Just Like a Woman

I found this visually entertaining throughout and has all what you may expect in a swinging 60's film in colour with some soft lenses camera work and arty framed shots. A jazz music soundtrack, which works well for me, not obtrusive and not out of place, and cool. Here, I discovered the jazz singer Mark Murphy, and the film, for me, was worth watching for that alone. Fortunately there is plenty else to entertain one here, but a plot is not one of them.

It's basically a film by people in Showbiz, about people in Showbiz, and is not unlike a British version of what you may see in Italian films from this era. Gone is the gritty realism of the early 60's and people from outside of London with accents. It's giltz and glamour, and all the sets are highly stylised, as are the clothes people wear. Delightful.

From the first frame you know what you are in for visually, then after a few minutes the credits roll, which reflect the Pop Art world of the time, wonderful. As highlighted elsewhere, in a review, it's not the kids going wild taking drugs, but more of the previous generation having a (mid?) life crisis with their marriage/drink. After the busy beginning, it then sagged with an overlong telephone conversation involving John Wood, (whose character seemed to be gay, but never declared), but the plot then picked up and the film was eminently watchable for it's remainder.

Thrown into the mix, there are comic moments, and Barry Fantoni excels in his role as a spaced out pop star on another planet. Then there was the interlude of the German (?) architect played by Clive Dunn with his troupe of assistants, who were wonderfully absurd (do I see the hand of Bruce Lacey somewhere here?). The remainder of the cast do their job.

Not a 60's classic, but very enjoyable nonetheless, especially considering the shoestring budget. Worth watching if this is your thing. It is mine.

At first glance this is one more bright, bitty Swinging London caper, full of trendy London types trying their best to be "kooky" and daring. But "Just Like a Woman" does not quite fit the pigeonhole that contains "Georgy Girl", "Morgan", "The Knack" etc. It is a slightly older generation's wary encounter with the explosion of colour and brittle vitality that swept over England after The Beatles headed south from Liverpool.

The story centres on the bumpy marriage of a successful producer-director of television light entertainment and his wife, a scatty singer who cannot stand his flirtatiousness and fondness for the bottle. That his problem should be booze rather than dope is one sign that we're not dealing with liberated teenagers here. So is the film's music, jazz rather than pop: singer Mark Murphy (still going strong in 2004) has two numbers, one a duet with Wendy Craig. When a real pop star crops up on one of our anti-hero's shows, as played by Barry Fantoni he's a self-obsessed, hippy idiot banging a tambourine at random and failing to take direction.

Going back and forth between the couple after their separation, Fuest's screenplay conforms to the older Britflick morality: much talk about sex but neither of them getting any. Matthews is interrupted by Craig when he brings a starlet home; she's "gone right off it" and dreams only of building an ideal home for baths and parties.

A rally of TV faces enlivens the bumpy road to reconciliation. Miriam Karlin and Peter Jones from "The Rag Trade" are Matthews's studio colleagues; Clive Dunn, soon to be typed as a dotard, here depicts a mad Prussian Bauhaus architect who conceives Craig's perfect pad, a metal wigwam in a field full of cows. Dennis Price is a suave bathroom fittings salesman; Ray Barrett a randy Australian party animal; and John Wood, whom British cinema never used properly, does a sympathetic turn as a deadpan and epicene intermediary between the separated spouses.

Fuest started as a TV production designer, going on to direct episodes of "The Avengers". This, his first feature, has something of that series's snap, crackle and pop in its dialogue and its surrealist touches, especially in the climactic scene at Craig's new house. She is in transit from her original persona as debby party girl ("The Servant") to the mumsy characters she has played ever since. Matthews, a low-budget Cary Grant, is suave or silly as required. (Trivia note: he voiced the eponymous hero in Gerry Anderson's "Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons".) It adds up to a visually pleasant divertissement which ought to be rescued from the Lethe of unsold transmission rights.

This is more rememiscent of a television sit com of the period,very flatly lit. Maybe that's appropriate for the two leads as they both attained stardom on television. Craig in Butterflies and Matthews in the Francis Durbridgr mystery thrillers.

I am presuming that this was supposed to be a comedy,but unfortunately I did not laugh once. The writer Robert First manages to make such sterling performers as Miriam Karlin,wearing a strange wig,and Clive Dunn,with a monacle,as appetising as Christmas leftovers.

I found it a real struggle to get through this film. I wonder if cinemas at the time actually booked this film. It is justly forgotten.