bardolatry

Directed by Kenneth Branagh

starring Michael Caine and Jude Law

War of Wits

Sleuth kicks something vicious. Those familiar with the deliciously over-the-top 1972 version, which pitted legendary Laurence Olivier against a lean-and-hungry Michael Caine, may rightly wonder, why bother? They already got this one right. The play by Anthony Shaffer was a clever bit of gamesmanship—a sort of country manor “cozy” mixed with a black comedy of manners spiced by dashes of Grand Guignol theatricality—and it was played to the hilt by Lord Larry and his upstart challenger, Caine. Great hambone fun, check it out.

As if to compensate for the inevitable why bother factor, the remake brings some heavyweights to the ring. In a neat reversal, we now have Michael Caine in the role of Elder Statesman and Jude Law (who filled Caine’s shoes in a tepid remake of Alfie a few years back) looking to prove his mettle. There aren’t any featherweights behind the camera either: bardolatry favorite Kenneth Branagh sits in the director’s chair and the script is by a not-too-obscure scribe named Harold Pinter. So, why bother? As the poster solemnly pronounces: Caine, Law, Branagh, Pinter. ’Nuff said.

The movie almost collapses under the weight of that line-up, but audiences ready to rumble with a cynical exercise in style, wit, and showmanship may get malicious pleasure out of the proceedings.

The set-up is simple. Out-of-work actor, Milo Tindle (Law) visits the country estate of wealthy mystery novelist, Andrew Wyke (Caine). Milo, who is having an affair with Wyke’s wife, wants Andrew to grant her a divorce. The old lion agrees—on one condition: Milo has to help him stage a fake break-in to put one over on the insurance people, thus securing the financial security of both men in the process. “Easy as pissing,” Wyke says. Yeah, right. Let the games begin.

With a script by Sir Pinter—an expert at putting kick spins on even the most desultory of exchanges—nothing is ever what it seems. As the two men size each other up in the first act, Pinter’s words are poison-tipped swords the characters use to thrust and parry. I read somewhere that Pinter retained only one line from the original Shaffer script, and his overhaul is heavy on mind-games, light on coziness. (“So you’re the fellow who’s f—ing my wife?” is a Pinter-penned line if ever I’ve heard one).

Caine and Law, two wonderful actors routinely hired to add prestige to Hollywood piffle, are clearly having a grand ol’ time tearing into each other. Caine, with his hooded eyes and horsey choppers, looks like he could literally eat Jude Law for lunch. When it comes to performance, he just about does—the effect is like watching Law endure an 86-minute Master’s Workshop in acting. But it’d be wrong to assume that Law rolls over and plays dead. He’s an awfully good actor in his own right (as Gattaca and The Talented Mr. Ripley attest) and he comes out (and goes down) swinging. But for my money, Caine, with his expert timing and nuanced delivery, wins this match in a tiebreak.

Watching two fine actors do their best playing two nasty characters doing their worst is a guilty pleasure. They have to carry the movie, however, since the plot is pretty negligible. The 1972 version had one of those shocking “twists” midway through that no doubt elicited a mass gasp from its audience opening night. A similar ploy is pulled here, but you can spot the twist coming a mile away. I got the sense that the 2007 creative team had less interest in the surprise than in the performance of the surprise. I mean, come on, just look at the two-man cast list and tell me that doesn’t give away the punchline. (Let’s just say, where’s Alec Cawthorne when you need him?)

But as the great Roger Ebert has said, the best movies aren’t what the plot’s about, but how the movie’s about it. The 2007 Sleuth works as an exercise in pure style. Wyke’s mansion is a modernist mausoleum, awash in blue and silver, with all manner of geeky gadgetry under Wyke’s remote control. The slick set design, kooky camerawork, and acting pyrotechnics—not to mention the Pinter-provided repartee—kept my mind engaged even as I lost all interest in the human element of the drama.

Or should I say melodrama? This version is not without surprises of its own. As the action escalates, and the two Alpha males (Alfie males? Haha…sorry) engage in a Pissing Contest of epic proportions, Pinter injects an unexpected element completely absent from the 1972 version. While the first go-round played with the idea of British class-consciousness by pairing aristocratic Olivier and Cockney Caine, this update has a lot more to say about gender roles and the crisis of masculinity (surprise, surprise, coming from Pinter).

The audience starts to realize, perhaps as the characters do, that the whole “war of wits” and games of one-upmanship between the cruel and calculating men have a decidedly homoerotic subtext. The men are more in love with each other—or, at least, with each other’s sick, twisted minds—than they are with the woman they’re ostensibly fighting over.

Yet even that added layer can’t quite keep things compelling as the movie speeds towards its climax. Clocking in at a streamlined 86 minutes (about an hour shorter than the original), this Sleuth upgrade nevertheless starts to wear thin by the end of its trim running time. Branagh’s tendency to confuse high drama with overwrought silliness rears its ugly head as much here as it did in Dead Again (great movie, goofy last sequence), Hamlet (hit-and-miss, with a misfired last act), and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (goofy to the back gills). I can’t help but love the guy, though, and watching his movies derail can often be more fun than watching a sober-minded drama politely do everything right.

Add Jude Law and Michael Caine spitting Pinter venom, and the action is as entertaining as watching four careening semis pile-up on the freeway—visceral fun, but nasty to behold.

Tags: Branagh, Jude Law, Michael Caine, Pinter, Sleuth