>>REVIEW
COLUMBO: PRESCRIPTION MURDER
Runs until April 9
Vertigo Mystery Theatre (Tower Centre)
Before there was Peter Falk’s version of Columbo, there was Prescription: Murder. Richard Levinson and William Link’s play, first produced in 1962, is reminiscent of the world-weary psychological thrillers of the ‘50s and ‘60s, yet has an understated charm all its own. And it has – in nascent but instantly recognizable form – that most lovable of everyday heroes, Lieutenant Columbo. It’s a classic drama of mind games and muddied morals, and its current remounting by Vertigo Mystery Theatre is a rare and rich treat.
As any Columbo fan worth their cigar will anticipate, this is not a mystery in the classic sense. In a reversal of timing that became a Columbo formula, we find out "whodunit" very early in the play – in fact, we witness the crime ourselves. The suspense, then, depends entirely on the game of cat and mouse played by Columbo and his quarry, the disaffected Dr. Flemming.
Flemming is a psychiatrist in a failing marriage, and – surprise! – he’s having an affair with a patient. He and his paramour, one Miss Hudson, devise a dastardly plan to bump off the inconveniently tenacious missus. Abby Charchun and Gerald Matthews do excellent work as "patient" and doc: she quivers with a delicate, constant terror, while he marshals his imposing presence and laconic manner to create a portrait of a maddeningly unflappable prick. Rarely does Dr. Flemming show anything resembling passion, and his condescending kisses vary little between wife and mistress. "A murderer may be as sane as you or me," he tells Columbo; "just a believer in the art of the possible."
Columbo, of course, is precisely the kind of guy who goes after people who do bad things simply because they can. His trademark affectations – the obsequious manner, the dishevelled appearance, the bumbling "Just one more thing" style – are, of course, tools in the bag of tricks he uses to disarm his targets. But the average-Joe quirks also put the hubristic entitlement of Dr. Flemming’s world into sharp, unflattering relief.
This production sets Flemming and Columbo as natural antagonists from the get-go. Even their offices are rendered as mirror opposites, one catalogue-stylish and the other bare-bones. But there are important commonalities, too. For one, there’s each man’s consummate attention to detail. Columbo’s deductive prowess is on fine display here, but the doctor’s no slouch himself. This is a man, after all, who knows precisely which gloves his abhorred wife wore with which dress. Cat and rat match wits in a suite of smart, tense scenes leading to the climax, and it’s a testament to the fine acting throughout that it’s often impossible to distinguish the victor from the vanquished.
Trevor Leigh steps into Peter Falk’s shoes with obvious delight. The familiar Falk mannerisms are there – the cigar chomping, the strange forward lean, the hand cradling the face in deep thought. This is an important part of the production’s nostalgic appeal, and were Falk entirely absent, I think, he’d be sorely missed. But along the way, Leigh makes the character his own – quite early on, it’s apparent that we’re watching a true performance, not a ventriloquist’s act.
As the no-nonsense secretary and the District Attorney, Tammy Roberts and Curt McKinstry make the most of small roles, managing to be larger than life without descending into mere caricature. But it’s Lindsay Burns’s performance as the targeted wife that gives the play its sustained emotional weight. Her early scenes with Dr. Flemming reveal a sad eggshell of a woman desperate to get her marriage back on track. Yes, she’s spoiled, too, and ridiculously self-obsessed. Burns uses her comic aplomb to create a woman who’s both likable and monstrous, and we can understand why her husband does what he does. But we’re also damn glad that Columbo is on the scene, dogging Flemming’s tracks, trying his best to see that justice is served.
At times, the production seems strangely lacking in energy, which may have much to do with the inherent nature of its lead characters. As intriguing as their presences are, both Columbo and Dr. Flemming are decidedly low-key. Film and TV can create energy with close-ups, odd angles and montage, and Trevor Rueger’s direction here, while always extremely competent, doesn’t always do enough to keep the proceedings feeling charged. Perhaps if the chemistry between Dr. Flemming and Miss Hudson was more palpable – many more sparks fly when either of them interacts with Columbo – the energy lags would disappear. But these are minor "Just one more things." I deduce a Columbo boxed set in my future: Prescription: Murder left me wanting more. |
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