City Lights [1931)

Just when you think you can’t go on anymore, and then something happens.

That is a miracle.

Little miracles.

Right place at the right time.

Preparation meets opportunity.

Luck.

If the horseshoe works…if the rabbit’s foot is effective, then you want some extra help going into the ring.

And if the luck is bad, you try to wipe off the effect as with an unwanted kiss.

It’s very hard saying anything enlightening right now.

I’ve trudged up a steep hill.

Today I hit a little plateau.

But it feels like I’m back at the bottom.

Because tomorrow is back to the salt mines.

Ah, but I am lucky.

Right?

I am not a pooper scooper in life’s parade…picking up after the animals.

At least, not literally.

But it all comes down to a rather simple concept.

We go back to where the flower girl was.

We went to jail for her.

And now is only absence.

Time has passed.

And so we wander the streets.

I am the laughing stock.

Easy to pick on.

Try to preserve some decorum.

Bring a laugh to the young people who have futures.

I will not tell you the rest.

Because it is coded in film language.

Why did Charlie act so nice?

Why did he do the right thing?

Why did he go above and beyond?

It was for love.

In real life we may fail, but we too are geniuses of love.

We have gone the extra miles.

And that lost love…as sad as Górecki’s ridiculously-dense counterpoint from his third Symphony.

Sorrowful songs.

Nothing can hurt that bad.

Driving. Alone. Empty.

It is all part of “life’s rich pageant,” as Peter Sellers so poignantly said.

It is the same with Chaplin, Sellers. We laugh, but we are crying.

And so “perchance to dream”…REM sleep.

Tomorrow the birds will sing.

We must keep telling ourselves that until it’s true.

-PD

4 Comments

The Private Eyes [1980)

This film holds a special place in my heart.

I was blessed to have wonderful parents growing up.

This is a film we enjoyed as a family on many occasions.

When our extended family got together we would also share in the laughs from this little masterpiece.

Yes, Tim Conway and Don Knotts are essentially two Jacques Clouseaux in the same movie.

Knotts is a bit more of the straight man (in comedy parlance), but both are fumbling/bumbling idiots.

And that is, of course, why we love them.

Though The Private Eyes borrows heavily from the Pink Panther series, it has a charm of its own.

Filmed at the historic Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina (the largest privately-owned mansion in the U.S.), The Private Eyes is a good-natured film full of secret passageways and “spooky” scenes which are tame enough for a young audience. In fact, I would heartily recommend this as a Halloween movie fit for all ages.

Directed by Lang Elliott (who doesn’t even have a stub [red link] on Wikipedia), this film has aged fairly well. The only drawback is if one is familiar with Peter Sellers’ oeuvre. That’s the sad part about watching a plethora of films. On the one hand you see where all the influences came from (and that, in itself, is rewarding). On the other hand, you see where all the influences came from (and said influences might oft times be a bit too liberally lifted).

Ah, but this is the movies 🙂 Not cinema. Not hoighty-toighty. Hell, I don’t even know if I spelled that right. And I’m not gonna look. Because that’s entertainment. You just go with it. Comedy. Make ’em laugh!

Special mention should go to the sultry Trisha Noble who plays the role of Phyllis Morley. You might know her as Padmé’s mother in Revenge of the Sith. [Sorry, I refuse to write the whole title of that atrocious Star Wars film.]

Also worth mention (in the same vein) is Suzy Mandel who plays Hilda.

John Fujioka is quite funny as the samurai chef Mr. Uwatsum. His rapport with Tim Conway is pretty priceless.

Bernard Fox is very convincing as the insane butler Justin.

But let’s get to the point, shall we? Grace Zabriskie is certainly perfect in the part of Nanny (very Lotte Lenya) [not to be confused with Alotta Fagina], but…

we should dedicate this review to the late Irwin Keyes who played the role of Jock (Jacques?) the hunchback. Such a pithy role to portray a man with no tongue. And Irwin did it well. Mr. Keyes passed away only a few months ago and so it is appropriate that we honor his small but important contribution to this timelessly enjoyable film.

But remember, kids…next time someone asks you why you painted a picture of Don Knotts, just tell ’em (like Enid Coleslaw in Ghost World), “Because…I just, like Don Knotts.” Take it from Thora Birch… She has the right idea! And if they still don’t leave you alone, tell ’em about wookalars 🙂 [boy, oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy…this buzzard pus is really starting to back up on me…]

-PD

8 Comments

Playtime [1967)

This took a lot of watching. Rewatching.

Last night…so tired.

Watched half. Then rewind. Dozed off. Watch same half again.

First time I saw this (years ago) was on the big screen.

It really makes a difference.

That janitor at the beginning. His strange pause and crouch. His peering left and right. His broom and dustpan.

Very little sweeping. Just clanking.

Yes. Sounds. Sounds. Sounds. (Zounds!)

The vinyl chairs which return to their shape after you sit and dent. The strange sound. The strange quality.

“Quality”

Tradition of quality.

It might lead you to ask: what was Jacques Tati trying to say with this film?

Answering that is no easy task.

Sure, this seems like a simple, lightweight film. In some ways it is.

It’s enjoyable. It’s lighthearted. And yet…

There is more than a smidgen of Modern Times here. And Tati, with his pipe… More than a pipe-full of Sartre. Sartre with his publication Les Temps modernes. Even Sartre apparently thought highly enough of Chaplin to work under an homage headline.

And so, Tati…lost in the supermarket. Lost in the buildings from 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d’elle. Same year. 1967. Paris. In the banlieues.

And very few words.

As I said.

A movie of sounds.

Yes.

But images.

Reflections.

Illusions.

It appears.

Optical.

Illusion.

And its reflection.

Double.

Mirror image.

Flipped.

Paris.

It appears that the buttons have been switched. Very nice, WordPress. Now I am “publishing” every time I intend to merely “save” (and vice versa).

That is the theme of the film.

Thingamajigs.

No no no. Take your time. Uh uh uh…hold on. [click click click click] Ok, now rise.

We wait for the entire hallway to be traversed in an absurd observation of ritual.

And from above…the cubicles.

One needs must occupy higher ground to see the big picture. All of these busy bees become lost in the fray.

Afraid.

True.

And so it is not farfetched to guess that Peter Sellers and Blake Edwards were influenced in their masterpiece The Party (1968) by Tati’s Playtime (1967).

But with Tati there is even more. An industrial ballet. The poise of the service industry (and its opposite). [Both]

A constant counterpoint like a comic Górecki.

Perhaps I have been hitting the wrong button all along.

Have I been saying these things out loud?

Yes, we wonder.

Technology.

We grew up in a different time.

The chairs were different.

The doors were different.

And since we are quiet and meek we spend an eternity in the antechamber. In the darkened hallway.

How do we get out?

Yes, Paris…even then, perhaps? A drugstore? Yes. Too depressing for anyone to look each other in the eyes.

The hum. The constant hum. Like Alphaville. Like Oskar Sala’s Trautonium. The Birds. Bernard Herrmann as musical consultant. But those noises. Mixtur.

And several waiters will salt the troutonium…and grind pepper…and spread the sauce…and the couple has moved.

The main course has stayed behind.

Heated. Reheated. Set on fire. Jubilee.

Turbot.

And lobster boy just cares about his hair.

Nerval. Hugo Ball.

But that humming…like Metal Machine Music way ahead of time. But creepier. Like Raymond Scott’s music for babies crossed with Erik Satie’s musique d’ameublement.

Waiting waiting. That’s a theme. And all the illustrious portraits of CEOs past.

Is it a job interview?

And that’s Orly? It seems more like a hospital. Little hummingbird nuns and swaddled kids.

But we shall always live in Barbara Dennek’s dimples. It sounds weird to say.

But it is luck. Bad luck. And then good luck.

And random error. Entropy.

Chaos.

Can anyone here play the piano?

Yes. Yes I can!

And some half-rate Edith Piaf gets up to sing her long-forgotten hit.

Except no one has forgotten it. Once a hit, always a hit.

More or less.

The new religion.

The hum of neon.

All the desserts look sickly. Even to the “chef.” Must hide his mystère. An apple with some sputtery whip? An upside-down coffee mug?

Mmmm…

William S. Burroughs would doubtless have approved. The man in the gray flannel suit (book). But taken to theatrical limits. Choreography of male primping. Like Cary Grant on hallucinogens. A surreal ritual.

Ritual.

This is sociology.

Anthropology.

Paris. The modern man.

See him in his natural habitat.

See her shop. See her sell.

See him work. See him drink.

If you travel, you will see the tourist side.

On a trip.

With a group.

Activities planned.

Like a cruise.

And God forbid you become separated from the group.

Yes.

That is our little romance.

And Tati is meek enough to barely suggest to suggest (x2).

That M. Hulot might find love.

It would be a random day.

He would get pulled this way and that.

And winding up in some crazy, unplanned situation he would become sweet on dimples.

See him in his fishbowl.

Before there was Mr. Bean, there was Monsieur Hulot.

Before there was Forrest Gump.

Tell me…where are the “fancy goods”? Perhaps silk. Hermès.

Always caught at the turnstiles of life…

-PD

3 Comments

Austin Powers in Goldmember [2002)

Nice recovery.

To recap: first episode, pretty awesome. Second episode #prettyterrible. And third episode?

Quite good.

In general, all of the things you may have loved about the Austin Powers debut film return here as progressed elements.

Likewise, the shoddy aspects of episode two are herein absent or otherwise fixed.

I was pleasantly surprised.

Mike Myers recovers some of the real-life mojo he seemingly lost in the shag-a-flopic middle piece.

The character of Goldmember (played by Myers) is a significant improvement upon the generally stale Fat Bastard.

Beyoncé Knowles is pretty darn good in this film as well.

I was skeptical coming in. Didn’t really know her as an actress. Only slightly know her music.

But there’s a reason I didn’t know her as an actress. Because this was her film debut.

Thank you Wikipedia.

Now we’re getting somewhere…

However, perhaps the most genius (evil genius?) dimension of this film is the dream-within-a-dream fourth-wall-destroying cameo sequence of Tom Cruise, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kevin Spacey, and John Travolta (among others). Lot ‘a Scientologists there…

Continuing:

The big add-on, however, is Michael Caine. It was really a choice bit of casting to introduce him into the mix.

That said, I’ve been a bit harsh on Mike Myers. Really, it is formidable that he pulls a Peter Sellers by playing Austin, Dr. Evil, Goldmember, and Fat Bastard in this film. They are all distinct characters. In truth, Myers succeeds admirably by way of his talent for dialects. Dutch is such an odd choice (as a spin on English), but Johan van der Smut (aka Goldmember) is indeed a novel attempt.

888 to you, my friend!

Yes…it’s not coming to the Criterion Collection anytime soon (unless it’s April 1st), but that’s alright. After a grueling day this might be just the perfect film to make you forget for a moment.

Crack a laugh if you can.

Heartily recommended for James Bond aficionados in need of psychic adjustment.

Or something.

-PD

2 Comments

Johnny English Reborn [2011)

With film reviews, a critic either reviews the film or reviews themselves. Selves? Self.

Continuing… There are two major modes of writing about art.

If I tell you that film was designated the seventh art by Ricciotto Canudo, am I telling you more about film or more about myself?

I would argue that I am trying to flaunt my intellect.

Every once in awhile my brain serves me well. At other times I am painfully aware of my shortcomings.

And so, Johnny English…not exactly King Lear by Godard.

Nay… ,,but a near piss-perfect spy spoof.

Piss-perfect?

Now there’s an odd turn of phrase. Can’t say I’ve thought of that one in awhile.

Really, it makes little sense…unless…drug test?

Who knows…

It’s certainly not timoxeline barbebutenol. No. I’m assured by my ever faithful companion Wikipedia that that (2) is a fictional drug.

It does, however, share a molecular formula with two actual drugs: amobarbital and pentobarbital (respectively).

C₁₁H₁₈N₂O₃

Yes…

Now<> If I followed this particular tangent I would be indirectly commenting on the film at hand.

The ostensible “meaning” would be that this film is so devoid of substance that I had been reduced to concocting literary small talk in its absence.

But that is not the case.

And so in the great literary tradition of the Choose Your Own Adventure books, I shall forego the pharmacological flourish and focus on what’s really important.

Johnny English Reborn, while not a masterpiece in the Palme d’Or sense, smashes both the first two Austin Powers films (and indeed its own predecessor) to infinitesimal bits.

[If I allowed myself the indulgence of an aside involving quantum computing and its version of bits (qubits) I would really be showing my arse.]

Because I don’t know quantum computing from linear regressions. [Figuratively speaking.]

And so I will be plain as day -> I identify with this film

I know. It’s sad in a certain way…

“The Great Pretender”…I sometimes think. I think of Richard Manuel crooning that song with such pain in his heart.

Yes, Levon Helm was right: the moments that Richard took the spotlight for ballads…those were the real highlights.

“Georgia On My Mind”…

A guy with a great big beard. As weird and wistful as Brian Wilson in a giant sandbox.

Uhhh…yes. Where were we?

Johnny English.

Reborn no less…

Indeed, a few things are different here.

First we must thank director Oliver Parker.

This film really holds together.

Lucky for him he had Rowan Atkinson in top form as the title character.

But there are two supporting players who deserve special mention.

The first is Daniel Kaluuya.

Mr. Kaluuya, himself of Ugandan ancestry, fills some very big shoes left vacant by his predecessor Ben Miller.

I really did Miller a disservice by failing to mention his fine performance in the first Johnny English film.

But Kaluuya takes a somewhat different tack.

I may be imagining things, but I get the feeling that Kaluuya was playing this role for all it’s worth (like an athlete or musician with a make-or-break chance).

Sure…films employ multiple takes. Drop a line? No problem. Let’s take it again.

And yet, Kaluuya adds a gentle urgency to this farce by way of truly accomplished thespian abilities.

I certainly hope someone in the film world was paying attention as his filmography does not reflect an appreciation for his immense talents.

And finally, I must mention the redemption of Rosamund Pike (reborn, if you will).

I last left her on my site as a rather tragic villain figure in the actual Bond film Die Another Day. Mercifully, she does not exit this film with a volume of Sun Tzu shishkababbed flush to bosom. [What?]

Quite the contrary…for here she is the good guy (girl)…and her acting is as impeccable as her true beauty.

But poor Johnny…poor Rowan Atkinson.

I’ve hardly mentioned him at all.

Must I tell you again what a genius this fellow is?

Perhaps so.

I haven’t been effusive enough regarding a man whose talents are of the most rare kind.

True, born-to-yuck talents. Born-to-ham. I would only put him in a race with Roberto Benigni.

Those two.

They are of another era.

Like Peter Sellers.

Like Jacques Tati.

And, of course, back to the fondateur Charlie Chaplin.

The modern world does not embrace this visual sort of humor.

Every once in awhile it reappears. Benigni wins Best Actor.

And then it’s gone again.

Atkinson, dear boy, if you’re out there on the brainwave wavelengths…

You’ve still got it, old chap!

-PD

7 Comments

Johnny English [2003)

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.

Johnny English.

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…

Sounds impossible…

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!

-PD

3 Comments

Napoleon Dynamite [2004)

If this film makes you cry, then you have problems. Welcome to my world. Hopefully this will be the best thing I have ever written.

There are a couple of times. Laugh out loud. But those parts which pass by like strange quirks. The space in between laughs. That is the pathos of marginalia.

People. Marginalized. What the hell am I talking about?

There’s awkward and aw-kward. It is the latter with which we are concerned. A whole new level of pariah.

But also mundane. And not to be forgotten…endearingly strange.

Preston, Idaho. It’s real. Really exists.

Napoleon and his brother Kip. Lots of weird mustaches here. But Napoleon is just the geeky gawky gangly guy growing up.

As Kip shows, some of us never grow up. And Uncle Rico…whoa mama. All regrets and what-ifs.

Grandmother was at the dunes and broke her coccyx. Tailbone.

Riding the four-wheeler.

Grandma’s got a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or something.

This is one time when some Wikipedia contributor has actually done a loving portrait of a film.

Perusing.

Rico is our campervan Beethoven. A real jerk. But not without his humorous (humerus?) moments. Funny bone.

Fortunately LaFawnduh’s cousin is apparently Jamiroquai (they being a band and not a person).

Whoa…aw-kward. Writing.

Jon Heder approaches the greatness of Peter Sellers in this film. Heder is our lead…our anti-Bond (James). Not cool. Never was cool. Painfully existing.

Tina Majorino brings an indispensable side ponytail grace to this story. Such a beautiful girl. A real person. This film succeeds by employing a sort of Robert Bresson technique. It also is the laughing equivalent of the Romanian New Wave. To wit, Jared Hess made one of the most important American movies of recent decades. Kudos to Fox Searchlight Pictures for giving this the distribution it deserved. We know they later picked up Beasts of the Southern Wild. Nice job Fox Searchlight!

And why do we cry? Part of it is Efren Ramirez as Pedro. Down here in San Antonio. People living for their Spurs. I know. Me too. Small victories seem so big. El Presidente. He builds her a cake. The vacuous Summer. No!!! (little hearts beneath the exclamation points)

It’s hot. Pedro doesn’t have air conditioning. Napoleon’s top-loading VCR comes in handy after he scores a sweet Kid ‘n’ Play video at the thrift store. Kip backs over the Tupperware in a failed Ginsu demonstration. “Dang it!”

Pedro from Juarez. In Idaho. That’s like a Martian in Indiana or Iowa. It’s real. We all end up someplace. For some reason. And the cousins with the sweet low-rider. The cousins with the hookups. A short segment about banding together. People with odds stacked against them helping other people with odds stacked against them.

A very humble project.

And someday Napoleon’s ligers will hang in the MoMA…and his portrait of Trisha (with the deftly-shaded upper lip) will fetch $100 million at Sotheby’s.

And LaFawnduh from Detroit. Definitely AOL-era. No cellphones in this movie. Deb (Majorino) has to go to a payphone to tactfully reprimand Napoleon. But it was all Rico’s fault. Uncle Rico. Hell, Napoleon even got a job moving chickens…for $1 an hour. And they had big talons! Just drink the raw eggs and mingle with the farmers. The old people have good stories. About Shoshone arrowheads in the creek bed. White-bread sandwiches. I don’t understand a word I just said.

It’s that I don’t have any skills. Nunchuk skills. Computer hacking skills. Cage fighting skills. Rex kwon do skills.

Oops. Yeah, I dress like Peter Pan. Forever the butt of a joke.

Napoleon runs like Forrest Gump…with Trisha’s corsage. But it’s lonelier. It’s stranger. Like Peter Sellers doing Camus. Chaplin and Sartre. Les Temps modernes.

So when the antihero finally succeeds it elicits an honest firestorm of support. Lots of people with nothing to live for. A little saint for the hallway. A prayer has been answered. They already tore down my high school. Same name, different building. I pass it everyday. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Some might say. I know there’s a place for me somewhere.

It’s not all about tetherball. It’s the determination. A solitary game. A clueless dork. Thanks be to god. THis movie.

-PD

18 Comments

The Life and Death of Peter Sellers [2004)

The kid stays in the picture. Underestimated. Geoffrey Rush does justice to cinema’s greatest anti-hero: bumbling, fumbling Peter Sellers. This is the capstone to Sellers-study. Listen to his four EMI albums. Search in vain for those early British films. Perhaps you will find them. It’s really no fun to order everything from Amazon. Takes the whole sociological aspect out of it. Go into the marketplace with your agoraphobia and see how the lesser-known films are scant on the shelves. Even the shelves are scant. Soon I will download Peter Sellers’ personality directly to my brain.

As this film makes clear, Sellers had no personality of his own. Perhaps.

Charlize Theron makes as convincing a Britt Ekland as Rush does a Sellers. Very. Emily Watson is superb as Peter’s first wife Anne. John Lithgow gives the best performance I’ve ever seen him do as director Blake Edwards. Miriam Margolyes is striking as Sellers’ mother Peg. Peter Vaughn does a tremendous job as Sellers’ father.

There are so many truly touching scenes in this biopic. Tears of a clown.

Sonia Aquino was perfectly cast as Sophia Loren and she gives off just the right lust factor to make us feel what Peter must have been feeling. He was insane. He was never cut out for fame. He was ill-prepared. Like Andy Kaufman.

Perhaps the most pithy scene is when Sellers settles for shagging Sopia’s stand-in. We pity him. We despise him. We laugh. We cry.

The kid stayed in the picture. Fat, homely Peter of The Goon Show. He bared his teeth and sunk them into the arm of show business. He bit the hand that fed. He paid a heavy price for fame. It is like the Leonard Cohen song “Came So Far for Beauty”…my favorite song ever written. It is the story of all movie stars. Godard was infinitely deft to include this song in Histoire(s) du cinéma.

Stanley Tucci hits just the right notes in portraying Stanley Kubrick. But the real auteur here is Stephen Hopkins. He made one of the best, most touching, genius films I have ever seen. Emotion pours from every splice; every joint of montage. May he be given many more projects as worthy of his talent as this.

One last note. Geoffrey Rush does his best acting ever in this film. Lithgow was right when he said that. We will be forever indebted to the depths which Rush plumbed to show a true Hollywood story worth telling.

-PD

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland [1972)

First off, this film has never been properly restored (to my knowledge) and the copy I have on disc makes this quite apparent. From the opening titles one can hardly read a word. It’s as if a taxi driver in Cairo went into a local cinema and set up his camcorder pointed at the screen. Suffice it to say that the medium is the message to this extent. The story would be almost psychedelic enough just based on the thoroughly bizarre film transfer.

Fiona Fullerton is actually quite good as Alice. The Nigerian-born actress would go on to appear in A View to a Kill (1985).

It’s hard to quibble about a film which employs a dodo bird. This, of course, is to the credit of author Lewis Carroll. Peter Bull is oddly cast as the Duchess. You might remember him from Dr. Strangelove as Soviet Ambassador Alexei de Sadeski.

The disembodied head of Roy Kinnear as the Cheshire Cat adds a rather clunky touch near the end of the film.

But this film really is worth it if for none other than the ten-or-so minutes of Peter Sellers as The March Hare. With prim and proper accent he, along with the Mad Hatter and Dormouse, regales Alice with a pun or two (“spook only when spooken to”). This really was my whole reason for watching, but I’m glad to have experienced the whole slice of mind-altering pie.

Dudley Moore seems a bit misused as the Dormouse as he spends most of the film asleep. For fans of The Goon Show one can spot Spike Milligan as the Gryphon. The scene with the Mock Turtle is when the film really gets going. One even gets the sense that perhaps the production was shot in sequence (due to the comfort the cast seems to have by that point…a characteristic apparently missing in earlier scenes).

Of special notice in this film is the music of John Barry. The world knows him best as the official James Bond composer. His work here lends this production a timeless sheen of orchestral mystery. Perhaps it’s just my faded copy, but there are some truly magical moments every now and then. I wouldn’t call it on the whole a masterpiece, but director William Sterling did an admirable job. This was, in fact, Sterling’s only foray into non-TV film directing. Not bad at all, sir!

The song credits even give one an opportunity to view sous rature in the flesh (“How Doth The Little ~~Busy Bee~~ Crocodile”). Whether or not Isaac Watts would be pleased, we can assume Heidegger and Derrida would find some jollies.

And so, plenty of croquet and even a Lobster Quadrille. Someone call Gérard de Nerval.

-PD

The Party [1968)

This is the holy grail of awkward. For all us misfits, all us loners, all us wallflowers: this is the glory of being a loser. Sellers may have been better in Being There, but this is his most perfect film.

The name Hrundi V. Bakshi is to outcasts what Humbert Humbert is to perverts. Sellers plays Bakshi in such a painfully ill-at-ease way that we just wanna give the guy a hug. If you are looking for the fount from which sprang Napoleon Dynamite, this is it.

Hrundi says the wrong thing…at the wrong time…always. Except for this one night when a beautiful starlet (ill-suited to such a vacuous profession) sees in him the spark which makes life worth living.

Bakshi may be a man of impeccable manners, but he is honest to the core. However, he is prodigious when it comes to “stepping in it.” From the very outset of the party, he must extricate himself from the first of many delicate situations. It’s not easy being Hrundi.

Yes, Mr. Bakshi just wasn’t meant for this world. He is like the dodo bird. His heart is too pure and he is green in all but the Hindustani language. Some might yell “racism” at Sellers in brown face, but it is really a very respectable portrait of an Indian man with great humility through and through.

There are few movies I enjoy watching more than this one. Samuel Beckett never concocted a situation equal to the artful absurdity which Blake Edwards here captured on screen.

And so three cheers for Hrundi…and may all of us Bakshis find our Claudine Longets. Birdie num num!

-PD