1980 Week: Seems Like Old Times

          Rendered by a comedy dream team, Seems Like Old Times is an old-fashioned farce unburdened by narrative ambition or social significance. It’s a silly laugh machine with a serviceable love story at the center, showcasing the fizzy chemistry between Chevy Chase and Goldie Hawn, who previously scored with Foul Play (1978). Seems Like Old Times is also one of the most consistently amusing movies written by Neil Simon, which is saying something. Until it sputters during in its final scenes (an almost inevitable outcome given the spinning-plates storyline), Seems Like Old Times is a sugar rush of a movie.

          At the beginning of the story, underemployed Northern California writer Nick Gardenia (Chevy Chase) becomes a pawn in a bank robbery. (Proving spectacularly inept at criminality, Nick stares right into the lens of a security camera.) Following the heist, Nick determines that he must bring the robbers to justice in order to clear his name. Enter L.A. district attorney Ira Parks (Charles Grodin), who is married to Nick’s ex-wife, Glenda (Goldie Hawn). His eyes on the job of state attorney general, Ira resolves to make Nick’s potentially embarrassing situation go away as quietly as possible. Which means, naturally, that Nick turns up at Ira’s house, seeking Glenda’s help. She’s an easy touch, since she works as a public defender and believes that all of her clients genuinely wish to rehabilitate themselves. You can see where this is headed: Glenda helps Nick without telling Ira, Nick exploits the situation to woo Glenda, and chaos explodes thanks to endless farcical misunderstandings.
          Beyond his usual gift for rat-a-tat jokes, Simon brings tremendous craftsmanship to plot construction, developing long-lead setups and wry running jokes as well as rendering droll supporting characters. (T.K. Carter is a riot as Glenda’s butler, a dubiously reformed ex-hoodlum.) As for the Chase/Hawn scenes, they never disappoint. He’s a charming rascal, she’s a ditzy altruist, and the sexual charge between them sizzles. Grodin, as always, stoops to conquer, beautifully underplaying the role of an exasperate schmuck. Meanwhile, director Jay Sandrich, one of the most celebrated sitcom helmers in history—his credits stretch from Make Room For Daddy in 1963 to Two and a Half Men 40 years later—does a remarkable job orchestrating this intricate brew of action and patter and tomfoolery, so it’s a wonder this was the only theatrical feature he ever made. Also bewildering is the fact that Chase and Hawn never reteamed, because Seems Like Old Times did about the same brisk business that Foul Play did.

Seems Like Old Times: GROOVY

Star Spangled Girl (1971)

          While not an outright flop, Neil Simon’s comic play The Star Spangled Girl ran for less than nine months in 1966 and 1967, a disappointment given the outsized expectations created by Simon’s previous successes—Barefoot in the Park had a four-year run, The Odd Couple lasted more than two years, and so on. Ever the pragmatist, Simon agreed with critics that The Star Spangled Girl was not his best work, a notion instead of a premise, and the play’s clumsy engagement with ’60s counterculture revealed that politics were not good fodder for Simon’s imagination. Nonetheless, Simon’s name had gained sufficient marketplace value by the early ’70s that even his failures were given screen adaptations, hence this middling and tiresome romantic comedy.

          In 1970s Los Angeles, impoverished activist Andy Hobart (Tony Roberts) publishes an underground newspaper, The Nitty Gritty, out of the filthy garden apartment he shares with his one and only contributor, brilliant but eccentric Norman Cornell (Todd Susman). Andy makes ends meet through chicanery and petty theft. One day, wholesome would-be Olympic swimmer Amy Cooper (Sandy Duncan) moves into the same apartment complex, and Norman becomes infatuated with her, which distracts him from writing. Norman harasses Amy relentlessly, breaking into her apartment and spray-painting love messages all over town, but she finds him repellant. Eventually, Andy persuades Amy to take a part-time job at the paper, hoping this will inspire Norman to resume his work. Predictably, Amy and Andy fall in love, putting a wedge into Andy’s friendship with Norman.

           At its most tedious, the film features drab political “debates” between Amy and Andy, she the aw-shucks heartland gal and he the intellectual pinko. It is beyond inconceivable that these characters find each other attractive. Even though screenwriters Arnold Margolin and Jim Parks tweaked Simon’s narrative to pull the story forward into the ’70s, traces of the play’s temporal origins peek through the surface in unhelpful ways. It’s as if this movie desperately wants to engage with the fraught political atmosphere of the period during which the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam War were escalating, but lacks the nerve to do so. Furthermore, because Star Spangled Girl forefronts romantic banter and sight gags, the sense that something more substantial is being suppressed makes the film feel even more trivial than it might otherwise. In sum, Star Spangled Girl pairs frenetic silliness with unformed political musings, so the film strikes out on two levels at once.

          That said, Roberts—later to become a staple in a decade’s worth of Woody Allen movies—delivers Simon’s one-liners well, and both Duncan and Susman exhibit boundless energy. Star Spangled Girl also contains a peculiar shout-out to another movie: During one early scene, a lookalike for Midnight Cowboy character Joe Buck references Buck’s experiences in that film.

Star Spangled Girl: FUNKY

The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975)

          Anger and darkness aren’t the first things that come to mind upon hearing the name “Neil Simon,” but it’s useful to remember an aphorism that was likely coined by TV funnyman Steve Allen: “Comedy is tragedy plus time.” In other words, misfortune is so integral to the soul of humor that exploring the grim subject matter permeating The Prisoner of Second Avenue really wasn’t such a leap for the guy behind such bittersweet classics as The Odd Couple. Where The Prisoner of Second Avenue represents a break from Simon’s usual style, however, is that the writer doesn’t hide pain behind pratfalls. Although the movie, based on Simon’s 1971 play of the same name, has plenty of the writer’s signature rat-a-tat dialogue as well as a steady stream of visual gags, it’s not designed as a laugh riot, per se. Rather, it’s a bitterly satirical exploration of the myriad ways the modern world can drive people insane.

          Jack Lemmon and Anne Bancroft, both perfectly cast, star as Mel and Edna Edison, residents of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. During a heat wave that’s compounded by a garbage strike and periodic power outages, Mel spirals toward a nervous breakdown that’s triggered by hassles with neighbors, the loss of a job, a robbery, and other traumas. And when Mel finally decides to fight back at the unjust universe, he manages to pick the wrong target, mistaking a young man (Sylvester Stallone) for a mugger and then chasing the poor guy through Central Park and seizing his wallet, which Mel believes to be his own. Upon discovering his mistake, Mel reports to Edna, “I mugged some kid in the street.” Proving she’s reached her limit, as well, she replies, “How much did we get?”

          That wild sequence, which Simon characteristically nails with a perfect comic grace note, is indicative of The Prisoner of Second Avenue’s vibe. In many ways, this is a serious picture about troubling topics, and yet it’s presented flippantly. Not only does the wiseass humor suit the milieu, but it reveals one aspect of Simon’s genius—using jokes to make the exploration of pathos palatable to people who might normally avoid, say, the work of Arthur Miller or Eugene O’Neill. To be clear, neither The Prisoner of Second Avenue nor, for that matter, any of Simon’s stories should be mistaken for titanic literary achievements. Simon writes trifles, and some of them have more nutritional value than others. For instance, the takeaway from The Prisoner of Second Avenue has something to do with gaining perspective and not letting the pressures of daily life metastasize into full-on neuroticism. Simon services these themes well, dramatizing that some of Mel’s problems are of his own making.

          Lemmon, who previously appeared in the screen version of Simon’s The Odd Couple (1968) and the Simon screen original The Out-of-Towners (1970), is an ideal vessel for the writer’s laments about obnoxious neighbors, overbearing relatives, and unfeeling corporations. Meanwhile, Bancroft is an excellent foil, playing early scenes straight but then echoing Lemmon’s character with a downward spiral of her own. So, even if producer-director Melvin Frank’s execution is little more than serviceable, the material and the performances are winning. Additionally, The Prisoner of Second Avenue captures a particular time, that being the bad old days when New York City was poised on the edge of oblivion thanks to financial problems, rampant crime, and ubiquitous cynicism.

The Prisoner of Second Avenue: GROOVY

Plaza Suite (1971) & California Suite (1978)

          During the ’70s, it seemed as if playwright/screenwriter Neil Simon was an industry rather an individual—every year except 1978, he unveiled a new play, and from 1970 to 1979 no fewer than 11 features were released with Simon credited as writer. When the man slept is a mystery. In fact, he even managed to crank out a quasi-sequel to one of his own hits. Plaza Suite premiered on Broadway in 1968 before hitting the big screen in 1971, and its follow-up, California Suite, debuted onstage in 1976 before becoming a movie in 1978. Neither project represents the apex of Simon’s artistry, but both are rewarding. The title of Plaza Suite is a pun, because the film comprises a “suite” of three mini-plays, each of which takes place within the same suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York City.

          In order of appearance, the vignettes concern a middle-aged couple breaking up when the husband’s infidelity is revealed; a tacky Hollywood producer inviting his childhood sweetheart, now married, to his room for a tryst; and another middle-aged couple going crazy when their adult daughter won’t leave the suite’s bathroom even though guests are waiting downstairs to watch her get married. The first sequence is a bittersweet dance, the second is bedroom farce with a touch of pathos, and the third is an explosion of silly slapstick. Plaza Suite grows more entertaining as it spirals toward its conclusion, finally achieving comedic liftoff during the third sequence, which is by far the most fully realized.

          Walter Matthau somewhat improbably plays the lead roles in all three sequences, and he’s terrific—chilly as the adulterous husband, smarmy as the producer, enraged as the would-be father of the bride. His primary costars are a poignant Maureen Stapleton in the first sequence, a delicately funny Barbara Harris in the second, and an entertainingly frazzled Lee Grant in the third. Plaza Suite drags a bit, and it’s tough to get revved up for each new sequence, but the fun stuff outweighs everything else.

          California Suite wisely takes a different approach—although the play of California Suite featured four separate stories, in the style of Plaza Suite, the film version cross-cuts to create momentum. And while Matthau is back (in a new role), California Suite benefits from a larger cast and more use of exterior locations. The film is primarily set in the Beverly Hills Hotel, but Simon (who wrote the screenplays for both adaptations) includes many places beyond the hotel. One thread of the story involves a New York career woman (Jane Fonda) bickering with her estranged screenwriter husband (Alan Alda) over custody of their daughter. Another thread concerns a British actress  (Maggie Smith) in town for the Oscars, accompanied by her husband (Michael Caine), a gay man she wed in order to avoid gaining a reputation as a spinster. The silliest thread involves a Philadelphia businessman (Matthau) trying to keep his wife (Elaine May) from discovering the prostitute in their room. And the final thread depicts the deteriorating friendship between two Chicago doctors (Bill Cosby and Richard Pryor), who bicker their way through a catastrophe-filled vacation.

          Smith won an Oscar for California Suite, and her storyline benefits from the way Caine and Smith expertly volley bitchy dialogue. The Alda/Fonda scenes are more pedestrian, and they’re also the most stage-bound pieces of the movie; still, both actors attack their roles with vigor. Matthau’s vignettes are quite funny, with lots of goofy business about trying to hide the hooker behind curtains, under beds, and so forth. Plus, as they did in A New Leaf (1971), May and Matthau form a smooth comedy duo. Only the Cosby/Pryor scenes really underwhelm, not by any fault of the actors but because both men have such distinctive standup personas that it seems limiting to confine them within the light-comedy parameters of Simon’s style. Unlike its predecessor, California Suite eventually sputters—the funniest scenes occur well before the end.

          As a final note, it’s interesting to look at both pictures and see how two very different filmmakers approached the challenge of delivering Simon’s work to the screen. For Plaza Suite, Arthur Hiller simply added close-ups and camera movement to accentuate the rhythms of the stage production, and for California Suite, Herbert Ross took a more holistic path toward realizing the work as cinema. Yet in both cases, of course, Simon’s wordplay is king.

Plaza Suite: GROOVY

California Suite: GROOVY

The Out of Towners (1970)

          The Out of Towners is notable as the first feature that mega-successful playwright/screenwriter Simon wrote directly for the big screen; previously, the comedy kingpin adapted such hits as Barefoot in the Park (1967) and The Odd Couple (1968) from his own plays. The good news is that Simon has a blast taking advantage of opportunities presented by the cinematic medium, so The Out of Towners starts in Ohio, zooms to Boston, lands in New York, and covers dozens of locations. The bad news is that the piece isn’t especially funny—too often, frenetic activity substitutes for inspiration. That said, the premise is amusing, since the picture aims to depict the worst trip to New York any couple has ever experienced. This is Simon in pure-farce mode, not touchy-feely Simon.

          Jack Lemmon stars as George Kellerman, an Ohio businessman summoned to Manhattan for a job interview. While he and his wife, Gwen (Sandy Dennis), fly from Ohio to New York, George shares his grand, OCD-fueled plans for a night of dinner and dancing before acing the interview in the morning. However, Gwen’s enthusiasm is muted—she’s perfectly happy raising the couple’s kids in the Midwest. Then comes a series of calamities: New York gets fogged in, so the couple’s plane is rerouted to Boston; catching trains is a nightmare; New York is gripped by a transit strike; the Kellermans’ hotel reservation is cancelled; muggers prey on the couple; and so on. About half of the problems that Simon contrives represent clever satire, and about half represent narrative desperation. For instance, George’s stubborn insistence to remain inside a police car while the officers at the wheel chase criminals is an absurdly stupid decision. Only Lemmon’s innate likability ensures that George remains more or less palatable, and it helps that Lemmon is virtually peerless at playing frazzled schmucks. Sadly, Dennis can’t come close to matching her costar’s energy, coming across as bland and mousy until the latter half of the picture, when her character suddenly (and unbelievably) grows a spine.

          Compounding the inequity of the leading performance is director Arthur Hiller’s grubby camerawork. Although he paces scenes beautifully, Hiller shoots the picture with the dark, handheld textures of a crime movie; as does Quincy Jones’ weirdly intense score, the look of the film makes some scenes that should be humorous seem frightening. Ultimately, however, the real blame for the project’s overall mediocrity must fall on Simon, who sacrifices character reality for silly gags at regular intervals. Nonetheless, The Out of Towners gained enough stature to warrant a remake in 1999. In the second version of the story, Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn play the titular travelers.

The Out of Towners: FUNKY

The Heartbreak Kid (1972)

          Crafted by two of New York’s most celebrated wits—and based on an idea by a lesser light from the same stratosphere—The Heartbreak Kid represents satire so cutting the movie borders on outright tragedy. The film tells the story of a young Jewish guy who marries a simple girl, experiences buyer’s remorse, meets a beautiful shiksa while on his honeymoon, and gets a quickie divorce so he can pursue his Gentile dream girl. To describe the lead character as unsympathetic would be a gross understatement—Lenny Cantrow’s sole redeeming quality is a deranged sort of relentless positivity.

          Based on a story by humorist Bruce Jay Friedman and written for the screen by Neil Simon—who mostly avoids his signature one-liners, opting instead for closely observed character-driven comedy—The Heartbreak Kid was directed by Elaine May. After achieving fame as part of a comedy duo with Mike Nichols in the ’60s, May embarked on an eclectic film career. She wrote, directed, and co-starred in the dark comedy A New Leaf (1971), which was the subject of battles between May and the studio during postproduction, then took on this project as director only. While May’s world-class comic instincts are evident in the timing of jokes and the generally understated tone of the acting, it’s easy to envision another director taking the same material to greater heights of hilarity.

          Or not.

          You see, the problem is that The Heartbreak Kid tells such a fundamentally cruel story that it’s hard to really “enjoy” the movie, even when the comedy gets into a groove. Much of the film comprises Lenny (Charles Grodin) abandoning or lying to his wife, Lila (Jeannie Berlin), so he can make time with Kelly (Cybill Shepherd), a bored rich girl who uses her sexual power for amusement. In other words, it’s the tale of a rotten guy dumping a nice girl for a bitch. The piece is redeemed, to some degree, by the skill of the performers, each of whom is perfectly cast. Grodin, a master at deadpan line deliveries, is all too believable as a middle-class schmuck with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement. Berlin (incidentally, May’s daughter) bravely humiliates herself to make sight gags work, amply earning the Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress that she received for this movie. Shepherd, at the time a former model appearing in only her second movie, does most of her work just by showing up and looking unattainably beautiful, but one can see glimmers of the skilled comedienne she eventually became.

          The film’s other recipient of Oscar love, Best Supporting Actor nominee Eddie Albert, excels in his role as Kelly’s father, because his showdown scenes with Lenny are among the picture’s best—watching Albert slowly rise from simmering anger to boiling rage is pure pleasure. In fact, there’s so much good stuff in The Heartbreak Kid that it becomes a laudable movie by default, even though the central character is a putz of the first order. Inexplicably, the Farrelly Brothers remade The Heartbreak Kid in 2007 with Ben Stiller in the Grodin role, only to discover the story hadn’t lost its ability to infuriate. The remake flopped.

The Heartbreak Kid: GROOVY

Chapter Two (1978)

          James Caan might not seem the most likely candidate to star in a romantic comedy powered by wall-to-wall dialogue, but he does just fine in Chapter Two, which superstar writer Neil Simon adapted from his own play about a widower struggling to rebuild his life with a new romantic partner. The picture shares many similarities with the Simon-penned blockbuster The Goodbye Girl (1977), the success of which the makers of Chapter Two undoubtedly hoped to emulate. Like The Goodbye Girl, this movie depicts grown-ups bickering their way through a relationship fraught with unusual challenges, and like The Goodbye Girl, it stars Marsha Mason as a frazzled modern woman trying to balance her desire for a satisfying professional life with her urge to settle into a traditional marriage. It’s when the similarities between the films end that Chapter Two runs into problems.

          Chapter Two cannot match the previous movie’s brevity or complexity, because Chapter Two extends unnecessarily past the two-hour mark and lacks a truly memorable supporting character like The Goodbye Girl’s wise-beyond-her-years kid. More problematically, Chapter Two is bereft of the previous film’s brilliance—The Goodbye Girl represents Simon’s dialogue and storytelling at its best, whereas Chapter Two is merely commendable. As always, however, Simon’s jokes are his saving grace, because even when Chapter Two gets stuck in dull, plot-oriented sequences, the dialogue is brightly entertaining. As for the overall narrative of Chapter Two, it is exceedingly simple. After writer George Schneider (Caan) loses his wife, George’s horndog brother, Leo (Joseph Bologna), arranges a date for George with Jennie MacLaine (Mason), who is friends with Leo’s friend Faye Medwick (Valerie Harper). Then, while George and Jennie fall into a too-fast romance, the married Leo begins an affair with the neurotic Faye.
          Complications, as the saying goes, ensue.

          The main thrust of Chapter Two is George’s grief, and the difficulty he encounters putting aside the memory of his late wife so he can embrace a future with Jennie. Simon handles this material well, though his script could have used some trimming, and Caan enlivens the movie by juxtaposing darker colors with lighthearted banter. Mason is very good, as well, though her character has a bit of a one-note quality; she’s the endlessly patient woman who waits for a good man to conquer his demons. Still, this is slickly executed grown-up entertainment—one must check the credits to confirm that it was Robert Morse, not Goodbye Girl helmer Herbert Ross, who directed the picture—so it’s a watchable movie even if it’s also an unmemorable one. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

Chapter Two: 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

The Goodbye Girl (1977)

          Based upon a script that’s arguably the best original screenplay Neil Simon ever wrote, The Goodbye Girl became a massive feel-good hit and netted costar Richard Dreyfuss an Academy Award for Best Actor. And, indeed, though the movie’s title accurately identifies the leading character as a single mom who has become gun-shy about relationships, Dreyfuss dominates the movie with his enjoyably hyperactive performance. The simple story begins with thirtysomething New Yorker Paula McFadden (Marsha Mason) getting dumped by the actor with whom she and her young daughter have been living. Compounding his caddishness, the actor sublets his apartment to Elliot Garfield (Dreyfuss), a fellow thespian relocating from Chicago to New York.

          Arriving one rainy night and expecting entrée into his new abode, Elliot bickers with Paula until she lets him to crash in her daughter’s room so they can resolve their peculiar situation in the morning. Despite initially finding Paula shrewish, Elliot consents to let her use half the apartment (and pay half the expenses) while he rehearses for his off-Broadway debut in a new production of Richard III. This sitcom-style setup clears the way for an unlikely love story, with Paula lowering her guard every time Elliot demonstrates compassion, even though he’s narcissistic and overbearing.

          The movie’s most endearing contrivance is that Elliot develops a warmly paternal attachment to Paula’s precocious daughter, Lucy (Quinn Cummings), who finds his artistic quirks endearing. Using this plot device, Simon shows a surrogate family taking shape. Trite, to be sure, but winning nonetheless, thanks to Simon’s meticulous character work and rat-a-tat jokes.

          Director Herbert Ross, a former dancer, uses the main location (the apartment shared by the protagonists) like a dance floor. Actors flit in and out of rooms, glide from one space to the next, and generally move across the screen with such velocity that it seems like the story is progressing at lightning speed. Ross brings equal skill to absurd scenes set at theater rehearsals, so the bits in which an asshole director played by Paul Benedict instructs Elliot to play Richard III as a screaming queen are very funny.

          Some critics have rightfully lamented that The Goodbye Girl gets exhausting after a while, and it’s true that the movie’s energy level is pitched very high from start to finish. Furthermore, Dreyfuss delivers dialogue so quickly, and with such great intensity, that he literally gets red-faced from effort at regular intervals. However, his high-octane acting is complemented by Mason’s comparatively restrained work, and by Cummings’ guileless likeability. (Whether her characterization is believable is another matter, but old-before-their-years kids are a crowd-pleasing comedy staple.) Yet the most important virtue of The Goodbye Girl is the fact that the love story works: We see Elliot and Paula improve each other’s lives without altering their respective identities. Therefore, even if the movie sometimes tries too hard, one can’t argue with results.

The Goodbye Girl: GROOVY

The Cheap Detective (1978)

          Yet another of the myriad film-noir spoofs that proliferated during the ’70s, The Cheap Detective is surprisingly underwhelming given its all-star cast and brand-name writer. Neil Simon, opting for broad farce instead of his usual domestic dramedy, weaves together storylines and stylistic tropes from assorted ’40s detective movies, mostly those starring Humphrey Bogart. Peter Falk stars as Lou Peckinpaugh, a San Francisco private eye who gets embroiled in a plot that’s a little bit Casablanca, a little bit Maltese Falcon, and a little bit of everything else. His partner gets killed, villains search for a cache of super-sized diamonds, and Lou juggles romantic intrigue with several dizzy dames. The movie’s gags are so silly that characters have names like Betty DeBoop, Jasper Blubber, and Jezebel Dezire.

          Based on this movie and Neil Simon’s other noir spoof from the same era starring Peter Falk, 1976’s Murder by Death, one gets the impression that Simon was trying to outdo Mel Brooks at the anything-goes approach to lampooning movie genres, but Simon simply couldn’t match the inspired lunacy that made Brooks’ spoofs so delirious. By trying to keep dialogue crisp and plotting rational, Simon’s attempt at this style falls somewhere between the extremes of proper storytelling and wild abandon. Thus, The Cheap Detective is fluffy without being truly irreverent and goofy without being truly insane—it’s like a second-rate Carol Burnett Show sketch, needlessly extended to feature length. What’s more, the movie is hurt by flat direction, as TV-trained helmer Robert Moore lacks the ability to generate exciting visuals.

          Yet another problem is the all-over-the-map acting. The most enjoyable performances, by Falk and supporting players Eileen Brennan, Stockard Channing, Madeline Kahn, and Fernando Lamas, wink at the audience without tipping into Borscht Belt excess. The most tiresome turns, by players including Ann-Margret, James Coco, Dom DeLuise, and Marsha Mason, fall into exactly that trap. (Though it must be said that Sid Caesar kills during one of the movie’s dumbest scenes, thanks to his legendary comic timing.) Some actors, however, seem completely adrift: Louise Fletcher, John Houseman, and Nicol Williamson strive to find consistent tonalities for their work, apparently receiving little guidance from Moore or the slapdash script. With this much talent involved, The Cheap Detective has a few bright spots, but the total package is quite blah.

The Cheap Detective: FUNKY

Last of the Red Hot Lovers (1972)

A fair amount of Neil Simon’s career was spent exploring the angst of middle-aged men, from the newly divorced roommates of The Odd Couple to confused sad sacks like Barney Cashman (Alan Arkin), the protagonist of Last of the Red Hot Lovers. Happily married but bored with his life, he’s preoccupied by fantasies of having a wild romantic affair. So when a self-confident woman named Elaine (Sally Kellerman) propositions him one afternoon, he begins a series of near-miss attempts at extramarital sex, bringing three different women to the unlikely trysting place of his 73-year-old mother’s apartment on the days Mom volunteers at a hospital. The movie primarily comprises three long scenes, one with each potential lover, and the mild amusement of the picture is watching Barney get more crazed each time a would-be rendezvous goes awry. Simon’s rat-a-tat dialogue is as impeccable as ever, with quirky character touches and that special Noo Yawk flavor of neurotic sarcasm, but like many of the pieces he brought to the screen in the ’70s, Last of the Red Hot Lovers can’t quite decide whether it’s going for sly pathos or out-and-out farce. The chatty lulls between big jokes go on too long, and the big jokes aren’t that big (although watching Barney try to smoke pot is a highlight). Arkin’s delivery and timing are impressive, even though his aloofness makes the piece feel too clinical, and his costars are inconsistent: Kellerman is strong as a depressive with a sharp tongue, and Renee Taylor is fun as a desperate housewife, but Paula Prentiss is badly miscast as the sort of space-case hippie Goldie Hawn excelled at playing during this period. So, despite the adjective in its title, this one is strictly lukewarm.

Last of the Red Hot Lovers: FUNKY

The Sunshine Boys (1975)

          Boasting one of Neil Simon’s best scripts, two master comedians in the leading roles, and smooth dancer-turned-director Herbert Ross behind the camera, The Sunshine Boys should be sheer pleasure from beginning to end. And indeed, the premise is wonderful: Two aging vaudeville comedians who haven’t spoken since the breakup of their world-famous duo reunite for a TV special, only to discover they still detest each other. Furthermore, Simon’s characterizations are sharp, his signature one-liners are plentiful, and the “doctor sketch” he contrives for the comedians masterfully evokes vaudeville’s mile-a-minute style of corny jokes and sight gags.

          In the story, Willy Clark (Walter Matthau) is a belligerent, self-involved senior living in Manhattan, constantly haranguing his agent/nephew, Ben (Richard Benjamin), for new work even though Clark’s memory is dodgy and his attitude is so terrible no one wants to deal with him anymore. Meanwhile, Clark’s ex-partner, Al Lewis (George Burns), has spent the last decade enjoying a quiet retirement in New Jersey. When Ben receives a lucrative offer for the duo’s TV reunion, the old partners slip into a familiar dance of hostility and recrimination—Lewis makes sport of driving Clark crazy, and Clark can’t keep his temper in check.

          The long sequences of Ben trying to coax the aging vaudevillians into doing the TV special are terrific, because Benjamin’s amiable frustration grounds the leading actors’ respective shticks. Burns is fantastic in a role that represented a huge comeback for the showbiz legend at the age of 80, and he won a well-deserved Oscar for unleashing his avuncular charm and perfectly preserved comic timing. So why doesn’t this movie go down more smoothly? These things are a matter of taste, but for me this is a rare instance of Matthau being the weak link. He’s hindered by the fact that Clark is written as an insufferable son of a bitch, a man so deeply unhappy that he attacks everyone in his path.

          To his credit, Matthau commits to the character wholeheartedly—his performance is so grating that it’s hard to trudge through the muck long enough to discover Clark’s redeeming qualities. And in the movie’s defense, the characterization is believable even though it’s not particularly entertaining. As Lewis points out, Clark is a hard-working professional who derives no joy from his work, whereas Lewis is a naturally funny individual whose professional life was a breeze. Therefore Clark is understandably embittered by the fact that he can’t practice his trade anymore, because he feels like a man without a purpose. This deeper aspect of Clark’s character is what makes The Sunshine Boys more than just a laugh machine, and the last scenes of the movie are quite poignant because Clark gets a much-needed reality check.
          Getting there, however, is more of a chore than seems absolutely necessary.

The Sunshine Boys: GROOVY