Interesting artefact from the period when the American Dream was falling apart.
On this occasion it's not commies, space aliens, zombies or teenagers, it's science (in the form of the drug cortisone). Nicholas Ray directs with his usual tautness and finesse, but it all heats up a bit too quickly and unrealistically.
James Mason is good in the lead role and it is clear that this was a project he believed in as he is credited as Producer.
Ultimately it is let down by a phoney-feeling happy ending that is tacked on in the final seconds.
Nicholas Ray turns one suburban house into a pressure cooker, then keeps cranking the dial. James Mason starts out as the dad you'd want at your table and ends up someone you'd cross the street to avoid. The trouble is, he keeps coming home.
The house changes shape too. Rooms that feel cosy early on start to feel like traps later, and the shadows do plenty of the acting — sharp angles, sickly light, like the place has caught whatever Ed has.
Mason is the whole show, running through tenderness, rage and delusion like someone's shouting emotions from the stalls, without once tipping into pantomime. It lands because of the pacing: slow enough to talk yourself out of it, then it turns on a sixpence. Underneath it, Ray's needling suburban respectability — and meaning it.
I found the medical angle uncomfortable, though maybe not for the reasons Ray intended — a wonder drug curdling into domestic tyranny plays oddly now, with vaccine scepticism doing fine already.
Barely over ninety minutes, and it doesn't waste a second. It stings.