A toothsome little potboiler whose 65-minute length doesn't seem a second too short, My Name is Julia Ross harks back to an English tradition of things not being what they seem -- Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes is one example. Out-of-work Julia Ross (Nina Foch) finds a dream job at a new employment agency in London, whose sinister representative seems very anxious to ascertain if she has living relatives or a boyfriend. After reporting to duty, she wakes up (Having Been Drugged) in a vast Manderley-like pile on the Cornish coast, supposedly as the barmy-in-the-crumpet wife of George Macready, who displays an alarming interest in knives and ice picks. His doting, enabling mum is the irresistible Dame May Whitty (this time a model of bustling efficiency on the other side of good-vs-evil than she occupied in The Lady Vanishes). The nightmare vision of this tale unfolds claustrophobically; we know what's going on but are powerless to tell poor Julia. This movie, curiously, is regularly accorded a place of honor as one of the earliest (and very few British) films noirs. I think it's closer to the Gothic old-dark-house tradition than the American one of wet cobblestones and urban corruption; it does, however, evince a more modern, psychoanalytic cast of mind. Whatever you call it, it remains a sharply satisfying thriller.
Review of My Name Is Julia Ross
