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 (021706)
There are only two reasons to see The Pink Panther, and neither has anything to
do with Steve Martin or his bastardization of Inspector Clouseau. The first is
the opening credits cartoon - no matter how bad the movie, at least the title
character, playing practical jokes to the tune of Henry Mancini's unforgettable
theme, never fails to disappoint. But it's a sad thing when the best part of the
movie comes before the movie starts. Then there's an opportunity for viewers to
see Clive Owen as James Bond - sort-of. In the lone semi-inspired bit, Owen
appears as a dapper British secret agent with plenty of gadgets and a penchant
for derring-do. (The Pink Panther, which has been sitting on shelves for a while
awaiting its prime February release date, was filmed at time when Owen was
considered to be the front-runner to replace Pierce Brosnan. Had that happened,
this movie would have scored a coup. Since it didn't, this becomes an odd
footnote.)
This is the fifth Pink Panther movie without a (living) Peter Sellers. All but
one, 1968's Inspector Clouseau (with Alan Arkin), had the good sense not to
re-cast the bumbling French inspector (the Roger Moore cameo in The Curse of the
Pink Panther excepted). Sellers isn't just synonymous with Inspector Clouseau.
He is Inspector Clouseau. You can re-cast a James Bond or a Doctor Who or a
Superman, but you can't re-cast a part in which the actor and the character have
fused. Clouseau died in 1980 with Peter Sellers, but filmmakers, including
series creator Blake Edwards, haven't realized it. Maybe if no one sees this
version of The Pink Panther, someone will get the message.
Frankly, with the possible exception of A Shot in the Dark, the movies aren't
very good. Their chief selling point was Sellers as Clouseau. Even amidst the
worst scripts, he was funny. Steve Martin, despite being a gifted comedian in
his own right, reminds us what we're missing as we watch him fly to the brink of
desperation trying to channel Sellers. And it doesn't work. We spend 90 minutes
wondering when the impostor is going to remove his mask and reveal the real
Clouseau. The absence of any of the other Pink Panther regulars deepens the
hollowness. (Why no cameo for Herbert Lom or Burt Kwouk? One doubts they would
have refused had it been offered.) Martin is miscast (as would anyone else be),
and so is Kevin Kline. His version of Dreyfus is bland - a word no one ever
would have used to describe Lom's interpretation of the character. Jean Reno
does an okay job playing Clouseau's assistant (and even gets to copy a move or
two from the absent Cato). The less said about Beyoncé, the better. She's
gorgeous, and has a great voice, but any acting skills she may possess are
absent here. Here cleavage leaves a deeper impression than her performance.
The plot is dumb enough that it could have been written for one of the Sellers
movies. The coach of the French national soccer team (Jason Statham in a cameo)
lies dead on the field, a poison dart in his neck and his gaudy ring - which
contains the Pink Panther diamond - missing. Chief Inspector Dreyfus, in a bid
to inflate his own importance and popularity, decides to import the most
incompetent police officer he can find, promote him to inspector, and let him
bungle the investigation. Then, when all is nearly lost, Dreyfus can ride to the
rescue, arrest the miscreant, and bask in glory. His choice for the patsy is
Clouseau, but the newly minted Inspector fools everyone, including perhaps
himself, by solving the crime.
The movie mostly consists of pratfalls and verbal mangling. The bad French
accent may have been funny 40 years ago, but the last drops of humor have long
since been wrung out of it. So we get stuff like the unfunny "hamburger" bit
that drags on for so long that one is sure the End Times have come and gone in
the meantime. It's like a bad Saturday Night Live skit. Lackluster director
Shawn Levy (Cheaper By the Dozen - another Steve Martin retread) pilfers several
of the gags from earlier Pink Panther movies, but the old stand-bys are no
longer funny. Nor is the new stuff, which includes fart jokes and a bit of
stupidity featuring Viagra.
The Pink Panther is supposed to use humor to uplift. Instead, I departed this
movie feeling depressed. Lifeless comedies can suck the energy out of a viewer,
especially when they sully the image of an cinematic icon. The film is bad
enough in its own right that it won't work even for those who don't know who
Peter Sellers is - it will seem disposable and silly, with too many jokes that
don't work. But for those who recall Sellers and the role he made famous,
"travesty" seems to be the right descriptor.
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