It has often been surmised, indeed, by the characters themselves, that for all its secretive shenanigans and promise of psychological depth in the title, Identity Crisis is perhaps most fittingly likened to a frivolous fairground ride: instead of a deep dive into the grim business of international espionage, we embark on a trip through Nelson Brenner's "spies and traitors" wonderland, complete with an elusive caricature of a villain, whose alternate identities include a sharp shooter, a business consultant, a diplomat, and a party animal with a lavish lifestyle and high stakes gambling habit to match.
A key component of every script in the series, and an indispensable part of Columbo’s investigative routine, is the obligatory inspection of the suspect’s home. What sets the scrutiny of Brenner’s property apart from similar moments of professional curiosity on the part of the Lieutenant - and the nonchalance of the villain who feels safe and magnanimous on his own turf - is the extent to which the boundaries between script and improvisation, performance and personality appear blurred, or even non-existent. The confusion arises precisely because we can compare the two: the well-established series format with its carefully scripted stage directions, the "blueprint for murder," and the liberties or otherwise that cast and crew take in bringing the formulaic instructions to life.
Impacting all subsequent action was the decision to use an actual location rather than a custom-built studio set as the site of Brenner's private HQ, any reference to specific details of the space envisioned by the writer had to be modified to fit the existing building: no overhanging upper-storey balcony but a "den" nevertheless in a corner of the spacious mansion (known at the time as the Enchanted Hill Estate, now demolished). In the script, Columbo is supposed to examine Brenner's gaming utensils and to zero in on the collection of poker chips linking Brenner to Henderson, the scapegoat Melville, and the mysterious Steinmetz. The association however is not pursued, and instead we see the introduction of a new recurring theme, also related to gambling but more specifically to Brenner's lifestyle and philosophy: Mah Jongg.
In his eagerness to present their encounter as an "informal" after-hours invitation, Brenner has underestimated his opponent, who reminds him that he isn’t quite off duty yet. Columbo, for his part, refuses to get on “personal” terms with the suspect, or be compromised by an oh-so innocent token of Brenner’s largesse in the shape of a borrowed ten-dollar bill (even though he is not averse to a glass of “red” when offered moments later). In the script, Columbo neglects to mention his on-duty status, and their conversation overall remains lifeless, impersonal, stale. The written dialogue betrays the "filler" purpose of the scene – before the grand denouement – but if the intention was to add complexity to the characters it would have failed had it been enacted as written.
Where the generic conversation has the two men engage in senseless small talk about their sleeping habits, the on-screen conversation takes a different turn. What are we to make, for instance, of Brenner's claim that the sumptuous painting on his wall shows The Discovery of America when it appears to depict nothing of the kind? The ensuing back and forth unfolds entirely from Brenner's unverifiable “explanation” rather than from any concrete detail in the picture itself.
The degree of abstraction in the dialogue reaches a certain comedic climax when Brenner tells Columbo to "relax, relax, take a minute," and then proceeds to demonstrate his ultra-slick "hydrophonic" [sic!] stereo system to the duly impressed Lieutenant. And when he invites Columbo to join him in his "den," the mental image of a would-be-predator pouncing on his prey inescapably suggests itself. At the same time, we are fully aware that it is always Columbo who has the upper hand, and that the roles of prey and predator are in fact reversed.
On screen, both parties continue to play their roles because maintaining the illusion has advantages for both: it allows them to explore their options indirectly and without having to lay their cards on the table. Their entire conversation is an intricate shadow dance, a pas de deux, a deliberate and fully self-conscious play within a play, and as the audience we too are taking an active part in the performance. We too agree to maintain the illusion and to go along for the ride that takes us uncomfortably, perhaps dangerously close to blurring the boundary between persona and personality, between the actors and their characters, between sublime self-control and outrageous self-indulgence - which threatens to break the theatrical fourth wall, and with it the illusion we agree to maintain. (1/3)
