Now I've Seen Everything, Dept: Blake Edwards

"Bring Your Smile Along" (Hilarity Ensues)

"For someone who wants to practice his art in this business, all you can hope to do, as S.O.B. says, is stick to your guns, make the compromises you must, and hope that somewhere along the way you acquire a few good friends who understand. And keep half a conscience."

Blake Edwards

Born with the name William Blake Crump (on July 26, 1922 in Tulsa, Oklahoma) Blake Edwards had to be funny. His future career was shaped by the abandonment of his family by his biological father before he was born. His mother eventually married Jack McEdwards, whose father was a director of silent films. Edwards' stepfather moved the family to Los Angeles to become a second unit director and assistant director in the film business (eventually becoming production manager on many of his son's television series and film projects). Edwards, with his family in the movie business, became steeped in the silent movies being produced at the time, paying particular attention to the work of Charles Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Laurel & Hardy.

Edwards started his career in Hollywood as an actor—he can be seen in They Were Expendable and The Best Years of Our Lives—segueing into writing (and appearing in) the 1948 movie, Panhandle. A big break for Edwards came with his screenplay for All Ashore, where he got to work with director Richard Quine, and the two would form a partnership, which eased Edwards into the director's chair as well as moving into the television field. His first films were low-budget affairs starring singer and television star Frankie Laine.

Bring Your Smile Along (1955) Edwards' first solo directing credit was for this Frankie Laine programmer, which also featured the screen debut of the indefatigable Constance Towers, a favorite of John Ford and Samuel Fuller and "General Hospital" fans. She plays a music teacher off to adventures in New York, including run-in's with the singer-songwriter duo ("I love ya like a cell-mate!") of Jerry Dennis (Laine) and Martin Adams (Keefe Brasselle), easy to do as she moves across the hall from them. Hearing Marty composing a song, she writes some lyrics and slips it under the door. Confusion (and some hilarity) ensue, but before you know it, Martin and Towers' Nancy Willows are "making beautiful music together." Too bad she has a boyfriend from the old home town who's coming to visit, and messes everything up. Towers is solid, and Brasselle and Laine have some parlays together that actually produce laughs. The film follows a neat/easy tent-pole pattern of a song every 10 minutes, but there are only three original songs—the title-song, "Mammma Mia" (which is clever) and "If Spring Never Comes" (which is a fine "downer" song). Jack Albertson has a small role as a music publisher.

He Laughed Last (1956) A year after Guys and Dolls hit the big screen, Columbia Pictures made this odd lightweight gangster film, again written by Quine and Edwards. It's 1935 and a reporter visits The Happy Club—a swank gin-joint known for doing bang-up (and illegal) business during the dry years of prohibition—now owned by Gino Lupo (Frankie Laine). Lupo recalls how he got to run the jernt, so we flash back to 1927 when the city was dry and the place was run by Mob-boss Big Dan (Alan Reed—he was the voice of Fred Flintstone, ya know), who is a practical joker who's managed to push his second-in-command Max Lassiter (Jesse White) one joke too far. Lassiter hires a hit-man to whack Big Dan, but the late boss has one last joke in store: he's willed the organization to chorus girl Rosemary LeBeau (Lucy Marlow), instead of to Lassiter. And Rosie's boyfriend Detective Jimmy Murphy (Richard Long) is none too pleased that "Big Rosemary" is now running the operation. Top-liner Frankie Laine is actually more of a supporting act, playing Gino Lupo, the consigliere with tonsils, but he's still at ease with lines even if he's doing a faux-Runyonesque accent.

 

In 1999, after adapting his hit Victor, Victoria to a successful Broadway run, Edwards tried to get another production, "Big Rosemary"—based on this film—off the ground.

Mister Cory (1957) Edwards moved from Columbia to Universal and to Cinemascope for this story about a hustling kid (played by Tony Curtis) from Sangamont Street in Chicago who takes a busing job at a tony lake resort and sidelines hustling—his fellow employees at poker, and the clientele at golf, and he starts scoping out the restaurant for beautiful prospects and finds one in Abigail Vollard (Martha Hyer)—he gives her the impression that he's a guest and not waiting tables and detours her plans to marry a rich scion—until she visits the kitchen. 2 years later, Cory runs into a gambler from the resort (Charles Bickford) in Reno and the two go into business together with the Dolphin Street Casino (Cory even hires his old boss at the resort (the villainous Henry Daniell) for his "keen sense of snobbery"). But, he's not done with the Vollard family, especially the daughters Abigail and little sister Jen (Kathryn Grant). Pretty soon, he gets in over his head with his mob financiers and Abigail's long-time plaything (William Reynolds), who develops a losing gambling habit and sharing a relationship with Abigail. Edwards' direction is more assured—he starts his trademark of filling the screen with detail and depth—and the dialogue snaps and overlaps nicely presenting a nice comedic sense to the melodrama.

This Happy Feeling (1958) Mister Cory allowed Edwards to move up the ladder and work with producer Ross Hunter for this Debbie Reynolds vehicle, adapted—by Edwards—from the play "For Love or Money" (by F. Hugh Herbert, who'd written "The Moon is Blue"). It concerns an aging actor (Curd Jürgens)—"he must be 40 or something"—now retired to a horse ranch in Connecticut. He's trying to be coaxed back to the stage by a former flame (Alexis Smith), but he's reluctant because he'll be playing father to the latest young star (Troy Donahue), refusing to admit he's getting "up there." But, the main concern is the ingenue Reynolds plays—who is in constant danger of having her morals compromised ("Mr. Mitchell offered me his pajamas—no strings attached." "What's keeping them up?") after meeting the neighbor-boy (John Saxon) where they meet cute, but complicated, ending up at that ranch, drenched and miles away from her place in Brooklyn (well then, she'll just have to "spend the night"). Eventually, the actor hires her as his secretary and local tongues (such as Saxon's mother played by Mary Astor) start wagging. The script is filled with veiled double entendres to create a G-rated smuttiness. But, everything turns out alright according to community standards. The cast is all Ross Hunter-ardent, but Jurgens is gamely playing against it, with all the teutonic charm of a Nazi General. But, the stand-out is Estelle Winwood, playing Jurgens' ancient, perpetually-soused house-keeper.

The Perfect Furlough (1959) Edwards' first service comedy about a specific Army problem and how to solve it: 104 bachelor servicemen are building an Arctic "experimental" radar base for an entire year. The men are "restless" ("What time is it?" "April") and morale is breaking down. They're having fist-fights over pin-ups, for god-sakes. Psychologist Vicky Loren (Janet Leigh) suggests—since giving each man a furlough is out of the question—picking one man by lot to take what the man believe would be "a perfect furlough" The men vote for 3 weeks in Paris with film-star Sandra Roca (Linda Cristal)—the Argentina Bombshell. Then, the guy who came up with idea, Cpl. Paul Rogers (Tony Curtis), a well-documented philanderer ("he's the only high school student who was sued for breach of promise by his teacher") through gambling and manipulation, manages to be the guy who wins the furlough.

Such an operator then becomes a problem for the Army because as hard as he tries to make time with the film-star, the Army brass in charge of the project, Loren and Major Collins (King Donovan) work even harder to prevent it. Hilarity and misunderstandings of almost Shakespearean complexity ensue. But, then what can you expect when you combine the bureaucracies of the Army and Hollywood. Surprisingly entertaining and quite sharply written (if getting carried away with double entendres).

Operation Petticoat (1959) Tony Curtis suggested the story of Operation Petticoat from his time on a sub during the second world war—many of the stories are based on submarine legends, and it provided a chance for the actor to work with his movie "hero" (and, often, inspiration), Cary Grant, who plays the captain of the USS Sea Tiger, which is sunk by enemy fire while waiting to be deployed on December 10th, 1941. The incident makes the Navy want to scrap her, but Grant's Matt Sherman is determined to get the sub up and running by any means necessary. Unfortunately, a lot of his crew is re-deployed and supplies are few and far between—not to mention hung up in military bureaucracy. Good thing for him he mistakenly gets assigned Lt. Nick Holden (Curtis), a wheeler-dealer (His motto: "In confusion, there is profit") who, in "trying to make the war convenient," talks his way into becoming the sub's "supply officer" and becomes the sub's "King Rat," scavenging parts and supplies in non-regulation ways, such as "midnight requisitions" in warehouses. The sub limps into operation with only one engine running and a continual farting noise, but that's when things get interesting—they rescue a squad of nurses from an abandoned station after a Japanese attack. Embarrassment ensues.  

It's an entertaining little movie, light and charming despite the service background. It is of the Mr. Roberts school of "isn't serving in the military good times?" type of movie and the inherent sexism in the situation "isn't as bad as it could be."

 

And Operation Petticoat is notable for another reason: it is the first Blake Edwards film to be scored by Henry Mancini—the two first collaborated (and famously) on "Peter Gunn" TV series—who would score nearly every Edwards film thereafter...with very few exceptions.

High Time (1960) Really? A 60's movie with Bing Crosby and Fabian? Edwards was brought in as a replacement director and he already has some regulars in place, including Henry Mancini (who provides a plucky score). And for all the creakiness of the plot—a 53 year old owner of a chain of burger restaurants (based on Howard Johnson's?) goes back to school after making his fortune, because, as he tells his kids, "one of us has to graduate from college." The film is all antic highlights over the four years with freshman bonfires, fraternity hazing—including an extended sequence with Bing in drag, the trouper—and other campus hi-jinx. Crosby is a good sport, takes it all in his relaxed, easy-going stride, Fabian isn't bad, and one can find early roles for Tuesday Weld, Gavin MacLeod, Yvonne Craig. Why, there's even an Indian student (Patrick Adiarte) in the mix—and he isn't stereotyped! It also features the only performance by Richard Beymer that looks like he isn't trying too hard.

Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) "You mean George Peppard is playing Truman Capote?" Yeah, well, not so much. There's a lot of changes from Capote's story (like switching it from 1940's war-time to 1960's Kennedy era as well as making the writer-confidante with the elder fairy godmother (Patricia Neal) more of a straight love-interest). But, it's such a semi-nice, frothy (and emblematic) vehicle for Audrey Hepburn (although Capote says he would have preferred Marilyn Monroe), you can forgive Edwards for straying so far from the source material of Capote's novella—after all, look what he did to A Shot in the Dark! Hepburn plays Holly Golightly (deliberately not her real name, as will become clear), who, for want of a better term, is an "escort" for expense-account business types to drape upon their arm—or, as Capote describes it, "an American geisha"—a "socialite" (put in charitable terms), who has created a new persona for herself after abandoning her past and looks to pursue a more comfortable life with a rich husband. At least, that's the plan, if not the reality. And it may be as realistic as actually having breakfast at Tiffany's.

The one aspect that hasn't "aged" well—if we can get past screenwriter George Axelrod's "straightening" of the gay writer—is the casting of Mickey Rooney in the very broad caricature of Holly and Paul's Japanese landlord Mr. Yunioshi. Funny? Okay (to some?). Offensive? Yes! Racist? Certainly. And curiously, it seems more suited to the 1940's setting of the story than the 1960's. It's only slightly less removed from the portrait of the hapless man-servant Kato in the "Pink Panther" movies. But, no one has called for a digital recasting of those yet (or for the burning of the negative). Indeed, the film was voted into the National Film Registry in 2012. 

Audrey Hepburn being adorably noncommittal

Experiment in Terror (1962) Edwards follows up Tiffany's with a police procedural that wants to be a Hitchcock thriller. And the first 10 minutes certainly feel like it as bank teller Kelly Sherwood (Lee Remick) drives into her garage (in the "Twin Peaks" neighborhood of San Francisco) only to see the garage door close behind her and a man grab her from behind. As Edwards holds the shot in extreme close-up, the shadowed assaulter tells Kelly that he wants her to steal $100,000 from her bank or he'll kill her and her sister Tobey (Stefanie Powers). Remick contacts the local office of the FBI and gets hold of Detective John Ripley (Glenn Ford)—who was a mainstay of several FBI novels by The Gordons, the pair that also wrote That Darn Cat! Edwards had done light comedies in movies and light suspense for television (the series "Peter Gunn" and "Mr. Lucky"), but all of that experience still doesn't keep Edwards from playing a little too fancy with angles, when the story itself should be dictating how to shoot things. A nice creepy score by Mancini and the fellow who plays the villain—Edwards featured him in the "Gunn" series, and he'd show up in other Edwards productions—is so effective as an asthmatic over the phone, he probably created the cliche of the "heavy breather."

Days of Wine and Roses (1962) "Days of Wine and Roses" was an acclaimed, Emmy-nominated TV-episode of Playhouse 90, directed by John Frankenheimer and written by JP Miller. Miller's script was retained but when it was decided to make a film version of it, Edwards and star Jack Lemmon were hired and the differences in the versions is stark. Where Frankenheimer was tough, Edwards is sympathetic but doubles down on scenes of dementia tremens and institutionalization (probably because he could get away with it, given the censorious nature of broadcast television back in its "Golden Age"). The movie follows fun-loving public relations man Joe Clay (Lemmon) and his romance with secretary Kirsten Arenson (Lee Remick). They have a lot in common, but a major difference: he drinks, she doesn't. Eventually, she begins to see the difference a couple of Brandy Alexanders can make in her life to make her feel good, and the two begin a downward spiral to alcoholism with a chaser of co-dependence. As Joe describes it, it's "a threesome—you and me, and booze." The stakes are raised by the birth of a daughter, Debbie. But, after Joe loses his job due to showing up for work baked, and an accident at home, he decides to give up the bottle and convinces Kirsten to do likewise. It lasts two months and Joe binge-drinks himself into a sanitarium, which provides a lifeline to Alcoholics Anonymous. But, even as he's trying to achieve sobriety, Kirsten continues to drink and a terrible choice must be made: staying sober or staying with Kirsten.

It's a tragic story, with elements of horror writ large by Edwards. But, the production of it has a tonal shift that betrays the intent. It doesn't help the message that the movie ladles on Henry Mancini's and Johnny Mercer's Oscar-winning song, which should make the film seem more tragic, but, instead, evokes nostalgia for a toxic relationship that would, ultimately, given its inevitable end-game, kill three people. Sentimentality isn't called for. Empathy is. And the song, unfortunately, drowns the sorrow.

 

We clicked on comedy and we were lucky we found each other because we both had so much respect for it. We also had an ability to come up with funny things and great situations that had to be explored. But in that exploration there would often times be disagreement. But I couldn't resist those moments when we gelled. And if you ask me who contributed most to those things, it couldn't have happened unless both of us were involved, even though it wasn't always happy.

The Pink Panther (1964) Here are the ingredients: A beautifully exotic princess (Claudia Cardinale) is in possession of a fabled diamond with a very distinctive flaw—what appears to be a "pink panther" in its heart; a notorious jewel thief (David Niven) who counts himself among the gentry who wants that diamond; the french detective (Peter Sellers) who is determined to catch "The Phantom" in the worst way (which, the way he works, it's almost a sure bet), and the detective's  wife (Capucine), who is simultaneously having an affair with "The Phantom;" they're all trapped in a snow-bound ski resort in Cortina. It was originally a movie for Niven, but Sellers so dominated the film with his comedy that he stole the movie (and any potential franchise) right out from under him. Opinions have soured on the film of late (it isn't as good as A Shot in the Dark, for instance), and while it's true that not much goes on as far as plot—the film is basically four set-pieces and a musical number—it is still very funny, especially a long and involved bedroom scene between Sellers, Capucine (who has to endure a lot of indignities), Niven and Robert Wagner, which would be at home in a Marx Brothers movie. Definitely worth a second look.

A Shot in the Dark (1965) Despite the title and some vague similarities, it has nothing to do with the hit stage play (which starred Julie Harris, William Shatner and Walter Matthau) in the early 1960's. Edwards adapted the script (with "The Exorcist" author William Peter Blatty) for Sellers' Clouseau character while filming on The Pink Panther was still wrapping up.  Still, the same thread of a mystery—a chambermaid (Elke Sommers) is found unconsciously nude, with a gun in her hand and a boyfriend dead beside her. Only a complete idiot would think that she could possibly be innocent. What better idiot to investigate than Inspector Clouseau? Freed from the relationship string's of the previous film, Sellers' Clouseau is allowed to be as amorously clueless as he is clumsy, thus setting up the character for the rest of the series' long run. Here, Herbert Lom first appears as Clouseau's beleagured boss, Chief Inspector Dreyfus, George Sanders plays the aristocratic head of the household (he's the perfect icy foil for Sellers) with Burt Kwouk and Graham Stark, as well, doing their first work in the series. It is the best of the Clouseau's, despite its rather desperate origins, and Sellers has never been better in the role than here.

The Great Race (1966) Large budget farce with Edwards' old collaborators Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon that, not unlike Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines, is a send-up of old movie cliches and genres from the silent era and beyond. Only more overt and campier. Curtis and Lemmon play rival daredevils, the white-garbed "The Great Leslie" and the black-hearted "Professor Fate," whose mutual one-ups-manships collide during a 'round-the-world car race is being covered by (gasp! of all things) a woman reporter-suffragette (Natalie Wood, who was extraordinarily unhappy on-set, but has never been more frolicsome and gorgeous) and she hitches a ride with white suited good-guy Tony Curtis, "The Great Leslie" (and his driver Keenan Wynn) as they match wits with the dastardly Professor Fate (Lemmon, dressed as Snidely Whiplash, accompanied by Peter Falk) to try to be the first ones across the finish line. There are some odd diversions signifying their progress ala "Around the World in 80 Days"—a western bar-fight prompted by Larry Storch's outlaw, a Flynnish fencing match to the death with Ross Martin, even a musical interlude with the lyrics provided accompanied by the requisite bouncing ball (if the audience wants to join in), topped by a third act Prisoner of Zenda set-up (with another part played by Lemmon)...but it's all done in a winking manner, which says "nothing really matters here, we're just having fun" (which includes at that time, the greatest pie-fight in the history of movies, as the press-agentry went). It is quite funny, even inspired in parts, but everyone is trying a wee bit too hard for laughs, although Lemmon's grousing villain is a stitch, while being subtly bested by Falk's inspired nincompoopery.

 

The film is dedicated to Laurel & Hardy.

Edwards on the set of his "greatest pie fight"

When the expensive film opened "soft" Warner Bros. rushed out

a theatrical poster out to make sure folks recognized Jack Lemmon

What Did You Do in the War, Daddy? (1967) Hilarious service comedy with an elephantine cast that has been unfairly neglected. A general's adjutant (Dick Shawn) is charged with taking the town of Valerno, during the second World War. Charlie Co., the brigade for the task is led by two officers (James Coburn and Aldo Ray), who'd just as soon not fight, and coerce Shawn's Lt. Cash to negotiate with the town. Their one stipulation: let them hold their annual wine festival in the interim. There then begins a series of episodes where both the Italian Army and the Americans take turns faking out their superior officers that a real battle is taking place. As happens frequently in Edwards' comedies (and some dramas) there is a confusion of identities due to what people wear, and a certain understanding of commonality that results. Yeah, yeah. What's important is the movie is hilarious, what with Shawn, Coburn, and a particularly hilarious turn by Harry Morgan as a PR officer, tasked to report how the battle is going. Highly recommended, as the results out-strip star-efforts like The Great Race.  

Gunn (1967) Movie expansion of Edwards' 50's TV hit "Peter Gunn" (with its signature Henry Mancini theme) that probably served the opportunity for Edwards to do all the things the TV censors wouldn't let him do on the small-screen. Oh, there was plenty of gun-play on the show, as there is here, but Gunn moved the time milieu up to the 60's (rather than television version which seemed to be stuck between the '20's and the 40's), so there's more sex (especially in the form of Sherry Jackson's nympho "Sam," whom Gunn meets when she shows up unannounced in his bed) and more squalor—there's a floating brothel called "The Ark" that specializes in twins (cute, but kinky), and the movie maintains Edwards' trope of things showing up out of frame that nobody else sees or anticipates (best one: Gunn gets into his car, never noticing the gun-man in the backseat, who pops into the frame, sticks his gat in the P.I.'s ear and says "You drive; I've been drinking") The dialog is too clever by half (screenplay written by the Edwards/William Peter Blatty team) and Craig Stevens is a little less emotive on the big screen and, more than ever, feels like a cross between Cary Grant and Gig Young. And Edwards has a really nasty surprise at the end. Kinda fun, if a bit dated, as was the TV-version.

 

Why did Edwards create Peter Gunn in the first place? Because he'd created another detective, Richard Diamond, Private Detective, and sold it to Dick Powell for his radio series. Powell transitioned it to TV and the next year, Edwards, thinking "I could do that...again..." made his own show.

The Party (1968) Blake Edwards takes just enough time outdoors to prove that Indian actor Hrundi V. Bakshi (Peter Sellers) is a world-class foul-up (on the order of Sellers' other characters) before he sets him loose on a snooty Hollywood party that takes up the rest of the film, in this film inspired by the classic silent comedies, along with the work of Jacques Tati. By this time, Edwards and Sellers merely had to work with a script outline (co-written by Tom and Frank Waldman), and the two would hash out routines, stunts and bumbled sequences to create the film.  This time they were aided by a video-tape system that would allow them to review rehearsals before committing to precious celluloid.  The film was shot in sequence and with an eye toward economy—as Edwards spent a lot of money on The Great Race. and Sellers was now considered a "difficult" actor after the disaster that was Casino Royale (1967).  But, consigned to one set, how much damage could they do?  As much as possible, it would seem. All they had to do was wind Sellers up and let him go (with some assist in the comedy from Steve Franken as a bumbling drunken waiter. Sellers' dark-skinned Indian might be considered offensive (however Indian President Indira Gandhi was quite fond of quoting the film's "We don't think who we are, We know who we are.") 

Darling Lili (1969)  How do you solve a problem like Julie Andrews? Of course, there isn't a problem with her, it's just that the late '60's was a tough time to be a musical artist in the time of "Hair!" But, given the benefit of time—and the hindrance of "fashion"—this legendarily maligned effort looks great, even daring. Where Robert Wise started his Julie Andrews musical with her lost in the Alps, Edwards starts with an overture, a black screen and Andrews singing a terrific Mancini-Johnny Mercer song "Whistling in the Dark" in one unbroken take. Quite the presentation, especially considering the camera moves it took to pull it off. The script—by Edwards and William Peter Blatty—features Andrews as an "inspiring" British chanteuse during the dark days of WWI. In reality, she is a German spy reporting activities on British war movements which she gets chatting up the Allied servicemen besotted with her. Interesting role, taking advantage of Andrews' squeaky clean image that was the ghost of The Sound of Music and using it as a disguise for duplicity. It is even suggested by her German contact that she "do what's necessary" to secure information.

The chief servicemen likely to benefit from such "carte blanche" is Maj. William Larrabee (Rock Hudson), complicated by the fact that Lili—Lili Schmidt is her name, though she goes, of course, by "Smith"—has feelings for him. It's further complicated that French intelligence is investigating Larrabee for divulging secrets. "Interesting situation," says Lili in the under-statement of the movie: If Larrabee is found out it will cut off her pipeline to information. And if he's found out, it might lead the French directly to her. The spying gets in the way of the love-making, and the love-making gets in the way of the spying, which Blatty and Edwards turn into situations both dramatic and comedic. The film sports some bumbling French investigators (one could say that it's a "Director's Trademark"), some great songs (they were the last lyrics project Johnny Mercer did before he died), and some superb footage of dog-fighting bi- and tri-planes. Also a quite funny performance by Lance Percival, and even some deft comic timing by Jeremy Kemp!

Edwards had many issues with the Paramount executives—and they with him—and a lot of it inspired his later movie, S.O.B. And here's an interesting factoid: most "director's cuts" of their movies are longer than the theatrical presentation. Paramount, however, insisted Edwards turn it into a musical, so his cut is 25 minutes shorter!

Wild Rovers (1971) The low-point in Edwards' career—not artistically, one should add—was making films for M-G-M under the helm of "The Smiling Cobra," James Aubrey Jr. This western, about the waning days of the West, and one cow-poke in particular, had the rustic, un-glamorous air of Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch to it and Edward's "vision" was of a 3 hour roadshow western, complete with Overture, Intermission, and a sense of "epic-ness." Edwards concentrates on big landscapes, the better to show the dreariness of a cowboy's life, enough that they might want to do something drastic to change things for something better. That's what befalls an aging ranch-hand, Ross Bodine (William Holden) and a young up-start named Frank Post (Ryan O'Neal), who look at each other and decide that the cow-poke way of life has no future for them. Bodine's idea is to retire in Mexico. Post's is to rob a bank. They combine dreams and make off with $26,000 in cash and starting heading South. But the sons (Joe Don Baker and Tom Skerritt) of their boss, Walt Buckman (Karl Malden), decide they're going to track them down for breaking the law and betraying their father. It's a vengeful, bloody thing, this movie, and M-G-M cut it drastically from its 2¼ hour length after preview audiences found it too dour. One thing the executives left untouched, however, was the score. For the music, Edwards chose Jerry Goldsmith, not Mancini this time, after hearing the score Goldsmith did for Patton, and wanting a Copland-pastiche, rousing orchestral versions of period folk-tunes, something the composer delivered with brio.

Frank McCarthy's key-art for a proposed poster

The Carey Treatment (1970) Based on Michael Crichton's abortion mystery "A Case of Need," (written under the pseudonym "Jeffrey Hudson" while he was a medical student), it changes the name of the protagonist from Berry to Carey (and played by James Coburn) and paints the oncologist as an outsider coming into a well-established Boston hospital and making waves right from the start. When a friend and fellow doctor (James Hong) is arrested for performing an abortion that kills the daughter of the hospital's don of a surgeon (Dan O'Herlihy), Carey starts his own investigation into the matter, revealing some secrets that the prominent family wants hidden, and will frame that doctor to keep it that way. Crichton's book tackled two themes: racism and abortion (he has the most clinical of arguments advocating for the decriminalization of abortion—this was before the Roe v. Wade decision in 1973), but the movie only takes on the abortion plot, jettisoning the racism sub-text (that is only applied in the case of the arrested doctor being Japanese). It's a meandering low-budget production without an awful lot of directorial flair, and the romantic sub-plot feels like an after-thought tossed in to give balance to the abortion plot. Coburn tries to liven up the material a bit, but the results make one wonder why "A Case of Need" won the Edgar Award for mystery writing in 1969.

The Tamarind Seed (1974) British spy romance in the style of John le Carré.* A widowed British functionary (Julie Andrews), recovering from a nasty affair, decides to take a vacation in Barbados, where she meets up with a KGB agent (Omar Sharif) and both British Intelligence and Russian operatives use them as pawns to try and determine the identity of/or safeguard the identity of a Russian mole code-named "Blue."

 

That's the story, but the many agenda running in the background of a genuine (and fragile) romance is what was attractive to Edwards—who must have had Casablanca on his mind, as he references it a lot in his next film, too. The problems of two little people may not amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world—especially the neurotic, paranoid world of government spies—but the genuineness of real relationships make it moralistically more value than the subterfuge and play-acting of functionaries proclaiming the high ground. It's a neat little lesson of subverting the earlier film's romantic views of duty over self, especially in a "Cold War" where the stakes are selfish and negligible.

Photographed by the great Freddie Young, with a couple of nice performances by Anthony Quayle,  Dan O'Herlihy and Oskar Homolka, it plays like le Carré, but Edwards enlists two of the Bond franchise's key players—composer John Barry** and its Main Title wizard Maurice Binder—to lend it a veneer of those films' style.

The Return of the Pink Panther (1975) After four films that did poorly at the box office (despite their respective merits), Edwards reclaimed the Inspector Clouseau series, and simultaneously revived both his and Peter Sellers' careers. Sellers, in fact, enjoyed a renewed reverence for his work—even an Oscar nomination—which lasted until his death in 1980. A lot is retained from the Shot in the Dark Formula, but some new blood is brought in: Christopher Plummer replaces David Niven as Sir Charles Litton, the notorious jewel thief known as "The Phantom," and Herbert Lom returns as Clouseau's bruised and befuddled boss, Commissioner Dreyfus. Edwards gets Burt Kwouk and Graham Stark back after eleven years to play Clouseau's house-boy (and martial arts partner) and assistant, respectively. The film starts with a carefully planned out and filmed jewel heist with some of Henry Mancini's strongest action cues. And although Sellers is older and shakier as Clouseau, his comedic timing is still pitch-perfect, so much so that co-star Catherine Schell can't keep a straight face throughout her scenes with him. By the end of the film, Dreyfus is sent to a mental institution, where we will find him in the next film of the series.

The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976)  Clouseau gets a promotion to Chief Inspector of the French Sûreté, and, after a long incarceration in a mental institution, his old boss Dreyfus (Lom, again) is declared sane...until a visit by his old employee drives him right back into the straight-jacket again. But, this time, Dreyfus intends to kill Clouseau once and for all, hiring a team of assassins to do him in, with the usual failed results.

 

This one is a bit more over-the-top than normal, a combination of the "Batman" TV-series and the Roger Moore Bonds, with Dreyfus eventually cast as a super-villain hiding in a baronial castle with a disintegrating ray. Omar Sharif has a cameo role as one of the assassins, and, in a case of career fore-shadowing, Julie Andrews provides the singing voice for a transvestite in the film. Still funny, but definitely a step below par for the series, as it was starting to suffer from hardening of the formula, with the same set-pieces but a nasty streak that was starting to inform the humor, making the film feel a bit stale and the audience a bit guilty for laughing at it...if at all.

Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978) The last of the Pink Panther capers filmed while Sellers was alive, it features Clouseau as the target of assassination (yet again), this time by the head of that Oscar-winning drug distributor, the French Connection, Philipe Douvier (Robert Webber). For a time, the world thinks that Clouseau is actually dead, which renders Chief Inspector Dreyfus (Lom...again) sane (thus passing over completely the issue of what made him alive, as, in the previous film, he'd been disintegrated by his own fiendish super-weapon). Clouseau's apparent death gives the detective a wonderful chance to do his work undercover, and he goes through a series of disguises with Cato (Burt Kwouk, given much more to do than crouch in hiding) to get to the culprit responsible for his death. Dyan Cannon appears as Douvier's duplicitous mistress and Clouseau's love interest, and the whole thing ends up with a big fight in Hong Kong amid fireworks between Douvier's forces, the Mafia (...in Hong Kong?), Clouseau, Cato and Dreyfus.

10 (1979) Edwards' first original hit comedy in many years about a middle-aged composer (Dudley Moore, a breakthrough role for him) in a long-in-the-tooth relationship (Julie Andrews), who panics before settling down by indulging in a fantasy romp pursuing a nubile young "thing" (Bo Derek, in her 15 minutes of fame). Derek, the Bolero, and jokes about inebriation became the rage. It may seem a tad dated today, but Edwards' formula for comedy makes what might seem a cliché film seem fresh and uproarious. First time I can remember seeing Brian Dennehy in a film (and he played a bartender so naturally, I thought he was one they just picked out of a bar), and Robert Webber plays Moore's openly gay lyricist in a role that's sympathetic, wise, and remarkably free of the condescending affectations that permeated such roles at the time. It is still very, very funny, mostly due to Moore's winsome affectations and his ability to pull off physical comedy. It manages to be randy and ultimately heart-warming at the same time, in the mode of what Judd Apatow tries for these day.

S.O.B. (1981) The success of 10 allowed Edwards to do a project that had been in the back of his mind (and the darkness of his soul) for a while: a screed about the wholesale artistic and moral bankruptcy of Hollywood—S.O.B. (it stands for "Standard Operating Bullshit") feels like he vented his spleen about Darling Lili and the days he worked for James Aubrey back at M-G-M. Richard Mulligan plays Felix Farmer, a producer whose latest film, a musical starring his wife (Andrews), is being subjected to edits and interference from the studio financing it. Becoming increasingly unhinged, Farmer tries to commit suicide several times, the last one inspiring him to turn the musical into soft porn, which suddenly regains the studio's interest. There's a good group of actors, Robert Preston, William Holden, Robert Vaughn, Larry Hagman, Shelley Winters, and Loretta Swit (along with an early role for Rosanna Arquette) as well as Edwards' regulars like Webber, Craig Stevens, and Andrews, who, in the movies' most infamous scene, famously flashes her breasts. But it's Edwards that clearly has to get something off his chest, and the underlying bitterness inherent leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

Victor Victoria (1982) With Victor, Victoria, Julie Andrews, finally, has a hit movie that does well at the box-office. And it's a musical, when the genre was supposedly dead. Now, Andrews doesn't do sexy very well, so much as smart, but she has full choruses of talent, and a wry sense of humor that belies the "English Rose" reputation that's dogged her since The Sound of Music. Edwards found the perfect solution: take sex out of the equation while simultaneously throwing a klieg light on it—have Andrews play a man, or, better yet, have her play a woman playing a man who's a female impersonator. Problem solved. It's a little tough for Andrews to play butch, but she manages, and the whole milieu is about the suspension of dis-belief...

It was also a nice little penance for Edwards after sending her up in S.O.B.

 

Based on a 1933 German film, Victor and Victoria, directed by Reinhold Schünzel (which was, itself, remade in Germany in 1957), Edwards wrote the script in a fast thirty days. Throw in some fine songs by Mancini and David, James Garner as the romantic lead (he and Andrews had been a potent duo in The Americanization of Emily) and toss in Robert Preston (playing a part, supposedly written for Peter Sellers before he died), who'd, frankly, been languishing and under-utilized by Hollywood since The Music Man. As outrageous as the concept is, it's done deftly and allows Andrews and the entire cast to shine. 

At the age of 60, Edwards found himself back in Hollywood's good graces again—it would always be a prickly relationship—although he still had the successful "Pink Panther" series (which always made money whether each entry was actually good or not) to fall back on, but, his films, which veered between either drama and comedy, began to coalesce the two elements, the comedy becoming darker and the drama less desperate. The lives of his characters started getting more complicated, more neurotic, rather than dealing with singular issues. His characters were becoming less like Keaton and Laurel & Hardy, and more nuanced...like Chaplin's. But, then he'd veer back—at studio request—to breathe life into a series that still made money...even if its star was dead.

Trail of the Pink Panther (1982) Bruce Lee died in 1973 but lived on in movies via outtakes for quite a few years afterwards. That same spirit of squeezing every last frame of potential out of a fallen star permeates this sixth Pink Panther film, made two years after the death of Peter Sellers by utilizing dropped sequences from the previous movies, and faux-interview footage from stars who'd appeared in earlier films of the series, recounting the life of the lost Inspector Clouseau to a reporter (Joanna Lumley) who is investigating his death in a plane crash while he was on assignment. Richard Mulligan plays Clouseau's ancient father, and David Niven and Capucine return as Sir Charles and Lady Litton from the first film. Also appearing are Herbert Lom, Robert Loggia, Burt Kwouk, Harvey Korman (from a deleted scene in an earlier film). This one was filmed at the same time as the next film in the series, where, having run out of out-takes, bloopers, and anything else they could have gotten their hands on, they merely replaced Sellers, but still tried resuscitating the character.

Curse of the Pink Panther (1983) The sequel to the previous film but also the nadir of the Clouseau films, as Chief Inspector Dreyfus (the long-suffering Herbert Lom)—after sabotaging efforts to computer-select the best detective to find the missing Clouseau, instead contacts the worst possible one—a bumbling New York city detective Clifton Sleigh (Ted Wass) to try and find Clouseau, supposedly dead while investigating the latest robbery of the famous Pink Panther jewel. Meanwhile, the organized crime gang run by Robert Loggia is also tracking Sleigh to find Clouseau and eliminate him, even though—as is suspected—he is already dead.

I'm not spoiling anything in saying that Clouseau is actually discovered to be alive, having had plastic surgery and who now lives in a spa as Turk Thrust II (Roger Moore, who is astonishingly adept at clumsy comedy—all supposedly done in one take). It was the last film of Capucine and David Niven, the latter being so sick that his voice was replaced by impressionist Rich Little. He died before the film was released.

The Man Who Loved Women (1983) Edwards' remake of the Francois Truffaut 1977 movie with the unlikely starring of Burt Reynolds, who acquits himself well and manages to shine during the comedy portions, particularly in the "Houston" scenes with Kim Basinger, Barry Corbin, and (especially) Ben Powers. Where Truffaut's film had wit and irony, Edwards (who worked on the screenplay with his psychoanalyst), takes the French film's outline and goes more for the laughs. Instead of an obsessed aerospace engineer, we have a sculptor. Instead of it being told in flash-back by the editor of the man's autobiography, we have it told by his shrink (Julie Andrews). Like Truffaut's film, it gets a little hazy when it comes to the protagonist's inability to make decisions and his stasis being linked to his promiscuity, unless it's keyed in with a desire for pursuit rather than completion (and both films insist that their protagonists are something more than shallow stalkers and creeps, all evidence to the contrary) or reflecting a dissatisfaction for the status quo. Still, as much as both films want to generate sympathy for the character, they don't, with the ironic (maybe not so) ending evoking more mirth than tragedy. Andrews heads up a cast that includes early turns by her daughter Jennifer, Basinger (Edwards could really bring out the "funny" in her), Marilu Henner, Cynthia Sikes, Denise Crosby, Sela Ward, and Ellen Bauer.

Micki + Maude (1984) The sociological spur of this one is the pressure of career versus family. Dudley Moore re-teams with Edwards as television reporter Rob Salinger, married to Micki, a career politician (Ann Reinking), who really, really wants to have kids, but she's too busy with her career. He meets Maude (Amy Irving) a cellist, on assignment, and is charmed. A drunken night, and Maude becomes pregnant. Rob decides he'll do the right thing and marry Maude, which is big of him—but, then Micki reveals she's pregnant, too, and as he can't divorce her, he stays married to both women, which is bigamy. Edwards wrings all the comedic juice out of this one, a variation of the family sit-com trope of the son having two dates to the prom, and things come to a head when the two women end up in the hospital to deliver at the same time...in adjoining rooms. It sounds terrible, but it ends up being hilarious with Moore in a constant state of hysterics, before ultimately getting his comeuppance. It's not remembered well, but for out and out comedy, it's good Edwards. 

A Fine Mess (1986) Doing "press" for the film's release, Blake Edwards actually advised audiences to stay away from the aptly titled A Fine Mess. Intended to be a Party-like ad-libbed version of Laurel and Hardy's 1932 short, The Music-Box, that one had the advantage of being a quick three-reeler about two hapless movers trying to get a player-piano up a flight of stone stairs. Simple plot, based on Sisyphus, but that part of the movie doesn't show up until 65 minutes into this one. The rest of it is spent with sub-plots about fatal horse-doping, inept hoodlums, jealous Mafia Don's, a bungled auction, and endless stream of stolen and smashed cars (nicely orchestrated ones, one should mention) and a rather tardy fascination with hamburger drive-in's with ever-present Motown pop playing (squeezing out Henry Mancini's "score"). The director even gets a late-movie dig at Clint Eastwood, who had him fired from City Heat two years previously. One gets the impression Edwards had to deliver a Pantherian physical comedy to Columbia Pictures before they'd let him make the later That's Life!, a project much closer to his heart. Top-liners Ted Danson and Howie Mandel struggle mightily to being something to it, Richard Mulligan and Stuart Margolin are the dumbest of hoods, and there are small parts by Paul Sorvino, Dennis Franz, James Cromwell, Larry Storch, Keye Luke, and Julianne Phillips has a micro-part consisting of hitting Danson. It's a mess alright, not a fine one, but once in awhile, there's an okay moment.

Laurel and Hardy's The Music Box—far better

than A Fine Mess that it inspired.

That's Life! (1986) As personal a film as Edwards could make with his own money, his own family (and the family of his stars) in his own home and with a slightly askew look at his own life and battles with aging and depression. For the role of on-the- cusp-of-60-years-old architect Harvey Fairchild, Edwards chose Jack Lemmon who could make even the character's constant complaining some kind of entertaining. Julie Andrews plays his long-suffering wife, who manages to keep it altogether amid everybody else's concerns while personally awaiting news of a biopsy. Edwards, still reeling from his experience making A Fine Mess, made this one close to home and with trusted family and friends with merely the outline of a script. Besides some trusted character actors, Edwards hired Sally Kellerman and Robert Loggia and the film runs the risk of becoming maudlin at any second, but Andrews' professionalism keeps the thing from sinking. That's Life was a culmination of Edwards' string of mid-life crisis movies and every scene ends with the line "Why don't you see a psychiatrist?" This movie served as therapy and once finished, Edwards started to move his films in other directions.

Blind Date (1987) Edwards always had a fine eye for fresh comic talent and his casting of TV names Bruce Willis ("Moonlighting") in his first film role and John Larroquette ("Night Court") were a natural (it also features one of Phil Hartman 's early roles). But Kim Basinger? He must have seen something that the rest of Hollywood didn't, because Basinger is a fine comedic actress with an odd vulnerability that just makes her prat-falls and physical comedy funnier. She's hilarious and her willingness to make herself look something less than perfect is a definite plus. Willis plays a somewhat not-together middle-management suck-up who needs a date and is set up by his sleazy brother (Hartman) with...Nadia (Basinger), who is, yes, gorgeous...but don't let her drink. When she does, things happen and not well. Early on, they run into Nadia's ex, David (Laroquette), who not only carries a torch, it's more like a flame-thrower. He's a psycho, and the two spend most of their evening trying to avoid his over-the-top jealousy. Hilarity ensues...and actually, it does, more often than not. Edwards gets to do some of the things he does extremely well, like crashes with lingering consequences that provide funny call-backs, and an elaborate sneaking-between-rooms segment, which is Edwards at his best. Not bad at all.

Sunset (1988) During the days of the silent films, movie mogul Alfie Alperin (Malcolm McDowell, playing a thinly veiled and fairly libelous depiction of Chaplin) hires Marshall Wyatt Earp (James Garner) as technical adviser to a movie about Earp starring Tom Mix (Bruce Willis). Earp doesn't give much of a damn about the movie ("It's all true, give or take a lie or two"), but an old friend of his is married to Alperin, and there's been a murder at a local whorehouse (run by Mariel Hemingway). There's a conspiracy going on, with ties to the studio and the LAPD. Edwards gets the benefit of having Garner being the pull of the story with Willis (still in his pre-Die Hard smirky mode) playing the straight man (albeit in a ridiculous ten-gallon hat, next to Garner's modest Stetson). Edwards gets to stage a couple of movie-Western stunts, establish the Spanish roots of California, and doft his hat to the rough-and-tumble days of film-making, but there are a few missteps: for all the geniality it's a vicious affair that seems to take pride in its own nastiness rather than leavening it with cleverness (a tough choice between honesty or artistry), Edwards still plays the slo-mo card during the gunfights (as in The Wild Rovers, post-Peckinpah) and there's some weak acting, particularly Joe Dallesandro's scenery chewing, and Edward's daughter Jennifer, who is monotone throughout the film, but acquits herself well at the end). Not a great film, except for Garner, and the director's affection for the period. 

Skin Deep (1989) Pulitzer Prize winning playwright Zachary Hutton (John Ritter—a natural performer-fit for Edwards) wants it all. "I want a loving, faithful, caring, caretaking wife, and I wanna make love to everything else in long skirts, with bare feet and ripe, juicy mouths. Little boy-girls with small firm breasts and tight asses. Rubensque round women with big Mother Earth breasts and green eyes. God! I could go on and on." He does. He's an addict...for sex and alcohol. Which is really annoying to his wife (Alyson Reed) and his mistress (Denise Crosby) and his mistress' hairdresser (who gets caught cheating with them by both of them). Talk about complicated. And while he's doing all of this extra-curricular activity, he can't write. He gets lots of analysis, from shrinks (Michael Kidd), from lawyers (Joel Brooks) and bartenders (particularly Vincent Gardenia).There's a lovely reply to the "frog and the scorpion" story—"you'll tell me that because that's your character!" Edwards makes fun of metal bands, glow-in-the-dark condoms, female bodybuilders and electro-shock weight-loss treatments (which results in one of the funniest sequences in the movie).The most pertinent line in Skin Deep is "There is a God! And he's a gag-writer!" Best line is "Is this a bad time?"

And DeeDee Rescher has the best laugh.

Skin Deep's most notorious sequence:

"What was he arrested for?" "Cock-fighting..."

Switch (1991) Lothario Steve Brooks (Perry King, very briefly) thinks he's hit the jack-pot—he's been invited to an impromptu four-way with three ex's (JoBeth Williams, Lysette Anthony, and Victoria Mahoney) who he thought hated him for his churlish treatment of them. Trouble is, they do. They really do. Enough to kill him. In purgatory, God tells him that He/She/They'll put him to a test—return to Earth and find one woman who loves him unequivocally and Brooks gets to go to heaven. But fail and he will spend eternity in hell. Satan (Bruce Payne) thinks that the challenge is way too easy and convinces God to put a spin on it—bring him back as a woman (Ellen Barkin). Complications ensue when he has to explain his disappearance and her sudden appearance. It's a bit of a spin on the classic "Goodbye, Charlie" scenario. Barkin excels at the requisite physical comedy an Edwards comedy requires—her playing a man trying to walk in high heels is hilariously graceless. And it's a good hearted, well intentioned morality tale about walking in someone else's pradas and seeing life from another angle (Edwards uses Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" as the theme). Early roles for Catherine Keener and Téa Leoni.

Son of the Pink Panther (1993) Before he won the Academy award for Best Actor (for 1997's Life is Beautiful), Roberto Benigni played the non-titular son of Inspector Clouseau***...well, the illegitimate son of Inspector Clouseau, the gendarme (second class) Jacques Gambrelli. He becomes involved in the kidnapping of Princess Yasmine (Debrah Farentino) of Yugash by a team of Crime Syndicate hoods (led by Robert Davi) with a ransom of one million dollars and the abdication of King Haroak (Oliver Cotton). Bobby McFerrin "does" "The Pink Panther Theme" (and it's a bit brilliant), Claudia Cardinale returns to the series, but as Jacques' mother, Maria Gambrelli (the part Elke Sommer played in A Shot in the Dark!), as does Lom's Dreyfus, Kwouk's Cato, and Graham Stark as a professor of disguise. The film, which was edited by United Artist executives, by some 22 minutes, tends to fall apart in the action sequences, but is quite good, and, at times, quite funny in the set-up situations. The most sublime aspect is that Dreyfus' character falls in love with Maria even though he despises her son—and his father. It's the final film of Lom, Mancini...and Edwards, who was 71 at the time of filming. Indeed, 1/3 of the film was directed by the second unit director, his son Geoffrey Edwards.

Lom, Cardinale and Benigni in Son of the Pink Panther

 

Blake Edwards died December 15, 2010, at the age of 88.

 

 

* Le Carré would write his own version of this story, "The Russia House," in 1989.

 

** And to keep up the Casablanca theme, Barry main song for the film is entitled "Play it Again."

 

*** First choice for Edwards was Gerard Depardieu. Then, Kevin Kline. Tim Curry was on the list and Edwards was quite excited when Rowan Atkinson was suggested (although the studio didn't think he was well enough known).