…as only he can.
“No, not in MY EYES!”
From THE MAD DOCTOR OF MARKET STREET. Joseph H Lewis (known as “Wagonwheel” Lewis for his supposed fondness for having the camera peep out behind from big foreground objects such as wheels) directs with thrusting zeal, propelling the camera in at sinister moments in that style which has become overfamiliar today via Spielberg but which must have looked pretty fresh in the ’40s. Unfortunately, the script he’s tethered to is lumpy and hobbled — everything is thunderously atmospheric in Market Street, where “Pinky” Atwill is experimenting with suspended animation, but after five minutes he’s a fugitive from justice en route to New Zealand on a liner populated by B-movie simps (the punchy boxer! the dippy woman!) who are not only tiresome, but their clearly labelled comedy relief status prevents them, by tiresome genre rules, from falling victim to the mad doctor’s sinister research. This is very bad news, because a few moments in their company had me praying for their early deaths.
Still, whenever “Wagonwheel” and “Pinky” join arms to serve up some creepy medical malpractice, things assume a modicum of class and vigour. But not a patch on Lewis’s superior and demented Lugosi vehicle, THE INVISIBLE GHOST (in which there is no ghost and nobody is invisible… or are they?)
shadowplay 