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

Rebecca (1940)

Alfred Hitchcock’s American debut “Rebecca” – based on a bestseller – defines what old timers (and us TCM fanatics) mean with “They don’t make them like they used to.” Four years older than my father, this gorgeously shot black-and-white thriller sucks you in to its tale of romance as a woman (Joan Fontaine) falls for a widower (Laurence Oliver). The man is, of course, crazy wealthy, owning a castle named Manderley, and crazy, haunted by wife No. 1. In what I gather is a sick-twist Hitchcock joke, an old bird (Florence Bates) tells our heroine that Manderley will eat her alive. She’s right. Our nameless heroine is smothered by the stone walls and wealth, the “ghost” of Rebecca, the wife who drowned mysteriously and questionably, and the black-oil stare of the watchful housekeeper (Judith Anderson), who defines wicked. Secrets boil over as our heroine sinks into a mess, her ramrod morality straining against fates I still awe at, second watching. This is exceptional filmmaking, smooth, and with as much dark humor as betrayals, our director taking us innocents for a ride. The cast is flawless, the film endlessly re-watchable. A+

My Week with Marilyn (2011)

Playing Marilyn Monroe is no small feat. She’s the definitive Hollywood icon of sex and tragedy, 40-plus years after her death. Yet, Michelle Williams nails the part with astounding skill, and not just of Marilyn Monroe, but the way Marilyn played “Marilyn” for cameras, for hangers-on, and adoring, endless fans. A role that seemingly even confused herself, according to the screenplay. The lyric “I’m not broken but you can see the cracks,” from U2, comes to mind. In 1957, Monroe arrived in England to make a film with Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh, eerily good), and the screen goddess created an instant clash with her wayward, unreliable off-screen ways. The “My” in the tile is Colin Clark, a young assistant director who befriends, and so much more, the star. A guy named Eddie Redmayne plays him. True story? Don’t know. If the real Colin lied in his books, he didn’t fib big, because he and Marilyn don’t go there. This is Williams’ film. It’s dull whenever she’s not onscreen. It’s a drama and a morality tale, so, yes, drugs are bad. Williams is a pure goddess on screen. Bravo, miss. B+

The Boys From Brazil (1978)

“The Boys From Brazil” is a mash-up paranoid mystery/Nazi thriller from the twisted mind of Ira Levine (the novels “Rosemary’s Baby” and “The Stepford Wives”). With classic actors. Here, Gregory Peck drinks everyone’s milkshake as a fictionalized version of Josef Mengele, living in South America and working SS-style decades after World War II. Fellow movie god Laurence Olivier grabs a straw, too, and slurps right back as Nazi hunter and all-around eccentric Ezra Lieberman. The climax has the men meet for a gloriously violent, over-the-top battle in a seemingly quaint Lancaster County, Pa., home. Delicious. I spent summer there as a child. Several plot strands (a captive South American boy) are left aside, and Steve Guttenberg is unconvincing as a young Nazi hunter who sets the plot going, but the climax is sick, lovely mind-screw Levine. Bonus points: Scariest screen child ever, over “Omen” and some (bleeped) up dogs. Not high art, not meant to be, but damn fine 1970s entertainment. B+