Sorry, Wrong Number

Leona Stevenson lies confined to her bed, tethered to a telephone that keeps her in touch with the outside world. Isolated, she spends long hours listening in, hoping for a friendly voice or a sign of life beyond the four walls. When a routine call swells into an overheard murder plot, she becomes convinced a victim is being targeted and that the danger is closer than she ever imagined. With only the muffled chatter of a busy line and the steady tick of the clock, Leona works to interpret the conversation, identify the possible victim, and alert the right people before it’s too late.

Released in 1948 and directed by Anatole Litvak, Sorry, Wrong Number adapts Lucille Fletcher's celebrated radio play for the screen. The suspense is concentrated in a single bedroom as Stanwyck carries the story, supported by precise sound design, a restrained score, and a compact ensemble that keeps every whispered rumor on edge. The film emphasizes character over spectacle, letting dialogue, timing, and reactions drive the tension while the audience senses the room closing in around Leona.

Box office details for the film are not widely documented, but the lean suspense and Stanwyck's central performance helped cement Sorry, Wrong Number as a memorable example of postwar Hollywood thriller craft. It remains cited in discussions of how sound design and focused acting can sustain anxiety when action is restricted to a single room and a few phone calls.

The film is often cited for turning a single device the telephone into a continuous source of dread. It influenced later thrillers that rely on overheard plots, miscommunication, and the fragility of private space. Its reputation endures in discussions of radio to film adaptations and in Stanwyck's fearless portrayal of a woman under siege.

Critics praised the taut pacing, Stanwyck's portrayal of vulnerability and resolve under pressure, and Litvak's restrained direction. The film probes isolation, the fear of unseen danger, and how overheard conversations can reshape a life. It remains a compact study in paranoia that lingers long after the credits roll.