When this was released in 1964 it received a loud and hearty round of indifference from the critics. I don't know why. It's hard boiled, amusing, romantic, and ironic. It's not Wilder and Diamond's best work but it's a satisfying blend of funny incidents, single entendres, and moments that almost approach drama.
I'd guess there are at least two important reasons for the general lack of enthusiasm. One is that maybe Billy Wilder should never have directed such successful works as "Some Like It Hot" and "The Apartment" in the previous few years. He got too many awards. The bar was lifted. After his great successes, everything had to be a masterpiece. His critical S&P rating underwent what's called a "correction." Another reason is that this is, after all, a movie in the classical style appearing in 1964. That's the year of the Beatles and Richard Lester and "A Hard Day's Night" and Carnaby Street and LSD and Timothy Leary. (Kids, you'll have to Google all that.) Wilder always had his actors stick to the script. (He wrote it.) And the camera wasn't carried by some guy on roller skates. Wilder's comedy, while always a little vulgar and often biting, demanded the viewer's attention. It was grounded, while much of pop culture was becoming absurd. I mean, here is Wilder, grinding out a more ribald version of the delicate Ernst Lubitsch type while critics are gobbling up Andy Warhol's "Sleep", an hour-long movie of John Giorno sleeping for five hours.
The story itself, though derived from an Italian play, is the kind that would interest Wilder. An ambitious, small-town song writer (Walston, my co-star in the excellent and under-appreciated "From the Hip") manages to trap pop singer Dean Martin in his house overnight. Walston tries to palm off a cheap local whore (Novak) as his wife (Farr), so that Martin doesn't wake up with a headache from lackanookie. Instead, Walston winds up spending the night with Novak and Farr spends the night with Dino. It all ends happily.
True, it's not that well written. Walston is overwrought. He's jealous of his wife, okay, but in fact he's unbelievably jealous and it's not particularly amusing when he tears the shirt off a fourteen-year-old piano student and throws him out of the house -- just for LOOKING at Farr. And the rest of the plot does have its longueurs. But none of these flaws torpedo what is basically a mildly diverting piece of entertainment. Dean Martin is especially enjoyable as his narcissistic self. Novak's coarse accent sounds more like Chicago than Jersey City. And Cliff Osmond, as a co-conspirator, isn't funny just because he's tall and fat and has a flat facial plane. So what? Even the silly songs (from an early Gershwin flop) are enjoyable, although they are no good. I'm qualified to make that judgment since I'm an expert musician, once having played the hydrocrystalophone in the Short Hills, New Jersey, Marching Band and Perloo Society.
You know, it's really a sin to expect too much of a movie or anything else.
I'd guess there are at least two important reasons for the general lack of enthusiasm. One is that maybe Billy Wilder should never have directed such successful works as "Some Like It Hot" and "The Apartment" in the previous few years. He got too many awards. The bar was lifted. After his great successes, everything had to be a masterpiece. His critical S&P rating underwent what's called a "correction." Another reason is that this is, after all, a movie in the classical style appearing in 1964. That's the year of the Beatles and Richard Lester and "A Hard Day's Night" and Carnaby Street and LSD and Timothy Leary. (Kids, you'll have to Google all that.) Wilder always had his actors stick to the script. (He wrote it.) And the camera wasn't carried by some guy on roller skates. Wilder's comedy, while always a little vulgar and often biting, demanded the viewer's attention. It was grounded, while much of pop culture was becoming absurd. I mean, here is Wilder, grinding out a more ribald version of the delicate Ernst Lubitsch type while critics are gobbling up Andy Warhol's "Sleep", an hour-long movie of John Giorno sleeping for five hours.
The story itself, though derived from an Italian play, is the kind that would interest Wilder. An ambitious, small-town song writer (Walston, my co-star in the excellent and under-appreciated "From the Hip") manages to trap pop singer Dean Martin in his house overnight. Walston tries to palm off a cheap local whore (Novak) as his wife (Farr), so that Martin doesn't wake up with a headache from lackanookie. Instead, Walston winds up spending the night with Novak and Farr spends the night with Dino. It all ends happily.
True, it's not that well written. Walston is overwrought. He's jealous of his wife, okay, but in fact he's unbelievably jealous and it's not particularly amusing when he tears the shirt off a fourteen-year-old piano student and throws him out of the house -- just for LOOKING at Farr. And the rest of the plot does have its longueurs. But none of these flaws torpedo what is basically a mildly diverting piece of entertainment. Dean Martin is especially enjoyable as his narcissistic self. Novak's coarse accent sounds more like Chicago than Jersey City. And Cliff Osmond, as a co-conspirator, isn't funny just because he's tall and fat and has a flat facial plane. So what? Even the silly songs (from an early Gershwin flop) are enjoyable, although they are no good. I'm qualified to make that judgment since I'm an expert musician, once having played the hydrocrystalophone in the Short Hills, New Jersey, Marching Band and Perloo Society.
You know, it's really a sin to expect too much of a movie or anything else.