As the clamor of the day fades behind the heavy curtains of a Manhattan apartment, the clinking of silverware conceals a cold complicity. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, this thriller confines the fantasy of a perfect murder—perpetrated under the pretense of intellectual superiority—to a single room. That trunk standing right beneath the dining table grows a little heavier with every cheerful toast raised by the guests. As the corpse, hidden in the shadow of philosophical debates, tenses with the host’s arrogant smile, time creeps in, insidiously constricting the space around the coffin.