Sleuth (15.)
Directed by Kenneth Branagh.
Starring Michael Caine, Jude Law. 90 mins
The systematic demolition of Michael Caine back catalogue started by the remakes of The Italian Job and Alfie continue with this new version of his 1972 hit. This time Kenneth Branagh and Harold Pinter combine to do the job roughly equivalent to that done by Sylvester Stallone on Get Carter.
Based on Anthony Shaffer’s play, Sleuth is a classic two hander about a successful author, Wyke, who invites his wife’s lover Milo to his country house to instigate a game of wits in which the pair try to get the upper hand over each other. The original had Olivier's Wyke taking on Caine's Milo; this rematch has Caine moving up to the Wyke role, and taking on Law.
The immediate problem is that while the original version was a balanced match, the nation’s finest stage actor against its finest screen actor, Caine v Law is just not fair sides. Caine is just about our finest living screen actor while Law is someone who was good in that thing a few years back which you can’t remember. It’s the equivalent of casting David Hemmings opposite Olivier in the original.
Both characters often use Tennis scoring to mark their progress against one another and if this was a tennis match Law would be seen to be running all over the court trying to make returns, slipping in the odd not necessarily effective flourish while a motionless Caine bats it back without breaking sweat.
Not that Branagh and Pinter really help out much. The film takes place in Wyke’s house, an improbable modernist concoction full of Minimalist design, jagged abrupt edges, remote controlled sliding walls and filled with art works by Anthony Gormley, Gary Hume and others. It looks like Damian Hurst had got the set of the Cabinet of Dr Caligari and turned it into West End nightclub. Even a Bond villain wouldn’t be seen dead in it.
Not that Sleuth calls for any great realism. Theatrical artifice is its driving force and the original is like Phantom of the Repertory Theatre, the work of someone driven slightly mad by year of doing Agatha Christie. It was gleeful piece of ham.
Pinter isn't having any of that and in his glum overhaul, he’s stripped it down to the bare essentials. He's taken away everything that supported the lines and characterisation and forced them to stand alone. In essence, he’s cut away all the juicy ham and served up the bare bones. Which is cruel as the final act is left terribly exposed. The supposed menace is vaguely ridiculous, it looks like the work who really, really enjoyed Ben Kingsley’s turn in Sexy Beast.
Directed by Kenneth Branagh.
Starring Michael Caine, Jude Law. 90 mins
The systematic demolition of Michael Caine back catalogue started by the remakes of The Italian Job and Alfie continue with this new version of his 1972 hit. This time Kenneth Branagh and Harold Pinter combine to do the job roughly equivalent to that done by Sylvester Stallone on Get Carter.
Based on Anthony Shaffer’s play, Sleuth is a classic two hander about a successful author, Wyke, who invites his wife’s lover Milo to his country house to instigate a game of wits in which the pair try to get the upper hand over each other. The original had Olivier's Wyke taking on Caine's Milo; this rematch has Caine moving up to the Wyke role, and taking on Law.
The immediate problem is that while the original version was a balanced match, the nation’s finest stage actor against its finest screen actor, Caine v Law is just not fair sides. Caine is just about our finest living screen actor while Law is someone who was good in that thing a few years back which you can’t remember. It’s the equivalent of casting David Hemmings opposite Olivier in the original.
Both characters often use Tennis scoring to mark their progress against one another and if this was a tennis match Law would be seen to be running all over the court trying to make returns, slipping in the odd not necessarily effective flourish while a motionless Caine bats it back without breaking sweat.
Not that Branagh and Pinter really help out much. The film takes place in Wyke’s house, an improbable modernist concoction full of Minimalist design, jagged abrupt edges, remote controlled sliding walls and filled with art works by Anthony Gormley, Gary Hume and others. It looks like Damian Hurst had got the set of the Cabinet of Dr Caligari and turned it into West End nightclub. Even a Bond villain wouldn’t be seen dead in it.
Not that Sleuth calls for any great realism. Theatrical artifice is its driving force and the original is like Phantom of the Repertory Theatre, the work of someone driven slightly mad by year of doing Agatha Christie. It was gleeful piece of ham.
Pinter isn't having any of that and in his glum overhaul, he’s stripped it down to the bare essentials. He's taken away everything that supported the lines and characterisation and forced them to stand alone. In essence, he’s cut away all the juicy ham and served up the bare bones. Which is cruel as the final act is left terribly exposed. The supposed menace is vaguely ridiculous, it looks like the work who really, really enjoyed Ben Kingsley’s turn in Sexy Beast.
