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SOMINEX There are probably more boring movies about Formula One racing than John Frankenheimer’s 1966 Grand Prix but none as expensively photographed—using multiple Super Panavision “Cinerama” cameras mounted on the grounds of various race tracks and city avenues and bends, using uncredited MCS-70 field cameras on the 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 be right there, feeling run over. But we’re not; instead, this reserved seater—labeled by Garner as “the greatest auto racing picture ever made” and uncritically seconded by TCM’s Robert Osborne—is the equivalent of an extra-strength Sominex quelling the sound effects. So much is noodle-headed about the movie we don’t know who deserves to receive the most blame—Frankenheimer for ignoring the lamebrain Euro blasé script, or the ninny actors for accepting the unplayable scenes? Aren’t we supposed to feel the “drive” in the drivers, why they have the need for speed and its inherent danger? Voice overs heard from the principals pounding the pavement are padded insipidities pretending to be reasons, though Garner’s anti-hero is disaffected enough to admit he probably doesn’t know why, to new money bags boss Toshirô Mifune exaggeratedly dubbed by Paul Frees. (Leave it to a woman in Heart Like a Wheel to get at the heart of the madness in the monotony.) There’s not a moment of reality or curiosity except Jessica Walter’s early hospital scene: we’re cued to know she’s one super bitch when, following her husband’s surgery to save his life after a racing accident, and he’s in a bed all bandaged up, she whispers in his ear she’s walking out on him. The indifference is pervasive: as nitwit fashion photo journalist, Eva Marie Saint rolls out her usual 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 we just barely have the energy to respond, “Yes, Eva, at least something’s happening.” Uninteresting as well as criminally uninterested is frowny Françoise Hardy as racer Antonio Sabato’s gauche groupie pickup, who tells him she doesn’t “dance, smoke or drink,” not exactly what a race car stud wants to hear from a piece of ass during Grand Prix season. Garner is less fleshed-out than usual, having lost maybe thirty pounds to squeeze into the cramped seats of the racing cars. His usually groomed hair looks unhealthy, caked with gook stealing his nonchalance with Walter. During the split-screen montages, Maurice Jarre dares to use bits from his sickening Doctor Zhivago score and then has the nerve to make us recall his Lawrence of Arabia score for some of Bedford’s awful moments. And damn the bastard for reprising both at the end; couldn’t one of the drivers crash into his orchestra pit? (We start regretting our mock of Francis Lai’s “get it on” pulsing in A Man and a Woman.) Wife to Montand, Genevičve 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. ROLLOVER IMAGE
Text COPYRIGHT © 2002 RALPH BENNER (Revised 10/2023) All Rights Reserved. |
