The Morgan Guarantee

MORGAN, MORGAN, Morgan, Morgan, You never even had a chance to be the fairest child in the land. You got your reputation right from the start by flitting around as the raciest, most hot-blooded flamingo ever to fluff its plumage-of which years in some of the best-on network television. Why, Reverend Jerry still hasn't stopped trembling from the last time he saw your high-calls-and low cuts. But, while popping the reverend's cork was fun, it wasn't enough. On the little screen, you're only supposed to suggest the risque--show a little leg, flaunt an alluring smile, whisper sweet some-things. On the big screen, you can live it.

The Seduction, for the most part starring the body of Morgan Fairchild (see Morgan swim in the nude, see Morgan change her clothes, see Morgan bathe, see Morgan melt in the hot tub), is one of those movies for grizzled old men who need a crutch under their chin and a drool bucket to pick up the overflow whenever the star appears, which is often. Fairchild, late of Flamingo Road, ABC's answer to Dallas, and one of the leading causes of righteous indignation in middle America, is hot staff, no question about that, in a world where blondes have more fun, it's a good bet that this lady has had more than her share.

But she is also so disgustingly vain that at times she can be more a turn-off than a turn-on. The meticulous arrangement of every single hair on her head is enough to drive you crazy. In the movie's opening moments, after she swims naked for what seems like none-long enough for the neighborhood sicko to spend several roils of film perusing her body-she pauses at the side of the pool with an inquisitive look at her constant male companion. "I like looking at you," he says. And the sultry reply: "I like being looked at."

Though these are the words of her character in the movie, they seems to come straight from Morgan herself. She likes being looked at. She liked having the Morgan Majority fuming about every inch of every curve in her figure. So she went one step further. A throaty chorus of "If Only He Could See Me Nowwwwww!" would anchor an appropriate score for this film.

THE FROG-POND SHALLOWNESS of Fairchild's acting ability-her transformation from chaser to chasee hasn't made her act any better-make you feel more like you're flipping through the pages of Playboy than patronizing a theater. When her tormentor finally causes her to break down, she whimpers like a small child would telling his mother that she doesn't love him anymore. And child is the better player of the role.

Fairchild plays anchorwoman Jamie Douglas, on TV every night at six for all to see and conveniently covering a story which has been dubbed. "The Sweetheart Murders." A guy by the name of Derek (Andrew Stevens) has decided he wants a look at more than head and shoulders. And since his bungalow just happens to be up the hill from Jamie's spread, it's not much of a problem.

An old story, you say? A few shots with the telephoto lens, a few hot and heavy phone calls, followed by the big rape scene with somebody getting killed, right? Except that Derek-far from conventional-is not one to keep a low profile, Instad, he comes out in the oepn, sending flowers and busting into Jamie's house and snapping innumerable pictures of her, which serves only to annoy her constant male companion. Brandon (Michael Sarrazin). Derek is everywhere, and it's all a little too much to believe.

Brandon-a lover of Morgan Fairchild could only have this name; it exudes machismo-is a studly looking fellow complete with suede jacket and baby blues, and he tries to get the police to give Jamie some protection. But their cop friend, Captain Maxwell (Vince Edwards), whom they call Max, of course, has no time to bother with such trivial things as potential psychopathic sex murderers. He delivers to Brandon's face a terribly ridiculous speech explaining that crime has become a way of life in America. Oh. really? Brandon asks what he should do then, if the police aren't going to help him. "Get a gun." Captain Max replies. Smart cop.

Instead of going for the conventional Saturday Night Special, though, Brandon buys a nice, big pump-action shotgun, which Jamie shudders at the thought of using. She doesn't want to be reduced to a common vigilante and tells Brandon that she's strong enough to fight Derek without the gun. "Strong don't mean jackshit when you're dealing with crazy. "Brandon says, pumping the gun for emphasis. Now this is funny stuff.

The rest of the story is too laughable to relate here, but you should know that Morgan Fairchild, who shoots from the hip Chuck Connor-style, can't hit the side of a house with a barn door. And for Derek, the ending is not a happy one.

WRITER-DIRECTOR David Schmoeller, then, has done little more than create a showcase for his leading lady's considerable wares. The original story idea-the beautiful woman pursued by the demented admirer, only to have her turn the tables on him at the last moment-has some possibilities, but Schmoeller's penchant for things both obvious and almost ludicrous destroys any chance for success. He should be ashamed of some of the dialogue he puts into his character's mouths, most notably that of Captain Max, whose moralizing about the tough life of a police officer comes right out of Batman and Robin.

Schmoeller's direction is often trite and at best haphazard, including one scene in which the camera backs away from someone walking in the other direction. Apparently unsure of his ability to convey the proper atmosphere, he also sends to overemphasize. After Jamie's biggest scare, Brandon comes over to her house to comfort her. While she sits in the hot tub, her troubles oozing away. Brandon fixes a snack in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Derek lurks in the bushes, watching all. When Brandon finishes slicing some cheese with a knife better suited to slicing through jungle, he rams the instrument into the remaining cheese block. Schmoeller cuts away, but he can't resist coming back and lingering on the knife in the cheese. You can guess what happens moments later. Derek stabs the unsuspecting Brandon in the back.

As for the supporting cast: Sarrazin is one big he-man blah: you have to wonder how Edwards can keep a straight face during his work, which is embarrassing; and Stevens demonstrates his dementia by alternately flaring his nostrils and holding his nose between his palms. He does, however, do a good job of sweating as he watches Morgan bathe-an incredibly flagrant exposition of erotica-from the bedroom closet where he is hidden.

Somebody should have tucked this movie, and Miss Morgan, in there with him.