His Kind of Woman should be a mess, but somehow it emerges as a highly enjoyable insane asylum of a movie as much thanks to as in spite of the constant interference by Howard Hughes: credited to John Farrow, Richard Fleischer spent months shooting and reshooting the yacht finale at the mogul's whims in a desperate attempt to get out of his own studio contract. Even Raymond Burr's villain is a case of third time lucky after Howard Petrie and Robert J. Wilke played the part without meriting Hughes' approval. Snappy dialogue ("You're the guy who shot (him). How did it feel?" "He didn't say."), unlucky gamblers, fortune-hunting gals, randy Wall Street types (played by no less than Mr Magoo himself, Jim Backus), Nazi plastic surgeons, Italian mobsters, Robert Mitchum betting his shoe and ironing his money, and a very wonderful hotel set courtesy of Albert D'Agostino - this has everything Hughes' money could buy. Mitch and Jane Russell have real chemistry, and she comes over as far more genuinely likeable than in many of her contemporary roles: for all the chaos, you get the sense that they're actually having fun (certainly she looks genuinely happy when she sings in her opening scene). But the show belongs to Vincent Price's ham actor, who doesn't fear death - he's too well-known to die - loves guns, never shuns the spotlight - even if it is wielded by gun-toting mobsters - but isn't too wild about his wife. He should destroy the movie if you're still expecting the bleak noir it began as, but by the time he appears you know that this is a log ride that drifts with the prevailing current and his outrageous hamming somehow compliments the sadism and prolonged action of the extended finale perfectly.