Speedy, cheerful locked room murder mystery from the Philo Vance series. William Powell returns as the gentleman sleuth and the role is a perfect fit for his sophistication and comic élan. There's a standard golden age premise; a wealthy but hated man is found dead in his bolted bedroom with a gun in his hand. Everyone has a motive. The idiotic police are happy for the amateur to take charge.
The film has the weaknesses typical of this kind of story: the solution is preposterous; anyone could have done it; and the cast of suspects are archetypes. There is no impression of the misery caused by the act of murder. But given the limits of the genre, this is one of the best ever entries in a detective series.
Michael Curtiz keeps the the action moving. There isn't much of a budget, but Warner Brothers draw on a fine support cast of familiar contract players, including Mary Astor, Eugene Pallette and sexy Helen Vinson, so at least we know who these people are. The precode humour sparkles, and crucially, Curtiz tells the complicated story with lucidity, which rarely happens in low budget crime films.
It's a genre quickie with sterile sets and a static camera and the usual impediments of early talkies. But it is also a lot of fun and the editing is so slick it whizzes by. We get the cosmopolitan setting and the stereotypes and clichés we go to classic detective story for. Powell really makes it fizz. This was his last go at Vance, but he would play similar roles throughout the thirties, with charm and a lightness of touch.