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Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) is slight in running time and large in historical weight. It is also frankly peculiar. A Victorian detective arrives in blackout London. He trades quips with a mathematician turned arch criminal.
He rescues a Swiss inventor whose device promises to refine aerial death. The film courts absurdity and draws power from it. It does so with the calm assurance of wartime craft. It also does so with the tonal discipline of studio-era genre grammar. It looks tidy. It feels taut. It plays like a confident pamphlet disguised as a thriller.
Roy William Neill’s first entry for Universal’s Holmes cycle has a brisk gait. The direction trusts economy. Scenes begin late. Scenes end early. The camera favors mid-shots and shadowed corners. The result is clean, faintly severe, and sometimes beautiful. The plot is arranged with mechanical neatness. Dr. Franz Tobel has fashioned a bombsight.
The British want its accuracy. The Germans want its secret. The device is divided into four parts to foil theft. The inventor disappears. Codes appear. Bodies follow. A duel of intellects proceeds under sirens. A duel of rhetoric accompanies it. Everything moves with a definite purpose. The purpose is patriotic morale and professional polish.
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The year matters. This film arrives in 1942. It belongs to a season of crisis and resolve. British cities were still counting the cost of the Blitz. American forces had just fought at the Coral Sea and Midway in May and June. The Dieppe Raid in August spelled disaster and lesson.
Operation Torch landings in North Africa came in November. Submarine warfare in the Atlantic remained vicious. Rationing at home was a daily instrument of strategy. The screen answered all this with a tone of steadiness. Speakers asked for war bonds. Stars delivered lines about duty without flinching. A detective story became a small ceremony of national poise.
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The opening in Switzerland is a program note. Holmes appears in disguise with an accent and a book-seller’s posture. The masquerade is theatrical and functional. He extracts Tobel from danger, skirts Gestapo watchers, and boards a plane.
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| Krapp-Bücherverkäufer routine from Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) |
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The sequence acts as an overture for Neill’s style. He prefers crisp blocking and carefully graded light. The compositions are not expressionist in the German sense. They are practical. They are studio nocturnes trimmed to fit a fifty-pound paper ration. The look serves intention. It simplifies moral space without flattening it.
The argument for contemporizing the detective is not subtle. Holmes becomes a utility instrument for national survival. The tone does not apologize for this. It treats tradition as a flexible property of myth. If the character belongs to the nineteenth century, the intellect belongs to any hour of peril. There is a small lesson here in how studios create cultural continuity.
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They move a figure across time, then let audience memory do the hard work of coherence. Basil Rathbone understands the assignment. He supplies a manner of thought rather than a museum pose. He speaks in staccato certainty. He smiles like a man who already sees the end of the maze. He wears disguises as if they were proofs.
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Rathbone’s Holmes works because his performance aligns calculation with warmth. This is not warmth in the domestic sense. It is warmth in the civic sense. He projects confidence in systems. Facts will cohere. Codes will crack. U-boats will be dodged.
He hurries the narrative toward competence. The famous profile, lit from the side, looks like a point of logic carved in stone. There is showmanship. There is also rigour. Rathbone had sharpened the blade in The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939) and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939). He would hone it again in later Universal entries like The Scarlet Claw (1944) and The Woman in Green (1945). Even when the writing dips, the manner remains exact.
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| This is a Blitz and thus modest Eng Trümmerfilm Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) |
Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson has long troubled devotees of Conan Doyle. The film adopts a softer view. His blunders are measured. His loyalty is total. He is given a few competent moments. He even aids a crucial inference. His presence provides a counter-rhythm to Holmes’s clipped elegance. This is less about comic relief than about companionship under strain. The pair suggests an institution older than the present emergency. That is the point. The duet locates a human routine that resists panic.
Lionel Atwill’s Moriarty brings a different tempo. He avoids feline languor. He brings a pragmatic chill. He has neither the gaunt asceticism of later versions nor the flamboyance of some earlier ones. He looks like a craftsman of wickedness. He curates cruelty with method. The famous talk with Holmes about modes of killing is queasy and clinical.
It moves past melodrama into a kind of administrative horror. The script makes him a contractor for the Reich. That linkage feels blunt on the surface. It also feels revealing. The film imagines villainy as management put to violent ends. The alignment of criminal genius with state terror is not subtle. It is persuasive.
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One must note the codes. The borrowed idea of dancing figures reappears here as an encrypted message. The cipher is at once quaint and necessary. It grants Holmes a problem worthy of his vanity. It gives Moriarty a parallel race toward solution. The code also supplies a metaphor. Communication under pressure is the silent hero of modern war. Radios hum. Steganography hides in plain sight. Data moves while bombs fall. The film lets the viewer watch thinking on the move. It looks small. It carries a grand anxiety.
Performance detail supports the thesis of quiet heroics. Dennis Hoey’s Inspector Lestrade enters this cycle for the first time and contributes institutional ballast. He is not brilliant. He is steady. He belongs to a procedural world. He represents continuity across films. Kaaren Verne, playing Charlotte Eberli, brings a grave sincerity to brief scenes.
Her presence matters beyond plot. As a German-born actress who left an authoritarian regime, her face bears its own archive of meaning. William Post Jr., as Tobel, plays nervous idealism without fuss. He is all edges and purpose. He appears as a man who trusts diagrams more than crowds. The cast’s textures make the film feel lived-in, not merely engineered.
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| Salisbury Plain, England, in Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) |
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The moral horizon is clear. The state is legitimate. The institutions are flawed but sound. What remains noir is the grammar of concealment. Men whisper. Keys change hands in rooms shaped by lamp light. There are codes, doubles, disguises, and a villain who speaks the language of process rather than passion. The atmosphere anticipates the harder shadows of postwar thrillers. One can feel a corridor leading toward Brute Force (1947) and He Walked by Night (1948). The detective who dares the blackout becomes a prototype for the war-damaged investigator who stalks alleys after 1945.
Rathbone carries this inheritance lightly. His Holmes is immune to existential collapse. He treats night as opportunity, not curse. Yet the set pieces linger on peril that looks industrial. A chest prepared for sea burial. A surgical tableau designed for blood to leave the body in a regulated stream. These methods lack Gothic flourish. They look bureaucratic.
They feel like noir murder translated into lab procedure. The stripping of romance from violence is a key noir procedure. Neill allows that logic to graze the Holmes world without devouring it.
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The dialogue’s patriotism needs context. In 1942 the word propaganda did not carry the same smirk it often carries now. The film speaks to an audience that demanded reassurance and asked for usable myths. It closes with an appeal that treats spectators as partners in policy. One can call this an advertisement. One can also call it a ritual. The detective’s victory folds into the community’s need for funds and fiber. Cinema becomes a civic square with a velvet curtain.
This entry also marks a change in the internal history of the Holmes cycle. Roy William Neill would shape the remaining Universal films with a careful eye for uniform tone. He would make fog into an argument and brevity into an ethic. This film launches that signature.
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The series moves from the rural romantic Gothic of The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939) to an urban tempo that suits war. The plots simplify. The lighting deepens. The verbal sparring becomes a kind of polite fencing match. The assassin’s blade becomes a hypothesis. The direction sketches a house style in under seventy minutes.
The film’s place in the larger history of the United States deserves plain speech. Hollywood in wartime became a national pedagogy. Studios worked with the Office of War Information to balance entertainment and instruction. Scripts learned to include clarifying lines about allies and aims. Star images became emblems of cooperation. Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) participates in that regimen with grace. An English hero solves a problem that matters to Allied air power. American viewers, already reeling from the shock of December 1941, watched a British icon collaborate with British authorities and thereby collaborate with them.
The interwar traffic of talent across the Atlantic suddenly looked like strategy. The film is thus a small artifact of Anglo-American cultural diplomacy. It advertises the coherence of a language community under threat. It reminds the American audience that European intelligence traditions could serve modern American war. In this sense the picture belongs beside newsreels and bond rallies. It occupies the same civic shelf as speeches and posters.
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There is a further American story in the cast list. Whit Bissell appears in a small role here and would later become a minor monument of American screens. He would take that anxious physiognomy into carceral and urban nightmares as a supporting presence in Brute Force (1947) and He Walked by Night (1948). He would also haunt Raw Deal (1948).
His face learned how to carry the bureaucratic panic of mid-century institutions. Seeing him early in this film is like watching noir raw material being mined in a different genre’s quarry. Philip Van Zandt, elsewhere in the period, slips into sleek criminal worlds in titles like Gilda (1946) and the corrosive media labyrinth of Sweet Smell of Success (1957). Even in bit parts he contributes a sheen of urban duplicity that this Holmes entry gently anticipates in its clubrooms and quays.
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Lionel Atwill ranges widely in parallel genres. He dominates frames in prestige horror and satirical war comedy. One can track his sardonic authority across The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939), Son of Frankenstein (1939), and To Be or Not to Be (1942). The roles share a cool poise that here becomes administrative cruelty.
He knows how to make a room feel observed. He knows how to make a line feel like a file being stamped. In this film he belongs to a chain of villains who are less men than institutions in human suits. That is the right register for the era.
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It is a c'est un spy procedural that points directly to the documentary textures of early noir. The move from this Holmes narrative to those later titles is not a leap. It is a gentle slide along a common axis of paranoia and method. Performers in studio-era Hollywood often carried atmospheres with them. Post carries the earnest gravity of technical men caught inside large currents.
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Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1943) is a film at once minor and monumental, trivial and significant, clunky and engaging, silly and essential. It is a B-picture dressed in the clothes of a propaganda film dressed in the name of Conan Doyle.
It is a Holmes adventure in name, a spy thriller in practice, a war film by necessity. It is not Doyle’s Adventure of the Dancing Men, except when it pretends to be, except when it cheats by borrowing the code and reducing Holmes’ laborious hours of decipherment into a few glances at a scrap of paper. It is Conan Doyle stripped of difficulty, boiled down to a gimmick, a code, a flourish, and then drowned in the tide of wartime urgency. It is not authentic Doyle, no, but it is authentic 1943.
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Holmes here is not the consulting detective of Baker Street, not the logician in the fog of Victorian London, not the reasoner in the countryside of Norfolk. Holmes is something else—an intelligence agent, a proto-Bond, a counterspy wrapped in disguises and stratagems, a defender of England against the Nazi menace. C
ritics call him James Bond before Bond, a spy with gadgets and camouflages, a man of disguises rather than deductions. Some loathe this, declaring it a betrayal of Doyle, a Holmes reduced to propaganda. Others thrill to it, seeing Rathbone reborn as a wartime savior, Holmes transformed into national protector. It is both: it is a Holmes that works only in the fever of 1943 and never again.
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Basil Rathbone is the axis around which the whole ungainly thing spins. Everyone says it: Rathbone is magnificent, magnetic, unassailable, the very image of Holmes. Even those who detest the film, who call it dire, silly, clunky, propaganda-ridden, still concede that Rathbone is reason enough to watch.
He dominates through disguises, disguises that fool even the attentive viewer, disguises that remind us Holmes is an actor within the fiction, and Rathbone an actor outside it, doubling the performance, acting acting. He is a sailor, a drunkard, a workman, and in each his eyes burn with intensity. The disguises are praised repeatedly: some admit they were taken in, others marvel at Rathbone’s control. This is his element. This is what keeps the film alive.
Nigel Bruce, as always, divides. Some say he is more useful than usual—he traces a trail of paint, he contributes a little more than his usual comic fumbling. Others say he is still the buffoon, the clown, the ruin of Watson’s dignity.
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And with him comes Dennis Hoey’s Lestrade, bumbling but endearing, making his series debut, his facial expressions adding to the comic tier. Critics note he is less funny than usual here, but still essential. He is bumbling, yet loyal, a foil, a background presence who reminds us of Holmes’ brilliance by his own incompetence.
And then there is Moriarty. Lionel Atwill. Here lies the great fracture, the critical fault line. To some he is brilliant, snake-eyed, loathsome, sinister, the most diabolical of Moriartys. To others he is clunky, uninspired, tired, unconvincing as a master mind. One calls him brilliant, another declares him entirely wrong for the role, a disappointment, a miscasting.
Compared to George Zucco in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Atwill is found lacking, never projecting the brilliance necessary for Moriarty. And yet others insist his is the finest Moriarty of all, the most compelling, the most memorable. The debate itself is telling: Atwill is not forgettable, he is divisive. He lingers because he splits opinion, because his Moriarty is either venomous or flat, snake-eyed or dull-eyed, convincing or clumsy.
The plot is at once contrived and functional, contrived because Holmes seems to leap to conclusions with impossible speed, tracing phone calls instantly, decoding ciphers in seconds, evading and then submitting to capture with implausible ease. And yet functional, because the contrivances keep the hour-long runtime brisk, the pace tight, the viewer engaged. One critic calls it clumsy, another says it is the first truly effective Universal Holmes story.
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And always, the propaganda intrudes. Rathbone’s final speech, syrupy, patriotic, “this blessed plot, this realm, this England”—some cringe, calling it artificial, dated, undigestible. Others insist it was necessary, resonant, a morale booster in 1943. The war hangs over everything: the bombsight MacGuffin, the Nazi spies, the Gestapo, the treachery. Holmes is less detective than defender, less logician than patriot. The mystery is thinned, the deduction flattened, the rhetoric thickened. Yet one critic insists the propaganda is less overbearing than in The Voice of Terror, that here at least the Holmes-Moriarty duel remains central, that the story avoids drowning in slogans. Another insists the propaganda cheapens it, makes it silly. It is both. It is wartime cinema, it cannot escape.
The film is also full of small absurdities, the kind that define B-movies: the bombsight prop is clearly a photographic enlarger, borrowed from the Universal lab; the disguises veer into offensive caricature, with Holmes in brownface at one point; the sets look familiar, recycled; the dialogue swings from taut to clunky. It is silly, it is cheap, it is a B-movie. But it is fun, too. Almost everyone admits it is fun, even when they call it dire. “Silly patriotic nonsense,” one says, “but still watchable.” That contradiction is repeated over and over: silly but enjoyable, clunky but atmospheric, cheap but effective, not the best but not the worst.
And so the consensus, if consensus can be found, is that Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon is middling, solid, neither great nor terrible. Six out of ten, seven out of ten, sometimes eight. Rarely higher, rarely lower. A middle entry, a transitional film.
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It is not the best, not the worst, but it is fascinating. Fascinating because it reveals Holmes transformed, Holmes as spy, Holmes as Bond before Bond. Fascinating because it divides opinion so violently on Moriarty, on Watson, on propaganda, on atmosphere.
Fascinating because it is so often called clunky and yet so often called fun. Fascinating because it survives not on the strength of its story, which is thin, or its production, which is cheap, but on the charisma of Rathbone, the chemistry of Rathbone and Bruce, the allure of Holmes himself as a cultural figure.
It is a film that critics call dire, silly, clunky, cheap, propagandistic. It is also a film they call atmospheric, entertaining, thrilling, effective, essential. It is both, it is neither, it is all. It is Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon: not Conan Doyle, not really mystery, not really Holmes, but something stranger, something more particular, a wartime Holmes, a B-movie Holmes, a Holmes for 1943.
Basil Rathbone’s broader resume is more classical than noir. Yet there are affinities worth naming. His ensuing Holmes films with Neill, including The Scarlet Claw (1944), push further into shadowed village lanes and moral murk.
Those images filmed by Universal crews touch noir through lighting and through social landscape. They picture institutions under stress, communities haunted by rumor, and a hero who reads surfaces with scientific impatience. It is not the world of corrupt private eyes or doomed grifters. It is a cousin. The shared household is anxiety.
The film’s women appear sparingly, which invites a reckoning. Kaaren Verne’s Charlotte has slender agency on the page. Yet she mediates crucial information. She holds the envelope with coded figures. She marks a private bond with the scientist that the state must respect. Her scenes with Holmes are brief, grave, and controlled.
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Professor Moriarty: Brilliant man, Sherlock Holmes. Too bad he was honest.
[last lines]
Dr. John H. Watson: Things are looking up, Holmes. This little Island's still on the map.
Sherlock Holmes: Holmes: Yes. "This fortress built by nature for herself, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."
Professor Moriarty: The needle to the last, eh, Holmes?
Professor Moriarty: [as Moriarty drains Holmes's blood] Drop by drop, Holmes. Drop by drop. Ah, in a way I'm almost sorry. You were a stimulating influence to me but it was obvious that I should win in the end.
Sherlock Holmes: The four sections of your bomb sight fit inside these ponderous tomes; although, I must confess I shy to the thought of disemboweling a complete set of Charles Dickens.
Dr. Franz Tobel: You would take the Nazis' own car?
Sherlock Holmes: One must adapt oneself to the tools at hand.
Braun: French! English! How I hate those languages!
Mueller: Calm yourself, my dear Braun. In a short time there will *be* only one language.
Professor Moriarty: Closer to the end, Holmes. Closer and closer. Each second a few more drops leave your desiccated body. And you can feel 'em can't you? You're perfectly conscious aren't you, Holmes?
Sherlock Holmes: I shall be conscious long after you're dead, Moriarty.
Sherlock Holmes: Christmas boxes. Watson, I'm beginning to see the plan. Dr. Tobel divided his bombsight into four parts just as we brought it back from Switzerland. He's given one section of the mechanism to each of these famous scientists. What a fascinating plan. You see, each part is useless without the other three and undoubtedly, none of these scientists is known to each other.
The script denies her extended action. The camera grants her moral gravity. This duality mirrors a wartime pattern. Women execute logistics while men receive credit for strategy. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, continues her routine of domestic stewardship without narrative reward. She keeps the study liveable while men discuss empire and cipher. A modern viewing notices the distribution of labour and voice.
The pattern is not an accident. Wartime cinema frequently assigned women to relay, to warn, to worry, and to wait. It also quietly documented their constancy. Here one might read Verne’s own biography as a kind of countertext. A refugee artist lends a face to the costs of authoritarianism. A coded note passes through her hands and becomes the hinge of state survival. The frame will not say it loudly. The effect is still present.
The film’s rhetoric about technology is neat. It translates the Norden myth into a Swiss fable. A perfected sight becomes the surgical instrument of national justice. The promise is precision. The promise is fewer civilian deaths and more effective raids. In reality the dream of pinpoint accuracy in 1942 was mostly a dream. Clouds, flak, human error, and drift imposed their own truth. The picture is not a treatise on bombing ethics.
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The acting ensemble reinforces the claim that competence is a civic virtue. Dennis Hoey’s Lestrade becomes almost endearing in his solidity. He appears and reappears through the series like a metronome of procedure. The film even lets Lestrade and Watson rescue their superior in intellect more than once. This inversion is not accidental.
Wartime culture valued teams. The lone genius may diagnose. The group lifts the body from the trap and stops the bleeding. Roy William Neill stages these rescues with speed and without sentimental music. The edits speak for themselves.
The disguises merit a note of technique. Rathbone alters posture more than voice. He uses the camera’s tendency to assume performance as truth. When he stoops, the viewer accepts a class shift. When he sharpens the jawline with a cap or a turtleneck, the viewer accepts a profession shift. The trick is half physical and half cinematic. Neill trusts the audience’s eagerness to be deceived. In a war of camouflage and decoy, such trust has a patriotic flavor. The spectator learns to doubt surface and to respect reasoned inquiry.
As a Universal product, the film bears the studio’s house virtues. The sets are persuasive on a budget. The night streets are painted with economical exactitude. The supporting players carry the accents of two continents with ease.
The score by Frank Skinner is discreet. It underwrites tension without elbowing dialogue aside. The editors keep matters moving. No moment lingers long enough to collect dust. The whole feels like a machine made for Saturday evenings and Monday decisions.
Sherlock Holmes on the Thames invites a methodological question. Can a character built to expose Victorian social hypocrisy comfortably wear khaki morale? The film’s answer is affirmative. The detective’s method is portable. It solves the worries of a new century by applying the old discipline of observation.
There is a gentle polemic here. Liberal institutions do not fear science. They welcome rational scrutiny. The scene with the cipher confirms this thesis. The state’s interest and the individual’s skill align without coercion. The result is a small relief. In a period of censorship and propaganda, the film smuggles in a defense of clear thinking.
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The dialogue between Holmes and Moriarty is the ethical heart. It is also a showpiece of measured performance. The men discuss murder like craftsmen discussing tools. They acknowledge each other with formal contempt. They treat each other as mirrors. The scene would risk theatrical emptiness without Rathbone’s contained amusement and Atwill’s clinical confidence. Instead it achieves a ritual gravity.
The ideologies of law and crime borrow each other’s language and then recoil. The sequence offers a miniature of wartime argument. The modern state claims a monopoly on force but must use it with ceremony. The criminal uses force as private leverage and celebrates technique. The film sides with ceremony without losing fascination with technique.
It also trusts the tactile pleasures of the chase. Holmes combs rooms for impressions. He reads dust. He listens for tones in a voice. He maps a labyrinth of docks. The montage of clues turns inquiry into an athletic act. Cinematic inquiry must be visible. The mind alone cannot be photographed. The director solves this by making thought into movement and movement into syntax. The viewer feels clever by proxy. The viewer experiences deduction as a rhythm.
In a longer view of popular culture, this entry helps domesticate a hybrid. It blends the antique manners of the Baker Street milieu with the crisp menace of wartime espionage. It creates a pathway for later television’s habit of moving inherited detectives into new decades. It whispers that continuity of character beats exact continuity of era. This lesson has had a long afterlife. It taught producers to treat icons as toolkits. It taught viewers to prize method over furniture.
Consider again William Post Jr. traveling to Experiment Perilous (1944) and The House on 92nd Street (1945), where procedure and paranoia entwine. Consider Atwill’s glide through To Be or Not to Be (1942), where theater and tyranny collide. The performers become small bridges between genres. They reveal a studio system that recycled faces as signs of mood.
If one is tempted to scold the film for simplicity, one should remember its function. It supplies a moral weather report. It says that cunning may serve law. It says that terror may be resisted by craft. It says that nighttime streets are survivable if one carries a clear mind and a partner. It gently instructs spectators to believe in legibility. Wartime needed this and knew it.
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The picture flatters civilian intelligence by presenting crosswords as rehearsal for national work. The hero solves a little picture and rescues a big picture. The viewer practices the same on the way home.
The final image of Holmes returning to his rooms completes a cycle. It marks the endurance of a private space within public emergency. It also announces the series logic. Another case will arrive. Another code will need patience. The war will continue. The rooms remain. Mrs. Hudson will bring tea. Watson will misplace a newspaper and find a clue. Lestrade will knock with bureaucratic timing. The audience will be asked to believe once more in a certain music of dialogue and a precise economy of gesture.
A coda on language and performance may be allowed. The screenplay’s jokes are dry. The speeches about national endurance are brief and solemn. The ratio matters. Wit decorates. Duty commands. Rathbone knows how to time a line so that a smile follows without noise.
Bruce knows how to make bafflement affectionate. Atwill knows how to stretch a syllable until it feels like a smirk. Kaaren Verne knows how to make a warning sound like respect. This is craft, not accident.
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Actors deserve one concentrated paragraph of gratitude. Basil Rathbone gives the definitive popular profile of Holmes and carries here the same disciplined magnetism seen in The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939) and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939) and later in The Scarlet Claw (1944). Lionel Atwill refines his veteran menace familiar from Son of Frankenstein (1939) and the silken malice that shades even his polished turn in To Be or Not to Be (1942).
The film’s method, finally, is clarity in darkness. The sets wear shadow like a uniform. The plot wears cause like a medal. The performances wear intelligence like a habit. The historical moment presses in from all sides. The picture does not blink. It offers a vision of civilized cunning that refuses panic. It claims that attention is a moral act. It claims that attention saves lives. It asks the audience to share that ethic.
The aftertaste is pleasant and serious. One remembers a disguised man in a doorway. One remembers a page of dancing figures. One remembers a conversation about death conducted like a tutorial. One remembers a city that looks bruised and alive. One remembers a device that promises fewer misses and more certainty.
One knows that history delivered both the wins and the losses in messier ratios than the film can concede. One also knows that the soundstage fog, the angled light, and the clipped vowels amounted to an art of consolation. The work of 1942 demanded that kind of art. Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942) supplied it with a modest flourish and a sharpened gaze.
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Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1942)
Directed by Roy William Neill
Genres - Action-Adventure, Crime, Drama, Horror, Mystery-Suspense | Sub-Genres - Detective Film, Spy Film | Release Date - Dec 25, 1942 | Run Time - 68 min. |
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