Word: chases
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...here--confusion of identities, the four identical travelling cases exchanged, lost and found, the heroine dangling from a ledge, pies in the face, a chase through the streets, cars that drive into the bay. The classic lines: "I think I'm having a nightmare" and "Why me?" and "Ohhhhh. I think they're gaining on us." The whole bit. There is a tantalizing five minutes when it seems the inevitable men with the inevitable plate glass window will negotiate the chase sequence unscathed. But Bogdanovich leaves no stock response untriggered, and the glass is finally shattered as satisfyingly...
...good one-bright and simple--but it is not used to good advantage by the largely unimaginative staging. The blocking constrains the actors like ill-fitting clothes. On the other hand, the frenetic chase scene in which all the characters find their true identities and their happy ending works very well. Like the staging of director Ruth Berger, the music the orchestra blares throughout the evening is not always an asset to the show. Neither are a few of the vocal performances, nor the erratic lighting...
There are also a couple of casual sub plots involving hotel jewel thieves and a crew of especially clumsy secret agents on the track of some top-secret documents. It all ends with everyone pursuing everyone else up and down the hills of San Francisco in a chase scene that is loaded with spectacular stunts but notably short on laughs...
...money and instructions from a shadowy French Canadian seaman named Raoul. As the case developed, the "Ray alone" theory seemed to many to have inconsistencies. In the end most are satisfactorily resolved. A false citizen-band radio report on the day of the murder, telling of a 100-m.p.h. chase after a white Mustang thought to be driven by Ray, proved to be not the work of confederates but of a teenage prankster. There is no real mystery about Ray's source of cash either: he was a professional stickup man. It was his character, both erratic and highly...
...first part of the novel is narrated by a freelance named Warner Williams, whose article on Simon Moro has been rejected by a magazine. To make it acceptable, Williams then undertakes a paper chase through notes and memory. The result is the novel, the whole (though not necessarily verifiable) truth about Simon Moro, whose own identity is a holism of flackery and confused truths. His accent is Central European, his interests are Hapsburgian kinky. He began his career in Austria but was actually born in Vienna, N.J. A nice touch. Fittingly, one of Moro's last attempts to reawaken...