The House on Telegraph Hill

There’s a great film buried somewhere inside The House on Telegraph Hill; sadly, this isn’t quite it. On paper, a Holocaust survivor assuming a dead friend’s identity and ending up in a spooky San Francisco mansion is a belter of a setup. In practice, the script seems oddly impatient with her trauma, treating it as backstory to be hustled through before we get to the inheritance squabbles and poison scares. It’s the cinematic equivalent of “we’ve all suffered, dear”.

The attempt to show a survivor’s experience often tips into the patronising and almost dismissive. Her memories are there to juice the plot, not to be understood, and that leaves a slightly sour taste.

Filed under “noir, allegedly”, it plays more like straight melodrama. The house is atmospheric, the mystery passes the time, but beyond the premise there isn’t much that really grips. I didn’t regret watching it, but I won’t be rushing back up that hill.