text: At the name of Pinter, every knee shall bow - especially after his Nobel Literature Prize acceptance speech which did little more than regurgitate canned, by-the-numbers, sixth-form anti-Americanism. But this is even worse; not only is it a tour-de-force of talentlessness, a superb example of how to get away with coasting on your decades-old reputation, but it also represents the butchery of a superb piece. The original Sleuth was a masterpiece of its kind. Yes, it was a theatrical confection, and it is easy to see how it's central plot device would work better on the stage than the screen, but it still worked terrifically well. This is a Michael Caine vanity piece, but let's face it, Caine is no Olivier. Not only can he not fill Larry's shoes, he couldn't even fill his bathroom slippers. The appropriately-named Caine is, after all, a distinctly average actor, whose only real recommendation, like so many British actors, is their longevity in the business. He was a good Harry Palmer, excellent in Get Carter, but that's yer lot, mate! Give this a very wide berth and stick to the superb original. This is more of a half-pinter.