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SOMINEX There are movies about Formula One racing more boring than John Frankenheimer’s 1966 Grand Prix but none as expensively photographed—using multiple Cinerama-labeled Super Panavision cameras mounted on the grounds of various race tracks, city avenues and country bends, using uncredited MCS-70 field cameras mounted on racing cars driven by James Garner (who did most of his own racing), for Yves Montand (who didn’t after an accident) and Brian Bedford (didn’t drive, period), and on additional cars, trucks and helicopters. The intent is supposed to make us feel right there, and if we enjoy Super Panavision pushed through single projection Cinerama, and additionally addicted of Formula One, the results are considered spectacular. Loving the huge screen as much as anyone, I’m indifferent to the drama of racing; this reserved seater—tagged by Garner as “the greatest auto racing picture ever made” and uncritically seconded by TCM’s Robert Osborne—is the equivalent of extra-strength Sominex quelling the thunderous sound effects. So much is noodle-headed about the movie that I wonder who deserves to receive the most blame—Frankenheimer for ignoring the lamebrain Euro blasé periphery of the script, or the actors as ninnies accepting the unplayable scenes? Aren’t we expecting to experience the drivers’ “need for speed” and its inherent danger? Voiceovers and memory flashes from the principals while pounding the pavement are padded insipidities pretending to be reasons, though Garner’s anti-hero is disaffected enough to admit to moneybags sponser Toshirô Mifune, exaggeratedly dubbed by Paul Frees, that he doesn’t know why, either, except for coming close to the “rush” in racing to possible sudden death. (Leave it to a woman in Heart Like a Wheel to get at the import of the madness in the monotony.) Off the tracks, there’s not a moment of reality or curiosity in the actors other than Jessica Walter, thirty minutes in, as one super bitch, prickly teasing her husband following surgery to save his life after an accident: as he lay in a bed all bandaged up, presumably unconscious, she whispers in his ear she’s walking out on him. As a nitwit fashion photo journalist who hires Walter, Eva Marie Saint rolls out her reliable suffering routine—in this case, her married lover crashes and with her hands covered in his blood, she repeatedly shrieks at the gawkers, “Is this what you want?” and some of us just barely have the energy to respond, “Yes, Eva, at least something’s happening.” Criminally uninteresting, Françoise Hardy, as racer Antonio Sabato’s gauche frowny pickup, tells him she doesn’t “dance, smoke or drink,” not exactly what a race car stud wants to hear from the available pieces of ass during Grand Prix season. Garner is less fleshed-out than usual, having lost up to twenty pounds to squeeze into the cramped seats of the racing cars. His usually well-groomed hair looks unhealthy, caked with gook stealing his nonchalance with Walter, and is further overshadowed when, using crutches to walk in on Garner and Walter in a hotel room, Bedford has scene-stealing cuts on his forehead, one of them rather spider-like. During split-screen montages, Maurice Jarre dares to lift bits from his sickening Doctor Zhivago score and then has the nerve to make us recall his Lawrence of Arabia score for more of Bedford’s awful moments. Couldn’t one of the drivers crash into his orchestra pit? (We start regretting our mock of Francis Lai’s “Aujourd’hui C’est Toi” pulsing in A Man and a Woman.) Wife to Montand, tiny waist Geneviève Page is nowhere near as much fun as she is in El Cid; Rachel Kempson, the real mother to Vanessa, Lynn and Colin Redgrave, plays Bedford’s mother. Saul Bass provides the credits and montages; film editing by Henry Berman, Fredric Steinkamp, Stewart Linder and Frank Santillo; costumes and hair by Sydney Guilaroff. (Opening 1/25/1967 at the Cinestage, running 24 weeks.) r Oscar wins: best film editing, sound and sound effects. The 2006 thirty-minute documentary Making of Grand Prix is essentially a tribute to John Frankenheimer’s ability to corral the needed support of real Formula One drivers—especially from Ferrari—previously denied re their disgust with past Hollywood efforts. The director hurriedly compiled a half-hour’s worth of footage as overview assuring not to falsify or gloss over the particulars of F1 racing to Ferrari, the chieftain in the business of the sport. Immediately impressed by how the cameras would facilitate the various issues involved in Grands Prix, Ferrari granted full cooperation. There was, however, the issue of the number of accidents to be shown, with the real drivers adhering to the history of Grands Prix that supposedly proved there was seldom more than one per race. Frankenheimer finessed the breach by having used dramatic spins, impacts and failed stunts—filmed during the making of the movie—not directly a part of the actual race. And implicit is the anticipation of movie viewers, just like real spectators of racing, in wanting some exciting crash action to ease the boredom. Otoh, insurance companies are loathe to allow “stars” the liberty of excessive stunts, re James Garner losing his coverage after his racer, rigged with gas-power cylinders to imitate a fire, quickly erupted. With sideline safety men using extinguishers to smother the flames, some of which landed on Garner who was in fire retardant jump suit and helmet, he—unlike Yves Montand after his minor accident (not shown)—would continue to do his own driving, unisured. Frankenheimer wanted Steve McQueen to play Garner’s character but a scheduled interview planned by the director was given to a subordinate who clashed with divo McQueen, thus a six-year wait to do the trouble-plagued Le Mans. Garner wasn’t always his usual charming self, either: cold and angered by the delay caused when a shop proprietor demanded more money for being asked to close while Frankenheimer was filming on the street which the shop (and other shops) were situated, Garner arrived to dissolve into a temper tantrum with the Frenchman. Standing by, Frankenheimer didn’t intervene but doubtless grateful, and so would be the insurers and local police, by the avoidance of fisticuffs. ROLLOVER IMAGE
Text COPYRIGHT © 2002 RALPH BENNER (Revised 7/2024) All Rights Reserved. |
