An Oscar-studded warning film that was, no doubt, far more potent seventy years ago. In addition to three other wins (including Best Picture), leading man Ray Milland took the gold for his central performance as a desperate, cash-strapped, bridge-burning alcoholic at the end of his rope following yet another ill-fated flirtation with sobriety. Milland portrays an effective lush, both charismatic and conniving, a man who's almost able to conceal his inner demons from the public. Almost. And the depths he's willing to plunge for one last taste of whiskey make it easy to comprehend his immediate family's desire to wash their hands of the errant son.

The whole affair is often blunt and hammy in presentation, though; maybe not as excessive and misleading as its contemporary, Reefer Madness, but certainly not far from the ballpark. There's an odd sense of the aloof at play here, dredging the depths in search of new lows without bothering to dig any deeper into the sickness at the heart of all the troubles. Its jarring happy ending smacks of insincerity, too, and needlessly undermines the tale's moral base. Not as bad as I seem to be letting on, especially considering the well-connected alcohol industry's vehement opposition to its subject matter, but a curious award-winner all the same. It's good at times, but never great.