Laura (1944) is a timeless gem. Gene Tierney is the title character, who is presumed to have been murdered – until she shows up. Detective Lt. Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews) falls for her, her image in the painting in her apartment, and then falls hard for her when she appears. But, who is dead? The zinger is that the body is never seen. Vincent Price is Laura's coy
Critics in Rotten Tomatoes give it 100%, the audience 90%, a rather rare combination of taste. But not everyone likes it. The Village Voice critic: Elevated by studio boss Darryl Zanuck from "B" picture status, Laura opened at the Roxy, became a critical and popular hit, was nominated for five Oscars (winning for cinematography), and launched Preminger's directorial career. Still, alternately sprightly and turgid, if abetted by its haunting, ubiquitous score, it's far from a great movie—most beloved by second-generation surrealists who appreciate it for its time-liquidating dream narrative of l'amour fou. See that movie if you can; for me, Laura is a flavorsome but flawed anticipation of two far more delirious psychosexual cine-obsessions: Vertigo and Blue Velvet.
In contrast stands We own the Night (2007). I didn't like it, or finish it.
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