A two-hour film that feels like six. Maybe Rhoda murdered the editor.
A pigtailed eight-year-old bumping off a classmate for his penmanship medal ought to hold your attention. Instead, I spent most of the film eyeing the clock. The stage origins show in all those living-room speeches. Even the furniture looks tired.
Patty McCormack curtsies sweetly and stares like a shark. I'm not sure who's scarier: Rhoda or Evelyn Varden as the interfering neighbour upstairs, who analyses everyone uninvited and treats Rhoda like a charming houseplant.
The last five minutes are bonkers. A thunderstorm turns up to make sure crime doesn't pay. Then the cast comes out for a curtain call that ends with a spanking. It's welcome lunacy, though it arrives after my patience has already clocked off.
I can see the cult appeal. Membership looks exhausting.