This finds itself to be severely dated. Psychoanalysis and Freud have both been long swept aside so the core of the film feels a little silly, and all the mind-boggling symbolism and trance-like states that Peck is struck by all seem bizarre, and not in the right way. Psychoanalysis subscribes diligently to the theory that repressed childhood trauma sticks with you long after it is over, so we have that creepy POV shot of the brother being impaled by the fence, and Peck is triggered by symbols along the way that mimic this; lines etched by forks, lines in couches, bars speeding by from a train. But he is also strangely struck by other things like sharp knives cutting meat and a phantom burning in his hand, which seems less coherent and more just another attempt to link violence to his troubled state of mind. The few moments of tension draw attention to themselves overtly with cutaways to closeups and furtive glances - it's all a little too theatrical. Dali's clever (and laboriously constructed) surrealist sequence seems like a vague stab in the dark for some sort of connection, which is of course brilliantly and deductively deciphered by Bergman.
If it was the intention to empower her character the film goes about it the wrong way by drawing attention to her gender all too often. This was of course unavoidable in the 40s as a female in a male-dominated profession, but it begins to feel like overkill when every single colleague is unsubtly trying to flirt and demean her at the same time (even Petersen's mentor dismisses any rational point she tries to make). Unsurprisingly Petersen is also privy to a little romance; why else would you cast Ingrid Bergman, after all. It becomes futile to slap spectacles on that face and make her a respected physician, because the script doesn't call for logic, but passion as a means to unravel the mystery behind Edwardes' amnesia. Everything seems to point to his guilt (even he admits it himself), but Petersen is determined to get to the bottom of the case, not because she wants justice, but because she is head over heels in love with the dashing Gregory Peck. Rather insulting, even is she is somehow right. The double mental and sexual metaphor of the 'locked doors of the mind' and the vagina is straight up silly. They both try to convince themselves they are professionals and it isn't about love (which is also unethical), but from that first glance and catch of the eye, and the way the soundtrack always blooms as they embrace, this is less psychological thriller and more romance.
If it was the intention to empower her character the film goes about it the wrong way by drawing attention to her gender all too often. This was of course unavoidable in the 40s as a female in a male-dominated profession, but it begins to feel like overkill when every single colleague is unsubtly trying to flirt and demean her at the same time (even Petersen's mentor dismisses any rational point she tries to make). Unsurprisingly Petersen is also privy to a little romance; why else would you cast Ingrid Bergman, after all. It becomes futile to slap spectacles on that face and make her a respected physician, because the script doesn't call for logic, but passion as a means to unravel the mystery behind Edwardes' amnesia. Everything seems to point to his guilt (even he admits it himself), but Petersen is determined to get to the bottom of the case, not because she wants justice, but because she is head over heels in love with the dashing Gregory Peck. Rather insulting, even is she is somehow right. The double mental and sexual metaphor of the 'locked doors of the mind' and the vagina is straight up silly. They both try to convince themselves they are professionals and it isn't about love (which is also unethical), but from that first glance and catch of the eye, and the way the soundtrack always blooms as they embrace, this is less psychological thriller and more romance.