Oh dear me, time has not been kind to this Hitchcock movie. Joan Fontaine needs a punch in the face to bring her to her senses as the drippy, simpering lead, charmed into marrying the decidedly shady Cary Grant. There's an awful lot of swooning and staring into the middle distance as Fontaine gradually becomes convinced that her gambling husband is planning to do her in in order to get an insurance payout so he can pay off his debts. Grant's character is totally insufferable, made all the more so by the constant affirmations from his friends that he's such a great guy. I'm sorry but he's a total c@!t and Fontaine, all the worse for putting up with him. The film ends in a totally rushed and unsatisfactory manner, leaving a nasty taste in the mouth and a complete feeling of having been let down. It just does not work, either as a suspense or melodrama and to the modern viewer, confirms all the worst ideas of just how appallingly sexiest the era was.