What to say… A witty beginning, perhaps?
An arresting turn of phrase?
No, I shan’t deign preface my critique with decorum.
Rather, one needs must hold steadfast to the cocked-up tone of this talkie in order to convey its essence.
Take three measures of Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther films, one of Sean Connery in Dr. No, half a measure of Joseph Beuys. Shake it very well until it’s gasp-inducingly funny (might take quite a bit of shaking, er…), then add a surprisingly adept turn by Natalie Imbruglia. Right? Right.
What could go wrong?
Well, in contrast to this film’s beginning, pleasantly little.
It’s true: the opening credits of this picture have not aged well at all.
They make the kitsch titles of Austin Powers’ first film (which also suffers from clunky mise-en-scène) seem positively polished in comparison.
It’s a shame neither of these spy spoof franchises sprung for a Maurice Binder.
But I digress…
My point is that Johnny English gets better over the course of its 88 minutes.
Coming into this experiment I figured that Rowan Atkinson clearly had the superior comedic chops vs. Mike Myers.
And he does.
But Johnny English suffers from some strange virus of general incompetence. Something doesn’t quite click in the process of potentially calling the film under review a masterpiece.
Not that I expected as much…
Happily, Johnny English is a tremendously enjoyable flick.
I laughed harder and more earnestly during this picture compared to Austin Powers’ debut, yet Jay Roach delivered a more seamless spy spoof for Myers than the film under consideration.
But let us not throw Peter Howitt under the double-decker quite yet…
Howitt turned in a quite an admirable film.
In actuality, the story of Johnny English is stronger and more convincing than that of Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery.
But back to comedic chops… When Mike Myers is good, he’s very good. When Rowan Atkinson is good, he’s great.
And so, there are moments in this film which I wouldn’t trade for anything in the Austin Powers opener.
I can’t say the converse is true.
Natalie Imbruglia is as good in this film as John Malkovich is bad.
I know, I know…
I have a feeling that Malkovich cherished (in some perverse way) the clunky role he was given.
He plays it as if he’s in a high school musical.
I am not doubting Malkovich’s acting skills. They are world-class.
Yet, for some reason, he is the acting equivalent of a Styrofoam cup herein.
Imbruglia, on the other hand, amazingly (!) out-acts Elizabeth Hurley.
Notice, if you will, the fact that I did not even mention Hurley in my piece on Austin Powers.
That was because her performance was largely limp.
Sure…she’s exquisitely beautiful. Yes, she has acting chops…
But Imbruglia took a small role in a cursed film and turned it into a moment in which to really shine.
But but but…
Let’s not get too lost in the praise.
Really this whole thing would be lost at sea were it not for Rowan Atkinson.
He indeed approaches the genius of Harpo Marx.
That is no small feat.
I, for one, wish Atkinson’s oeuvre was larger so that I could devote more attention to his talent.
Perhaps the best is yet to come.
We can certainly hold out such hope!