Amor Daquele Jeito

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.

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!

Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were certainly in love with Paris :after "Paris Blues" ,"A new kind of love" !(French title : "the girl with the cap"!)But if you love Paris ,you'd better choose "An American in Paris" or "Funny Face" provided you like musicals of course.Anyway "a new...." has Maurice Chevalier,in the flesh,playing himself,singing a little tune.

"A new..." is a dreadful hodge-podge of clichés about Paris and its fashion,postcard style pictures ,and even Sainte-Catherine celebration,which will seem obsolete even to today's French audience.The plot is completely devoid of interest:Newman is a journalist and a lady killer who has been sent to Paris cause he has slept with his boss's wife.Woodward is some kind of fashion Mata-Hari.As far as she is concerned,she is much more attractive dressed up as a tomboy than when she is wearing these horrible wigs.And Thelma Ritter would like to have an onion soup in Les Halles -which were demolished since- with her colleague who does not take any notice of her and her burning love.

Worst scene:Newman taking Woodward he mistakes for a Fille de Joie to the Sacre Coeur so she can redeem her soul .

Newman and Woodward are excellent actors: elsewhere!

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.

"A New Kind of Love" is a forgettable farce comedy teamed with Newman and Woodward … It's an unpretentious story: a simple, mannish woman foolish1y devotes herself to a career instead of doing what women are supposed to do—hunt for husbands… But she gives her beauty treatment, a new style and expensive clothes and she'll straighten out and find a man… The new look is that after her marked change, the man mistakes her for a prostitute…

Although she's humiliated, she encourages his misunderstanding, telling him sensational stories about herself until he falls in love with her! The implication: if satisfying a man's infantile sex fantasies is the only way to get him, it's better than being an ordinary professional woman…

Joanne Woodward plays a fashion designer who, with blonde hair and showy makeup, actually looks more uninteresting than before…

Newman plays a sportswriter whose athletics with blonds has kept him from winning the Pulitzer Prize… He's an arrogant, alcoholic ill-bred man … As usual, he has some effective lecherous looks and self-disgusted expressions, but with all the charm and the grace