Another dry bit of humor? Or the big reveal?
The House of the Arrow (1953) falls into the category of dry little whodunit. Madame Harlowe, a sickly invalid, has passed away suddenly in the night. The adopted daughter, Betty, stands to inherit the fortune, which galls Madame Barlow’s brother-in-law, Boris. He eventually accuses Betty of murder, thinking he’s seen her paying a visit to the shop of a herbalist suspected of dispensing killer drugs. But when the French detective Hanaud orders an exhumation and examination of the corpse, nothing to support the contention is found.
But Hanaud is not done, because anonymous letters that know more than they should have been circulating. Why is there a necklace missing from a secured room? Why are the ashes in the secured room’s fireplace still warm, despite three days respite? Why is Betty’s friend Anne trying to escape France?
For those who like intellectual puzzles, there are some interesting twists and turns, and there may or may not be enough clues to discover the identity of the murderer, and how they did it. But, while plausible, there’s a certainly failure to connect with these characters. Hanaud may have a playful personality, but he still feels like a stereotype (and he looks like Clouseau’s boss, Chief Inspector Dreyfus, which is dismaying given the comedic incompetence of Clouseau and Dreyfus of the Pink Panther series). The various suspects are not given enough material to become real people, nor are the supporting characters.
So it’s mildly intriguing, but even as I type this they are fading away before my eyes. It makes for disappointing drama.
