AUTHORS Michael Sutton and Anthony Singleton described this as a
''wicked comedy.'' I found it an uneasy hybrid -- a rich farce
sandwiched between indigestible wedges of nostalgia.
Three successful writers of the gentlemanly detective fiction of the
1920s and 30s meet in their London club, the Murder League. They recall
the old days, lament their passing, and then decide not just to conceive
but to commit one last perfect crime, dash and to blazes with the
consequences. Pat to hand comes a victim: the tabloids term him the
Baker Street Bludgeoner. Their trained minds instantly focus on a
suspect.
Donald Sinden's character dreams of the activities of his ace
detective -- a one-legged midget. June Whitfield, the Agatha Christie of
the trio sits placidly knitting. Frank Middlemass, a lovely blundering
old buffer, regales them with the powers of ''the venom of a Tasman
tarantula.''
Even given such talents the preliminaries make heavy-going.
The middle act, however, redeems it -- farce of split-second timing
made funnier by the genuine quality of the characters' bumbled details.
Picture the clever Miss Whitfield in a too-tight evening dress on a sofa
practising poses to seduce the victim. Mr Sinden stands behind, hidden
by a screen, waiting to administer chloroform. Miss Whitfield moves at
the vital moment, gets the dose, staggers, lands back at the other end
of the sofa just as the wobbling screen has been repositioned and gets a
second dose. Momentum is sustained as the Bludgeoner is dragged into a
gorilla outfit and hauled up on top of a cupboard. Fishing line is
fixed, ropes rigged, a chandalier lowered, and the plotters retreat
behind the locked door -- the perfect crime!
Sadly that's the end of the fun. The final act is all twists and
turns, tying up the plot but never recapturing zest.
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