Il mio amore con Samantha

As far as pairings of Joanne Woodward and husband Paul Newman go, "A New Kind of Love" lacks the snappy plot and dramatic depth necessary to do its leading actors justice. Woodward steals the show as Sam, a homely and somewhat androgynous fashion designer often mistaken for a man (it's the pageboy haircut and constantly smoldering cigarette in her mouth); Newman is aesthetically pleasing (and alarmingly convincing) in the role of handsome, sarcastic Steve, a New York journalist who pursues more young women than hot story leads.

After an initial awkward opening sequence, the first forty or so minutes of the film are stimulating, with intriguing color schemes and costumes, quick wit and acerbic dialogue, beautiful Parisian scenery and an escalating plot line. Beyond that, however, the plot seems to drag, and frequent unnecessary departures are made from it - the musical montage with Maurice Chevalier, for instance, slows the film down and only serves to severely date the film (not to mention alienate any viewer who is clueless as to who, exactly, Maurice Chevalier is.) Some scenes are played out far beyond their initial artistic effect (the split-screen sequences), while others are confusing and impede the general flow of the storyline (Steve's visions of bawdy tales played out like sports), giving the story an air of ridiculousness instead of credibility.

All in all, this light comedy shines with the sheer romantic energy of Newman and Woodward (I found myself re-watching various parts of the film just to marvel at the undeniable chemistry between the two), but has none of the lasting impact of the pair's other films. It leaves one feeling a bit unsated, perhaps because of the overly-muddled plot that seems to have been convoluted merely to stretch the movie into a 90-minute romp - but the beautiful Woodward sparkles with natural talent, and Newman's on screen presence compliments hers seemingly without effort. Fans of Paul and Joanne will be charmed, but not moved, by this New Kind of Love.

When the credits for this one began to roll, accompanied by Frank Sinatra's jazzy update of the standard with the same name as this film's title (and which sounds like an arrangement by Sinatra's frequent and best collaborator, Nelson Riddle, who is, unaccountably, not listed in the credits), I thought I was in for a treat. An attractive cast; top-notch professionals behind the camera; Errol Garner adding his matchless pedigree to the musical scoring; gowns by some of the most renowned Parisian couture houses; plus the participation of several of that era's purveyors of upscale chic; and, finally, Joanne Woodward in a title sequence (designed by George Cukor's frequent visual consultant, Hoyningen-Huene, also listed as this film's color coordinator) surreptitiously snapping photos of the window displays of Manhattan's most expensive retailers. Ah, but what a disappointment followed.

To start, the script is surprisingly and tastelessly lacking in wit; the promised Paris locations are, for the most part, studio recreations; Paramount, by the time of this production, was no longer using its high-quality 70mm VistaVision process for most of its "A"-list productions; and the stars, Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, were never so thoroughly sabotaged by ridiculous plotting, rarely funny dialogue, and the rather listless direction of Melville Shavelson. And Miss Woodward had also to endure some particularly unflattering hair styles by George Masters, including an ugly platinum wig she was required to wear in several key scenes. (I mean, she can look great as a platinum blonde! Just check out 1960's "From the Terrace.")

There are a (very) few positive attributes, though. Eva Gabor lends a touch of much-needed glamor, as a character named Felicienne (Now there's a name that suits her!); Marvin Kaplan does his usually reliable shtick as the hero's sidekick/schlemiel; and Thelma Ritter, given pitifully little to do, survives this disaster with her fan base intact. But then, toward the end of the proceedings, Maurice Chevalier is dragooned into a seemingly interminable reprise of the music hall hits with which he had long been associated, in a scene where a bevy of females go into paroxysms of ecstasy over his supposedly irresistible Gallic charm. So it finally became apparent why, during the credits, Lanvin and Scandinavian Airlines System, among others, preferred their part in these proceedings to be described as "with the somewhat horrified participation of..." They must have been given a look at a rough cut of this mish-mash before the final release prints were readied. Quel abomination!

That quote, uttered by a tearful Joanne Woodward, is the perfect summation of this frothy sex comedy: It gives us a brief taste of something delicious before breaking off and leaving us cold and disappointed. Let's start at the beginning. Paul Newman is at his coolest as a slick swinger, and Joanne Woodward is appealing as the unkempt, androgynous fashion consultant everyone keeps mistaking for a man. There's a terrific opening, followed by some snappy montages and split screens. But then, about halfway through, the fun's over and the frustration begins. Suddenly everything is presented before the camera in a very bland manner as the plot becomes a ponderous romantic chase into nothingness. The characters begin spouting cliches about love and marriage. And to top it off, the film pulls that awful hooker-housewife double standard still widely in use today: If a man enjoys sex he's a playboy, if a woman enjoys sex she's a tramp. The whole thing becomes so obtrusive and heavy handed that not even the charm of Paul, Joanne, and the bubbly Eva Gabor can save it. Despite being set in red hot, exquisitely photographed Paris, A New Kind of Love's traditional, preachy, and ultimately boring sensibilities would be more at home in suburban Iowa.

The bad news is that the plot is hackneyed and boring. Reporter Newman mistakes fashion family heir Woodward for high-priced prostitute. The goods news is that the plot is mostly irrelevant, but the chemistry between Paul and Joanne is not, and neither is their comic timing. You also have Thelma Ritter and George Tobias on hand to assure a generous helping of chuckles. I give it 6 out of 10; it's a decent time passer.

A New Kind of Love (1963)

* 1/2 (out of 4)

A complete misfire has Paul Newman playing journalist Steve Sherman who accidentally sleeps with his bosses wife who in return send him to Paris to work. Once in Paris he spends more time partying with various beautiful women than actually working. The story also centers on fashion designer Samantha (Joanne Woodward) who does nothing but work and has no time for any sort of pleasure. The two bump heads but meets under different circumstances when Steve mistakes her for a prostitute.

A NEW KIND OF LOVE was originally being developed by Billy Wilder and under his direction perhaps something would have worked out. Sadly director Melville Shavelson can't handle the material but in all honesty it's doubtful too many directors would have been able to make something out of this mess.

The screenplay is simply a mess with way too much time being spent on subplots than the actual story, which is obviously the love story between the partying writer and the lonely fashion designer. This story is just buried under so much stuff that it never works and for once Newman and Woodward has very little chemistry on the screen. The entire idea of her being mistaken for a prostitute adds up to nothing and never gets the laughs that it tries for.

A NEW KIND OF LOVE has zero laughs, which is its biggest flaw. The cinematography, score and opening track by Frank Sinatra are all good. Newman and Woodward are just lost in the material where the on-running joke has Woodward being mistaken for a man. Thelma Ritter, Eva Gabor and George Tobias are all wasted in supporting parts. A NEW KIND OF LOVE is certainly the least of the Newman-Woodward films and just a flat out stinker.