Before John Badham sent Saturday Night Fever shimmying across disco floors or turned Matthew Broderick loose on NORAD in WarGames, he dipped his toes into the bathwater of made-for-TV dread with Reflections of Murder — a 1974 small-screen gem that plays like Alfred Hitchcock and Tennessee Williams got drunk together and decided to remake Diabolique with American teeth and Southern humidity.
This is a film where the budget was clearly capped at “three wigs and a fog machine,” and yet it feels sharper, meaner, and more psychologically devious than half of what passed for theatrical thrillers in the 1970s. And that’s saying something, because the ’70s were the golden age of sweaty murder plots and polyester-based homicide.
The Setup: A Love Triangle with No Love and All Sharp Edges
You’ve seen Diabolique, right? The 1955 French classic about two women — one the wife, one the mistress — teaming up to kill the man ruining both their lives? Reflections of Murder is a faithful American remake, and by faithful I mean it takes the original’s bones, strips off the Parisian cigarette smoke, and replaces it with the musty carpet of a Catholic boarding school and the kind of tension you only get when you’ve been holding in a scream for six years.
The miserable man in question is Michael Elliott (Sam Waterston), a school principal with the charm of a cold spoon and the emotional depth of a dial tone. He’s cruel to his delicate wife Claire (Joanna Pettet), slaps his students, and treats his mistress Vicky (Tuesday Weld) like she’s a set of spare keys he occasionally misplaces. Waterston plays him as a smug, laconic sociopath — like if Atticus Finch took a swan dive into bourbon and contempt.
Claire, pale and tremulous, is the kind of woman whose every glance seems to be saying, “I’ve seen the devil and he leaves his socks on the floor.” Vicky, on the other hand, is blonde, bitter, and exhausted. These are not femme fatales. These are women pushed to the edge of a nervous breakdown and armed with nothing but nerves and a shared desire to make the bastard pay.
And so, as tradition and genre demand, they plot his murder. Bathtub, tranquilizers, a little push, a lot of lies. Everything’s going fine… until the body disappears. Then it gets interesting. And by interesting, I mean the whole thing starts to unravel like a knitting project soaked in blood and bathwater.
Badham’s Direction: Sweat, Silence, and Suburbia on Fire
John Badham directs with the kind of precision you don’t usually expect from a TV movie. The frame is claustrophobic, the colors are drained, and every hallway feels like it was designed by someone trying to smother you with wallpaper. He knows the secret to suspense isn’t music or jump scares — it’s dread. Slow, creeping dread. The kind that crawls under your skin and starts rearranging your organs.
There’s a scene — and you’ll know it when you see it — where a door creaks open and what’s behind it might be a ghost, a trick, or guilt wearing human skin. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s damn near perfect.
And let’s talk about the pacing. Reflections of Murder doesn’t sprint. It simmers. The tension is boiled down, concentrated, and served with no garnish. Just vinegar and sweat.
The Performances: Three People, One Crime, Infinite Loathing
Joanna Pettet is quietly devastating as Claire. She’s a ghost in her own house — until she decides to haunt it. There’s a fragility to her that’s somehow terrifying. Like she’s going to shatter and take the whole world with her. Her descent from trembling wife to steely-eyed avenger is subtle and terrifying. You never see it coming. Until she’s already poured the poison.
Tuesday Weld, as Vicky, plays bitterness like it’s a piano. She’s sharp, sexy, and tragically self-aware. You get the sense she’s been living in Claire’s shadow for years — not just as a mistress, but as a woman denied her own identity. When the two of them unite, it’s not camaraderie. It’s a pact. Signed not in blood, but in bruises.
Sam Waterston, meanwhile, delivers one of the great “please kill this man already” performances of the decade. He’s not evil in a mustache-twirling way. He’s evil in a banal, smirking, toe-tapping way. The kind of man who says “calm down” while you’re holding a knife. And the movie wisely keeps him off-screen for long stretches after the murder — which makes it all the more terrifying when things start going bump in the night and his shadow seems to be everywhere.
The Horror of Domestic Life
What makes Reflections of Murder stick with you — long after the last twist uncoils like a snake in your gut — is how deeply it understands that horror isn’t always about monsters. Sometimes it’s about silence. About wallpaper. About being ignored, dismissed, and emotionally bludgeoned for years until you start to think maybe you imagined the bruises.
There’s a scene where Claire finds one of Michael’s ties. She just stares at it. The whole room seems to freeze. It’s just fabric. But it’s heavier than a body. That’s horror.
And Yes, There’s a Twist — Because of Course There Is
You don’t remake Diabolique without saving the best knife for last. I won’t spoil it — because even if you know it’s coming, the way it lands is worth savoring. Let’s just say the final 15 minutes play out like a morality play written by the devil himself. And he’s tired. And drunk. And laughing in your face.
Final Verdict: 4.5 out of 5 Bathtub Faucets of Doom
Reflections of Murder is a lean, mean, surprisingly elegant little thriller — the kind of movie that lures you in with its made-for-TV modesty, then quietly smothers you with a damp pillow of dread. The performances are razor-sharp, the direction is quietly brilliant, and the atmosphere drips like condensation on a funeral parlor window.
Watch it alone. Watch it late. And maybe check the bathwater before you get in. Just in case something’s waiting there — not a ghost, but a reflection. And she’s got a knife.
