Guy Grand

Okay, to borrow a few things from the previous commenter's observations, sure, this is an adaptation from a novel, and apparently the main character is an obnoxious lout who happens to be a genius.

Here's where this film fails in just about every department.

Not for a second do we buy that Sean Connery's Samson is a "genius" in any sense of the word. He's a thick-headed brute who hollers anti-establishment rants that really aren't enlightened nor are they particularly radical. The fact is, though, that he hollers a lot. There is no modulation to Connery's performance. No sense of a human being in there. His character is drawn to just be the hunky societal interloper whose mere physicality and scowls suggest a counterpoint to everyday norm. Genius, he is not.

Topping poor Connery in the shouting department is the screeching yowl of Joanne Woodward, whose hapless wife character of Samson, Rhoda, is given all the depth of a punching bag (literally). Connery takes swipes at her head, connecting with her skull in the end, along with throwing every dish in the apartment in her direction. He even shoves her down the staircase resulting in a broken leg, and perhaps, 1960's sentiments saw this as an uproarious moment of hilarity. You know, madcap abuse of the wife is always so mercilessly humorous. Anyway, you get the picture (reference the above reference to "thick-headed brute").

Jean Seberg is absolutely wasted in this performance. She plays the stifled wife of a renowned psychiatrist, Patrick O'Neal, who for some reason, and quite illogically I can only add, winds up having sex with Connery in a whirlpool bath and then dumping him the next time she sees him. There is no logic in having her character even in this film other than to flesh out the above-the-line star wattage on the marquee.

Only Clive Revill, playing a hare-brained psycho-therapist in every sense of the word, cuts loose with the material and lends a Peter-Sellers-like diversion for a total of 3 minutes screen time.

I cannot conceive of any audience, whether in the '60s or today, eliciting anything more than ho-hum chuckle and a wan smile over this pale comedy with absolutely no focus and one of cinema's most ill-conceived one-note main characters.

My rating: 1 out of 5 stars.

They don't make rugged, charming actors like Australian Rod Taylor anymore. They certainly don't make rugged, charming actors with a sense of humor like Australian Rod Taylor anymore either. Today's Australian Russell Crowe certainly doesn't hold a candle to Rod's easygoing nature and natural characterizations onscreen. Mr. Taylor was the real deal, a guy who was very comfortable with their persona, with their onscreen presence, an actor who could breathe reality, and not "acting" technique into a main character. A guy who, if he gave off a macho veneer, didn't turn to the camera and practically announce he's a macho stud. He just is, camera or no camera. No effort.

Which brings us to "The Man Who Had Power Over Women." Yes, it's a dated sex comedy. Of course, the fashions and the decor are wonderfully seventies' kitsch. Sure, it has horrible tunes for the "rock" artist sensation whom Taylor's character represents to warble. But the script, the acting, and the presentation is surehanded, and dare I say, more mature than a lot of what passes for introspective sex fares onscreen today.

Taylor is a swaggering representative at a hot record company whose main task at hand is to appease the label's latest rock sensation Barry Black (fabulously played to the obnoxious hilt by Clive Francis). But this is just a backdrop to the main focus of the insightful script by Chris Bryant and Allan Scott (future Nicholas Roeg scribblers and then some!). For Rod is being dumped by his high society wife and facing a mid-life scenario of swimming in the dating pool once again. Problem is, he never left the dating pool while he was married. So, when he falls for his best friend's wife, the matter is given wonderfully adult dialogue, mature nuance, and frank exposition, as Rod discovers who he really is becoming. Carol White as the best friend's wife, James Booth as the best friend, and the always-reliable presence of Alexandra Stewart as the insatiably-sexed single friend of all three, present this bed rotisserie setup with appealing and refreshing honesty that is welcome and now seriously lacking in these politically correct and politically repressed times.

The dialogue is natural, filled with wonderful asides and quickwitted observations. While the story is certainly nothing new, as are the plot developments, it's the acting and the crisp characterizations that give this film its fanciful verve. And paramount to the entire presentation is Taylor's wonderfully assured and mature performance. Watch the two pros, Taylor and Stewart, go back to her houseboat for a little tryst, and you'll be in agreement that there is nothing exploitative or remotely Adrian Lyne-manipulated in this setup. They both behave like the two adults they are, comfortable in what they are about to do, and with no schoolboy leering or director's nervous veering from their matter of fact lust.

For a very quick dip (89 minutes) into a time where plastic cubes represented the hippest of furniture and human interaction wasn't didatically-crafted in anxiously-skittish edits, check out "The Man Who Had Power Over Women." My rating: 2 1/2 stars out of 4.