If
it’s true that “it takes all kinds,” as the saying goes, one can
reasonably extrapolate that it’s probably also true that comedy is even
more subjective than drama. For proof, witness this loosely grouped
collection of five disparate, catalogue comedy titles from Warner
Brothers, each available separately on DVD for the first time.
The Loved One,
from 1965, kicks things off, a jolting wake-up call for those that
think farcical broadsides are an invention of particularly the last
decade of the 20th century. Based on novelist Evelyn Waugh’s outlandish
lampoon of American entrepreneurial spirit and avarice, the film is a
death-mocking farce set in and around a dreadful California funeral
parlor. Directed with fitful pluck by Tony Richardson (Tom Jones),
at just under two hours the movie unfortunately doesn’t have the pacing
to match its shrill, piercing tone. Out-there performances from a
tangled ensemble cast — including John Gielgud, Rod Steiger, Jonathan
Winters, Tab Hunter, Milton Berle, Liberace (!) and James Coburn — make
this a kooky treat.
Next up is the following year’s A Fine Madness, directed by
Irvin Kershner. Set and filmed on location in New York’s swinging East
Side, the movie stars Sean Connery as Samson Shillitoe, a womanizing,
lothario poet and disenfranchised carpet cleaner (surely there’s some
subtext there) who rages against the pressures and demands of the
modern world. Joanne Woodward costars as his frustrated wife Rhoda, and
Jean Seberg is a fling, the wife of a scheming psychiatrist (played by
Patrick O’Neal) who attempts to extract revenge on Samson by
prescribing brain surgery for him. While A Fine Madness is
tonally to and fro, Connery lets loose of all his coiled 007 charisma
in interestingly goofy fashion; for those that think he’s more screen
personality than actor, this is an attention-grabbing test of theory.
Two movies from 1968 follow — Peter Sellers’ I Love You, Alice B. Toklas and filmmaker Richard Lester’s Petulia,
which is a bit of a classification stretch as a pure comedy by most
standards. In the former, a satire of the hippie generation, Sellers
plays Harold Fine, an uptight lawyer who turns his tunnel-visioned
dedication to turning on, tuning in and dropping out when he falls in
love. It’s a movie mostly for devotees of the actor. Petulia,
on the other hand, is a quite fine if frequently forgotten film about
an erratic, unhappily married San Francisco socialite (Julie Christie)
who spites her husband by indulging in an affair with a newly divorced
surgeon (George C. Scott). It’s a demanding film that flits back and
forth in time, challenging many storytelling conventions of the era,
but one whose superlative and engaging lead performances mark it as
definitely worthwhile.
Lastly there’s 1971’s The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight,
a silly mash-up of tin pan alley slapstick antics and goosed-up Mob
clichés, with “Hey!” and “What could I tell you?” substituting for
“Fuggadaboutit.” Midnight Cowboy and Serpico
screenwriter Waldo Salt’s colorfully lenient adaptation of legendary
newspaperman Jimmy Breslin’s comic novel about a Brooklyn turf war
traverses overly comedic and ironic ground by now familiar to anyone
who’s seen Analyze This, Analyze That, The Last Don, The Sopranos
or any other number of underworld-fueled dysfunctional family shows,
but Dave Grusin’s musical contributions, though, help keep things light
and airy. The story centers on Kid Sally (Jerry Orbach), a scheming
small-timer who targets crime boss Baccala (Lionel Stander) for
toppling, and includes a young-ish Robert De Niro in a supporting role
as Mario, one of Kid Sally’s cohorts. Fantasy Island’s Herve Villechaize also stars.
Each title comes housed in a regular Amray case, and all the films
have been newly re-mastered and are presented in 16×9 enhancement for
widescreen televisions. Theatrical trailers stud each release, rich
evidence of just how much the art of the cinematic sales pitch has been
refined over the course of several decades. Other DVD extras are pretty
sparse, including brief new making-of featurettes on Petulia and The Loved One. A Fine Madness,
meanwhile, features a six-minute period piece featurette, entitled
“Mondo Connery,” which touts the “juicy, jumping world” of the movie’s
narrative. Solemnly narrated showman’s prose is interspersed with
randomly culled on-set footage (Woodward knits!), to often
unintentional comedic effect. It would’ve been great to hear Connery’s
present-day thoughts on the movie in the form of an audio commentary
track or even interview but, alas, I guess that wasn’t in the cards. B- (Movies, Collectively) C+ (Discs)