Despite it being gorgeously lit, melding purples and blues and greens with fabulous depth and care, my mind frequently wandered and tried to root around beneath Obsession’s elegant veneer. I gradually became fixated on the thought that Otto Kruger's Randolph is an authorial intrusion on the part of Sirk: a saintly artist reminding a misguided, wholly indifferent character of his duty in melodrama, his entrapment in a series of remarkable and tragic circumstances, nudging him towards the inevitable miracle that's all but ordained by the rules of the genre. His confident, knowing expression as he exited just before credits seemed all too "guardian angel." Tell me I'm onto something. I'm chronically allergic to these sweeping, frothy love epics, but this is surely atop the heap. If only real life allowed us such grace.