I'm entranced by the way the Boulting Brothers wield their camera. (This is the first movie of theirs I've seen.) The sharp pans with which they follow Pinkie and his gang around Brighton, or their preoccupation with certain objects: a telephone, a doll, a crucial phonograph record. I'm also upset by how tightly Catholic guilt, courtesy of writer Graham Greene, is wound around the character of Rose, played with the utmost devotion by first-time actress Carol Marsh. Her performance, coupled with Richard Attenborough's display of mesmerizing sociopathy, makes this essential (and especially powerful) Brit noir. There's this shot of her gazing through the glass of a soundproof booth while Pinkie engraves his voice onto that record for her, and god, it tore my heart right out.