Too Much Information

Is it possible to execute the perfect murder? In Frederick Knott’s classic Dial M for Murder, the posh, smart characters sit around a well-appointed London living room discussing just that. Not that anyone’s serious about the matter. It’s just one of those hypothetical problems one might banter about over evening cocktails. Of course, the conversation is loaded with dramatic irony. Everyone in the Alley Theatre audience knows that the seemingly mild-mannered Tony Wendice (Todd Waite) is, at that very moment, plotting to off his wife for money.

This scene is just one of several setting up Knott’s old-fashioned psychological thriller, a play so overloaded with unnecessary exposition and explanation in its first act that it all but sinks under the weight of its words before ever getting afloat. In the first scene, we learn, for example, about the affair that Tony’s wife, Margot (Elizabeth Heflin), had with mystery writer Max Halliday (Philip Lehl). This affair is part of what’s got husband Tony all in a murderous twitter. We’re also told that someone has been trying to blackmail dear Margot with a love letter she received from Max, which was stolen from her purse in a train station just weeks ago. Then we discover that debonair Tony is nothing more than a third-rate ex-tennis pro who married Margot mostly for money. Still later, we’re told all about Captain Lesgate (James Belcher), the man Tony hires to kill Margot. Tony and Lesgate knew each other at university, and Tony’s got the goods on how Lesgate has misbehaved since then. Either Lesgate does the deed, or he’s exposed. For some reason, Knott feels the need to explain all this history before he can go on with the story.

There are two major problems with this strategy. First of all, these long explanations are devoid of dramatic fire. The writing is dull, and the Alley players are completely competent but completely uninspired in their delivery. And James Black’s predictable direction doesn’t help matters much. In their charming mid-century attire (thanks to Linda Ross’s stylish costumes), these characters stand or sit about the stage like dolls. They sip martinis and swish ice cubes with their fingertips. They wring their hands when nervous. Then they walk quickly away from each other, diverting their eyes when caught in seemingly compromising positions. Margot is beautiful in her fashionable frocks. Max is writerly in his frumpish frizzy hair. Tony is all badness with his twisted, thin-lipped grin. For a mystery, there’s an awful lot here that’s predictable.

Even more bothersome is the fact that much of the information that gets piled into Act I ends up having little to do with the intrigue that takes shape in the second half of the play. Margot’s affair doesn’t end up meaning much; neither does Tony’s relationship with Lesgate.

The good news is that once the script has unloaded its useless information, the production gains buoyancy. It’s Max, the mystery writer, who unknowingly predicts the twists and turns of the second half when he argues that the perfect murder can happen only on paper — in real life, the killer is bound to make a mistake that will lead to his discovery. This bit of foreshadowing (punctuated by a spotlight on a shaken Tony) eventually pulls the audience up from nearly drowning. Not that all the information from Act I pays off, but we nevertheless get so immersed in the story that we can forget about our near-death experience and enjoy what’s left of this show.

The one useful bit of information the audience gleans from Act I is that once a killing has occurred, it’s obvious that Tony’s sad-husband demeanor is all a sham. Inside that woeful chest beats a truly evil heart. Still, even though we know whodunit, we don’t know how he’s going to get caught. Watching Inspector Hubbard (Jeffrey Bean) figure it out entails enough surprises to make sitting through Act I worthwhile.

Even Alfred Hitchcock, who made the play into a somewhat successful 1954 film starring Grace Kelly, is said to have been a bit hamstrung by the writing. Knott’s play suggests that the perfect crime is impossible. With writing like this, so is the perfect production.