1980 Week: The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu

Representing the undignified final statement of a celebrated career, this painfully unfunny comic adventure was Peter Sellers’ last picture, although outtakes from various films were used to simulate his presence in Trail of the Pink Panther (1982). Whereas Sellers' penultimate movie, Being There (1979), exemplifies artistic restraint, The Fiendish Plot of Fu Manchu is obnoxious on every level. Based upon Sax Roehmer’s famous pulp character, the picture features Sellers in dual roles as Fu Manchu, an Asian criminal mastermind who has lived to 168 years of age because of a secret formula, and Dennis Nayland Smith, an intrepid Scotland Yard investigator devoted to battling Fu Manchu. When the movie stars, Fu Manchu exhausts his supply of immortality serum, so he arranges outlandish heists to secure ingredients, thereby inadvertently making his whereabouts known to Smith. The product of behind-the-scenes friction—several directors were fired, and Sellers helmed a few scenes by himself—The Fiendish Plot of Fu Manchu lobs one dud joke after another at the audience, creating pure tedium. The Fu Manchu scenes are offensive because of the way Sellers speaks in a cartoonish accent while wearing “yellow devil” makeup. The Smith scenes are insipid because this movie’s idea of a running joke involves Smith pushing a lawnmower so he can concentrate—even if he’s indoors. Notwithstanding Helen Mirren’s valiant efforts to make her supporting role as Fu Manchu’s consort credible, the movie is painful to watch because nothing connects, right up to the excruciating finale during which Fu Manchu transforms from a fragile old man to a young stud in an Elvis jumpsuit, leading a rock band through an atrocious original song.

The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu: LAME

Where Does It Hurt? (1972)

          Whereas the Paddy Chayefsky-penned satire The Hospital (1971) presented a conscientious doctor being driven insane by corruption and incompetence within the medical community, Where Does It Hurt?, released a year later, takes a less nuanced approach to similar themes. Starring Peter Sellers as a morally bankrupt hospital administrator, this broad and occasionally vulgar comedy takes one comic notion—crooks inventing ailments for patients as a means of inflating hospital bills—and grinds it into the dirt. Thanks to Sellers’ enjoyably odious characterization and the somewhat twisty machinations of the plot, Where Does It Hurt? isn’t quite as tedious as the one-joke limitations might suggest, but none will ever mistake this picture for sophisticated cinema. Director and cowriter Rod Amateau, who adapted the picture from his own novel, achieves and maintains the desired nasty tone. Moreover, since public distaste for the usurious practices of the medical industry is so entrenched, most viewers will find themselves growing more and more excited for the villain’s comeuppance. That said, among the many weaknesses keeping Where Does It Hurt? from soaring is the lack of an interesting protagonist—the better version of this movie would have pitted Sellers’ character against a formidable opponent, rather than some random everyman whose experiences inspire rebellion.

          Unemployed construction worker Lester Hammond (Rick Lenz) shows up for routine tests at the hospital run by Dr. Albert T. Hopfnagel (Sellers). Upon learning that Lester owns a home, Hopfnagel persuades Lester to undergo even more tests, resulting in a protracted hospital stay and, eventually, unnecessary surgery. Realizing he’s trapped in a madman’s fiefdom, Lester gets word to authorities, who already have Hopfnagel in their crosshairs, and he gains allies among doctors, nurses, and patients who resent the administrator’s corruption. The biggest X factor is sexy hospital worker Alice Gilligan (Jo Ann Pflug), whom Hopfnagel assigns to seduce Lester—even though she’s romantically involved with Hopfnagel. You get the idea. Many of the film’s jokes have aged poorly, such as the racist bits with Pat Morita as a lab technician, but offbeat touches like the secret passageway behind a vending machine remain amusing. Elements of farce and slapstick notwithstanding, the main focus is Sellers, who hits just the right note of oily charm playing a self-serving crook. He’s sharp and sly in every scene, giving one of his most disciplined comedic performances of the ’70s.

Where Does It Hurt?: FUNKY

The Optimists of Nine Elms (1973)

          Casual fans who primarily know Peter Sellers from the Pink Panther movies may think his penultimate film, Being There (1979), represents Sellers’ only significant dramatic work, but of course that’s not the case—interspersed between his many comedies are a handful of serious films, though none captured the public’s attention the way Being There did. Among the actor’s lesser-known dramas is the UK production The Optimists of Nine Elms, released stateside with the abbreviated title The Optimists. Written and directed by Anthony Simmons, who based the script on his own novel and reportedly envisioned the movie as a starring vehicle for Buster Keaton, The Optimists of Nine Elms tells the bittersweet story of an ex-vaudeville performer, now eking out a sketchy living as a street performer. He befriends two latchkey kids, broadening their horizons by showing them more of London than the working-class slum where they live. He also teaches them life lessons of a sort, because he’s so disheartened with people that he directs all of his affection toward a scruffy pet: “You can forget all about humans,” he says. “You might as well take poison. But a dog’ll always be your friend.”

          As this remark suggests, The Optimists of Nine Elms is somewhat ironically titled. Yet because the movie is driven by twee musical scoring, features song-and-dance interludes, and ends on a sentimental note, it’s as if Simmons envisioned the movie as uplifting. (There’s a lot more Chaplin than Keaton in the film’s DNA.) Some will find the picture touching, but others will regard The Optimists of Nine Elms as dreary and dull.

          Sam (Sellers) lives in a hovel cluttered with broken-down showbiz paraphernalia. Every day, he treks to a busy street corner, puts on a flashy costume, and sings old-timey songs while his trained dog bops around with a cup for tips. Meanwhile, teenaged Liz (Donna Mullane) and her younger brother, Mark (John Chaffey), live nearby, mostly ignored by their dad, who works long hours, and their mom, who is preoccupied with housework. The kids stumble across Sam one day and become fascinated, eventually joining him on his daily outings. He’s kind some days and prickly on others, but he sees how badly the kids want a dog of their own and tries to help. In one of the film’s stranger scenes, he also takes the kids on a field trip to a pet cemetery. Fun! Sellers is okay here, wearing a prosthetic nose as he wobbles between lively and sullen; some viewers will find the spectacle of Sellers singing a toe-tapping version of “This Old Man” more interesting than others. As for the movie around him, it’s mostly quite gloomy, thanks to grimy locations and Mullane’s perpetually sour facial expressions, although the music—credited to Lionel Bart and the Beatles’ main man, George Martin—strives mightily to inject happiness.

The Optimists of Nine Elms: FUNKY

Murder by Death (1976)

          Because Murder by Death is a silly riff on vintage detective stories, it’s tempting to think the picture was intended to mimic Mel Brooks’ crowd-pleasing style of throwback spoofery, although it’s just as possible the film merely rode a mid-’70s boom in nostalgic crime films. Whatever the motivation for making the picture, the result is the same—Murder by Death is goofy but uninspired, a harmless romp that never quite achieves liftoff. Fans of detective stories will, of course, get more out of the picture than anyone else, because the film’s characters are gentle caricatures of famous literary sleuths. Casual viewers might simply enjoy the star power of the cast and the occasional glimpses of screenwriter Neil Simon’s signature wit. But, alas, this is a minor effort for everyone involved.

          The plot isn’t really worth describing, since it’s just a perfunctory contrivance, but the gist is that a mysterious millionaire named Lionel Twain (played by author/TV personality Truman Capote) invites a coterie of detectives to his estate and challenges them to investigate a murder that will take place during the detectives’ visit. Whoever solves the crime will get $1 million. The detectives include Dick and Dora Charleston (David Niven and Maggie Smith), based on Nick and Nora Charles from the Thin Man movies; Sam Diamond (Peter Falk), based on Maltese Falcon hero Sam Spade; Jessica Marbles (Elsa Lanchester), based on Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple character; Milo Perrier (James Coco), based on Christie’s Hercule Poiroit; and Sidney Wang (Peter Sellers), based on Charlie Chan.

          Obviously, any film that attempts to put these diverse characters together isn’t striving for consistency or credibility—the Spade-esque character emanates from hard-boiled fiction, for instance, whereas the Thin Man types emerge from a bubbly light-comedy milieu. Rather, Simon and producer Ray Stark (abetted by undistinguished director Robert Moore) concentrate on stringing sight gags and verbal zingers together. Unfortunately, none of the humor is memorable, and the actors give such cartoonish performances that Murder by Death feels juvenile. Falk probably comes off the best, since his version of Sam Spade is fairly close to his Columbo role from TV, and Falk’s rat-a-tat interplay with his secretary, Tess (Eileen Brennan), has some energy. In sum, Murder by Death is exactly as clever and funny as its title, which is to say not very.

Murder by Death: FUNKY

There’s a Girl in My Soup (1970)

          Adapted from a hit play about a middle-aged lothario in swinging London who exploits the Sexual Revolution by sleeping with every young woman who falls for his pickup lines, There’s a Girl in My Soup is a mildly entertaining and mildly insightful sex farce that benefits from exceedingly nimble leading actors. In fact, the movie’s appeal stems almost entirely from the presence of British comedy icon Peter Sellers, who plays the lothario, and American funny girl Goldie Hawn, who plays, well, the girl in his soup—because the underlying material isn’t funny or purposeful enough to impress on its own merits. When the story begins, TV personality Robert Danvers (Sellers) is enjoying his fame immensely, seducing nearly every attractive woman he encounters. One evening, however, he meets an ebullient American named Marion (Hawn), who agrees to go home with Robert because she’s trying to get away from her two-timing musician boyfriend, Jimmy (Nicky Henson). Robert thinks he’s got it made, since Marion is a sexy little blonde, but it turns out she’s got attitude to burn. She derisively laughs at his pickup lines, mocks his age, and shames him into feeling guilty about wanting to use her.

          Relenting from his seduction, Robert is forced to engage with Marion as a person, and he soon falls under her offbeat spell. Meantime, she sees glimmers of decency behind his sex-crazed façade. Yet just when it seems like the story is about to head down the interesting path of a soul mate shaking Robert free of his pretensions, the characters become lovers and Robert begins entertaining notions of marriage. Compounded by the presence of a disappointingly flat ending, this left turn into domestic melodrama makes There’s a Girl in My Soup feel quite ordinary. Worse, the jokes aren’t particularly memorable. Sellers’ send-up of smoothies is amusing—his catchphrase, “My God, but you’re lovely,” is cringe-worthy—and Hawn’s eroticized dizziness has its charms. Somehow, though, their scenes never catch fire. There’s a Girl in My Soup gets points for presenting Marion as a fully formed person instead of a brainless sex object, but beyond that, the film’s virtues are few and modest.

There’s a Girl in My Soup: FUNKY

Being There (1979)

          After spending much of the ’70s starring in schlocky comedies, British funnyman Peter Sellers doggedly pursued the lead role in this adaptation of Polish writer Jerzy Kosinski’s novel, recognizing a chance to deliver a subtle performance that would contrast his usual over-the-top silliness. The involvement of director Hal Ashby was an added incentive, since Ashby had scored with the offbeat comedies Harold and Maude (1971) and Shampoo (1975). Together, Ashby and Sellers present Kosinski’s social satire as a media-age fairy tale, to winning effect.
          When the story begins, Chance (Sellers) is the live-in gardener for a wealthy senior. Chance has never left his employer’s estate, and his main companion is television—Chance’s IQ is so low that he’s incapable of anything beyond bland remarks and mundane tasks. After his employer dies, lawyers inform a confused Chance that he must leave the estate, so he’s forced to explore the outside world for the first time in his life. Walking the streets of Washington, D.C., in a hand-be-down suit, Chance looks like a man of wealth and power though he’s actually a homeless simpleton.
           By the time night falls, Chance is bewildered and hungry, so he walks right into the path of a town car belonging to Eve Rand (Shirley MacLaine), the wife of an elderly but super-wealthy tycoon named Ben Rand (Melvyn Douglas). Accepting an invitation to receive care from the Rand family physician (Richard Dysart), Chance becomes an unexpected but welcome houseguest.
           The comic premise of Being There is that modern Americans are so narcissistic they only hear what they want to hear. Thus, whenever Chance makes childlike comments about the only thing he knows, gardening, the Rands perceive him as a guru delivering wisdom through cryptic metaphors. Taking the contrivance to a wonderfully farcical extreme, the story reveals that Rand has the ear of the U.S. president (Jack Warden), and shows the president falling under Chance’s spell. The strange and surprising paths the narrative follows thereafter are better discovered than discussed, but suffice to say the filmmakers gracefully advance from an outlandish premise to a poetic ending.

          Being There is not without its flaws, since the movie is paced quite slowly and the tone is precious (lots of tasteful classical music played over painterly shots of the lavish Rand estate). The movie also walks a fine line by asking viewers to accept the absurd concept of Chance becoming an important national figure, and also asking viewers to empathize with Chance’s plight as a lost little boy. Is he a metaphor or a character?

          Notwithstanding these issues, Ashby creates a wonderful framework for the film’s rich performances. Dysart and David Clennon (as a litigator who suspects the truth about Chance) leaven oiliness with sincerity, while Warden energizes his scenes with amiable bluster. MacLaine is charming and funny as the woman who transposes her fantasies onto Chance, and Douglas earned an Academy Award for his sly turn as an aging tycoon with an eye on his legacy. As for Sellers, the impressive thing about his performance is how little he actually does onscreen; given the frenetic nature of his usual comedy acting, it’s wild to see him pull back completely.

Being There: RIGHT ON

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1972)

An opulent adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s famous novel about a little girl encountering fantastical creatures, made with actors in deliberately artificial animal costumes, and featuring sets so two-dimensional they seem borrowed from a stage production, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland feels like an attempt to create a British companion piece to The Wizard of Oz (1939). From the myriad musical numbers to the use of comedy performers in supporting roles, the picture echoes many elements of the MGM classic, yet doesn’t come close to emulating the magic of Dorothy Gale’s journey to a land over the rainbow. One issue is the malevolence inherent to Carroll’s narrative—whereas the beloved Disney cartoon made from this story, Alice in Wonderland (1951), replaced some of the creepier aspects of Carroll’s book with whimsical flourishes, this version accentuates the frightening nature of Alice’s experiences inside the rabbit hole. (Intense surrealism and lighthearted children’s entertainment aren’t exactly the best mix.) Other problem areas include John Barry’s score and Fiona Fullerton’s leading performance. Barry employs his standard idiom of sweepingly romantic strings, and the resulting music feels way too heavy for a lark about a little girl imagining that drinking magical potions can alter her natural size. As for Fullerton, she’s a pretty young woman whose looks are similar to those of Kirsten Dunst, but she seems too grown-up for this material even though she was a teenager when the film was shot. She’s also highly forgettable. Several English notables are wasted in featured roles as the Caterpillar, the Door Mouse, and other weirdly anthropomorphic Carroll creations; those zipping in and out of the movie without making much impact include Michael Crawford, Spike Milligan, Dudley Moore, Ralph Richardson, and Peter Sellers.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: LAME

The Prisoner of Zenda (1979)

          British funnyman Peter Sellers’ ability to play multiple roles in the same film had gotten to be a crutch by the late ’70s, and many of his final films, including Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978) and The Fiendish Plot of Fu Manchu (1980), rely on the gimmick of hiding Sellers behind silly accents and even sillier costumes. So, while The Prisoner of Zenda goes light on facial prosthetics and outrageous wardrobe, the central contrivance of Sellers playing both an endangered monarch and his commoner lookalike is so unimaginative that watching the movie becomes a chore. Having said that, Sellers isn’t entirely to blame, because everything about this flick is tiresome. Although the Anthony Hope novel upon which the film is based provides such a solid narrative that the tome has been adapted for the screen several times, the producers of this version opted for a style of lighthearted irreverence that requires inspired scripting; put more bluntly, The Prisoner of Zenda is a satire that isn’t funny.
          Rudolf V (Sellers) is the ruler of a small European country in the late 19th century. While traveling in England, Rudolf is targeted for assassination, so his underlings recruit a salty London cab driver, Syd (Sellers), to stand in for the king. Unfortunately, the handlers withhold key information from their dupe, who finds himself mired in palace intrigue he doesn’t understand. The straightforward premise should lead to culture-clash comedy, but instead, the filmmakers focus on idiotic bedroom farce and laborious slapstick. For instance, one running gag involves a hot-blooded count (Gregory Sierra) perpetually trying to start a duel with Syd because Rudolf is sleeping with the count’s wife (Elke Sommer); this leads to scenes of the count getting knocked down on streets, set on fire, and so on. Making matters worse, the filmmakers don’t give Sellers scene partners worthy of his skills, so he flounders as competent but utilitarian actors deliver bland performances. If Sellers looks bored playing his trite dual roles, who can blame him?

The Prisoner of Zenda: LAME

The Return of the Pink Panther (1975) & The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976) & Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978)

          British comedian Peter Sellers first played nincompoop policeman Jacques Clouseau in The Pink Panther (1963), but really hit his groove with the sequel, A Shot in the Dark (1964), for which he and director Blake Edwards elevated Clouseau’s ineptitude to a giddy level of farcical perfection. So it’s disappointing to view The Return of the Pink Panther in close succession with its predecessors, because the 1975 reunion of Edwards and Sellers is a minor effort for both men. All the usual tropes are here (animated title sequence, smooth scoring by Henry Mancini, glamorous European locations), but the filmmaking is enervated. The jokes are moronic, repetitive, and telegraphed; the camerawork is flat except for an exciting heist at the beginning; and the storyline is a pointless rehash of the original 1963 movie, with Christopher Plummer blandly essaying a role originated by the debonair David Niven. As for Sellers, he seems bored, and there’s not nearly enough of Herbert Lom as Clouseau’s insane boss/nemesis, Dreyfus.
          The 1976 follow-up The Pink Panther Strikes Again is much better, though by this point Sellers’ characterization is becoming overly reliant on elaborate makeup and goofy costumes. The James Bond-ish plot is silly fun, with Dreyfus escaping from a mental institution and threatening global destruction with a super-powerful laser beam unless Clouseau is surrendered to him, and the movie benefits from its supporting players: Lom’s cheerful-maniac routine is delightful, and Lesley-Anne Down smolders as a Russian agent. Strikes Again is too long, but that’s true of all of Edwards’ Panther movies, and while comic inspiration is in short supply, some of the gags are terrific, like Clouseau’s attempt at dentistry.
          The series ran out of gas with Revenge of the Pink Panther, which relies on insipid disguises (Sellers dressed as a gargantuan mobster), stupid puns (a shopkeeper whose surname is Balls), and tedious plotting about a crime boss conspiring to kill Clouseau. Lom’s comic mojo is defused when his character is “cured,” Dyan Cannon is wasted in a decorative role, and series supporting player Burt Kwouk (Clouseau’s manservant Cato) gets stuck in a series of foolish slapstick gags. Even the usually reliable Mancini contributes lackluster work, from the disco-ish version of the main theme that plays over the opening credits to the corny vaudeville-style number that accompanies the Hong Kong-set climax.
          After Sellers died in 1980, Edwards pillaged outtakes from various Panther movies for a pair of awful ’80s sequels, and more recently Steve Martin took over the Clouseau role in a pair of critically drubbed comedies.

The Return of the Pink Panther: LAME

The Pink Panther Strikes Again: FUNKY

Revenge of the Pink Panther: LAME