Clinton Greene is a bastard. His wife is killed by a hit-and-run driver after a drunken blowout at a party. A year later a small circle of “friends” gather, at Clinton’s request, to spend a week on his yacht and play games. They all know that “games” with Clinton are usually at their expense. And it doesn’t take long for the man’s venom to ease out, in small, petty shots and more lingering, painful ways. Soon there are accidents, and then an apparent murder. The guests are all related to moviemaking in some fashion, and all harbor secrets.

I watched The Last of Sheila again last night, not even for the purpose of writing down thoughts, but just to let it wash over me again when I was having trouble deciding what to do with my evening. And these many decades later, the film’s charms have not lessened. It is one of those films I saw too young, then grew up and realized what the hell was actually being discussed.

But the most intriguing element to me - and it strikes me every single time when that credit rolls past - is that the film was written by Anthony Perkins & Stephen Sondheim: