After his two best pics (THE HARD WAY/’42 & OLD ACQUAINTANCES/’43), Vincent Sherman got pegged as Warners’ ‘go-to’ hack helmer for big stars just past their peak. Bette Davis got the treatment, so did Errol Flynn. Here, it’s Joan Crawford’s turn. The story isn’t all that different than Crawford’s old M-G-M Talkies: tough small town girl digs her way up to the posh life destroying all who block her path . . . but was it worth it? This time a few factoid trimmings from the early days of gangster happy Las Vegas are added in, but the film is as overwrought as Crawford’s anguished face. She’s supposed to be irresistible, not scary! She’s mesmerizing for all the wrong reasons. And her supporting men fly around her like doomed male bees, although Steve Cochran has this sort of pre-Elvis look going for him, and Kent Smith is smart enough to underplay against the gorgon’s intensity.
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