White Meat

By RICHARD CORLISS

DEAD MEN DON'T WEAR PLAID

Directed by Carl Reiner

Screenplay by Carl Reiner, George Gipe and Steve Martin

Midnight in the big bad city. Down by the docks the mood was as warm and moist and treacherous as Ava Gardner's parted lips, and the moonless sky was swarming with metaphors. I was prowling those mean streets, not looking for trouble. It knew where to find me.

That spring night I was nosing through Noirland on the track of a sharpie named Steve Martin. Seems he's been breaking and entering the great movie genres of the past. Martin started off cleverly enough. Who cared that with The Jerk he was stealing from Jerry Lewis? But then, made reckless by success, the guy ransacked the old Busby Berkeley musicals and called the forgery Pennies from Heaven. Now he's pulled off his most daring heist. He's stolen from the tough-guy movies of the '40s, intercutting scenes of himself as a private eye with scenes from some fine old films, with some fine old friends: Cagney in White Heat, Alan Ladd in This Gun for Hire, Barbara Stanwyck in Sorry, Wrong Number.

The gag works for a while, as Martin weaves his own plot-web into the 18 old movies, but pretty soon he's traveling on old good will and flop sweat. I'll say this: he travels in good company. Rachel Ward, his femme fatale in this activity, has taunting cheekbones, eyes like veiled promises and a body that speaks in languages not yet discovered. Miss Ward, just because I have to collar your pal for creative fraud is no reason we can't be friends. My number's in the book. The name is Marlowe. --By Richard Corliss

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