But as we are introduced to the players, we realize that there is no way that they could be real people. They are fabricated from archetypes. In a way, Simon is putting a magnifying glass to these iconic characters, which makes their artificiality all that more apparent.

An eccentric millionaire collects the world’s greatest detectives in his old mansion in the middle of nowhere, all with the sole purpose of presenting them with the unsolvable murder.

Sound familiar? Sure it does. This storyline has appeared in print and film dozens of times, most notably in Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None.”

Robert Moore’s adaptation of Neil Simon’s play, “Murder by Death,” follows the same plot line. But unlike some other whodunnit blunders, it is anything but formulaic.

Let’s clarify a few of the details of the film. First, the strange mastermind, Lionel Twain, happens to be played by novelist Truman Capote. His literary background is woven cleverly into his character, as he constantly berates inspector Sidney Wang for the noticeable absence of pronouns when he speaks. “Say your goddamned pronouns!” Twain yells, infuriated.

And the detectives are caricatures of some of literature’s most well-known sleuths, including Charlie Chan, Miss Marple, Sam Spade and Hercule Poirot. The detectives are matched equally in stature by the film’s brilliant cast, which includes Peter Sellers playing the part of Inspector Wang, a la Mickey Rooney in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s;” David Niven, Maggie Smith and Peter Falk.

“Murder by Death” opens on a stormy night in the countryside. The parties, Mr and Mrs. Charleston, inspector Wang and his son, detective Sam Diamond and his secretary/mistress, Jessica Marbles and nurse, and Monsieur Perrier arrive at the Twain residence one after another.

They are met by a blind butler, Jamesir Bensonmum who shows them to their respective rooms. As they wait to meet their mysterious host, they swap stories and stroke their large egos.

Twain finally makes an entrance and plays his hand: he has invited the world’s greatest criminal minds to his home to prove that he is a greater detective than all of them. Someone will be murdered in his house at the stroke of midnight, he tells them. And the murderer is sitting amongst them. He will offer $1 million to whoever solves the crime.

Then, with a flash of theatrics, he is gone. Instantly the wheels start spinning, but somehow the sleuths can’t wrap their heads around the weird red herrings that appear following Twain’s announcement.

The 10 join hands in the dining room as the clock hands approach the 12. Midnight comes and passes with no murder; they exhale in a sigh of relief. But the relief is short-lived. Moments after midnight, there is a knock at the door and a dead body falls into the room.

Niceties fly out the window as each one of the detectives becomes an equally viable suspect. Each forms his or her own hypothesis. Each escapes near death to confront the murderer with the theory.

Each, we find out, turns out to be wrong. Thus, each leaves the mansion at dawn the next morning with a bruised ego and an empty pocket.

Every detective story ever written, performed or filmed is fair game for Simon’s parody. The film is smart, witty and comically suspenseful. Moore is not afraid to acknowledge the play’s self-reflexivity.

Each detective has an image to keep up. But as we are introduced to the players, we realize that there is no way that they could be real people.

They are fabricated from archetypes. In a way, Simon is putting a magnifying glass to these iconic characters, which makes their artificiality all that more apparent.

The characters are intentionally amusing and shallow. After all, detective stories are about the crime, the suspects and the solution. There is little time spent developing the characters, something that Simon plays with.

At times during the film, we are unsure if we are watching real people or fictional characters. At the film’s conclusion, we are left confused, not only about what is happened, but also who the players are. The result is a tightly-woven comedy and a pointed critique of the detective genre. “Murder by Death” epitomizes satire done right.

Spoof movies are nothing new. Every year or so, Hollywood comes out with another “Scary Movie,” “Date Movie” or “Epic Movie.” As those movies so clearly reveal, you can’t make a joke funny by adding farts or breasts.

I challenge them to go back to satire school. Their first course? “Murder by Death.”

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