The story is a simple one: 12 jurors are asked to decide the fate of a young man who is accused of killing his father. If guilty, he will be sentenced to the electric chair. Otherwise he goes free. The evidence is overwhelmingly against him: Two eyewitnesses, a murder weapon known to be bought by the killer, and an alibi that he couldn't remember during questioning. Open and shut, but one juror stands alone against the other 11, who'd like to get home in time for dinner. And with that single "not guilty" vote, Henry Fonda's Juror #8 sets off the titular anger.
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No matter: She acquits herself far better here, namely ecause she has nearly no lines. This is Dudley Moore's show: An absurd and hopelessly dated bit of slapstick about Moore's showbiz star facing a midlife crisis. Zoom, he's off to Mexico, where he daydreams about Derek (in those hideous braids) at length. Blake Edwards made worse films than this, but his comic timing is all wrong, exiled to long bouts of non-sequitur gags, such as Moore's run-in with dentistry.
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