The charm of Otto Preminger's grandiose, visionary film noir is that it has ambiguous intentions, betraying the gloomy essence of the central character, who is still vexed by living in the shadow of his criminal father. Dana Andrews' driven, vindictive cop is shown as an outsider, irrational and destructive, who maybe can change because he might've found a good woman to look after him. The troubled man reclaims himself with his own tangled impression of rectitude. The distressing mood permanently circuited into the latter half of the story by screenwriter Ben Hecht reverberates in Andrews' tense performance as Preminger saturates the film in a relevantly prosaic substance of style. We don't just see and hear the city at night; we feel it because Preminger lets us see and hear even the most peripheral and distant factors of it.<br /><br />Dana Andrews furnishes a complex character unfolded through his streaks of violence and the hatred that always infests him. As the plot develops, he is secretly entangled in situational snares, yet he is renewed by the outward acts that can be seen in the vintage noir protagonist's visceral facial expressions before he executes them.<br /><br />This reflection of a specific phase in the development of the genre is an engrossing, feral and shady film noir that is set in the double-dealing climate of the underworld, where the hero is so estranged that he is always swelling with rage, and even though he loses his rational resistance, occupational principle, and ethical limits, he's still a good cop. Preminger just winks at telling a social-conscience drama about a corrupted community within the sprawling cityscape, rather keeping the thriller riding on Andrews' shoulders as an existential journey of personal ramifications about a man with an Oedipal fixation who is becoming disconnected though with the ever-shrinking influences of the law on his side and an undying perception of right and wrong.<br /><br />The production companies in the early 1950s pussed out on the social-problem picture, and rather made "low-budget, low-risk thrillers" such as this, apparently in an attempt to evade the conniptions of conservative critics and social busybodies. But there is an expressionistic matter-of-factness to Preminger's inimitable approach. He injects each scene with a sense of everyday drama as a backdrop for the plot. Each supporting character must pull their own weight by doing something interesting, but none of them are cartoons or depressing comic reliefs. To him, every character thinks they're the star, as per the straight-from-the-shoulder self-assertion of Karl Malden as a missionary police inspector and a veteran waitress at a lunch counter. It is those who are the stars---Andrews and Gene Tierney, both anguished by their futile attempts to subdue their emotional intensity---who don't want to be.