7.1/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 7.1/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. The Woman in Room 13 remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
If you're a sucker for 1930s dialogue that sounds like it was written on a napkin during a lunch break, sure. It’s for people who enjoy movies where the plot is basically just a series of rooms people walk into while looking worried. If you need logic or, you know, actual detective work, you’ll probably hate it.
Elissa Landi is stuck in a marriage that's crumbling faster than a dry biscuit. And then there's Myrna Loy, who is doing a lot with very little screen time. She really knows how to steal a scene just by leaning against a doorframe.
The whole thing feels like it’s shot in a fever dream. The pacing is weirdly stop-and-start, almost like the editor was getting paid by the cut. There’s a scene in the middle where a guy walks into a room, realizes he's in the wrong movie, and just leaves. Or at least that's how it felt to me.
It’s nowhere near as tight as Hamlet, but then again, what is? It lacks that Shakespearean gravity, mostly because everyone is too busy yelling about telegrams and secret meetings.
The film doesn't really care about reality. It cares about getting you to the next scandal. I mean, characters just kind of teleport from the courthouse to a hotel room without anyone questioning it. It's refreshing, in a lazy sort of way.
Some of the supporting cast are clearly just there to fill up the frame. There’s a guy in the background of the club scene who is drinking the same glass of water for about ten minutes straight. It's mesmerizing. I found myself watching him more than the lead actor, which says something about the drama, I guess.
Honestly? It’s a bit of a train wreck. But it’s the kind of train wreck you don't want to look away from because you're waiting to see if anyone actually manages to get off the tracks in time. It doesn't have the grit of The Hound of Silver Creek, but it’s got enough spirit to keep you awake.
