Sleuth (1972)

I saw the original “Sleuth” ages ago, whilst in college, and remember it as highly entertaining, a wild cinematic shape shifter, turning in on itself repeatedly as a cuckolded old man of wealth (Laurence Olivier) invites the hairdresser (Michael Caine) sleeping with his wife to his home for a cruel game of psychological torture. But the tables turn, and the characters onscreen one-up each other, as do the actors, classic theater thesp versus young hotshot sex symbol. I also recall it being painfully overlong, just one damn parlor trick too much. And, damn it, I hold at exactly that. Seriously, watch this film if you love acting, the way people play at bouncing off each other on screen, revealing -– and more importantly, holding back information -– until exactly the most painful or ludicrous moment. But beware, past the two-hour mark, you as I did, may get antsy and there’s 20 minutes to go. Based on a play, Anthony Shaffer’s screenplay desperately needs shortening. Olivier and Caine are beyond great, I can barely imagine the thrill of being on set. So watch. But squirm. Avoid the remake. B