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07/21/00- Updated 02:31 AM ET

 

This all-wet suspense yarn is beneath you

By Susan Wloszczyna, USA TODAY

What Lies Beneath

out of four

Stars: Harrison Ford, Michelle Pfeiffer, Diana Scarwid, Joe Morton, Amber Valletta

Director: Robert Zemeckis

Distributor: DreamWorks

Rated: PG-13 for terror/ violence, sensuality, brief language

When it comes to personal hygiene and movie scares, showers have it all over baths. Showers, with their obscuring curtains and high noise levels, leave you shut off and vulnerable to slippage if a maniac happens by.

A bath's perils? A stubborn ring of soap scum, mildew — oh, and possible drowning if you are distracted by the restless spirit of a supermodel. But that won't happen unless you are trapped in a silly supernatural thriller.

As if Psycho weren't proof enough, here comes the slickly shallow What Lies Beneath with its old-fashioned white tub perched atop leering gargoyle heads. The fixture is on screen so much, it probably deserves shared billing with the two Really Big Stars in the leads, Michelle Pfeiffer (stiff) and Harrison Ford (stiffer), whose banter as spunky if troubled spouses ("Wanna fool around?") provides less steam than the faucet.

Certainly, the tub offers a comparable if equally silent performance to fashion-spread regular Amber Valletta as the fleeting spook. We know no good can come from such a lavatory appliance, especially one that keeps mysteriously filling up on its own. The water bills alone would be a constant nightmare.

A porcelain prop was also prominent in the feverishly erotic cautionary tale Fatal Attraction, one of the most effective arguments against infidelity ever made. And the creators of this glossy House Beautiful, life miserable New England Gothic yarn probably would love it if you mentioned Beneath in the same chilled breath. But even in the capable hands of director Robert Zemeckis (Forrest Gump), who at least delivers a few cheap jolts and dreamily eerie visuals, the marital ghost story is nothing more than a feeble distraction.

The first hour is the red-herring course. Pfeiffer, distraught after her daughter goes away to college, notices weird occurrences in the well-appointed Vermont lakeside home she shares with second husband Ford, a genetic scientist absorbed in his university work and haunted by the shadow of his genius father. Doors swing open, pictures fall, the electricity goes off and on. And the dog acts nervous, as all dogs do in films like this. Pfeiffer then snoops on the bickering neighbors next door, fearing the man has killed his wife and her ghost is trying to contact her.

Horror hooey! As the movie's spoilsport marketing campaign makes perfectly clear, Ford has had an affair with a young woman who has since died, and now she's the houseguest who won't go away. The only question that remains is whether he killed her, and the drawn-out answer with its ridiculous twists is barely worth the bother. One tense moment even involves a paralyzed Pfeiffer acting with her feet, the better to admire her polish-free pedicure. As for Ford, he should go back to being a stolid hero and leave the compromised cheater roles to a slimy pro like Michael Douglas.

As dumb as it is, the movie could have risen to higher ground if it had taken better advantage of its well-cast secondary characters (Diana Scarwid as Pfeiffer's Ouija board partner, Joe Morton as a shrink who understands the therapeutic value of spicy candies). Or at all explored Pfeiffer's abandoned past as a master cellist and young widow. But Beneath never reaches much beyond the surface, and what lies there is all too predictable.

 




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