SORRY, WRONG NUMBER: Blu-ray re-issue (Paramount, 1948) Shout! Factory

Hollywood’s oft exploited ‘woman in peril’ cliché reached its zenith in director, Anatole Litvak’s Sorry, Wrong Number (1948), a gorgeously lit and expertly photographed noir thriller, all about an insatiable neurotic who inadvertently plants the seeds of her own impending doom by overhearing a phone call in which her diabolical murder is being discussed. Barbara Stanwyck was Oscar-nominated for the role of Leona Stevenson – the bed-ridden socialite and daughter of wealthy industrialist, James Cotterell (Ed Begley) who falls prey to her hubby’s avarice. Based on Lucille Fletcher’s one-act radio play from 1943, Sorry, Wrong Number plucks the heartstrings with a grating verve for generating genuine suspense as Leona increasingly suspects her life to be in danger and does everything except call out the National Guard to prevent her imminent death from becoming a reality. Shifting gears from the degenerate mantrap in another noir classic, Double Indemnity (1944), now, intended victim, Stanwyck is given the meatiest role in at least a decade’s worth of performances, and makes the absolute most of it. By 1948, Stanwyck was at the top of her game – risen through the ranks as Hollywood’s most highly-regarded actress, and, a genuine humanitarian besides. Initially, Litvak was wary of working with her, not from any rumors regarding ‘star temperament’ but rather because Stanwyck exuded an air of put-together respectability for which ‘another kind’ of disposition could so easily have created havoc. However, Litvak was elated when Stanwyck arrived on time and ready to work, entrenched in virtually every moment, and, implicitly, to put her faith in his hands and reputation to see the project through to fruition.

“From the time I met her…any doubts I might have had about her vanished. I’m not one who pays compliments easily,” Litvak admitted, “…but I can tell you that in all my years as a director I’ve seldom known an actress not only so extraordinarily talented, but also so unselfishly professional…We didn’t have a very long schedule and Barbara had to work, practically every day from morning to night.  There was never a word of complaint, only encouragement and enthusiasm.” Indeed, Stanwyck sided with Litvak, relying on his years of expertise to guide her. During one scene, Litvak kept asking his star to ‘do it again’ – resulting in many takes to test the patience of the crew, though not his star. When several approached to complain Litvak was being unreasonable, Stanwyck reminded them that the only arbitrator of good taste was the director in achieving his vision – not theirs and not hers. To indicate the status of her ‘great lady’ alter ego, Stanwyck’s plush costuming a la Edith Head was further augmented by an outrageous assemblage of stunning jewels on loan from the house of Harry Winston. For insurance purposes, the jeweler assigned an armed guard to accompany Stanwyck to and from the set with her adorned baubles. Alas, the guard’s due diligence included accompanying Stanwyck, not only around the back lot, but also to the commissary and powder room.  “A very impressive gentleman,” Stanwyck later recalled, “At least they picked a good-looking one.”

For the pivotal moments leading up to Stanwyck having to face down her killers, Litvak proposed two options for his star. Either, to arrange the schedule so she could remain in bed for twelve days’ shoot, for continuity’s sake, or split up the sequence to allow for respites from the tedium of having to remain ‘in character’ for what – on the screen – would appear as only a few minutes, but in actuality was almost two weeks of concentrated picture-making. Thinking over her options, Stanwyck chose the concentrated approach, building into an awesome lather and frenzy during this penultimate showdown. The results remain indelibly etched in our collective consciousness, bearing witness to this selfish hypochondriac, born to luxury and privilege, now driven to hysterics and a bundle of well-warranted nerves as she confronts her own mortality. On the radio, Agnes Moorehead had played the victimized Leona. With all due respect to Moorehead, the radio version has dated rather severely since and not to Moorehead’s advantage either. In expanding upon the thin premise, producer, Hal Wallis – renown for a spate of invigorating melodramas throughout the 1940’s – had the play’s author ever so skillfully expand upon this one-room nail-biter, departing into a series of compelling flashbacks, better to inform the audience about the circumstances leading up to murder. These do a great deal more than simply elongate the plot while delaying the big finale. They afford us the opportunity to explore the motivations of secondary characters merely referenced in the radio play.

Sorry, Wrong Number begins with composer, Franz Waxman’s superb orchestrations for the main title. From here, we are introduced to Leona Stevenson, a self-confined invalid who, while listening to what first appears as a crossed telephone connection, hears two men plotting a woman’s murder. The call cuts off without Leona learning anything except the time - 23:15 – of the proposed crime, timed to coincide with a passing train that will conceal any sounds of a struggle. Frantic to prevent the murder, Leona contacts both the telephone company and the police. Alas, with no concrete information, neither is particularly interested to investigate any further. Complicating matters, Leona’s husband, Henry (Burt Lancaster) is delayed at work. With the servants off, Leona is isolated and alone in her fashionable Manhattan penthouse. In her impatient strides to hunt down her husband, Leona is inadvertently informed by Henry's secretary, Elizabeth Jennings (Dorothy Neumann) he took fashion plate, Sally Lord (Ann Richards) to lunch – a rendezvous from which he never returned. Through her connections, Leona sniffs out Sally Lord is actually Sally Hunt before she married attorney at law, Fred Lord (Leif Erikson). Flickering concerns for Leona, as she recalls how she managed to ‘steal’ Henry away from Sally in their youth – wedding him on the fly against her own father’s wishes.

Meanwhile, from eavesdropped conversations, Sally pieces together Fred is investigating Henry for some undisclosed criminal activity. Concerned, she follows Fred and two unnamed ‘associates’ to an abandoned house on Staten Island belonging to one Waldo Evans (Harold Vermilyea), a chemist working for her father, Peter (Jimmy Hunt). Eager to thwart their rendezvous by meeting Henry for lunch, Sally becomes gravely concerned when Henry is instead called away for a phone call, but disappears from the restaurant altogether. Now, Sally telephones Leona. The house on Staten Island is torched, and three men, including one named Morano (William Conrad) have been taken into custody. Evans, however, has vanished into thin air. Not long afterward, Leona is contacted by Henry. He suggests he will be out of town ‘on business’ until Sunday. Desperate for answers, Leona contacts Dr. Phillip Alexander (Wendell Corey), a specialist she has been consulting for her heart troubles. Alexander reveals he shared her prognosis with Henry shortly after their wedding. Resentful of being chained to an invalid, moreover, when his plans to secure an independent career are dashed by his meddlesome father-in-law who prefers, he remain an appendage in the family organization instead, Henry has decided to take matters into his own hands.

Under siege from presumably poor health, Leona’s ‘attacks’ are reassessed by Alexander as purely psychosomatic. There is nothing wrong with her physically. Frantic, Leona phones the hospital to procure a nurse for the night. Alas, she is informed by the receptionist the hospital is understaffed and will not provide a companion, except in the event of a genuine emergency. Leona believes it is only 11 pm, but now realizes her clock has stopped sometime earlier. In the meantime, she receives a call from Waldo who explains how Henry recruited him to steal chemicals from the Cotterell drug company to sell to Morano. After Waldo was transferred, Henry tried to double-cross Morano. Instead, Morano, and two burly henchmen intimidated him into signing an IOU for $200,000 – money he has no way of recouping…unless, as Morano points out, Henry can collect on Leona’s life insurance policy. As Morano is now in custody, Henry is off the hook. Waldo gives Leona a contact number to alert Henry of this fact. But when she calls the number, she discovers it belongs to the City Morgue. Mercifully, Henry telephones from the train station. Informed of Waldo’s message, Henry begs Leona to go to her balcony and scream for help. Although she resists, the sounds of an intruder cause Leona to summon her courage and do as Henry asks. She is too late and suffers a blood-curdling scream before the line is disconnected. Unaware, police are ready to apprehend him, Henry desperately telephones home for the last time, only to have a man answer, declaring, “Sorry, wrong number.”

Sorry, Wrong Number is a deliciously macabre noir thriller with Stanwyck pulling out all the stops for a sustained and terrifying tour de force. For decades after the picture’s release, a rumor persisted Stanwyck’s hair turned white as a result of her investment in this nail-biting climax. Remaining circumspect about the cause of her ‘premature’ graying, Stanwyck, well into her emeritus years by then, mused, “Well, I think it’s gone about as far as it can go. It’s white now. So, I don’t think it would have any influence. If that was part of it…I don’t know. Or whether nature just started to let it turn grey. Again, I don’t know…” Seen today, Sorry, Wrong Number has aged remarkably well. And while the supporting cast, particularly Burt Lancaster and Ed Begley, are superb, the show belongs to Stanwyck, who commands the screen with an intensity so marvelous, it easily imbues Leona with a tortuous strain of the damned. In hindsight, Stanwyck’s performance here must rank among the top 5 she ever committed to celluloid, arguably superseded by 1937’s Stella Dallas, 1941’s The Lady Eve, and Meet John Doe, and 1944’s Double Indemnity.

Sorry, Wrong Number gets a minor reprieve on Blu-ray for the second time via Shout! Factory’s state’s side release. Previously, this title was farmed out by Paramount to Aussie distributor, ViaVision for their region-free ‘Imprint’ line. While neither presentation is of reference quality, Shout!’s comes closer to the truer intent of the film-makers. The image here is marginally more refined. It’s also considerably darker – which is a ‘good thing’ and, in keeping with the original cinematography. The Imprint had boosted contrast. Grain experiences a subtler refinement and looks more indigenous to its 35mm roots. The image, while thick, shows off some nice detail, especially in close-ups. Comparatively, the Imprint experiences horizontal stretch. The Shout! looks much more natural and shows more information on the sides of the screen. While ViaVision had a PCM mono audio, the Shout! has DTS 2.0 mono. The distinction between the two is negligible. This is a dialogue driven movie. Shout! adds only one new extra – an audio commentary from Sam Hurley and Emily Higgins. It’s a pretty pedestrian track, easily bested by the one from Alan K. Rode, directly ported over from ViaVision’s release. The rest of Shout!’s extras also hail from ViaVision’s hi-def minting and include Eddie Muller in a scant introduction. We also get the hour-long radio broadcast from 1950, featuring Stanwyck and Lancaster in performances that are hair-raising to say the least. Finally, there is Hold the Phone: The Making of Sorry Wrong Number – a half-hour of slickly packaged, though otherwise pretty solid facts and back story. A theatrical trailer and photo gallery round out the extras. Bottom line: Sorry, Wrong Number is a quintessential noir thriller. Shout!’s Blu-ray is better than ViaVision’s and, while not perfect, should be considered the definitive mastering effort…for now.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

4.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

ViaVision 2.5

Shout! Factory 3.5

EXTRAS

Both versions 3.5