Cutesy old-folksery is the only distinguishing feature of this overlong, exasperatingly talky wheeze. And the primary oldie-but-cutie is Dearborn (Dearie) Pinch, a suave, crabby septuagenarian whose salad-day churns (and enemies), are being killed off one by one. Eschewing the services of the police or those of playboyish son Benjamin, Dearie visits the potential victims and possible suspects; all but Dearie belonged to the secret 1930s Rotten Apple Corps, a club for undetected do-badders. And Benjamin follows his father, asking similar questions to the same people--doubling time, talk, and torpor. Eventually the Pinches and the surviving Rotten Apples get together at a defunct Longevity Clinic on Long Island for more talk and a few scary-house antics, but by the time the implausible solution lurches forth, even the few attractively spunky oldsters have become creaking bores.