Compromising Positions

This picture crept into area theaters before I even knew it existed, although considering how oblivious I have been to everything lately, that probably wasn’t too hard. I went to see it because it was playing close by, therefore without the advantage of any reviews, word-of-mouth, or even ads. Some would say that this is the ideal way to see a movie, but I usually like to be a little more informed about something I am going to pay to see. No matter.

At some point in the evening, I realized that the movie was based on a novel of the same name and I actually had fleeting recollections of leafing through the novel (probably looking for the good parts) sometime in the past. I couldn’t really remember what it had been about exactly, but I knew it had received good reviews (we’re talking about the book here) and was generally considered to be a serious novel (which probably explains why there weren’t any good parts). With the benefit of the movie, we now remember that the plot revolves around the murder of a dentist in a plush suburb, and one housewife’s attempts to solve the mystery therein. The book was more than just a whodunnit, though; it had a number of angles to play with.

Likewise, the movie does the same. It has been praised (and even plugged) for being “1/3 murder mystery, 1/3 comedy, and 1/3 story about a woman finding herself” or something to that effect. Exactly. Exactly the problem, I mean. The book may have been able to get away with this kind of layering (books should be able to) but the movie fails precisely because it cannot do so. (I guess good movies should be able to do it too; I can only conclude that that makes this movie not good.) It purports to “tear the cover” off of affluent suburban living—to expose the seedy, seamy underpinnings beneath the handsome homes and the big salaries. These underpinnings are presented as vague references to “the mob” and breathless whisperings about “pornography,” and it is the murder of the dentist that starts to bring all these things to light.

So yeah, there is a murder mystery, as in “who killed the dentist and why” but they couldn’t leave well enough alone. The thing tries to be a thriller and a comedy and a satire. And then just for good measure throws in this bewildering tangent about women’s lib; it seems the heroine’s husband doesn’t like her getting involved in this sort of mess (even if she is a former reporter) and she resents his interference and protest. So they have a lot of arguments about it, etc., etc., all of which starts to sound like outtakes from “An Unmarried Woman” or “Shoot the Moon.” Oh my, another repressed housewife forced to subdue her true abilities because of an insensitive mate. Fine. There is a place to explore that phenomenon, but this picture is not it. Every time you try to get into the flow of the story, this feminist manifesto crawls out like an unwelcome guest at a party. The picture has been praised for addressing the issue, but really it just muddles things up. The worst crime at all is that it stars Edward Herrmann (one of my favorite actors) in the role of the sensitive hubby—makes him a villain in that regard—and he actually shouts and loses his temper. And though they do make up at the end, and hubby realizes the error of his ways, the producers should still be drawn and quartered for making the unflappable Herrmann (whom we loved in “The Purple Rose of Cairo”) master of insouciance, act like an enraged adolescent.

As the heroine, Susan Sarandon (who looked so lovely and sensuous in the likes of “Tempest”) does a dismayingly good job of looking frumpy and plain. She also attacks the part with the ferocity of an overeager high school drama student, and she overacts just as badly, all wide eyes and stuttering to show how she’s baffled by what’s happening, yet at the same time fascinated and dying to get involved. She can do better. Raul Julia, as the detective in charge of the case, is the only one who comes through with his reputation more or less intact. He manages to be a fairly commanding presence. Judith Ivey is alternately funny and repellent as a middle-aged nympho (friend of the heroine) and Mary Beth Hurt is rather creepy as another neighbor with something to hide. Ivey lets loose with some rather smutty remarks which probably looked daring on paper but come across as terribly affected. They probably helped get the film an “R” rating; to be honest, I kept wondering just why it did have an “R.” I mean, there is almost no violence, and all the sex is by allusion only. Odd. There are TV shows that go a lot farther. Maybe it was just the topics—adultery and porno—that did it, but it was a lot tamer than a lot of TV fare.

I guess the producers figured they needed an “R” to draw in the crowds, but anyone who goes looking for any kind of a thrill—something a little provocative—(and I know I did) is going to be disappointed. There are a couple of suspenseful moments, but they are mixed up with a lot of jokes (some good, some bad) including the big joke of having the guilty parties portrayed as absurd cartoon characters (there are no real people like that). The film rattled along, and I kept watching, but alas, it ultimately decayed into dreary TV predictability, complete with cops bursting in to save the day at the last second. I suppose I must give it some credit. To be fair, the movie had its entertaining moments, and at least it’s not a barefaced bid for the under-14 set (that alone is worth applause), but in the end it’s like a clumsy juggler trying to juggle four or five plates. The picture is not skillful enough to juggle its disparate elements, and they all come crashing down. The clincher is that at the end (and maybe this is just me, though I doubt it) I knew who had done the murder (I think) but I really was not sure why (I’m still not). Maybe it should have been just a comedy after all.