FULL OF SPOILERS.
This is a pretty fast and enjoyable crime thriller based on Ira Levin's play about two gay playwrights (Caine and Reeve) that plot the murder of one's rich wife (Cannon) to get the property and the insurance. The plot succeeds but Christopher Reeve as the younger and less established of the two writers decides to make a play out of the actual murder -- with only slight changes in the details. Reeve allows that Easthampton, Long Island, can become Southampton, Long Island, in the script, for instance. The rest of the play's plot is a dead giveaway and to tell the truth Reeve doesn't mind a little gossip or even an inquiry into Cannon's apparently accidental death. It will boost the revenues and his own Warhol quotient.
Michael Caine is Sidney Bruhl, the megabucks-making playwright whose last four productions bombed and who would like nothing more than to quietly get back to working on a new play, perhaps with Reeve's input, that would redeem his reputation. He cannot permit Reeve's scandalous play-a-clef to be produced. So -- what else? -- he tries to murder him. In the end they wind up killing one another, the manuscript is appropriated by their neighbor, the psychic Helga Tensdoorp, and she makes a million bucks selling it to Broadway.
It's a lot of fun for a number of reasons. One is the production design. That multi-roomed, multi-storied house with the big windmill atop, situated on nine of what must be the most valuable acres on earth (Easthampton!) would be a splendid set of digs anywhere. You wouldn't be able to afford a pup tent in Easthamptom. The house is not overly large or baroque in its decor. It's just magnificently modest, although it's a little tidy for my tastes, the kind of house that's so clean you're afraid to step on the thick carpet for fear of leaving the imprint of a foot.
Next, the acting could hardly be improved upon. Caine, Cannon, and Fred Jones are superb. Dyan Cannon gives a pitch-perfect performance as the anxious wife whose slacks are so tight they look as if they'd been sprayed on, which is okay given her assets. Even Reeve, whose talent was limited, seems to find a comfortable niche in his role of affable but psychopathic murderer. Irene Worth, as the psychic neighbor Helga, was in some way hard to define, a mistake. Granted she -- or someone like her -- was necessary to the plot, but, my God, what an offensive snoop her character is, going around and claiming, "I feel pain in zis woom!" I suppose in order to make her a little more interesting, she's got up in sweats and a goofy looking cap with bicycle reflectors on it. Still, she's a nuisance from beginning to end.
You have to love Ira Levin's bitchy dialog. The distraught Caine begs Reeve to tell him why he wrote the tell-all play. "Because it's THERE, Sidney!" says Reeve, and Caine shouts, "That's MOUNTAINS, not PLAYS! Plays aren't there until some ***hole WRITES them!" Great too is Caine's call to the police after his wife drops dead of fright, as planned. He works himself up into a torrent of sobs, barely able to speak, as he reports the incident and implores that an ambulance be sent immediately. When he hangs up, his face assumes its usual placid expression, he blows his nose into his handkerchief, and walks away, all business again.
The climax, though suitably ironic, is confusing and noisy and full of artifice, lacking in the wicked charm that Levin and Lumet brought to the earlier scenes. The score is mostly made up of light-hearted riffs on the harpsichord, neatly fitting into the film.
You'll probably enjoy it.
This is a pretty fast and enjoyable crime thriller based on Ira Levin's play about two gay playwrights (Caine and Reeve) that plot the murder of one's rich wife (Cannon) to get the property and the insurance. The plot succeeds but Christopher Reeve as the younger and less established of the two writers decides to make a play out of the actual murder -- with only slight changes in the details. Reeve allows that Easthampton, Long Island, can become Southampton, Long Island, in the script, for instance. The rest of the play's plot is a dead giveaway and to tell the truth Reeve doesn't mind a little gossip or even an inquiry into Cannon's apparently accidental death. It will boost the revenues and his own Warhol quotient.
Michael Caine is Sidney Bruhl, the megabucks-making playwright whose last four productions bombed and who would like nothing more than to quietly get back to working on a new play, perhaps with Reeve's input, that would redeem his reputation. He cannot permit Reeve's scandalous play-a-clef to be produced. So -- what else? -- he tries to murder him. In the end they wind up killing one another, the manuscript is appropriated by their neighbor, the psychic Helga Tensdoorp, and she makes a million bucks selling it to Broadway.
It's a lot of fun for a number of reasons. One is the production design. That multi-roomed, multi-storied house with the big windmill atop, situated on nine of what must be the most valuable acres on earth (Easthampton!) would be a splendid set of digs anywhere. You wouldn't be able to afford a pup tent in Easthamptom. The house is not overly large or baroque in its decor. It's just magnificently modest, although it's a little tidy for my tastes, the kind of house that's so clean you're afraid to step on the thick carpet for fear of leaving the imprint of a foot.
Next, the acting could hardly be improved upon. Caine, Cannon, and Fred Jones are superb. Dyan Cannon gives a pitch-perfect performance as the anxious wife whose slacks are so tight they look as if they'd been sprayed on, which is okay given her assets. Even Reeve, whose talent was limited, seems to find a comfortable niche in his role of affable but psychopathic murderer. Irene Worth, as the psychic neighbor Helga, was in some way hard to define, a mistake. Granted she -- or someone like her -- was necessary to the plot, but, my God, what an offensive snoop her character is, going around and claiming, "I feel pain in zis woom!" I suppose in order to make her a little more interesting, she's got up in sweats and a goofy looking cap with bicycle reflectors on it. Still, she's a nuisance from beginning to end.
You have to love Ira Levin's bitchy dialog. The distraught Caine begs Reeve to tell him why he wrote the tell-all play. "Because it's THERE, Sidney!" says Reeve, and Caine shouts, "That's MOUNTAINS, not PLAYS! Plays aren't there until some ***hole WRITES them!" Great too is Caine's call to the police after his wife drops dead of fright, as planned. He works himself up into a torrent of sobs, barely able to speak, as he reports the incident and implores that an ambulance be sent immediately. When he hangs up, his face assumes its usual placid expression, he blows his nose into his handkerchief, and walks away, all business again.
The climax, though suitably ironic, is confusing and noisy and full of artifice, lacking in the wicked charm that Levin and Lumet brought to the earlier scenes. The score is mostly made up of light-hearted riffs on the harpsichord, neatly fitting into the film.
You'll probably enjoy it.