One the one hand, this is a peculiar blend of farce, satire, anti- establishment jokes, musical high-jinks, exaggerated character studies and ridiculously camp impersonations, with – on the other hand – romance, tragedy, realism, death and mutilation. Nevertheless, the sexual innuendo rippling through every second phrase to the point of monotony certainly gives a pointer to the overall movie's intended audiences. It would certainly take a genius to form a cohesive film from such disparate elements, but director Michael Blakemore certainly gives it a good college try. His devices include on-location filming, incorporating old newsreel footage, fading in from black-and-white to color and vice versa, and using dissolves, split screen and other mechanical devices. But it doesn't work – basically because the players won't let it work! Just about everyone in the cast has a Victor McLaglen complex and tries to out- act, out-play and out camera-hog everyone else! Worst offender is prolific TV actor Denis Quilley who made only nine or ten films, but John Cleese gives him a good run for his money. Oddly, both Quilley and Cleese are effective at times, showing how the film could have been improved if they had toned their acting down a bit.
Another problem is that the musical pastiches are supposed be second-rate, and this is how they are actually played – with enthusiasm, but also with a degree of amateurishness which is sometimes endearing (e.g. the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers pastiche; the Flanagan and Allan skit), sometimes just amateurish (particularly the skits performed by Denis Quilley). The Carmen Miranda and Marlene Dietrich take-offs are particularly inept.
Technical credits are highly competent but the film is less effective than the sum of its parts. The finale in which everything is left up in the air is particularly unsatisfactory. Maybe this would work okay on the stage where the disparate elements could be separated by the rise and fall of the curtain. Unfortunately, neither the screenwriter nor the director have been able to come up with a similar solution to the movie.
Another problem is that the musical pastiches are supposed be second-rate, and this is how they are actually played – with enthusiasm, but also with a degree of amateurishness which is sometimes endearing (e.g. the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers pastiche; the Flanagan and Allan skit), sometimes just amateurish (particularly the skits performed by Denis Quilley). The Carmen Miranda and Marlene Dietrich take-offs are particularly inept.
Technical credits are highly competent but the film is less effective than the sum of its parts. The finale in which everything is left up in the air is particularly unsatisfactory. Maybe this would work okay on the stage where the disparate elements could be separated by the rise and fall of the curtain. Unfortunately, neither the screenwriter nor the director have been able to come up with a similar solution to the movie.