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The
Out-Of-Towners
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At a time when many retrospectives around the globe invite us to revisit the oddness and wonder of some independent American cinema of the '70s, this entirely mainstream remake of The Out of Towners (1970) lures us back to that same decade's brief but popular flirtation with massively neurotic comedy. Between the original Out of Towners and The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975), playwright Neil Simon and star Jack Lemmon became the kings of this particular brand of neurosis. These were deliberately grating comedies all about urban stress, constant humiliation and embarrassment, the little people ground even further down the social hierarchy. Only the arthouse hit Happiness (1998) recalls the bland, black tone of these movies. Consider the premise. Henry (Steve Martin now taking Lemmon's part) has lost his job, but is unable to confess this to his increasingly dissatisfied wife, Nancy (Goldie Hawn reprising Sandy Dennis' role). They travel to New York where a series of mishaps gradually robs them of all their creature comforts: money, credit cards, even a hotel room. In every sense, Henry and Nancy constitute the original dysfunctional couple. This new Out-Of-Towners has added dashes to the title, but evacuates just about everything else which made the original distinctive and memorable. Like the woeful '90s remakes of Vincente Minnelli's wonderful 1950s series Father of the Bride, this sad affair removes all ambiguities and hard edges in a desperate search for a purely feel-good vibe. It is bizarre to watch Martin – who could so easily be the Jack Lemmon or Jerry Lewis of his time – mince his way insincerely through such pap, just as he did in both instalments of the modern Father of the Bride. Whenever Martin is called upon to announce the supposedly uplifting message of this piece – that life is worth living, that hope springs eternal, that every career can be revitalised – an awful, sinking, grey feeling sets in. Such a creeping feel-bad aura is surely not what director Sam Weisman (George of the Jungle, 1997) and writer Marc Lawrence (Forces of Nature, 1999) had in mind. When in doubt, they merely fall back on the physical tics of their stars: Martin's burlesque, discombobulated mugging and Hawn's wide-eyed dithering. Beyond that, there is only the predictable itinerary of New York's tourist spots. The film breezes along inoffensively, but there is scarcely a single decent laugh to be had. John Cleese's excruciatingly unfunny turn as a kinky hotel clerk makes one glad that Hollywood has not yet gotten around to remaking Fawlty Towers. © Adrian Martin July 1999 |
