GLENN KENNY'S REVIEW (posted 10/11/07)

This is a perhaps even more misbegotten remake than the Farrelly Brothers' update of The Heartbreak Kid, which may shock those who look at its distinguished roster of credited talent. And, indeed, when I first heard that the tricked-up, clockwork thriller by playwright Anthony Shaffer — the subject of a 1972 film starring Caine and directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz — was getting a new script courtesy of Harold Pinter, I thought, well, this could be something. And it is something.

What that thing is, unfortunately, is a rather plodding self-parody gussied up with incredibly unconvincing genre frippery and further kneecapped by some of the showiest acting and directing you'll see in any year. Caine, who played the young Milo Tindle in the 1972 film, here plays Andrew Wyke, the suave, successful mystery author whose preposterously high-tech house receives a not entirely welcome visitor in the person of Tindle, here played by Law. Charming, handsome, and more than mildly gigolo-esque, Tindle claims to be in love with Wyke's wife. Wyke, after baiting Tindle, mostly about how poor he is, makes Milo a sporting proposition, which only sets the stage for some murderous can-you-top-this gamesmanship between the two would-be alphas.

Part of the Pinterization of the Shaffer text, a pretty straight piece of showmanship, involves putting some spin on the story's plot twists (the ones that publicists have instructed us reviewers not to give away), placing them in a somewhat ambiguous light. At least, I think that's what the idea is. What ends up happening instead, though, is that Law, Caine, and Branagh look like they're completely screwing up said twists. It was at about the half-hour mark of this less-than-90-minute (thank God for small favors) picture that I thought, Wait, are they really expecting anybody to buy this? Followed by the darker thought, On account that they're Harold Pinter and Kenneth Branagh? (Branagh, by the way — among his other sins here — shoots his actors via so many reflective surfaces that the movie looks like Losey's The Servant on steroids. Not just any steroids; the ones that cause psychosis.) By trying to make some sort of profound adage out of what's essentially an extended vaudeville trick, the creators of Sleuth insult their audience in ways heretofore unimaginable. Which, again, is something.

— Glenn Kenny