Carol Reed's films, from '47 to '53, are all titled with variants of the man who does not fit his image or place: bad thirds with no dialectics in sight, they hang alongside the place set for them. (Thoughts on why this string of titles, anyone?) Cast out, cast between, cast odd. And usually, it takes murder to set the world back to its normal equivalencies. Which, in a Reed film, means back to the creeping paranoia, furtive glances, and constriction there from the start. All's unwell that ends well.