Comedy – The Magnificent 60s

Mouse on the Moon (1963) ***

The gentle comedy for which the British were famous prior to the more raucous offerings from the Carry On team always contained an element of satire. Sometimes that has bite, but as often not, and almost, in a continuation of the gentleness of the format, appears like an afterthought. However, it’s not hard to skewer incompetence or hypocrisy or the foolish grandeur of nations, regardless of size.

There’s no blunderbuss required here – not with such easy targets as the space race, politics and the Cold War – just a gentle poke here and there at ambition, grandiosity and grandstanding as the tiny (barely comprising 15 square miles) country of the Duchy of Grand Fenwick somewhere in central Europe shows up global giants Russia and the United States. Sensibly, this doesn’t try to place one character at the center of the morass. Instead, stupidity is spread far and wide, as various characters cede vanity to the next.

The central conceit is one of those barmy ones that any scientist could make plausible – think of growing potatoes on Mars in The Martian or the nimble invention at play in Project Hail Mary (2026). The chemical reactions of bad wine set off the kind of explosions that could provide a substitute for rocket fuel and send a spaceship to the moon.

But that the idea is given oxygen in the first place by the superpowers wanting to be seen to be bigger than anyone else and by maintaining their rivalry when there’s little need.

Grand Fenwick is not just the type of place where nothing works – palace plumbing erratic, parades catastrophic, politicians corrupt and we are treated to a battalion of incompetents from Grand Duchess Gloriana (Margaret Rutherford), apt to nod off at state functions, Prime Minister Mountjoy (Ron Moody) who places having a hot bath about the needs of the populace and whose niece Cynthia (June Ritichie) is an agitator for reform, his untrustworthy political rival Benter (Roddy McMillan), and British spy Bender (Terry-Thomas) for whom bumbling is an art form.

Romance is in there somewhere when Mountjoy’s ineffective son Vincent (Bernard Cribbins) falls for Cynthia. But mostly it’s a concoction that relies on everything going wrong at the right time and anything that goes right nonetheless manages to cause appropriate chaos.

Having secured a million bucks in funding from America to purportedly send a rocket, a useless one donated by the Russians in a riposte to American generosity, to the moon, Mountjoy intends to pocket the cash by ensuring the rocket blows up on launch. However, it takes off, propelled by the wine with Vincent and scientist Professor Kokintz (David Kossoff) on board, triggering a genuine space race involving the two superpowers, propaganda the prize for the winner.

Naturally, nothing goes the way you expect and the little guys outwit the big guys.

This was an early directorial venture from Richard Lester (Petulia, 1968) so that accounts for some of the bite. Given this is populated in the main by character actors, Lester allows them do their thing while ensuring that the comedy is as much reliant on satire as buffoonery. No need here for double entendres or slapstick, the original set-up works out just fine.

Margaret Rutherford (Murder Ahoy, 1964) could have run away with this picture but her natural instinct to dominate is kept in check. Ron Moody (Oliver!, 1968) heads a cast of movie also-rans, some of whom made a successful transition to television like John Le Mesurier (Dad’s Army), Hugh Lloyd (Hugh and I) and Roddy McMillan (The Vital Spark). Terry-Thomas (Our Man in Marrakesh/Bang! Bang! You’re Dead, 1966) would have stolen the picture if given more scenes. Bernard Cribbins (Carry On Spying, 1964) offers another of his hapless characters while June Ritchie (The World Ten Times Over, 1963) adds a note of glamor.

This was a sequel to The Mouse That Roared (1959) and had to make do without original star, Peter Sellers, who had played three roles. Two of those roles were allocated to other players, with the third character axed. And where that film benefited from Sellers’ presence, this one definitely benefits from his absence.

Written by Michael Pertwee (Strange Bedfellows, 1965) from the bestseller by Leonard Wibberley.

Engaging.

The Invite (2026) ** – Seen at the Cinema

Not so much a gabfest as an outbreak of verbal diarrhea. This exceedingly slim offering is what passes these days for the kind of movie that might be appreciated by an intelligent audience or served up as counter-programming to the onslaught of the summer blockbuster.

But it’s as if the idea of marriages in trouble is novel, never been properly examined until the current new wave came along – for some reason Alan Parker’s Shoot the Moon (1982) with Albert Finney and Diane Keaton as the warring couple came to mind as an example of how easily this subject had been dealt with in the past without the necessity for coming at it all coy.

Everyone rabbits on at forty words to the dozen, talking over each other, repeating themselves as if the notion of editing had never occurred to anyone so that it ends up as a stagey four-hander, not far I would imagine from the stage play on which it is based.

And it has one of the most infuriating scores I have ever come across. I’m sure it’s intended as post-ironic or some such. Instead of allowing the words to speak for themselves the dialog is heavily overlaid with ominous music whose intensity is heightened as emotions rise.

Worse, this is primarily a shaggy dog story and a good bit of bait-and-switch, allowing the characters (Shock! Horror!) to utter such words as “double penetration” and “pegging” (Google them) – all of which sexual preferences are laboriously explained to married apparent innocents Joe (Seth Rogan) and Angela (Olivia Wilde) by more worldly pair Pina (Penelope Cruz) and Hawk (Edward Norton).

The invite in question is to join in a sex party, to turn the stuffed shirts into swingers. Olivia is jealous of the orgasms she can hear from Pina who lives upstairs in a weird apartment block where despite each couple living above or below the other they can still, by quirk of narrative or architecture, see each other through the window (go figure) which comes in handy if one of the couples is a secret exhibitionist and the other a voyeur.

Our foursome represent little more than standard cliches – stoner Joe and his neurotic wife who has to tidy up the kitchen before embarking on sex, the supposed charmer Hawk and the more obviously sexy Pina who is not averse to bursting out of her cleavage. There are jokes about exhibitionism and about Hawk not being musclebound enough to be a firefighter.

There are about ten worthwhile minutes in the entire picture when the characters properly open up, though Joe revealing himself as a failure, Angela as a self-centered stay-at-home mum with artistic ambitions she cannot be bothered to properly explore, and Hawk as not as tough as he seems, is not enough to prop up the rest of the picture.

For a comedy, even a purportedly sophisticated one what with all this talk about sex, it’s remarkably light of the laff front and in any case any opportunity for the audience to even snigger is seriously jeopardized by having a director (Olivia Wilde) with no sense of comic timing, barely leaving a millisecond between lines that could elicit a laugh, guaranteeing that nothing has the opportunity to strike home.

I’m no big fan of Seth Rogen (Good Fortune, 2025) since as far as I can tell he always plays the same character but at least he’s not as mealy-mouthed as the others. But when you rely on tantrums to inject some life into a picture you’re on a hiding to nothing.

I can see why this has received generally good reviews. It’s the critics’ job to push in front of audiences a discerning movie or two, but, as often as not, they are so determined to prod the audience that they nudge them towards movies that barely deserve the praise.

Edward Norton (A Complete Unknown, 2024) has been confined to small parts of late so it’s good to see him last out a full film. Penelope Cruz (Ferrari, 2023) offers more emotion, sass and psychology than the others. Olivia Wilde (Babylon, 2022) overacts like crazy.

In her capacity as director, count this as another misfire for Olivia Wilde (Don’t Worry, Darling, 2022). Will McCormack (Toy Story 4, 2019) and Rashida Jones (On the Rocks, 2020) adapted the play by Cesca Gay.

This had an old-fashioned platform release in the U.S., which meant it could rack up decent averages by only being shown in a handful of cinemas, allowing marketeers to dupe the media into thinking it was a hit.

Steer clear.

The Party (1968) ***

Had director Blake Edwards (The Pink Panther, 1963) stuck to his guns and followed his instinct and gone down the silent film route, this would have emerged in better shape. Blame star Peter Sellers (The Pink Panther) for deciding “brownface” had worked so well in The Millionairess (1960) that it was ripe for a repeat and that dialog was essential to the audience empathizing with his character.

On reflection, the fish-out-of-water concept would have been more acceptable with a character originating from anywhere but India which would have still permitted the star to adopt one of the zany voices that were his trademark.

The script was originally 58 pages long which would have delivered a finished product running just short of an hour. The extra time would have been made up by the actor’s improvisation.

His character probably didn’t need to be actor either to find himself at bigwig’s party in Los Angeles. When Sellers is at his inventive best this just purrs along. Some of the ideas are priceless – trying to retrieve a shoe from a pond, meddling with a electronics system, getting his tie stuck in an unlikely spot, spraying all with water. But when he opens his voice, it drags.

Part of the problem is that Hrundi V. Bakshi (Peter Sellers) lacks lines with any zap. He just mumbles along, repeating the same humorless drivel. And while other characters make fools of themselves through dialog, that’s rarely with incisive wit either, the audience just laughing at their inflated opinions of themselves.

Bakshi is an incompetent Indian actor who manages to blow up the expensive set on costume epic Son of Gunga Din movie set at the height of the British Raj. He should have been blacklisted, but instead elementary error sees him invited to the party of studio boss General Clutterbuck (J. Edward McKinley) where he encounters a drunken starlet, an alcoholic waiter determined to steal the slapstick high ground, pompous western star “Wyoming Bill” (Denny Miller) and French singer Michele Monet (Claudine Longet) trying to avoid the advances of movie producer Divot (Gavin MacLeod).

Although this was reputedly shot in sequence, the running order doesn’t really matter. Set Peter Sellers in his pomp down in any situation and chaos will ensure. Wigs will come off, shoes will rocket around a room, anything on a plate, bowl or tray will fall off, anyone in the vicinity will be drenched or battered. Tempers will rise until they are nicely cooking and set to explode.

Quite where a Russian ballet troupe and a painted elephant fit into this is anyone’s guess except that both were intended as cues for further hilarity. When guests aren’t tumbling into the pool they’re soaked in soap suds. Naturally, Bakshi’s ineptitude triggers gentle romance with Michele.

This would certainly have built up a good head of steam if seen in a cinema with an audience. But the cinema audience would have encountered the same problem as anyone watching it at home. For every sequence that hits a comedic bulls-eye, others just fall flat. When the movie relies on the star’s charm rather than his ineptitude it falls apart.

It’s almost a highlights reel and my guess is that if it was cut back to the original one-hour length we might well have a classic on our hands. As it is, padded out, it doesn’t come close.

While at one time it acquired cult status my guess is that the contemporary audience won’t find enough to compensate for the offensive Brownface.

Certainly there are moments of genius, the shoe sequence and the electronics section are huge fun. But too much just doesn’t work.

You might end up fast forwarding every time Sellers opens his mouth. He is a master at finding fun in the inanimate, less impressive when dealing with people. Didn’t do anything for Claudine Longet, no more movies after this. And that was not surprising. Everyone was just a stooge to Sellers.

I apologize for falling back on that old analogy of the curate’s egg – good in parts – but that pretty much defines it.

Lock Up Your Daughters (1969) **

Worth seeing for all the wrong reasons, prime example being Christopher Plummer with a false nose and almost unrecognizable as an eighteenth century periwigged English dandy in a pure squalor of a coastal town. The best reason is the very realistic background, all mud, missing teeth, drunkenness, cockfighting, poverty, debtors strung up in baskets – not the usual bucolic image of Olde England. But everything gets bogged down in an indecipherable plot. Robert Altman mastered the multi-character narrative in such gems as Nashville (1975) but here debut director Peter Coe most demonstrably did not.

This started life as a modestly successful London West End stage musical and probably for budgetary reasons the songs were discarded. All that’s left is plot. And plot and plot. All to do with sex as it happens. Husbands exist only to be cuckolded. Cleavage is obligatory for women. Young women lusting after sex have been brought up in contradictory fashion to view it as dirty. And no eighteenth century tale is complete without a regimen of long-lost daughters and sons.

It starts promisingly enough in early morning with a town crier (Arthur Mullard) filling us in on the predilections and problems of various prominent citizens, most notably Lord Foppington (Christopher Plummer), the foppest of the fops, gearing up for an arranged marriage to Hoyden (Vanessa Howard). As a virgin not wanting to come to his wedding night bereft of the necessary skills, he employs strumpet Nell (Georgia Brown) to bring him up to speed.

Meanwhile, it’s “lock up your daughters” time as a ship’s crew, at sea for ten months, given two days leave, start charging through the town, fondling and kissing any woman of any age who happens to stand still for a moment. Among this randy bunch are Ramble (Ian Bannen), Shaftoe (Tom Bell) and Lusty (Jim Dale). Ramble is given the eye by married Lady Eager (Fenella Fielding), Shaftoe takes a fancy to Hilaret (Susannah York) while old flame Nell is targeted by Lusty (Jim Dale). Mrs Squeezum (Glynis Johns) seeks sex anywhere and there’s maid Cloris (Elaine Taylor) also seeking physical fulfilment.

Of course, the whole purpose of the narrative is to thwart true and illicit love, husbands and fathers returning at inconvenient times. And had the storyline stuck to the tried-and-tested formula devised very successfully for Tom Jones (1963) and The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders (1965) it might well have worked. But the instinct to make meaningful comment by way of satire takes the story in very unlikely directions, an extended court scene with a barmy judge the worst of such excesses, though a food fight comes close.

It’s meant to play as a farce, the men climbing (literally) in and out of bedrooms, the town’s apparently only ladder put to continuous use. But what would work on stage sadly falls down here, and not just because the occasional song might have come as light relief. There is an element of the female confusion over sex, natural instinct going against education, and so ill-informed that at the slightest chaste kiss they are likely to cry rape, but that’s as close as the movie gets to anything that makes sense. A movie that needed a sense of pace just becomes one scene tumbling into another.

Christopher Plummer (Nobody Runs Forever/The High Commissioner, 1968) makes by far his worst screen choice. He’s so concealed in his clothing that movement is inhibited and most of his acting relies on overworked eyeballs. Susannah York (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) is pretty much lost in the shuffle. Ian Bannen (Penelope, 1966) is the pick, largely because he is required not to play villain, grump or idiot, and his Scottish charm and confidence works very well. Tom Bell (The Long Day’s Dying, 1967) is not cut out for comedy whereas Jim Dale (Carry On Doctor, 1967) who very much is does not get enough.

The movie wastes the talents of a terrific supporting cast headed by former British box office queen Glynis Johns (The Chapman Report, 1962) plus Roy Dotrice (A Twist of Sand, 1968), Vanessa Howard (Some Girls Do, 1969), Elaine Taylor (Casino Royale, 1967), Roy Kinnear (The Three Musketeers, 1973), Kathleen Harrison (Operation Snafu, 1961), Fenella Fielding (Arrivedeci, Baby, 1966) and singer Georgia Brown (A Study in Terror, 1965).

Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall (Billy Liar, 1963) wrote the screenplay based on, as well as the original musical, a number of sources drawn from the works of Henry Fielding (author of Tom Jones) and John Vanbrugh. Peter Coe never directed another movie.

Hard to find – and probably deservedly so unless you’re of the So Bad It’s Good fraternity.

Penelope (1966) ***

Comedic twist on the heist movie with Natalie Wood (This Property Is Condemned, 1966) as a kleptomaniac. Given its origins in a tight little thriller by E.V. Cunningham, pseudonym of Howard Fast (Mirage, 1965), it’s an awful loose construction that seems to run around with little idea of where it wants to go. Wood, of course, is a delightfully kooky heroine who takes revenge on anyone who has ignored or slighted her by stealing their possessions.

The picture begins with her boldest coup. Cleverly disguised as an old woman, she robs the newest Park Avenue bank owned by overbearing husband James (Ian Bannen). This prompts the best comedy in the movie, a man with a violin case (Lewis Charles) being apprehended by police, the doors automatically locking after a clerk falls on the alarm button, James trapped in the revolving doors losing his trousers in the process.

In flashback, we learn that she turned to thievery after a rape attempt by Professor Klobb (Jonathan Winter), her college tutor, and while half-naked managed to make off with his watch fob. She stole a set of earrings from Mildred (Norma Crane) after suspecting she is having an affair with James. “Stealing makes me cheerful,” she tells her psychiatrist, Dr Mannix (Dick Shawn) and while admitting to dishonesty denies being a compulsive thief. After the bank robbery she even manages to relieve investigating officer Lt Bixby (Peter Falk) of his wallet.

Nobody suspects her, certainly not her husband who could not conceive of his wife having the brains to carry out such an audacious plan. Bixby is a bit more on the ball, but not much. Clues that would have snared her in seconds if seen by any half-decent cop are missed by this bunch. And generally that is the problem, the outcome is so weighted in Penelope’s favor. The plot then goes all around the houses to include as many oddballs as possible – boutique owners Sadaba (Lila Kedrova) and Ducky (Lou Jacobi), Major Higgins (Arthur Malet) and suspect Honeysuckle Rose (Arlene Golonka). Naturally, when she does confess – to save the innocent Honeysuckle – nobody believes her in part because everyone has fallen in love with her. Bixby, just as smitten, nonetheless makes a decent stab at the investigation.

Howard Fast under the pseudonym of E.V. Cunningham wrote a series of thrillers with a woman’s name as the title. He was on a roll in the 1960s providing the source material for Spartacus (1960), The Man in the Middle (1964), Cheyenne Autumn (1964), Sylvia (1965), Mirage (1965) and Jigsaw (1968).

Taken as pure confection it has its attractions. It’s certainly frothy at the edges and there are a number of funny lines especially with her psychiatrist and the slapstick approach does hit the target every now and then. The icing on the cake is top class while the cake itself has little of substance. It strikes a satirical note on occasion especially with the Greenwich Village cellar sequence. It doesn’t go anywhere near what might be driving this woman towards such potential calamity – that she gets away with it is only down to her charm. There has probably never been such a pair of rose-tinted spectacles as worn by Penelope, even though her every action is driven by revenge.

Without Natalie Wood it would have sunk without trace but her vivacious screen persona is imminently watchable and the constant wardrobe changes (courtesy of Edith Head) and glossy treatment gets it over the finishing line. It’s one of those star-driven vehicles at which Golden Age Hollywood was once so adept but which fails to translate so well to a later era. Ian Bannen (Station Six Sahara, 1963) is in his element as a grumpy husband, though you would wonder what initially she saw in him, and Peter Falk (Robin and the 7 Hoods, 1965) delivers another memorable performance. Dick Shawn (A Very Special Favor, 1965) is the pick of the supporting cast though screen personalities like Lila Kedrova (Torn Curtain, 1966), Jonathan Winters (The Loved One, 1965) and Lou Jacobi (Irma la Douce, 1963) are not easily ignored. Johnny Williams a.k.a John Williams wrote the score.

Director Arthur Hiller (Tobruk, 1967) delivers as much of the goods as are possible within the zany framework. Veteran Oscar-winner George Wells (Three Bites of the Apple, 1967) wrote the screenplay but it’s a far cry from the far more interesting source material and I would have to wonder what kind of sensibility – even at that time – could invent a comedy rape (not in the book, I hasten to add).

Splitsville (2026) ** Seen at the Cinema

Might have worked back in the day when you could have enlisted the likes of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau whose grouchy sniping sparked The Odd Couple (1968) and Grumpy Old Men (1993). At a pinch might have stood a chance with Will Ferrell (Anchorman, 2004) and Vince Vaughn (The Wedding Crashers, 2005) and others of similar ilk, who might be oiks but had some charm. Starring writer-director Michael Angela Covino (The Climb, 2019) and his writing partner Kyle Marvin (The Climb) as the male leads, this has no chance at all, especially as this pair are responsible for the whole mess.

Theoretically, Dakota Johnson (Madame Web, 2024) is the star but given she only acts with her lips and not her eyes, it’s not much of a step-up. Whenever the narrative gets in trouble, which is most of the time, the movie resorts to the crudest kind of slapstick fights where furniture only exists to be broken and windows and even goldfish tanks to be smashed.

The odd thing is this might have worked a treat if the perspective had shifted from the out-of-their-league Carey (Kyle Marvin) and Paul (Michael Angelo Corvino) to their glossy, sexy, partners, Julie (Dakota Johnson) and Ashley (Adria Arjona). The casting looks like wishful thinking in the first place, the nerds snaring gorgeous women, but what really sinks the project as we learn as the movie progresses is that the feminist attitudes of the women are a bad thing, and that their inclination to take on multiple partners outside their marriages, with the tacit approval of their husbands, and the independence inherently expressed, should not be celebrated and that the sooner the errant women come to appreciate their faithful men the better – at least that’s what the happy ending says.

I only laughed out loud once and that was a crude bit. I’m not sure if Kyle Marvin has it written into his contract, or is taking advantage of his position as a co-writer, that his large schlong gets a good few outings – though maybe this is a modern ironic twist in that it’s the naked male rather than the naked female we see in the shower – but it was the appearance of his privates in an embarrassing situation that got the laugh.

The story is bonkers. Lively Ashley wants a divorce because her dull teacher husband isn’t sexually imaginative. He scuttles off to hunker down with best friend Paul, a millionaire property developer, and wife Julie only to discover they have an open marriage, of which he takes advantage, only to find that he has crossed a line with Paul. Meanwhile, Ashley has taken up with nay number of ripped hunks, that Carey accommodates, so desperate is he to maintain any kind of relationship with her. For some reason – narrative insanity perhaps – all of Ashley’s lovers take the same approach, once dumped they can’t bear to leave their apartment and Carey, being the accommodating sort, ends up cooking and cleaning for them all.

When Ashley’s business goes bust and he’s imprisoned for fraud, he determines to turn over a new leaf and that might work except that’s a fraud. He’s got no reason to turn over a new leaf since, apparently, he only went along with the open marriage idea to placate his wife and has been faithful all the time. Given the already shaky premise, this makes the edifice tumble along with Ashley’s revelation that she’s realized just how much better Carey is suited for her than all her other men. There’s a ramshackle climax where various people conspire to make other people jealous in the hope of winning back their true love. Naturally, this goes all slapstick – by this point you’re wondering if there’s anything left to break.

Three questions are left dangling: what attracted Dakota Johnson to the script given she’s got so little to do; why the movie took such an old-fashioned tack instead of one where the faithful have to work out how to hold onto their unfaithful free-spirited women; and how this was greenlit in the first place.

It’s the kind of movie that appears promising and you think it’s going to improve as it goes along. I was foolish enough to believe it would. The couple next to me gave up after three-quarters of an hour.

The Spy with a Cold Nose (1966) ***

Surprisingly good fun for a flop. A horde of brilliant visual gags, some of considerably subtlety, keep the ball rolling on what must be the most deliriously barmy concept ever – though, you never know, it’s so ingenious someone in the espionage game might well have tried it out.

The problem for audiences back then was that nobody was going to pay good money to see supporting actor Lionel Jeffries (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, 1968) hog the screen. It’s not as if he is merely scene-stealing. For most of the picture, it’s like the billing has been reversed. Third-billed Jeffries seems to be actually the star, the character around whom the tale revolves, with the top-billed Laurence Harvey (A Dandy in Aspic, 1968) and Daliah Lavi (Some Girls Do, 1969) relegated to the background and their expected sexual combustion a long time coming.

It’s also a particularly British concoction, belonging to the bureaucratic form-filling world of The Ipcress File (1965) rather than the free-wheeling James Bond series. Middle-aged spy Stanley Farquhar (Lionel Jeffries), with little to show for his decades in the Secret Service and no sign of, as he laments, a naked girl in his bedroom, come up with the clever idea of sticking a tiny microphone up the nose of the British bulldog being presented as a gift by the British prime minister to the Russian supremo (Colin Blakely).

Takes a while for Stanley’s snooty bosses to go along with the idea because, don’t you know, it’s just not cricket. The Russian premier is so taken with the dog it accompanies him everywhere and the Brits are soon smashing Russian spy rings. Eventually, the Russians sent their top spy Princess Natasha Romanova (Daliah Lavi), who has half the Russian hierarchy in her seductive pocket, to find out who’s behind this state of affairs.

She alights first on Stanley and naturally seduction turns into male embarrassment as he’s caught with his trousers down for the whole world to see. Eventually, and more than an hour into the picture, she sets her sights on dog whisperer and dog groomer par excellence Francis Trevelyan (Laurence Harvey) who, of course, is nothing to do with the Secret Service but has been blackmailed into fitting the mic into the canine spy.

The tale is so slight and nutty that you’d be heading for the exist doors within 15 minutes except that the movie is propelled along, very nicely thank you, with a string of visual gags. Stanley, being the type of high-ranking official whose briefcase is handcuffed to his wrist, is so distracted by the torments of his kids, that when we first meet him he affixes said briefcase to said hand before he’s put his arm through his jacket, thus being forced to conceal it under a bulky overcoat all the way to the office.

That means driving one-handed and making his colleagues think he has lost an arm. He’s also arrived at work minus his car roof which he’s managed to burn off after mistakenly using the cigarette lighter which has been turned into a flamethrower by the boffins. When he’s handed his instructions at work, he can’t read them. Don’t we have any ordinary pens around here, snaps his boss, realizing at the same time as the audience does, that he’s used a pen with invisible ink. There’s a lovely gag involving the Queen’s corgis. Another of the gadgets, an umbrella that flowers into a parachute, is brought into play at the wrong time.

And his awful children are straight out of the Just William playbook, stealing his breakfast from under his nose and dropping worms into his open mouth when he dozes off in the garden. Aftet the much-publicized episode of his encounter with the Princess, Stanley is landed with a suspicious wife (June Whitfield) accompanying him on his missions.

As you might expect, there’s some slapstick, but except in the case of Wrigley (Eric Sykes), Stanley’s associate, who overdoes it, it’s generally underdone to great effect, the Princess requiring one of her lovers to push out of the door another of her lovers who refuses to accept his time is up. However, the titular dog, thankfully, makes no attempt to steal scenes and remains a very minor figure in the proceedings.

But the idea of the likes of Stanley either getting the better of the Princess or even understanding the notion of being seduced means that, no matter how hilarious the scene, audiences feel hoodwinked at the lack of top-billed male-female action. When Trevelyan eventually gets to make a major contribution it’s too little too late.

But if you go along with it, and are not frustrated by the lack of screen time afforded Harvey and Lavi, it’s a got a good deal to recommend it. Lionel Jeffries’s acting was acknowledged by the Golden Globes, as was the film itself.

Laurence Harvey shows a keen eye for the comic and Daliah Lavi, as ever, steals every scene she’s in. Denholm Elliott (Maroc 7, 1967) and Colin Blakely (The Vengeance of She, 1968) are the pick of the supporting actors.

Directed by Daniel Petrie (Stolen Hours, 1963) from a screenplay by Galton & Simpson (The Wrong Arm of the Law, 1963).

Great fun and worth a look.

Arrivederci Baby / Drop Dead Darling (1966) ***

The Wrong Arm of the Law (1963) ***

Effortless stuff from Peter Sellers – funny accents and all – that put into sharp perspective his later strained performances in vehicles like What’s New Pussycat (1965) coupled with one of those delicious tales replete with countless twists that sets bad guy against bad guy. An on-from Sellers dominates any picture and here he’s at the top of his game and all you can do is sit back and wallow in the pleasure of watching him.

Theoretically, he’s playing two roles – poncy French fashion house owner Jules and London crime mastermind Pearly Gates. But the Frenchman is a role he’s adopted. In that capacity he garners information from a gullible clientele only too happy to boast about where they’ve stashed their jewels or where someone else is putting on an ostentatious display of wealth. This is relayed back to the gang who go and steal it.

The first twist is that the gang itself is being duped. Another mob, Australians, posing as cops (known as the I.P.O. mob – Impersonating Police Officers) arrest the thieves and make off with the loot. Gates is furious and is convinced it must be an inside job, he’s got a grass on his team. He is correct. But, twist number two, he’s the blabbermouth, unwittingly passing on details of his next criminal coup to girlfriend Valerie (Nanette Newman), adept at playing on his arrogance to winkle out the information.

As the gangsters are operating under a city-wide syndicate with gangs allocated territories and not treading on each other’s shoes, Gates’s first suspicions fall on rival gang leader “Nervous” O’Toole (Bernard Cribbins). But when that proves a bust, the syndicate teams up with the real cops led by Inspector “Nosey” Parker (Lionel Jeffries) with the approval of his boss (John le Mesurier) and establish a 24-hour no-robbing arrangement while trying to flush out the IPO outfit.

Together, they set in motion a major crime, assuming the information will be passed on to the IPO team, and the cops can catch them in the act. Twist number three, Gates doesn’t see why he should go to all that trouble without adequate reward and plans to make off with the stolen money.

The terrific cast doesn’t let Sellers have it all his own way. Lionel Jeffries (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, 1968), Bernard Cribbins (She, 1965) and John Le Mesurier (Dad’s Army television series, 1968-1977) can scene-steal with the best of them. Nanette Newman (The Wrong Box, 1966) is a revelation and the supporting cast is bumped up with the likes of Graham Stark (The Magic Christian, 1969) and Bill Kerr (Doctor in Clover, 1966) and if you’re quick you’ll spot a pre-fame Michael Caine (Zulu, 1964).

Not all the jokes are good but they come so thick and fast that you don’t care. And in the midst of this we have a rather enlightened and vulnerable Gates. He is a considerate employer, looking after his team in bad times, paying them well and generally acting as a paternal figure, while away from the gang he can unwind with Valerie and let his true feelings and the pressures he’s under be known.

Director Cliff Owen (The Vengeance of She, 1968) hardly stops to take breath. Screenplay by the due of Ray Galton and Alan Simpson (The Spy with a Cold Nose, 1966) working in conjunction with John Antrobus (The Big Job, 1965).

Avoid the snigger territory of the Carry On pictures, this is probably the last British comedy that could get away with such innocence and was rewarded with huge box office numbers in Britain.

Sheer enjoyment.

The Magic Christian (1969) ***

Substitute contemporary artwork/installation/performance art for practical joke and this will come up trumps. Taken in the artistic sense, where artists are pillorying society, there are gems – a stage Hamlet performing a striptease, feeding scraps of money to the ducks, ship passengers experiencing an apparent voyage when the vessel hasn’t left land, cutting up a famous work of art. Although I have to point out this will inevitably be remembered by some for a bikini-ed Raquel Welch cracking the whip over a galley of topless oarswomen.

Effectively a series of comedy skits loosely tied together under the theme of money, mostly in the form of bribery. Billionaire Sir Guy Grand (Peter Sellers) sets out to teach adopted son Youngman (Ringo Starr) just what money can buy. Could you pay one of the teams sufficient dough in the annual Boat Race for them to ram the other? Would a parking warden (Spike Milligan) eat the parking ticket he has just issued? In the spirit of fair play is it okay to down a pheasant with an anti-aircraft gun?

When the going slows down, surrealism enters the equation: ship’s captain kidnapped by a gorilla, vampire waitperson, black head on white body, urine-soaked banknotes given away to a crowd, the occasional nun or Nazi, newspapers where apologies are written in Polish.

Plot-wise, there’s not much to it and the satire is merely repetitive as Sir Guy embarks on educating Youngman on the perverse uses of money. It has the feeling not of following a storyline but of “what can we get up to next” and attempting to layer shock upon shock in the manner, it has to be said, of some contemporary directors.

But there’s neither sufficient bite to the satire nor punch to the shock so it remains an elaborate series of disconnected sequences. Luckily, nobody’s having to pretend to put in an acting shift which is just as well because Ringo Starr proves he can’t act.

And it’s not much helped by a host of cameos – Laurence Harvey (A Dandy in Aspic, 1968), Richard Attenborough (Guns at Batasi, 1964), Christopher Lee (Dracula, Prince of Darkness, 1965), Raquel Welch (Bandolero!, 1968), director Roman Polanski (Rosemary’s Baby, 1968), Wilfred Hyde-White (P.J. / New Face in Hell, 1967), comic Spike Milligan and various members of the future Monty Python team including John Cleese (A Fish Called Wanda, 1988) and Graham Chapman. Harvey and Welch make the biggest splash.

Excepting Dr Strangelove, Hollywood had failed to capture the essence of offbeat novelist Terry Southern (Candy, 1968) and despite input from Chapman, Cleese and Sellers, this never really gets off the ground.

Peter Sellers (The Pink Panther, 1963) was in something of a career rut where very little struck home at the box office and he would continue a dismal losing streak until resuscitating The Pink Panther franchise in 1975.

Director Joseph McGrath’s (The Bliss of Mrs Blossom, 1967) record was spotty. Best known for music videos for The Beatles, he was only well served when his cast was filled with strong actors.

No more than an occasionally humorous trifle with an equally occasional target hitting the bullseye.