I was hoping she’d end up with just her feet kicking weakly after this crash into a sand pile.
In The House on Telegraph Hill (1951) we have a powerful, subtle plot: A young woman, Viktoria, survives the concentration camp at Belsen, but neither her family nor her best friend at the camp were so lucky. Knowing that her friend has a child, sent to America before Poland was invaded to live with her husband’s family, and now kept by a wealthy branch of the family, Viktoria assumes her friend’s identity during the confusion of repatriation. She travels to America, becomes Karin, tracks down her new family, and soon enough she finds herself married to the man who is the guardian of the now 9 year old boy.
But something is wrong. Her new husband, another member of the family, seems more interested in the fortune inherited by the child; the child’s nanny, Margaret, clashes with her, and yet her motivations are obscure. Is the nanny a lover of her husband? A gold-digger? Neither seems to fit And over everything looms Aunt Sophia, the matriarch of the family, who passed away five years ago, leaving all to the child.
The discovery of an explosion-riddled shed in the backyard enhances the mystery. And then she loses control of her car when the brakes fail, on the hilly streets of San Francisco.
For all the views and family life, important information is doled out grudgingly. So much as Karin is confused and suspicious of her husband and the nanny, as Viktoria she suffers a double dose of survivor’s guilt, feeling she has stolen her friend’s identity.
It all winds up in one frightening night of dead phones, dreadful glances, obscure information … and orange juice.
A strong plot is enhanced by fine acting, adequate dialog, and beautiful views of San Francisco. Especially through the floor of the shed.
Recommended.
