The House on Telegraph Hill is a triumph of art direction. That’s good. It’s also unintentionally campy. That’s bad. The result is a just OK movie, yet one that belongs in the San Francisco Cinema Hall of Fame.
The views are marvelous. And the views are the thing with San Francisco real estate. Alcatraz, the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Ferry Building — all feel like you can reach out and touch them. There’s an especially absurd moment when someone looks through a hole in the floor of an outbuilding, and peers down on cars driving along the Embarcadero. Too funny.
Here’s an idea. Use The House on Telegraph Hill as vivid video wallpaper, what with its outstanding visuals and really bad screenplay. Just mute and enjoy.
Richard Basehart’s ultra cliched man-about-town adds to the movie’s campiness. What is it about this actor and phony settings? The House on Telegraph Hill is only slightly more believable than the USOS Seaview, the SciFi submarine he commanded as Admiral Nelson on Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.
The rest of the cast is forgettable, other than the fact that leading lady Valentina Cortese married Richard Basehart and then left him a decade later. Maybe she had lingering issues from how his character treated hers in the movie. Very San Francisco.
The story is a rude exercise in Hollywood escapism, using the Holocaust to set the plot in motion, and yet involving no Jewish characters. OK, fine, if only this thriller thrilled. Uh, no.
But wait, 18 minutes in “And so at last I came to the house on Telegraph Hill.” Ah, now the enduring appeal of this otherwise bad film becomes clear.
A couple gets married, but he sleeps in the guest room. Separate beds, maybe. Separate rooms!?
Silly surrealism.