THE MONEY PIT: Blu-ray (Universal 1986) Universal Home Video
Take one harried violinist, her
domineering conductor/ex-husband, a frazzled Manhattan attorney out of his
depth – both financially and socially, a boa-lined frump of a con-artist, and,
a stately manor house in the country, quietly falling apart behind its very
thin veneer, and what have you: director, Richard Benjamin’s rather joyously
obtuse minor gem, The Money Pit
(1986) – a picture slapped together with all the spit and polish of a Ferris
Bueller-esque day on, exploiting the
considerable cache of its executive producer, Steven Spielberg to suggest more
artistic secrete than the picture actually possesses. The Money Pit harks from a decade steeped in whack-tac-u-lar escapist
pseudo-romantic comedies, at their core, deadly serious about finding Miss/Mr.
Right; gushing to the gills sentimental and occasionally desperate to make
their points – however idiotic – about the sanctity of home and hearth, and the
love of a good woman turning even the most petrified excrement into a lush and
thriving bed of roses. In this case, the high-heeled shoes are worn by Shelley
Long’s mildly irritating, virtuosi, Anna Crowley Beissart, a blind-sided Suzy
Cream Cheese, whose optimism supersedes all common sense.
To be fair, Anna possesses a modicum
of this virtue God gave a lemon; much more than our hero, nebbish lawyer,
Walter Fielding Jr. (Tom Hanks), who makes the biggest/worst impulse buy of his
life, taken in by a seemingly dotty widow, Estelle (Maureen Stapleton), who is
about to play one of the most grotesque scams in modern real estate. For a
paltry $200,000.00, Estelle pawns off a crumbling country estate – estimated at
a cool million – pitched as the perfect retreat away from all the big city
woes. In fact, the house is a money pit, or rather, a sink hole, sucking up Walter
and Anna’s savings and assets; the plumbing, a noise-inducing nightmare spewing
thick green sludge; the electrical, prone to fitful and fire-hazardous outbursts
capable of jet-propelling a fully cooked turkey like a torpedo through the
bathroom window, and, a roof with more holes than finely-aged Swiss. Fielding’s
new home doesn’t need a contractor. It needs an inspired act of God, a few
Molotov cocktails or a box of matches to put everyone out of their misery.
To some degree, The Money Pit is vaguely reminiscent of
H.C. Potter’s quaint and, by direct comparison, convivial, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948); a charming, if
feather-weight comedy costarring Cary Grant and Myrna Loy as the recipients of
a far more modest country house, also plagued by home renovation obstacles.
These are taken to absurd extremes in The
Money Pit; bathtubs plummeting through hardwood floors, a rickety spiral
staircase that crumbles with all the fragility of a newly assembled dinosaur
(see the finale to 1938’s Bringing Up
Baby for inspiration), a peeing fountain pissing on cue right on Walter’s
head, and, a sort of Keystone Cops-inspired pièce de résistance that has
Walter stumbling into a vat of fresh plaster, blinded by the experience; then,
plummeting down a series of chutes and ladders on a disintegrating scaffold
erected by a pack of would-be
non-unionized plumbers, carpenters and various other sundry construction
workers, who have descended on their abode shirtless, oiled and flexing; a real
dumb bunch of thimble-headed/steroid-pumping dim bulbs. The problem with The Money Pit is it throws every
ridiculous and terminally exhaustible cliché at the screen, while apparently
forgetting that the best comedies are grounded in restraint and something
clever – even introspective – to say; not just sight gags, badly bunched and bungled
together. We get the thirty second laugh, but without the necessary breather
between these moronic flights into fancy.
Director Benjamin, who began his
career as a B-grade actor (and should have remained such), is undeniably having
a whale of a time putting his stars through these paces of self-degradation. As
example: a misconception about Anna having slept with her ex, philharmonic
maestro, Max Beissart (Alexander Godenov) leads to all-out war between Anna and
Walter after she confesses what she believes to be the facts of their one-night
stand (of course, fed to her by Max, who is lying). Walter’s uncompromising
acceptance suddenly turns to acidic contempt. He calls her a whore. Actually,
this is one of the funnier moments in The
Money Pit, unapologetically sexist (as a good many 80’s comedies
deliciously are), with Long’s prickly perfectionist (a holdover from her days
as Diane Chambers on TV’s popular sitcom, Cheers)
standing her ground and refusing to tell Walter what really happened, even
after she knows for certain she did not have sex with Max. The Money Pit would be a better comedy if it were not so abjectly
intent on aspiring to become an exceptional one; straining like a constipated
midget, much too hard for its laughs, time and again coming up embarrassingly
short with more garrulous gaffes than gurgles of giddy laughter. There are
merits to be had; first, and foremost, Gordon Willis’ cinematography – much too
good to have been wasted here; Willis’ gorgeous shots of Rio de Janeiro, New
York and Connecticut, providing three eclectic overviews of middle-class,
yuppie-infused go-go/spend-spend like there’s no tomorrow – a predilection of
the 1980’s in general and all 80’s comedies in particular, with a good many
more of its dramas following suit. From our present vantage of an America in
steep cultural/financial and artistic decline, these movies now suggest a fancifully
plush and unimaginable oasis, never to have existed in the first place. What
can I tell you? Growing up middle class in the eighties, American movies made
sense then. They at least appeared plausible, even desirable: the be-all/end-all
of gracious living.
The other plus here is Dick
Ziker’s stunt coordination, utilizing a small army of experts in their field to
pull off an array of truly harrowing and occasionally humorous bits of business
as Anna and Walter’s home slowly begins to acquire its own dastardly charisma,
belying the originally promised stately retreat in the country. We should, I
think, tip our hats to both Shelley Long and Tom Hanks; youngsters in 1987;
Hanks continuing to build a reputation as a reliable actor apart from his deliciously
silly stint on the much-beloved TV series, Bosom
Buddies (1980-82) and Long, gearing up to walk away from the even more
celebrated sitcom, Cheers, after
five years, two Golden Globes and an Emmy later. Long’s movie career has come
under scrutiny ever since. Indeed, by direct comparison to Hanks’ prolific rise
from featherweight comedian to ‘sought after’ dramatic star, Long’s tenure in
movies under a newly inked contract with Disney was not nearly half as prolific
or as profitable and, in more recent times, is described as one of Hollywood’s
epic career blunders. Personally, I disagree with the latter half of this
assessment.
For a time, Shelley Long’s public
persona embodied the perfect – or rather, perfectly flawed gal primed for the
eighties sitcom; a sort of self-involved feminist. That the forthright gals
Long was repeated reincarnated as actually just wanted husbands and homes, but
could never get past the idea they were somehow betraying the sisterhood by
wanting less, thus became the brunt of a tongue-in-cheek feminist backlash. And
Long played these incredibly flawed/semi-tragic and delightfully obtuse serial
monogamists better than anyone. Again, it served the eighties pop culture
mantra that generally discounted women, either as fashion plates, squeezing out
their Mop-n-glow in designer jeans and high-heeled shoes, or otherwise severely
mocked for their desire to be independent as tight-assed femi-Nazis; babe,
district attorney and ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ aside. In the more ‘progressive’
nineties and beyond this cliché has fallen hopelessly out of fashion, leaving
Long’s professional reputation somewhat in tatters.
The
Money Pit opens with a breath-taking overview of Rio; Portuguese
designer, Cristo Redentor’s Christ the Redeemer statue oddly facing away from
the camera and offset by a series of exhilarating fireworks. We are introduced
to Walter Fielding Sr. (Douglass Watson); a randy ole sod who has just wed the
exuberant sexpot, Florinda (Tetchie Agbayani), twenty odd years his junior.
Walter Sr., so we learn has absconded with millions of dollars embezzled from
his musician clientele back in America. Without casting aspersions, Walt appears to be
a man who knows how to live life to the fullest – albeit, on someone else’s
coin; his son – the complete opposite, an incessant worry wart, presently lying
in the arms of his paramour, Anna Crowley, recently divorced from her
demonstrative husband, Max. Exactly how Max agreed to allow Anna and Walter the
run of his fashionable Manhattan penthouse while he is away on a symphonic
world tour is open for discussion. One thing is for certain; with Max’s
surprise early homecoming Walter and Anna are left ostensibly homeless. From
the outset, we are given glimpses as to why Anna is hesitant to commit to Walter
and exactly why they might not be entirely suited to each other; Anna’s
highly-disciplined third violinist under Max’s eviscerating baton, a complete
disconnect from Walter’s usually slack stock-in-trade, managing B-grade heavy
metal bands with a penchant for short fuses and even shorter on raw
talent. To ease the pain of having to
immediately relocate Walter contacts obese realtor and close personal friend, Jack
Schnittman (Josh Mostel). In between suffering near fatal bouts of arrhythmia, Jack
tips off Walter to a ‘can’t miss’ opportunity; a million dollar mansion on the
chopping block for only $200,000. You know what they say about any situation ‘too
good to be true…’ But apparently Walter and Anna have never heard this idiom
before and, partly out of desperation, are prone to taking the home’s owner,
scatterbrained Estelle, at face value. The gin-soaked dowager spins a yarn
about her husband, Carlos (John van Dreelen), arrested and deported by the
Israelis for supposedly having been Adolf Hitler’s pool man.
Does this sound fraudulent?
Doesn’t matter. Anna, but especially Walter, are hooked into coming up with a
down payment to buy the property. Before the week is out, the couple arrives to
take possession of their dream house. Anna insists half the financial burden
rest squarely on her shoulders. To meet her end of this bargain, she turns to
Max, gradually selling him back ever priceless antique she received in their
divorce settlement. As for Walter, he
elects to get his half from his wealthiest client, Benny (Billy Lombardo); a
spoiled prepubescent pop-singing sensation who is not adverse to throwing
temper tantrums and seeing his own mother (Mary Louise Wilson) on her hands and
knees, scrubbing the tile floor of his stately abode. Benny has no heart. So
Walter appeals to his greedy little ego and wins the wager. Alas, Walter and
Anna’s first day’s move-in proves anything but routine. She sinks into the mattress
of their four-poster bed. Even the weight of Anna’s skimpy nightie, placed on a
hanger, brings down the shelving in their master bedroom closet. Meanwhile, the
entire front door and frame rip out of the wall. In no time at all, Walter also
sticks his foot through a rotten stair, the entire winding set of steps
imploding into a heap of dust-raising debris.
More bad news; the plumbing is
kaput, spewing thick green sludge in heavy globs. Walter’s routine trip to the kitchen causes
the entire electrical system to catch fire; the short, creating the perfect
conditions for the turkey Anna has newly placed inside their gas oven to be ejected
through the glass pane of an upstairs’ window. Aside: I am not entirely certain
how a small electrical fire is capable of influencing both the temperature and
air compression inside a ‘gas’ oven. Then again, ‘logic’ increasingly seems to
have not been applied to the making of this movie. A simple attempt to take a
hot bath after a long day’s cleanup causes the ball-and-claw porcelain tub to
come crashing down from the second floor, through the ceiling and shattering
into a million pieces against the hardwood living room floor below; a moment of
such shocking disbelief, it leaves the thoroughly exhausted Walter half-braying
like a drunken mule, much to Anna’s chagrin. Walter and Anna are inducted into the
purgatory of hiring sleazy contractors, Art (Joe Mantegna) and Brad Shirk
(Carmine Caridi) to shore up their mess; Art, actually making an unpleasant
pass, incurring Walter’s jealousy. To save face, Walt lies to Art about Anna
being his wife. Earlier, Anna had refused Walter’s rather offhanded proposal,
perhaps fearful to repeat the circumstances from her disastrous first marriage.
With no time to waste, Art and
Brad bring their motley crew of bodybuilding exiles, biker babes and gym rats
to the house; the crew, chaotically tearing into home’s front façade and
ripping up the landscape out front. Brad’s original assessment of two weeks to
accomplish ‘the miracle’ gets gradually elongated into months and months:
stalemates and even more ambitious renovation plans, momentarily stymied after
humorous miscommunication with the Building Inspector delays the necessary
permits. When it is suggested Walter may not be able to cover the checks he has
written to the construction crew, Anna turns to Max, offering to sell him the
remainder of those priceless artworks they collected together while married,
but that were a part of Anna’s half of their divorce settlement. Although Max
is thoroughly disinterested in the paintings, he nevertheless buys them; Anna pouring
all the money into the money pit. With patience strained at home, Anna agrees
to go out to dinner with Max who still harbors deep-seeded romantic desires
towards her. Anna gets quietly drunk and awakens hours later in Max’s bed; Max,
suggesting the previous night’s exertions were just like old times. Anna is
mortified, thinking she has thoroughly betrayed Walter’s trust. Upon her return
home, Walter inquires where she has been. Anna lies to him. Regrettably, her
conscience will not rest, especially after Walter repeatedly suggests that
whatever her reasons, he would sincerely not hold anything against her – even
if she did sleep with Max. So, Anna
confesses to Walter that she has. In reply, Walter flips out and calls Anna a
whore. How could she do this to him? Has their love meant so little to her?
Anna and Walter agree to complete
the renovations, but then sell the house and split the proceeds fifty-fifty
before going their separate ways. It isn’t what either really wants, and yet,
neither is willing to concede how much the other has been hurt by this
revelation of infidelity. The last act of The
Money Pit is wish-fulfillment in the extreme as Art, Brad and their
entourage of fixer-uppers pulls together, despite many a mishap and near
calamity. The mansion is renewed to its original glory; truly the dream house
Walter and Anna had initially hoped to live in for the rest of their lives.
Alas, due to the couple’s stubbornness, neither is willing to apologize for
their complicity in their looming breakup. Walter breaks his silence first,
confessing on bended knee he was a fool for having doubted Anna’s loyalties to
him. It doesn’t matter – at least, not to Walter – if Anna did sleep with Max.
Whatever her motivations, she would make him a very fine wife. Touched by his admission,
Anna offers up one of her own. She never slept with Max. Liberated from the
angst of his lingering doubt, Walter and Anna agree to get married. In the
movie’s penultimate sequence, we see Anna and Walter exit their front door in a
white wedding gown and powder-blue tuxedo respectively; the couple pelted with
rice from Art, Brad, members of the construction crew and a small contingent of
loyal friends as Max serenades everyone with the full orchestral support of the
symphony set up in the garden. Anna and Walter embrace. Theirs, so it turns
out, is a love to outlast the betrayal that began this odyssey in the first
place. We flash ahead to Walter Sr. and his bride back in Rio, having only just
signed the lease on a stately waterfront chateau; Estelle, hurrying Carlos away
from the property to a waiting boat. Quite obviously, Walter and Florinda are
unaware they have just stumbled into the midst of their own money pit. Will
their May/December romance be able to endure a similar series of catastrophes?
Hmmmm.
The
Money Pit has its moments of charm. But they lack the finesse of good quality
writing to build on a more solid foundation, not very effectively fleshing out
the movie’s basic premise. There is no arc in character development either. We
get cardboard cutouts of archetypes that, more often than not, do not stand in
relief from the series of circumstances that befall them, but rather, are just
present and accounted for to connect the necessary dots in this rudimentary
exercise. Worse, characters are being maneuvered like chess pieces through a labyrinth
of sight gags without a singularly convincing motivation to string them along.
Take, for example, Max – who starts off as a grotesque caricature of the driven
impresario. We can wholly understand how and why Max and Anna’s marriage did
not last. She hasn’t the over-weaning ego or maniacal discipline to be a
perfectionist’s wife. But then Max’s principles begin to falter. He pursues
Anna with insidious plotting to create a situation that will deliberately destroy
happiness with Walter. Yet, without any sound logic, other than Anna’s
insistence she harbors absolutely no emotional connection to him any longer,
Max suddenly attempts to do the right thing…for love? Hardly, as Anna explains,
the only genuine love affair for Max is the one he shares with himself while
staring into a mirror. So why the philanthropic gesture to bring the couple
back together? And why should Max even be present at Anna’s second wedding to
Walter if, indeed, he went through all that trouble to wreck their dreams of a
life together?
I suppose at some point we simply
have to disavow ‘common sense’ and accept the machinations of these characters
as part-in-parcel of the eighties verve for regenerating the 1930’s screwball
comedy; by its very definition, a platform on which otherwise seemingly normal
adults are given carte blanche to behave badly, or, at the very least, with all
the benign embarrassments of a drunk rabble let loose within a carnival-like
atmosphere of nutty aplomb. But The
Money Pit has forgotten that the very best ‘screwball comedy’ is based in a
sort of truth gone bad – normalcy, momentarily turned hilariously rancid. Herein,
we get silly little vignettes thrust together as tectonic plates frequently
shifting the action, characters’ motivations and even the general focus of the
story back and forth. It is as though director, Richard Benjamin is sifting
through the dust and debris of his rubble in the hopes to expose a deeper truth
about life, liberty and the pursuit of marital bliss. Tragically, Benjamin
never gets down to the bedrock of what makes – or rather, ought to have made – The Money Pit click. In the final
analysis, the film is quaintly amusing for Shelley Long and Tom Hanks’
performances as the frequently feuding, though ultimately devoted, young
lovers. Benjamin and David Giler’s screenplay get a lot of mileage from Long
and Hanks’ professionalism and on-screen chemistry. Even so, it only goes so
far, leaving The Money Pit with a
lot more holes in the plot, never entirely patched up in the end.
I have to admit I am pleasantly
pleased with the results on this Universal Blu-ray. Universal Home Video has
not always been a very forward-thinking studio when it comes to delving into
their deeper catalog releases in hi-def. Herein, I am reminded of both Blu-ray
releases of Xanadu and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas:
two major disappointments, lacking even a modicum of color correction and/or
general cleanup to prepare either movie for its hi-def debut. These sins have
been rectified on The Money Pit. The
image is free of age-related artifacts. While visually this is not always
razor-sharp (a quality I suspect more the result of optical printing
techniques, vintage film stocks and Gordon Willis’ use of soft filters to
augment certain scenes), what we do get here is a 1080p image that appears
faithful to its source. Colors are remarkably robust. Greens, reds and flesh
tones all pop with considerable brilliance. Contrast is also solidly rendered.
With the exception of one or two scenes, film grain exhibits a fairly
impressive natural patina. Good stuff actually and consistently achieved with overall
impressive results.
The vintage 2.0 stereo DTS audio
is also quite appealing; with the eclectic blend of typical 80s pop tunes,
including Stephen Bishop’s The Heart is
So Willing and resurrected classics like Beethoven’s Ode To Joy sounding fresh and snappy. Dialogue is very
natural sounding too, if isolated primarily front and center with very limited
use of the surrounds, as is in keeping with Dolby Spectral recordings from this
period. The only extra is a vintage junket, advertised as ‘the making of…’ but actually little more than an excised snippet
and sound bite used to promote the film’s theatrical debut. Oh well, I don’t
suppose The Money Pit warrants any
further consideration by way of extras. Bottom line: this disc looks good, but
the movie itself is wanting for something intelligent – even moderately
engaging – to hold your attention. Now, if we could only get Universal to
release Blu-rays of The Secret of My
Success, Tammy and the Bachelor,
The House Sitter, Flower Drum Song, Thoroughly Modern Millie
and Sweet Charity. Hint-hint.
FILM
RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
3
VIDEO/AUDIO
4.5
EXTRAS
1
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