T.M.P. in the New York Times (December 25, 1947)

Joan Crawford is having man-trouble again in "Daisy Kenyon," which Twentieth Century-Fox presented last night at the Roxy. As the picture opens Miss Crawford is the odd party of that sturdy old triangle and not content with her share of the affections of Dana Andrews who has a wife and two kids over on Park Avenue. Then Henry Fonda comes into her life and proposes marriage, knowing full well that he must for the time being be content as second man in her heart. Now the plot begins to bubble and boil in real earnest and 'ere long we are contemplating a tempestuous romantic quadrangle as Miss Crawford flits from husband to lover and vice versa.

"Daisy Kenyon" is "back street" drama with added complications, but it is, notwithstanding the above unadorned outline, somewhat more mature and compelling than the usual run of pictures of this sort. That is, it should be hastily added, up to a point and then the story goes completely to pot. The weakness here is the scenario, for after David Hertz builds up his problem he obviously doesn't know how to resolve it, at least, not with any noticeable ingenuity.

Miss Crawford is, of course, an old hand at being an emotionally confused and frustrated woman and she plays the role with easy competence. Henry Fonda, too, is likable but somewhat more sympathetic and passive than a husband in such circumstances has any right to be. As the philandering father, Dana Andrews gives a performance that is full of vitality and technical grace, but it lacks authority. Mr. Andrews, somehow, just doesn't appear to be the type.

As the producer-director of "Daisy Kenyon," Otto Preminger keeps the film going at a nice clip and this helps greatly to gloss over the threadbare portions of the narrative, which would be a lot more obvious in the hands of less attractive players.

Otis L. Guernsey, Jr., in the New York Herald Tribune (1947):

    Preminger accomplishes no mean feat in guiding these people in and out among the interweavings of their own complexes, and he does wonders in varying the action of similar scenes. Working with Miss Crawford's iridescence, Fonda's diffidence, and Andrews' aggressiveness, he stages these synthetic involvements as though he believed every minute of them.

Essay by Kevin John ("neumu" online 'zine, 2003).

7 essays by writers for "24fps" online 'zine.

Norman Tipton, Jr.  (April 2008)

Daisy Kenyon is not worth the fuss. And I just don’t mean the film itself. The Daisy that everyone wants to pick is one of Joan’s most wilted women.

From the opening credits on, no one seems sure what this film is all about. Listen to the music … it sounds like we are being set up for a bouncy romantic comedy. But that’s just for starters as we have a lot of plots in Daisy’s garden.

Daisy inhabits an apartment on the most empty street ever to exist in Greenwich Village. Seriously, I think she’s the only inhabitant. Or we might chalk this up to 20^th Century Fox shoddiness, which also abounds here. Speaking of shoddy, when we first meet our Daisy, she is wearing the word’s ugliest dress, a sort of Mildred Pierce meets Peter Pan. The  collar and turned up sleeves just don’t do it and are ill placed on an artist living in NYC. But then, Daisy gets herself dated up and puts on a replica of this disaster, except the cutesie collar and sleeves seem to be made of lace! And where is she headed in this creation? No less than the ultra-sophisticated Stork Club!

Now would be a good time to wonder: Is Daisy supposed to be some kind of rube? Probably not, despite her fashion sense. She seems to be able to hold her own and, of course, we have Crawford’s impeccable diction. But Crawford cannot seem to find the right notes for Daisy. Too often she seems like she’s just reciting the very talky lines.

Henry Fonda seems like he’s sleepwalking during the whole matter. Apparently he is still recovering from some war horror and we get to watch him endure a nightmare while the Fox orchestra booms.

And Dana Andrews … well, what actor could handle so many pointless subplots? There’s the non-resolved matter of his youngest daughter being physically abused by the mother. And what happened to his crusade to bash racism? And losing all child custody to Ruth Warrick (who should have been banned from all human contact just on the basis of the bad acting she does here)? Andrews’ character is meant to be something of a rogue, but must he call everyone he meets “honeybunch”?  There’s also no explanation for why his kids call him by his first name but at this point none is needed.

Everyone talks endlessly about the situation. It winds up with Crawford running through the snow from an incessantly ringing telephone, perhaps scared that yet another pointless conversation will ensue. She rolls her car and is fortunate to walk away with only one forehead curl out of place. Returning to her place to find Andrews and Fonda, playing cards and chummier together than either ever was with her, she orders them both back to New York. I think she might have had the right idea.