THE MORNING AFTER is one of those films that begins with an intriguing opening--JANE FONDA wakes up in bed next to a murdered man and, because she was in an alcoholic daze, can't remember even entering the man's apartment. So far, so good. Nice hook to draw the viewer in.

But as the story unwinds, it becomes clear that the writers ran out of material for a substantial story about midway through. The weaknesses are offset somewhat by the good performance of JEFF BRIDGES as a helpful policeman who agrees to help Fonda solve the who-dun-it aspect of her plight.

It's all beautifully staged and photographed in a sunlit Los Angeles and worth watching for the performances alone. Fonda is at her best as the worried alcoholic who refuses to believe she could have committed the crime and Bridges provides some good chemistry as a co-star.

But the ending (with its revelation) is a bit disappointing after all the build-up to a conclusion. RAOUL JULIA and KATHY BATES have minor roles but the weak ending is hard to dismiss.

Fonda won an Oscar nomination and deserved it for creating a dimensional character in a story thin on believable characters.

Alex Sternbergen (Jane Fonda) is a drunken lush and a failed actress pass her prime. After a night of blackout drinking, she wakes up next to notorious photographer Bobby Korshack stabbed to death. She calls her non-romantic husband hairdresser Joaquin Manero (Raul Julia) who tells her to contact the cops. Instead, she tries to clean up and make a run for it. She gets into trouble at the airport and picks up a ride with the slightly racist Turner Kendall (Jeff Bridges).

Director Sidney Lumet is channeling a bit of his inner Hitchcock. He's using some bright colors and light jazzy music. It needs some darker music with more intensity. It's a tougher hang as Alex makes for an unsympathetic protagonist. It does have a few great lines like the cop who demeans Joaquin as a fag. He comes back with "How bad do you wanna know?" There are moments of intrigue but I could never truly care for Alex. It's not Jane Fonda's fault. It's really the character.

Jane Fonda is Viveca, a faded actress and major drunk of this or any other generation, who wakes up in bed with a strange man next to her who happens to have a knife sticking out of his chest. She draws a blank. Did she kill him or not? She cleans the guy's apartment of any trace of herself before leaving and gets home by hitching a ride with a retired policeman, Jeff Bridges. She gets drunk again, wakes up in the morning and tries to take a shower but finds the same dead body propped up in the shower stall.

Her estranged husband, Raoul Julia, does what he can to help but he's involved with his tony hair dressing business and Fonda winds up turning to Bridges for safety, succor, and sex.

Then the plot gets a little twisted.

I think Sidney Lumet must have gotten lost during a binge in New York night spots and woke up in Los Angeles. But he gets it just about right. When Fonda first leaves the corpse's apartment she finds herself on an unfamiliar street, the kind that characterizes LA perfectly. The opening sequence shows us blank warehouse walls on empty industrial boulevards and the avenues of pastel, middle-class apartments are equally devoid of pedestrians. That's the difference between LA and New York. In Los Angeles nobody walks. In New York if you step out your door you are mugged by the crowd.

Fonda is a professional actress undone by age but the role is played with craggy inconsistency. She's pretty tough. She makes wisecracks to the cadaver while she's scrubbing his apartment. She's aggressive and manipulative at LAX. On the other hand, she plays Viveca as a shrill, nervous wreck with a semiquaver in her voice, even when she's supposed to be mellowed out on Thunderbird, a cheap wine. However, Fonda looks just fine considering that she's no longer the teenager of her earlier movies. She's just my age. I saw a recent photo of her and she still looks stunningly beautiful, as do I.

I've always like Raoul Julia's performances. He's reliable, reassuring, good in almost everything he does. Too bad he wasn't around longer. Jeff Bridges usually brings something unique to each of his roles but he's hobbled here by the limitations written into this stereotype of stability. He's a handyman, the eternal fixer-upper, a guy who takes old busted things and refurbishes them, every wife's dream of a man who is good with a wrench and knows how to reintroduce the sputtering home computer to the concept of reliability. He's a man of nature, comfortable enough in his own skin to use ethnic epithets like "beaner" and "spade" good naturedly and without self consciousness, a Mellors the grounds keeper for our time.

The script has little hackneyed touches that I find hard to believe originated with such a seasoned and talented director as Sidney Lumet. Fonda is backing out of the dead man's apartment, bumps into someone, there is a sting in the score, and it's merely Jeff Bridges who has followed her without Fonda or the audience knowing it. It's done twice, and it's pretty cheap. And when Fonda changes her hair from phony blond to natural chestnut or burnt sienna or whatever it is, a grand dramatic display is made of it. The viewer is supposed to applaud because, now, THAT'S the iconic Jane Fonda we know and love. No phoniness here. (She smokes and drinks during the first half of the movie, but not the last half.) The score is by Paul Chihara and the main theme is carried by a soprano saxophone. This might have been a novelty in 1986 but now, after ten years of Kenny G, it's enough to induce thyrotoxic storm.

On the admirable side, she simply stops drinking for a couple of days and is determined never to get drunk again. We are spared the tears and anguish we might experience if she went through withdrawal -- the bottle looming in the foreground, the trembling hand, the half-full glass poured back into the bottle. Still, I have to say that the ending of Lumet's "Verdict" was more realistic. There, Paul Newman's drunk has found himself at the end but it doesn't stop him from drinking.

Also on the good side of the ledger, some snappy lines in the dialog. Viveca's real name is Alexandra Sternbergen. Bridges prefers her real name and so does she -- "In arguments, it's harder to yell 'Alexandra'." It's got a bit of spark.