From Kingsley Amis, through Brian Forbes, to Sidney Gilliat, this amusing tale of Peter Sellers as a librarian in a small Welsh town, who can win the competitive promotion to Chief Minister of Local Librarianship with the help of Mai Zetterling, the wife of the local power broker, can't help but hold the viewer's interest. Sellers is happily married to Virginia Maskell and has two lovely kiddies at home but he's vaguely discontent and, besides, Zetterling has the hots for him and looks just swell in the nude, as we see in a brief shot.
Zetterling keeps coming on to him and they keep getting interrupted at awkward moments. But there's no question about it. All Sellers has to do is continue to make himself available and sooner or later the dirty deed will happen. Zetterling has done it before. She has a dejected former lover following her around, waiting despondently for orders like hold this doggie, get me my usual drink, and baby sit for the man I now want to seduce.
This is 1962, sort of on the cusp. Sellers hasn't quite got the character down. He uses his familiar mannerisms and interjections -- "Yes, well, you see --" and "My darling." Except for one slapstick episode involving the early return of Zetterling's husband, he plays the role as blasé, a little anxious about everything but not quite anxious enough about any particular thing, like the possibility of promotion. Sometimes his speech sounds a little Welsh. And there are a few moments when the hint of a Hindi accent appears, which he was later to put to good use in "The Party" and the baccarat scene in "Casino Royale." The director has given Sellers his head in some scenes and he's as good as ever at improvisation.
Zetterling is suitably provocative. Virginia Maskell, as Seller's wife, is industrious, sensible, and a stunning combination of sensuality and domesticity. Richard Attenborough has a hilarious stint as a celebrated local poet who is busy translating Kafka into Welsh and who has written a play in the bardic tradition with an unpronounceable Welsh title. Kenneth Griffith is diverting as the neural shambles who vomits when he's upset.
The chief problem with the film could hardly have been avoided. It reflects the traditional values of the 1950s and unless we can accept that, it's liable to seem dated. Sellers could be Doris Day and Zetterling could be Rock Hudson. The ending is concordant with those values, with Sellers turning down the sneakily-gotten promotion and Zetterling's body because he doesn't want to be used. Hardly acceptable in today's ethical climate in which sleeping one's way to the top is no longer despicable but more or less taken for granted.
If it's not a great comedy, it's a good one, and uses the customary elements of the British comedies of the 1950s -- black and white, small budget, fine cast.
Zetterling keeps coming on to him and they keep getting interrupted at awkward moments. But there's no question about it. All Sellers has to do is continue to make himself available and sooner or later the dirty deed will happen. Zetterling has done it before. She has a dejected former lover following her around, waiting despondently for orders like hold this doggie, get me my usual drink, and baby sit for the man I now want to seduce.
This is 1962, sort of on the cusp. Sellers hasn't quite got the character down. He uses his familiar mannerisms and interjections -- "Yes, well, you see --" and "My darling." Except for one slapstick episode involving the early return of Zetterling's husband, he plays the role as blasé, a little anxious about everything but not quite anxious enough about any particular thing, like the possibility of promotion. Sometimes his speech sounds a little Welsh. And there are a few moments when the hint of a Hindi accent appears, which he was later to put to good use in "The Party" and the baccarat scene in "Casino Royale." The director has given Sellers his head in some scenes and he's as good as ever at improvisation.
Zetterling is suitably provocative. Virginia Maskell, as Seller's wife, is industrious, sensible, and a stunning combination of sensuality and domesticity. Richard Attenborough has a hilarious stint as a celebrated local poet who is busy translating Kafka into Welsh and who has written a play in the bardic tradition with an unpronounceable Welsh title. Kenneth Griffith is diverting as the neural shambles who vomits when he's upset.
The chief problem with the film could hardly have been avoided. It reflects the traditional values of the 1950s and unless we can accept that, it's liable to seem dated. Sellers could be Doris Day and Zetterling could be Rock Hudson. The ending is concordant with those values, with Sellers turning down the sneakily-gotten promotion and Zetterling's body because he doesn't want to be used. Hardly acceptable in today's ethical climate in which sleeping one's way to the top is no longer despicable but more or less taken for granted.
If it's not a great comedy, it's a good one, and uses the customary elements of the British comedies of the 1950s -- black and white, small budget, fine cast.