150 Word Review: 'The Swimmer' (1968)

The deep end

Photo: Columbia Pictures

Burt Lancaster is fit and mostly naked, except for a pair of tight swim trunks, in The Swimmer, director Frank Perry's ethereal adaptation of John Cheever's short story about WASPs rotting from the inside out.

Lancaster is Ned, a strapping middle-aged man who decides one summer day to swim home after drinks with old friends. He's a man with a vision: there’s a series of pools separating him from his own suburban Connecticut castle. He'll take a dip in each. Ned strolls from backyard to backyard like a merry satyr, uninvited, surprising neighbors, some of whom haven't seen ol’ Neddy in ages. (Some aren't so welcoming.)

Ned flashes a Cheshire Cat’s grin, flirting with former flames and babysitters. He's upbeat but confused. Where’s his family? How old are his children? The swells who populate this Yankee Gothic tale are all empty, like expensive champagne bottles the morning after New Year's.

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