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Secret Window, Or, Why Infidelity Is a Bad, Bad Thing
I finally watched Secret Window yesterday. I'd heard so many bad things about it that I went in prepared for the worst, but it was a decent flick. It was certainly better than eighty percent of the creative offal etched into cellophane and shipped to theaters in the hopes of parting you from your money. Was it scary? Not really, but then, I'd read the novella upon which it was based, so I knew where the joyride was going to stop. Was it innovative? No. In fact, if you've watched horror/suspense for more than a week, you'll spot the twist the minute the train leaves the station, but it's still a fun ride.
Our hero, novelist Mort Rainey, has had a very bad year. Six months ago, he hied himself unto the local love shack and found his wife doing very naughty things with another man. After trying to avenge himself by screaming the adulterers to death, Mort takes refuge in his writing cabin on Lake Tashmore. The walking Cafe Vagina known as his wife, Amy, takes the house.
A Brief Authorial Interruption: I never understand this logic. Why is it that when a relationship implodes, the woman almost always gets to keep the house, regardless of who bought it or the circumstances of the breakup. Because she's a woman? So? If being bereft of shelter is such a hardship, maybe she should have thought before bedding another man. Perhaps the draught blowing through the cardboard box will encourage her to keep her tits covered. Old Mort should have packed her belongings, whistling all the while, and introduced her philandering buttocks to the pitiless embrace of the curb.
But I digress.
Anyway, Mort has been up to a whole lot of not during his seclusion at the lake. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not bathing, and from the looks of his teeth, not brushing. His laptop screen boasts four lines of bad writing. His only companion is a blind German shepherd.
One day, his nap is interrupted by a knock at the door. When he opens it, a man accuses him of stealing his story. He wants Mort to "fix the ending and publish" it under the right name. The man, John Shooter, gives him tree days to either comply or prove he wrote the story first. As any writer worth his salt would do, he denies the charge and slams the door in his face. Then, he promptly heads for the local police to report the stalker. Unfortunately, the sherriff is seventy-eight and more interested in his therapeutic needlepoint than in taking a description of Mr. Creepy. Fortunately for us-and for Mort-Johnny has a backup plan, and after he returns home to find his dog nailed to the dumpster with a screwdriver, he calls it in.
The backup plan, as it turns out, is Charles S. Dutton, and this is good, because with his impressive frame and deep, soothing voice, we feel safe. He'll get to the bottom of things. He'll make the crazy stalker, John Shooter, go away. And pay attention to that name, kids; it'll be important later.
To get his proof, Mort drives by his former home to pick up the copy of the magazine that will prove his innocence, but when he gets there, wifey is stepping out with Ted, so he nixes the pick-up. Poor Mort. Oh, well, maybe Shooter will go away.
Unfortunately for Mort, John Shooter doesn't go away. No, in fact, he ups the ante by torching the Victorian mansion that now belongs to Amy of the Loose Knickers. Alas, Lady Loose Knickers was boffing Ted, her illicit paramour, and escaped unscathed. Pity, that, because Maria Bello plays a superb whiny bag of sexual promiscuity and emotional entitlement. By the time she calls Mort, blubbing incoherently about how different things might have been "if they hadn't lost the baby," one is seized with the compulsion to beat her about the head and shoulders with a bag of bricks, screaming, "You were the one who cheated, you filthy, filthy whore. Shut up! No biscuit for you!" I don't think that's what the director was going for, so if you're keeping a scorecard, a minus for conveying intent.
Another thing the impromptu barbecue does is introduce us to Ted, who drips skeeze like pheromone musk. He insinuates himself into the arson investigation and subsequent insurance adjusters' meeting, and we are wholly on Mort's side when he calls Ted a "rubbernecking asshole". Later, when Ted decides to engage in a pickup cockfight on the sidewalk and nearly pushes Mort into the path of an oncoming bus, we begin to suspect him of ulterior motives.
Our suspicions gain credence when Ted is spotted filling up at a gas station in Tashmore Lake. Mort confronts his nemesis, who admits he was driving out to see him in the hopes of getting him to sign the divorce papers. Snark ensues, and after a well-placed verbal jibe, Ted proves he is indeed a lover, not a fighter by getting bested by his own car window.
German Engineering-1
Ted-0
Meanwhile, things are getting curioser and curioser at Che Mort. Despite the fact that Charles S. Dutton checks the cabin every night, Mort keeps hearing noises. After a round of Bathroom Mirror and Shower Door Jiu Jitsu With Sacred Fire Poker, Mort and Dutton agree to go talk to some locals in the morning to find out what they know.
Dutton never shows the following day, so Mort heads into town to find him. The waitress at the cafe in town insists she never saw him, and since we all know that the waitress is the font of all knowledge, he gives up his search and heads home. Turns out Shooter has been waiting for him. Shooter is Not Kidding At All, and to prove his point, he has killed Dutton and a local. He again insists that Mort "fix the story" and leaves Mort to dispose of the bodies in Tashmore Lake, which he does.
Fresh off the body-burying circuit, Mort heads to the post office. His agent, you see, has overnighted the magazine in question. Yes! Salvation! But when he opens the magazine, someone has cut out the relevant pages. Oh, no!
For reasons convenient only to the progression of plot, Lady Loose Knickers decides that she absolutely must get those divorce papers signed, as adultery has lost its zest. "No," she says when Ted offers to go with her. "I was married to him for ten years. I know how to talk to him." Yes, and we see how well your stellar communication skills saved your marriage. Off she flounces.
Ted, keen to safeguard the pootie tang everybody wants, follows a few minutes later.
Well, it's the last mistake they'll ever make, because as it happens, Mort has been having a powwow with his psyche. Mort is Shooter, which, on further inspection, means Shoot her. Oh, how sly.
Well, he doesn't shoot her, but he does stab her through the ankle with his ubiquitous screwdriver. Just as he's about to finish her off with his shovel, Ted arrives on the scene. Damn that Ted. Always interrupting a good thing. Well, no matter. Ted receives a shovel to the face for his pains, followed by decapitation. Loose Knickers wails piteously, at least until her head makes a hasty departure from her neck. Whee!
A few months later, we see Mort in town. He looks better-rested, healthy. He's got braces and a new haircut. He looks like a new man. And in his secret garden, the corn grows tall.
Grade: B
Our hero, novelist Mort Rainey, has had a very bad year. Six months ago, he hied himself unto the local love shack and found his wife doing very naughty things with another man. After trying to avenge himself by screaming the adulterers to death, Mort takes refuge in his writing cabin on Lake Tashmore. The walking Cafe Vagina known as his wife, Amy, takes the house.
A Brief Authorial Interruption: I never understand this logic. Why is it that when a relationship implodes, the woman almost always gets to keep the house, regardless of who bought it or the circumstances of the breakup. Because she's a woman? So? If being bereft of shelter is such a hardship, maybe she should have thought before bedding another man. Perhaps the draught blowing through the cardboard box will encourage her to keep her tits covered. Old Mort should have packed her belongings, whistling all the while, and introduced her philandering buttocks to the pitiless embrace of the curb.
But I digress.
Anyway, Mort has been up to a whole lot of not during his seclusion at the lake. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not bathing, and from the looks of his teeth, not brushing. His laptop screen boasts four lines of bad writing. His only companion is a blind German shepherd.
One day, his nap is interrupted by a knock at the door. When he opens it, a man accuses him of stealing his story. He wants Mort to "fix the ending and publish" it under the right name. The man, John Shooter, gives him tree days to either comply or prove he wrote the story first. As any writer worth his salt would do, he denies the charge and slams the door in his face. Then, he promptly heads for the local police to report the stalker. Unfortunately, the sherriff is seventy-eight and more interested in his therapeutic needlepoint than in taking a description of Mr. Creepy. Fortunately for us-and for Mort-Johnny has a backup plan, and after he returns home to find his dog nailed to the dumpster with a screwdriver, he calls it in.
The backup plan, as it turns out, is Charles S. Dutton, and this is good, because with his impressive frame and deep, soothing voice, we feel safe. He'll get to the bottom of things. He'll make the crazy stalker, John Shooter, go away. And pay attention to that name, kids; it'll be important later.
To get his proof, Mort drives by his former home to pick up the copy of the magazine that will prove his innocence, but when he gets there, wifey is stepping out with Ted, so he nixes the pick-up. Poor Mort. Oh, well, maybe Shooter will go away.
Unfortunately for Mort, John Shooter doesn't go away. No, in fact, he ups the ante by torching the Victorian mansion that now belongs to Amy of the Loose Knickers. Alas, Lady Loose Knickers was boffing Ted, her illicit paramour, and escaped unscathed. Pity, that, because Maria Bello plays a superb whiny bag of sexual promiscuity and emotional entitlement. By the time she calls Mort, blubbing incoherently about how different things might have been "if they hadn't lost the baby," one is seized with the compulsion to beat her about the head and shoulders with a bag of bricks, screaming, "You were the one who cheated, you filthy, filthy whore. Shut up! No biscuit for you!" I don't think that's what the director was going for, so if you're keeping a scorecard, a minus for conveying intent.
Another thing the impromptu barbecue does is introduce us to Ted, who drips skeeze like pheromone musk. He insinuates himself into the arson investigation and subsequent insurance adjusters' meeting, and we are wholly on Mort's side when he calls Ted a "rubbernecking asshole". Later, when Ted decides to engage in a pickup cockfight on the sidewalk and nearly pushes Mort into the path of an oncoming bus, we begin to suspect him of ulterior motives.
Our suspicions gain credence when Ted is spotted filling up at a gas station in Tashmore Lake. Mort confronts his nemesis, who admits he was driving out to see him in the hopes of getting him to sign the divorce papers. Snark ensues, and after a well-placed verbal jibe, Ted proves he is indeed a lover, not a fighter by getting bested by his own car window.
German Engineering-1
Ted-0
Meanwhile, things are getting curioser and curioser at Che Mort. Despite the fact that Charles S. Dutton checks the cabin every night, Mort keeps hearing noises. After a round of Bathroom Mirror and Shower Door Jiu Jitsu With Sacred Fire Poker, Mort and Dutton agree to go talk to some locals in the morning to find out what they know.
Dutton never shows the following day, so Mort heads into town to find him. The waitress at the cafe in town insists she never saw him, and since we all know that the waitress is the font of all knowledge, he gives up his search and heads home. Turns out Shooter has been waiting for him. Shooter is Not Kidding At All, and to prove his point, he has killed Dutton and a local. He again insists that Mort "fix the story" and leaves Mort to dispose of the bodies in Tashmore Lake, which he does.
Fresh off the body-burying circuit, Mort heads to the post office. His agent, you see, has overnighted the magazine in question. Yes! Salvation! But when he opens the magazine, someone has cut out the relevant pages. Oh, no!
For reasons convenient only to the progression of plot, Lady Loose Knickers decides that she absolutely must get those divorce papers signed, as adultery has lost its zest. "No," she says when Ted offers to go with her. "I was married to him for ten years. I know how to talk to him." Yes, and we see how well your stellar communication skills saved your marriage. Off she flounces.
Ted, keen to safeguard the pootie tang everybody wants, follows a few minutes later.
Well, it's the last mistake they'll ever make, because as it happens, Mort has been having a powwow with his psyche. Mort is Shooter, which, on further inspection, means Shoot her. Oh, how sly.
Well, he doesn't shoot her, but he does stab her through the ankle with his ubiquitous screwdriver. Just as he's about to finish her off with his shovel, Ted arrives on the scene. Damn that Ted. Always interrupting a good thing. Well, no matter. Ted receives a shovel to the face for his pains, followed by decapitation. Loose Knickers wails piteously, at least until her head makes a hasty departure from her neck. Whee!
A few months later, we see Mort in town. He looks better-rested, healthy. He's got braces and a new haircut. He looks like a new man. And in his secret garden, the corn grows tall.
Grade: B