Post by Eddie Love on Nov 11, 2010 22:20:58 GMT -5
In the 1960s and 70s as Stephen Sondheim was building his reputation as the revolutionary creative force in the American musical theater, he was also gaining notoriety for another of his passions (pun intended). He had a reputation for channeling his obsession with games of all types into creating and staging elaborate games of his own, that would send friends on ingenious scavenger hunts across Manhattan. These events became legendary among theater sorts. The British playwright Anthony Shaffer in his classic stage thriller SLEUTH exploited the devious dramatic possibilities of a character driven by these types of enterprises. But soon, Sondheim himself employed his game-playing mania as the basis for his only screenplay. Written with Anthony Perkins, one of his fellow players, the 1973 film THE LAST OF SHEILA, belongs to a very small category of films, indeed: the whodunit that somehow becomes even more entertaining and involving when you know the solution.
The Sheila of the title is a famed Hollywood gossip columnist. In a pre-credit sequence, we see her killed by a hit-and-run driver as she flees a party in Bel-Air. On the anniversary of her death, her husband, a powerful film producer, assembles guests from the night of his wife’s death to join him on his yacht in the French Riviera. He’s known for his prodigious, even sadistic and manipulative, game playing, and he has an especially elaborate one cooked up that assigns gossipy insinuations to each of his guests. In each port of call they have to unearth and interpret clues as to which guest is incriminated in that night’s accusation. The players include a powerful Hollywood agent, a down-on-his-luck writer with his wealthy wife, a gorgeous starlet and her husband, and a has-been director. The fun and games, such as they are, soon turn sour when one round of play ends in murder.
This is a really marvelous film, serving up delicious entertainment, while never feeling simply trivial or frivolous. The smart script traffics in some cynical inside Hollywood digs. It may be a little arch at times, but the director Herbert Ross ensures the tone of the film never is. The characters are all three-dimensional, even if not one of them is completely sympathetic. Indeed, as the film goes on, each of the ostensible protagonists are revealed at their worst, and not just for the dark secrets in their past.
Amid all the ingenious game playing, Sondheim and Perkins also color the script with some subtle, but powerful dramatic dynamics. We’ve all seen the suspects gathered together in a ship’s stateroom to have the evidence laid out before them, but never in a scene where the “detective” takes the investigation to conclusions that are troublingly personal. Also, the later half of the film essentially features two competing sleuths working together, yet also at cross-purposes. The one round of the game that we see play out is also very cool.
The all-star cast is wonderful and, rather than just a showcase of star turns, Ross orchestrates them to create a real ensemble feel. Scenes featuring the whole cast are perfectly calibrated, and each player has their moments to shine, though they interact with wonderful cohesion.
This picture serves as a kind of 70s sex-symbol summit with both Raquel Welch and Dyan Cannon lighting up the screen in their bikini-clad glory, and they do not disappoint. Each ‘s performance is also fine, Raquel with an ironic turn as a breathy starlet and Dyan in the zone as the brassy agent. And yet, it’s the tremulous, fragile and ethereal Joan Hackett who creates an even more indelible impression. She gives a really heartbreaking performance as the writer’s wife. As her husband Richard Benjamin is also superb, another example of a quirky 70s leading man. Coburn’s mischievous, charisma effortlessly conveys the sinister egotism of the producer who sets the game in motion. And the masterful James Mason is an actor who can fascinate just by looking of into space and easily convincing us he’s lost in thought. Oh, and long before he was putting nipples on Batman, Joel Schumacher designed the costumes for this movie, and you’ll marvel at the tight trousers Ian McShane has squeezed himself into. He may have been the least lustrous of the cast at the time, but he terrifically holds his own.
The film has barely dated, and the missteps are few. There is a shocking “dunh-dunh!” moment of menace towards the end involving some highly unlikely implements for strangulation being brandished, that is sure to raise some titters today, as may one character’s revelation about their bisexuality. But the film’s two hours fly by in Ross’ seamlessly crafted production that also showcases some enticing location work.
SHEILA holds up astonishingly well, and a good bit better than Sidney Lumet’s stylish, enjoyable, yet also fussy and overlong MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS. SHEILA reminds me of DIAL “M” FOR MURDER in that the details of the mystery play out with such artful urgency, that even the most prosaic clues are fascinating, even if you’ve seen the film before. If you’ve never seen this, then you are really in for a classic surprise.
The Sheila of the title is a famed Hollywood gossip columnist. In a pre-credit sequence, we see her killed by a hit-and-run driver as she flees a party in Bel-Air. On the anniversary of her death, her husband, a powerful film producer, assembles guests from the night of his wife’s death to join him on his yacht in the French Riviera. He’s known for his prodigious, even sadistic and manipulative, game playing, and he has an especially elaborate one cooked up that assigns gossipy insinuations to each of his guests. In each port of call they have to unearth and interpret clues as to which guest is incriminated in that night’s accusation. The players include a powerful Hollywood agent, a down-on-his-luck writer with his wealthy wife, a gorgeous starlet and her husband, and a has-been director. The fun and games, such as they are, soon turn sour when one round of play ends in murder.
This is a really marvelous film, serving up delicious entertainment, while never feeling simply trivial or frivolous. The smart script traffics in some cynical inside Hollywood digs. It may be a little arch at times, but the director Herbert Ross ensures the tone of the film never is. The characters are all three-dimensional, even if not one of them is completely sympathetic. Indeed, as the film goes on, each of the ostensible protagonists are revealed at their worst, and not just for the dark secrets in their past.
Amid all the ingenious game playing, Sondheim and Perkins also color the script with some subtle, but powerful dramatic dynamics. We’ve all seen the suspects gathered together in a ship’s stateroom to have the evidence laid out before them, but never in a scene where the “detective” takes the investigation to conclusions that are troublingly personal. Also, the later half of the film essentially features two competing sleuths working together, yet also at cross-purposes. The one round of the game that we see play out is also very cool.
The all-star cast is wonderful and, rather than just a showcase of star turns, Ross orchestrates them to create a real ensemble feel. Scenes featuring the whole cast are perfectly calibrated, and each player has their moments to shine, though they interact with wonderful cohesion.
This picture serves as a kind of 70s sex-symbol summit with both Raquel Welch and Dyan Cannon lighting up the screen in their bikini-clad glory, and they do not disappoint. Each ‘s performance is also fine, Raquel with an ironic turn as a breathy starlet and Dyan in the zone as the brassy agent. And yet, it’s the tremulous, fragile and ethereal Joan Hackett who creates an even more indelible impression. She gives a really heartbreaking performance as the writer’s wife. As her husband Richard Benjamin is also superb, another example of a quirky 70s leading man. Coburn’s mischievous, charisma effortlessly conveys the sinister egotism of the producer who sets the game in motion. And the masterful James Mason is an actor who can fascinate just by looking of into space and easily convincing us he’s lost in thought. Oh, and long before he was putting nipples on Batman, Joel Schumacher designed the costumes for this movie, and you’ll marvel at the tight trousers Ian McShane has squeezed himself into. He may have been the least lustrous of the cast at the time, but he terrifically holds his own.
The film has barely dated, and the missteps are few. There is a shocking “dunh-dunh!” moment of menace towards the end involving some highly unlikely implements for strangulation being brandished, that is sure to raise some titters today, as may one character’s revelation about their bisexuality. But the film’s two hours fly by in Ross’ seamlessly crafted production that also showcases some enticing location work.
SHEILA holds up astonishingly well, and a good bit better than Sidney Lumet’s stylish, enjoyable, yet also fussy and overlong MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS. SHEILA reminds me of DIAL “M” FOR MURDER in that the details of the mystery play out with such artful urgency, that even the most prosaic clues are fascinating, even if you’ve seen the film before. If you’ve never seen this, then you are really in for a classic surprise.