The Last of Sheila (1973) +

An utter lark of a murder mystery, cleverly crafted by the (perhaps) unlikely screenwriting partners of actor Anthony Perkins and composer Stephen Sondheim and filmed by longtime Sondheim pal, Herbert Ross. (In short, the project is about as A-gay as any Hollywood project could get, circa 1973.) The set-up is delightfully baroque: a set-up that camps on the early 1970s fascination with all-star Agatha Christie parlor plays restaged in exotic locales; a delightedly sour tone that layers a scathing critique of Hollywood's most mercenary shallowness; and an intricate and captivating central mystery that keeps the twists coming until the final moments of the narrative. Featuring a delicious/weird cast (James Mason, Raquel Welch, Dyan Cannon, Joan Hackett, Ian McShane, Richard Benjamin, and James Coburn), the film surprises for the array of pleasures it assembles. You can enjoy the mystery while also delighting at the silliness of the spectacle. James Coburn is clearly having a blast, as are Cannon and Benjamin. McShane is a treat to look at. Hackett's acting her balls off, while Mason outacts everyone while barely breaking a sweat. And then there's Raquel. It will likely remain a mystery whether or not the whole character of Alice was intended as a spoof of Raquel Welch's signature style -- what I have called her "strangely passionate alacrity" -- or not. The filmmakers give poor Raquel the lamest lines, and she delivers them with a crazy sincerity that just makes me wonder if Tony, Steve and Herb weren't just pissing themselves with giggles in the editing room. It's not that they're mocking her, exactly, because there is no hint of cruelty in the film's presentation of her. Rather, it seems that they are just spooling the rope to see how far she will take it... Indeed, I wonder if this performance will emerge as one of my favorite Raquel turns in her superstar period. I'm not sure why the film remained off my radar until very recently. It's smart, weird, hilarious. Some of the casting choices are strange, and possibly attributable to the likelihood that they wanted to make this movie with their friends. (For example, Dyan Cannon is nothing in the excellent role of Christine, the ambitious Hollywood agent; she's also about years too young for the role, a hard-bitten Hollywood dame who was a secretary in the HUAC era. It's not impossible that Cannon, who would have been in her mid-teens during the McCarthy moment, might have worked in the secretarial pool at 16 but Cannon always acts like she's sixteen so we don't really get it that she and Coburn and Mason are industry peers who understand each other. I would have loved to see someone like Bacall or Stapleton in this role; would have read entirely differently.) The whole treatment of male homosexuality, too, is a fascinating glimpse into the lives folks like Ross and Perkins must have led. And while I was able to "call" most of the later twists -- the final use of the puppets; the red herrings in the first interpretation of the crime; etcetera -- the film remained a complete hoot, of the sort that I wish they made more of... I don't like reading mysteries but I sure do enjoy watching attractive, ostensibly glamorous people play at murder. And the spectacle of James Coburn in drag while wearing a monk's robes? Cuckoo crazy in only the best of ways. A lark.