IMDb contributer johnmorghen does a scholarly job of breaking down the cinematic nuts-n-jolts of "Death Game" (a.k.a. "Mr. Manning's Weekend"), so I'll just share my memories of watching it.
Like my IMDb sister rachelcronin, I saw this for the first time late one night on L.A.'s early '80s SelecTV subscription system. The set-up definitely grabbed my pubescent attention: Man minding own business in his San Francisco home...slightly lonely and sincerely blue because The Wife and kid are unable to return home in time to celebrate his 40th birthday. Clearly cultured and successful, Man makes due during a dark and stormy night with a roaring fire and a high-end Marantz stereo to reacquaint himself with an old familiar jazz chanteuse (Maxine Weldon then who would be Sade today). Suddenly, there's a bustling at the door which Man opens to find two shivering young girls begging for reprieve from the rain. With decency at heart, Man takes pity and allows the soaked-through strangers into his plush abode. One thing leads to another and Man makes the mistake of giving in to a temptation even someone happily married might be hard-pressed to resist: a menage a trois with all the amenities of home (hot tub, mellow groove on the box, top-shelf cognac, favorite neighborhood pizza and the PERFECT excuse of The Wife being away on YOUR "special day" - the nerve). Like all that is overly idyllic in nature, this scenario proves too good to be true. For his fleeting hour of fantasy bliss, Man is subjected to 48 more hours of tandem temper tantrum torture at the whims of some psycho nookie from Hell - wicked "women-chiles" who begin to reveal their true colors at the breakfast table the morning after.
When I was 15, this was WAY lurid and riveting. Years later, viewing a VHS rental, I found the second half to drag. "Death Game" could have been much better if the girls weren't just demented for crazy's sake and had a specific "she-woman man haters" motivation for what they wind up doing to poor "George" (Seymour Cassel with an uncredited actor dubbing his voice, giving the movie that "imported" schlock foreign feel). The Man just helped himself to some birthday ass, for chrissake! For thrillers like this, I like things twisted and gratuitous, but director Peter Traynor only hints at undertones of incestuousness as a possibility for what made these chicks 'set it off' on a dude old enough to be their "Good Old Dad" (thus the vaudevillian ditty that recurs ad nauseum). One wonders whether writers Anthony Overman and Michael Ronald Ross couldn't decide whether to play this out as a comedy or a suspense thriller, were intentionally shooting for some strange hybrid of both, or just coke'd out of their minds when they hatched this plot fresh out of some sordid fever dream. I must confess that all was forgiven when that out-of-left-field ending smacked me upside the head, though. Let's just say every dog has his day and these bitches received their comeuppance in spades.
While much has been written here about how annoying the "Good Old Dad" song is (which it really is but, I believe, to the director's desired effect), I found the other moody jazz piece "We're Home," arranged by Jimmie Haskell, to be quite exceptional. The line "The sky tells us..." haunted me long after the film had finished. To this day, I imagine pulling that treasured Maxine Weldon 78 down from a shelf, blowing the dust off, gingerly setting the needle down and having it comfort me in the throes of some dark and stormy night...a night I'd gaze longingly into the fireplace, nursing a Makers Mark until - suddenly - there's a knock at my door, which I open to find a '70s-era Pam Grier (in the ringleader Sondra Locke role) and Vonetta McGee (in the doe-eyed Colleen Camp role) - inexplicably in halters, hot pants and flip-flops - shivering and in need of shelter from the storm.
Men...
Like my IMDb sister rachelcronin, I saw this for the first time late one night on L.A.'s early '80s SelecTV subscription system. The set-up definitely grabbed my pubescent attention: Man minding own business in his San Francisco home...slightly lonely and sincerely blue because The Wife and kid are unable to return home in time to celebrate his 40th birthday. Clearly cultured and successful, Man makes due during a dark and stormy night with a roaring fire and a high-end Marantz stereo to reacquaint himself with an old familiar jazz chanteuse (Maxine Weldon then who would be Sade today). Suddenly, there's a bustling at the door which Man opens to find two shivering young girls begging for reprieve from the rain. With decency at heart, Man takes pity and allows the soaked-through strangers into his plush abode. One thing leads to another and Man makes the mistake of giving in to a temptation even someone happily married might be hard-pressed to resist: a menage a trois with all the amenities of home (hot tub, mellow groove on the box, top-shelf cognac, favorite neighborhood pizza and the PERFECT excuse of The Wife being away on YOUR "special day" - the nerve). Like all that is overly idyllic in nature, this scenario proves too good to be true. For his fleeting hour of fantasy bliss, Man is subjected to 48 more hours of tandem temper tantrum torture at the whims of some psycho nookie from Hell - wicked "women-chiles" who begin to reveal their true colors at the breakfast table the morning after.
When I was 15, this was WAY lurid and riveting. Years later, viewing a VHS rental, I found the second half to drag. "Death Game" could have been much better if the girls weren't just demented for crazy's sake and had a specific "she-woman man haters" motivation for what they wind up doing to poor "George" (Seymour Cassel with an uncredited actor dubbing his voice, giving the movie that "imported" schlock foreign feel). The Man just helped himself to some birthday ass, for chrissake! For thrillers like this, I like things twisted and gratuitous, but director Peter Traynor only hints at undertones of incestuousness as a possibility for what made these chicks 'set it off' on a dude old enough to be their "Good Old Dad" (thus the vaudevillian ditty that recurs ad nauseum). One wonders whether writers Anthony Overman and Michael Ronald Ross couldn't decide whether to play this out as a comedy or a suspense thriller, were intentionally shooting for some strange hybrid of both, or just coke'd out of their minds when they hatched this plot fresh out of some sordid fever dream. I must confess that all was forgiven when that out-of-left-field ending smacked me upside the head, though. Let's just say every dog has his day and these bitches received their comeuppance in spades.
While much has been written here about how annoying the "Good Old Dad" song is (which it really is but, I believe, to the director's desired effect), I found the other moody jazz piece "We're Home," arranged by Jimmie Haskell, to be quite exceptional. The line "The sky tells us..." haunted me long after the film had finished. To this day, I imagine pulling that treasured Maxine Weldon 78 down from a shelf, blowing the dust off, gingerly setting the needle down and having it comfort me in the throes of some dark and stormy night...a night I'd gaze longingly into the fireplace, nursing a Makers Mark until - suddenly - there's a knock at my door, which I open to find a '70s-era Pam Grier (in the ringleader Sondra Locke role) and Vonetta McGee (in the doe-eyed Colleen Camp role) - inexplicably in halters, hot pants and flip-flops - shivering and in need of shelter from the storm.
Men...