
Shadowy reflection on duckpond — a bad omen.
Films about child murder are rare, thankfully — though not as thankfully rare as actual child murder. Truffaut’s suggestion that for a movie to show a child in peril borders on an abuse of cinematic power still seems to hold true. People just don’t want that as entertainment. It’s possible to have a low opinion of people, generally, but I have to give the many-headed mass some credit for this sign of good taste.
So EIGHT O’CLOCK WALK is unusual, especially as a British film and especially for the 50s. It’s a very modest little thriller — one might call it a little m, as opposed to Lang’s capital M. Dickie Attenborough is a nice young cabbie falsely accused, based on purely circumstantial evidence, of child murder. And this isn’t the pure act-of-insane-compulsion embodied by Peter Lorre, it’s pretty clear that this crime has a sexual component.


Strange, then, that the film should make efforts to be light and appealing, since it can’t escape a certain grimness and would have done better to lean into that. The subject was always going to be a hard sell. But it had the benefit of timeliness, and we can see that while the film isn’t really a thriller, and is too unpleasant to be entertaining in the ordinary sense, it DID make a contribution to the then-hot debate on capital punishment, by attempting to show that a set of unfortunate but not impossible circumstances could see a man railroaded to the gallows. Although this too is softened, since a happy ending is never in doubt. Perhaps the fact that the happy ending is engineered by a preposterous chance, as the defence counsel spots the real perpetrator giving sweets to a little girl while he’s having lunch, and is somehow able to intuit the man’s guilt. As with FANTASTIC VOYAGE, the phrase “It’s the bald guy!” is a useful one here.


Attenborough is certainly good, though his Christie in 10 RILLINGTON PLACE, which takes its anti-death penalty stance to the correct extreme limit, is much better. Just looking hangdog and puppyish isn’t a stretch for our Dickie, and anyway he’d already done that in LONDON BELONGS TO ME. His outsize duffel coat anticipates Carl Boehm’s in PEEPING TOM. Maybe that’s why the coppers nicked him.
I was pleased to have Cathy O’Donnell around as his wife — the script calls her Canadian, but she doesn’t sound it, but to her credit she’s tamped down and anglicised her native Oklahoma tones, so she at least sounds like someone who’s been living in London awhile.


Lance HATTER’S CASTLE Comfort directs. A key shot of a hat falling to the courtroom floor made me wonder if he always has tumbling hats in his movies — I still think fondly of deranged Scottish hatmaker Robert Newton hurling his stock at startled pedestrians while raving “I’ll MAKE ye have them!”
To end the movie cosily the film resorts to having the prosecution and defence being father and son, so a bit of quipping can occur, but the bereaved mother is still out there somewhere so at a certain point happy endings just don’t work, do they?
Things I learned, or hand confirmed: Lance Comfort is generally passable, never inspired. Bomb sites are sites of fatality, always. It’s the bald guy.
EIGHT O’CLOCK WALK stars John Hammond; Keechie; Orac; King Richard the Lion-Heart; Professor Henry Harrington; Prof. Flaherty; Prof. R. E. Walgate; Major Davies; Lady Haloran; and Wild One.










