Aunt Clara reinforce the impression that George never was quite normal. She has no trouble believing the lie about George turning against her, thus she immediately retaliates with a remark that indicates a family history overlooking his cruel tendencies. I thought it was very nicely done, and all the more effective because Clara isn't a sympathetic character. We see a resemblance to George in her utter self-absorption.

One wonders how Ellen could be taken in by George, but love is blind. This is evinced by the scenes where she always just misses him at the window. Others notice him, or she detects the swaying drapery, but she never gets the whole picture of him sitting spider-like among webs of curtain lace. She never sees the real George.

The film does a fine job ratcheting the suspense by using mundane scenarios. The almost ridiculous obstacles in her path contrast with just how sinister George's plan is. He must know that an investigation into his death would be inconclusive at best, but a close review of Ellen's activities that day would cast new light on the details in his letter. We see Ellen driven by panic and pent-up stress into behaving less and less rationally, appearing more and more guilty. She certainly seems doomed, and this could only be brought about by the revelation from George. I feel this is further evidence that he has contrived the plot out of malice rather than paranoia or a desire for justice. He knows exactly how her innocent, beleaguered heart will react to the news. In fact, he is counting on it, he has carefully cultivated this moment.

I don't believe for one second that he intends to shoot her. Notice he never points the gun directly at her. I think he means to shoot the woodwork, cementing the impression of self-defense. He wants it to appear she was forcing him to overdose. He knows the drugs he took earlier will add weight to the accusation; he just doesn't expect them to finish him off right then.

The irony of her later shooting the floor herself serves as a tidy little bookend moment.

I love the ironic, abrupt ending that simply pole-axes Ellen and halts her in her steps. It's wonderful how the relentless, pounding pace of her mounting hysteria is like heart palpitations bounding out of control when suddenly it all just...stops. (Rather like George). Another great bookend moment. Delicious.

After picking up a cut-rate DVD box set containing 100 "mystery" films that have lapsed into the public domain I came across this thriller from 1951 about a dutiful housewife who watches her bedridden husband slip into paranoia. Whether the film possesses film noir bona fidas is not the question; the answer is that the film is quite effective at stirring up Hitchcock like thrills for the picture's final reels. The filmmakers even inject a note of ambiguity at the film's conclusion enough to make you wonder if the film's climax could perhaps be viewed from a different perspective.

Like so many films of the era there are several things that do raise humorous eyebrows these days. At the onset Loretta Young is doing "housework"; struggling with an unruly vacuum cleaner while wearing an elegant dress that would be more than appropriate attire for a four star restaurant. It really wasn't that long ago that millions of women would have killed for Young's sedate upper middle class existence as a "housewife." The idea that a doctor would make a house-call (let alone two house-calls in one day) is a humorous artifact of a bygone era. Redgardless of the anachronistic humor, "Cause For Alarm" is a pleasant diversion.