Film review

  • The Return of the Pink Panther

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Blake Edwards (1975)

    The Return of the Pink Panther is the return of the comedy ‘vehicle’ film too.  Peter Sellers as the French detective Clouseau is ridiculously funny.  Clouseau takes himself seriously.  His determinedly imperturbable expression hardly changes, however often he falls over, whatever or whomever he knocks over.  The film gets off to a great start.  There’s a clever title sequence, with animations by Richard Williams.  The theft of the Pink Panther diamond that follows is amusingly suspenseful, even though the repeated slamming of a door on one of the security guards, by his panicking, frenetic colleagues, gives an unpleasant early indication of what Blake Edwards think is funny (and, it transpires, inexhaustibly funny).  Then comes Sellers’s marvellous first appearance.

    Strolling with excessive nonchalance down a Paris street, Clouseau raises his baton to greet a pretty girl and hits himself in the eye.  Outside a bank, he comes upon a blind beggar, complete with accordion and monkey.  While he’s delivering a spiel about the requirement for a ‘commercial enterprise’ licence and his opening pidgin English special (‘minkey – a chimpanzee minkey!’), a bank robbery is going on.  Clouseau, oblivious, sticks to the matter in hand.  ‘Who are you to know all these rules?’ asks the beggar.  ‘What sort of a stupid question is that?’ is the haughty reply, ‘Are you blind?’  The robbers emerge from the bank, dropping some of their loot.  Clouseau helpfully hands it back to them and, as the bank manager storms out of the building, waves the escaping robbers on and slugs the manager.  As a result, Clouseau is suspended by his boss, Chief Inspector Dreyfus (Herbert Lom).  No sooner is the suspension imposed than Dreyfus receives an order to put Clouseau on the Pink Panther case because he solved the theft of the jewel the last time it was stolen.  Informed that the accordion-player was the bank gang’s look-out man, Clouseau is scornful:  ‘How can a blind man be a look-out man?!’  That too gives an idea of Blake Edwards’s modus operandi.  He and Frank Waldman, with whom he wrote the screenplay, are never afraid of using the same gag twice (or more).

    Sellers conveys Clouseau’s ludicrous hauteur without any recourse to crude mannerisms or grimaces.  He’s looking to develop a full-scale characterisation from caricature material but he gets all the minor, immediate laughs of a funny caricature too.  Back at his flat, the dispirited Clouseau is attacked by a strangely violent fellow-tenant, his weapon of choice a loaf of (Clouseau’s) French bread.  Clouseau then goes into a martial arts routine with his servant-cum-bodyguard Cato Fong (Burt Kwouk) – the most inventive physical comedy routine in the film.  Edwards has been criticised for playing his trump card too early but he manages Sellers cleverly.  It’s essential for The Return of the Pink Panther to start well, grab the viewer’s attention and provoke a regular supply of laughs.  When Dreyfus phones to tell him of his recall to investigative action, Clouseau launches into self-important musing on the thing all great detectives have in common:  instinct.  During this speech, a man arrives at the door to deliver a hand grenade that Clouseau instinctively accepts.

    Edwards can’t, however, provide Sellers with sufficient material to keep him going through the film’s nearly two hours and the padding is feeble, whether played straight or for low, brutal comedy.  The aristocratic crooks Lord and Lady Lytton (Christopher Plummer and Catherine Schell) are half-heartedly romanticised – with, for example, lamely admiring overhead shots of one of the couple’s many cars cruising homewards, accompanied by mellifluous incidental music.  While Clouseau is abortively trailing Lady Lytton, her jewel thief husband sets out to find the culprit in the Pink Panther theft, for which Lytton realises he’s being framed.  (A glove was left at the scene of the robbery:  Lytton’s criminal signature.)  His action-packed tour of the (fictional) North African country of Lugash contrasts comically with Clouseau’s energetic stagnation in Europe and Christopher Plummer is appropriately smooth and elegant as Lytton.  After shinning up and down ropes, fighting off numerous enemies and crashing through windows, Lytton is quite unruffled:  there’s hardly a crease in his white suit or a hair out of place on his handsome head.  In contrast, Clouseau, whose hair sometimes stands bolt upright and is sometimes slicked down doggedly, keeps losing his trousers and getting his jackets blown off.  But Edwards’s separation of the lightweight thriller and the comedy elements has the effect of exposing the film’s mechanics.

    Edwards’s idea of suspense in the action scenes is to pour Henry Mancini’s thrills-and-mystery music onto the soundtrack.  He and Frank Waldman work on a hit and miss, hey-that-sounds-like-a-great-idea level.  One of Sellers’ funniest moments is his would-be ladykilling, mangled version of the Bogart line, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’.  Edwards and Waldman then push the Casablanca idea by having ‘As Time Goes By’ playing in a bar, introducing a big-wheel Fat Man (Eric Pohlmann) who’s a bit like Sydney Greenstreet, and so on.  The jokes are piled on haphazardly – there’s a glut of corny gags when Sellers arrives in Switzerland pursuing Lady Lytton.  ‘Follow that cab!’ he orders a taxi driver, who jumps out of his vehicle and runs after the car.  Clouseau asks a passer-by if he knows where the hotel is.  ‘Yes’, replies the man, and walks on.  (This is even less funny if you work where I do and really do get this kind of answer if you ask someone if they know the time.)  It’s only when Sellers is delivering hackneyed lines that they’re not hopeless.

    The plot seems to have been devised by the desultory, vacuously beautiful Lady Lytton; since it transpires she’s been leading all the other characters a dance, I suppose it has been.  But there’s no fun in it, partly because Catherine Schell reads her lines woodenly.  The subplot depends for its comic success entirely on whether you’re repeatedly amused by over-the-top Graham Stark (as Fat Man’s underling) getting his fingers broken one by one and, finally, all crushed together – a more offensive version of the endless kicks-in-the-balls in the Musketeer films.  Edwards’s penchant for shallow black comedy – or bad taste – goes too far in the last shots of Dreyfus:  he’s in a padded cell, straitjacketed, writing ‘Kill Clouseau’ with a pen gripped between his toes.  (The image probably seems especially tasteless just a couple of days after watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.)   Although the homicidal maniac that Dreyfus turns into, thanks to Clouseau, is excessively grotesque, Herbert Lom’s performance is painfully good.  Even at the start of the film, Lom is so hot and red that he oozes irritation.  His deep-breathing, gulping attempts to contain his fury always fail – thanks to a tormented, half-weeping madman’s giggle.  He’s done a service by constructing a comic showcase for Peter Sellers but Blake Edwards is such a shoddy workman that he destroys much of the goodwill he creates early on.  You have to be as thick-skinned as Inspector Clouseau to ignore the ineptitude of much of The Return of the Pink Panther.

    [1976]

  • A Woman’s Face

    Old YorkerFilm review

    George Cukor (1941)

    Both IMDB and Wikipedia categorise A Woman’s Face as film noir – a reminder that the term is expansive to the point of meaninglessness.  Wikipedia’s article on noir sensibly has a ‘Problems of Definition’ section, which includes the following:

    ‘“We’d be oversimplifying things in calling film noir oneiric, strange, erotic, ambivalent, and cruel …” – this set of attributes constitutes the first of many attempts to define film noir made by French critics Raymond Borde and Étienne Chaumeton in their 1955 book Panorama du film noir américain 1941–1953  …, the original and seminal extended treatment of the subject. … They emphasize that not every film noir embodies all five attributes in equal measure—one might be more dreamlike; another, particularly brutal.’

    It’s a stretch to fit any of Borde and Chaumeton’s five adjectives to A Woman’s Face.  George Cukor’s movie is evidence, rather, that any black-and-white American melodrama of the period in which a character plans or commits a crime (or biggish sin) has become, with the passage of time, eligible for admission to the noir pantheon.

    The source material of A Woman’s Face is Il était une fois, a play by the Belgian-born Francis de Croisset.  The first screen adaptation was a Swedish film of 1938 (whose title also translates as A Woman’s Face), starring Ingrid Bergman in what was almost her last role before coming to America.  The screenplay for this remake, by Donald Ogden Stewart, retains the Swedish setting:  what results takes place in a no man’s land albeit closer to Hollywood than to Scandinavia.  (This may be the only film noir to include a Swedish folk-dancing routine as a supposedly dramatic moment.)  Stewart is best known as the author or adapter of sophisticated comedies:  he and Cukor had worked together on The Philadelphia Story just the year before.   Both were evidently determined to keep their sense of humour in check on A Woman’s Face but the lurid plot and Joan Crawford’s deadly serious playing of the main role occasionally combine to comical effect.  Not often enough, though, to stave off this viewer’s boredom.

    The story of A Woman’s Face derives from a variation on the ancient equation of physical and moral ugliness.  Anna Holm (Crawford) was facially disfigured in childhood:  her ‘brilliant’ but drunken father started a fire in which Anna was badly burned.  No one can bear to look at the hideously scarred right-hand side of her face; as a result, she is devoid of human sympathy.  She makes a living as leader of a blackmailing ring and proprietress of a tavern.  (So she’s a kind of twisted precursor of the determined, resourceful businesswoman Crawford went on to play in Mildred Pierce.)   At Anna’s tavern one night, the shady aristocrat Torsten Barring (Conrad Veidt) hosts a party whose guests include Vera Segert (Osa Massen).  Torsten has more social status than funds:  when the tavern refuses to extend his credit, he meets Anna for the first time.  They surprise each other – she sorting out his money problem, he treating her as if she were fair of face and soul.  They part on the tacit understanding that their paths will cross again while Vera, a married woman having an affair, becomes Anna’s latest blackmail victim.

    Vera’s husband Gustaf Segert (Melvyn Douglas) is an eminent plastic surgeon.  Anna calls on Vera to demand money in exchange for incriminating letters to her lover.  Gustaf, who returns home unexpectedly, is professionally fascinated by Anna’s disfigurement and offers to treat her.   In the course of the next couple of years, she has twelve operations and her scars disappear.  Anna renews her acquaintance with Torsten, with whom she seems meant to be in love, telling him she’s ‘not yet on the side of the angels’.  It’s a significant phrase, implying that now she’s no longer physically hideous, she could be on the way to moral improvement too.  For the time being, though, she agrees to carry out a plan on behalf of Torsten.  His rich uncle, Consul Magnus Barring (Albert Bassermann), has made a will leaving everything to his infant grandson Lars-Erik (Richard Nichols).  If the child were to die first, Torsten would become the Consul’s sole heir.  (I wasn’t clear why Torsten would recruit a blackmailer to murder the boy but guess beggars can’t be choosers.)

    Anna gets herself employed, under an assumed name, as Lars-Erik’s governess.  Once she’s in a position to kill the child, however, the compassion that grows in her as a result of her plastic surgery, starts to get in the way and raise Torsten’s suspicions.  On the Consul’s birthday, during a sleigh ride, Torsten abducts Lars-Erik himself.  Anna and Dr Segert, who’s conveniently a house guest of the Consul’s, give chase.  The pursuit ends with Anna shooting Torsten dead.  This gives rise to the murder trial that supplies the narrative framework of A Woman’s Face:  the above events take the form of flashbacks, as the dramatis personae give evidence to the court and the true circumstances in which Anna killed the dastardly Torsten are gradually revealed.

    The film needs an emotionally protean actress to make its barmy story compelling.  Instead, it has Joan Crawford.   It seems from what Cukor told his biographer Gavin Lambert that he was anxious for Crawford to underplay (and felt she did so successfully only in the first half of the film).  A strategy of underplaying, depending as it does on the actor’s bringing something out of herself instead of asserting it through external means, seems pointless in the case of this particular star.  Anna Holm’s volatile moods, as interpreted by Crawford, aren’t even interestingly distinct: she just seems cold and cross most of the time.  As usual, it takes an age for her to execute a change of facial expression.

    As the surgeon (he and Anna fall in love in due course), Melvyn Douglas does underplay well until the closing stages, where his tendency to pomposity starts to peep through.  Osa Massen seems to have been cast as Segert’s faithless wife in order to make Joan Crawford look good.   Hyper-cute Richard Nichols unfortunately makes you sympathise with Torsten for wanting to bump off Lars-Erik.  Marjorie Main is remarkably ethnically wrong as Consul Barring’s loyal but now envious housekeeper Emma Kristiansdotter.   The genuine Europeans, Albert Bassermann and Conrad Veidt, are easier to take.  There are two entertaining episodes:  first, when Dr Segert removes the many, many bandages from Anna’s face after her final operation; second, when she prepares to undo a bolt on a cable car in which she and Lars-Erik are travelling so that the child can fall to his death.  Since the outcome of both episodes is obvious, Cukor does well to make them as suspenseful as he does.  In contrast, the sleigh chase goes on too long and repetitively.

    The BFI screening was introduced by an old favourite – walkie-talkie man, who explained, with a rather irritated little laugh, that ‘decent prints of this film are incredibly rare’.  The laugh almost made it sound as if the audience had been clamouring for the movie rather than responding to BFI’s decision to include it in their Joan Crawford retrospective.  Why didn’t someone check that a decent print was hard to come by before that decision was taken?  Walkie-talkie man added (I’d guess inaudibly for anyone who’s not used to his ‘cool’ throwaways) that he hoped the ‘background hiss’ on the soundtrack wouldn’t spoil our enjoyment etc etc.  I already had a headache and this warm-up act, as usual, didn’t improve my mood.  But I don’t honestly think either of these things, or the background hiss, was the main obstacle to enjoying A Woman’s Face.

    8 August 2018

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