March 31, 1985 | With Fletch, an immensely enjoyable comedy-thriller based on Gregory McDonald’s crackerjack novel, Chevy Chase incontestably establishes his star power in the best role of his career: I.M. Fletcher, a sharp-eyed, smart-mouthed investigative reporter who always seems one quip away from breaking a story or having his jaw broken.
For the first time since Caddyshack, Chase’s freeze-dried ironic detachment serves him and his movie very well. And for the first time in his on-screen life, he’s allowed to reveal — in one key scene, at least — how the non-stop barrage of wisecracks and sarcastic comments can be cut short by unadulterated fear. Fletch shows Chase at his most amusing, at his most gracefully pratfalling — and, surprisingly enough, at his most vulnerable. It’s an apt and excellent performance.
Mind you, readers who admired the hard edges as much as the punchlines may object to the liberties that director Michael Ritchie (The Bad News Bears) and scriptwriter Andrew Bergman (The In-Laws) have taken with McDonald’s novel. But the basic plot remains the same: While posing as a beach bum to see who’s supplying drug dealers in a seedy California coastal community, Fletcher — known to friend and foe alike as Fletch — is offered a different kind of job. Alan Stanwyk, a wealthy industrialist, thinks Fletch is exactly what he appears to be, and asks the beach bum to commit murder. The victim? Stanwyk himself. The motive? Stanwyk is dying of cancer, and he wants his family to collect on a multi-million-dollar insurance policy.
Fletch accepts the assignment, though he suspects the offer comes with some tricky strings attached. (He’s right.) While investigating Stanwyk and his motives, he continues work on his other story — much to the chagrin of his impatient editor (Richard Libertini), who wants the drug-dealing article yesterday.
Not surprisingly, the two plotlines eventually converge, though not quite the same way they do in McDonald’s novel. Very surprisingly, Ritchie and Bergman maintain a fair degree of suspense and mystery while Fletch races through his dual investigations in a variety of outlandish disguises, under a variety of ridiculous aliases. (At various times, in various outfits, he introduces himself as Don Corleone, Harry S. Truman and Howard Hunt.) Fletch usually has a wisecrack ready to lob at anyone or anything — brutish cop, a snarling Doberman, a doltish watchman, a solicitous nurse. (‘‘Can I get you anything?’’ the nurse asks after Fletch faints while observing an autopsy. ‘‘Do you have The Beatles’ White Album?’’ he eagerly responds.)
Hardly anything is taken seriously — until, of course, he winds up on the wrong end of a gun. Then we see Fletch is only human after all. And that’s what makes him bearable, even likable.
Chase is appealing and energetic, a deadpan dynamo who zips through lies, identities and deadlines at a pace almost, but not quite, faster than the speed of sound. And he’s surrounded by a superlative cast of supporting players. Among the standouts: Joe Don Baker as a crooked cop who shoots first and never asks questions; Geena Davis (late of TV’s Sara) as Fletch’s mischievously sympathetic co-worker; M. Emmet Walsh as a doctor who gives Fletch a very thorough examination; and newcomer Dana Wheeler-Nicholson as Stanwyk’s not-so-grieving widow-to-be.
Fletch barrels along at a brisk clip, earning enough good will and generating enough good humor to make even something so familiar as a high-speed car chase seem entertaining. Basically, it’s a showcase for Chase, and probably wouldn’t work half as well with another actor. But it has the right man in the right role, and it makes just about all the right moves. Go see it.
