This thought-provoking film, based on a true story, has the look of a late 1930’s melodrama. It falls into the noir category with a "darkness" covering much of the movie. Do not expect much action, however.
A young man is accused of murder and a group of reporters are on location to compile the news about the state’s first use of the electric chair. The newfangled electric chair keeps malfunctioning, much to their disappointment. A few hours before the execution, the chaplain is called in to offer wisdom and have the “boy” (as the script calls him) get right with his soul. Philip Shawn (aka Patrick Waltz) is actually 26 but could pass for 19. The good old days when anyone under 21 was still considered a boy. The lad repeats scripture passages but cannot honestly admit the sin of murder. Because he did not commit one.
At dawn, the chair breaks down again, blacking out half the county it would seem. The priest believes it was meant to be. God saved the boy’s life for a reason. They capture the real killer so the story ends justly. The scene with the group of reporters, each with their own rapid responses about the electric snafu, is rather exciting and well-edited. Two of the reporters are played by veterans, King Donovan, and Percy Helton, the Baby Boomer's favorite weasel. Both actors with distinctive vocal qualities.
But there is a good share of weak acting throughout. The girlfriend of the innocent man, played by Sally Parr, for one. One scene in particular involves a senior off-duty prison orderly. Despite a mobster's cosmetic surgery, he recognizes him at a diner and tries to convince a policeman who he is. But he nervously takes matters into his own hands. I found the scene funny when he slips a wanted bulletin inside the menu for the mobster to see before he orders. “Somethin’ to eat? (pause) Mister!” He places the menu down with the quickness of the Flash and calls him by name. Coldly, the mobster rises and fires, then escapes. The orderly’s final frantic lines, in an effective stark close-up, is a plea to get the mobster’s fingerprints as confirmation.
The script brings the tension right to the wire (sorry) as it appears the kid will fry. However, fingerprints do not lie. The doomed mobster sets the record straight and elects to peck out his own confession on the typewriter. One letter. One index finger. At a time. Taking forever. Funny. It will leave enough time to get that chair fixed once and for all.
A young man is accused of murder and a group of reporters are on location to compile the news about the state’s first use of the electric chair. The newfangled electric chair keeps malfunctioning, much to their disappointment. A few hours before the execution, the chaplain is called in to offer wisdom and have the “boy” (as the script calls him) get right with his soul. Philip Shawn (aka Patrick Waltz) is actually 26 but could pass for 19. The good old days when anyone under 21 was still considered a boy. The lad repeats scripture passages but cannot honestly admit the sin of murder. Because he did not commit one.
At dawn, the chair breaks down again, blacking out half the county it would seem. The priest believes it was meant to be. God saved the boy’s life for a reason. They capture the real killer so the story ends justly. The scene with the group of reporters, each with their own rapid responses about the electric snafu, is rather exciting and well-edited. Two of the reporters are played by veterans, King Donovan, and Percy Helton, the Baby Boomer's favorite weasel. Both actors with distinctive vocal qualities.
But there is a good share of weak acting throughout. The girlfriend of the innocent man, played by Sally Parr, for one. One scene in particular involves a senior off-duty prison orderly. Despite a mobster's cosmetic surgery, he recognizes him at a diner and tries to convince a policeman who he is. But he nervously takes matters into his own hands. I found the scene funny when he slips a wanted bulletin inside the menu for the mobster to see before he orders. “Somethin’ to eat? (pause) Mister!” He places the menu down with the quickness of the Flash and calls him by name. Coldly, the mobster rises and fires, then escapes. The orderly’s final frantic lines, in an effective stark close-up, is a plea to get the mobster’s fingerprints as confirmation.
The script brings the tension right to the wire (sorry) as it appears the kid will fry. However, fingerprints do not lie. The doomed mobster sets the record straight and elects to peck out his own confession on the typewriter. One letter. One index finger. At a time. Taking forever. Funny. It will leave enough time to get that chair fixed once and for all.
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