How To Murder Your Wife (1965)

"This is Mr. Ford’s shower. Thermostatically controlled at Mr. Ford’s body temperature. Ninety Eight Point *Seven*..."

“She came out of a cake…”

Bachelors. There are two types. First, those with Neanderthal DNA. Who dwell in rancid basement flats. Whose idea of a hot date is a sofa assignment: a Rambo download and a takeaway Vindaloo. For these men, a bar of soap remains one of life’s great mysteries. Second, the metrosexuals: those of a control freak, anal persuasion. Hand-made suits in serried rows and colour-coded, moisturiser for men and a ‘walk-in wardrobe’; an immaculate ‘apartment’ (as they might call it) — like a room in an airport hotel, a collection of ‘vintage’ Rolex Submariners in a hyper-organised drawer, chilled Martini glasses at the ready and a subscription to Monocle and Wallpaper* magazines.

“The last bastion of gracious living in a world gone mad! Mad!”

In Richard Quine’s madcap comedy, How to Murder Your Wife (1965), Stanley Ford (Jack Lemmon) is of the latter persuasion, albeit with a bit more flair on the antiques front. Or at least his snooty English butler, Charles (Terry-Thomas), is (and has), as he’s the one who rules the roost. Mr. Ford’s immaculate Manhattan townhouse (such an American word, that) is to die for. Thanks to William Keirnan’s set design, it has to be one of the most desirable houses on celluloid. A bachelor fantasy. Incredibly smart (in the English sense) and tasteful. Carefully chosen, carefully placed, interesting, unfussy, masculine antiques: an armillary sphere, a wooden Buddha, antique coffee machines, a Newtonian telescope, an 18th century Greek icon, a Liz Frink sculpture, a toy steam engine, bouillotte lamps, Aztec sculptures — that sort of thing. There’s a Fornasetti panel in the black and white marbled bathroom, American Abstract Expressionists in the open-plan Sitting Room (the modern paintings and sculpture were the real McCoy, borrowed from the Felix Landau Gallery) and a chic trellised terrace garden with fountain and white wirework furniture. And, according to Charles, there’s (the) “absence of a woman’s touch, no gay little chintzes, no big gunky lamps. Everything masculine and perfect.”

“Your chilled orange juice, Sir…”

Mr. Ford has a fun job, too. One for the boys. He’s a famous cartoonist, his popular Bash Brannigan comic strip (“an infantile comic strip which appeals to morons”), syndicated by the national newspapers, along the lines of Modesty Blaise. Plus lots of girlfriends, who leave their glitzy high-heeled shoes lying around his house. In the mornings, Mr. Ford’s shower is thermostatically controlled at Mr. Ford’s body temperature: “This is Mr. Ford’s Martini glass. It should be properly chilled by seven o’clock this evening. This is Mr. Ford’s shower. Thermostatically controlled at Mr Ford’s body temperature. Ninety-Eight Point Seven.” And Mr. Ford also keeps fit: regular dates with the running track at the New York Athletic Club and a tight control of the kitchen: “D’you realise Sir, not one ounce of butter has entered this house for five months…”

Thinking about it, I would very much like to be Mr. Ford, but then I would also like to be Tom Ripley — less the murder and gay bits. Interestingly, the house in How To Murder Your Wife (1965) now seems far less dated as compared to the first time I watched this film in the mid 1980s, before the retro revival and all that. That’s in complete contrast to the film’s theme and plot — but more of that later.

‘Marilyn Monroe style (except that she didn’t)…’