FEDORA (1978)

Before we begin, I have two caveats: First, I will ruin both the ending and the beginning of this movie. Second, this is less an essay than it is an apology, but more on that later. 

Now then:

Fedora opens with the titular character, a one-time movie star with a literally ageless beauty (played by Swiss actress Marthe Keller), hurls herself in front of a moving train, ending her life and her legacy. (That she does this after having fallen in love with Michael York, playing himself, is revealed later and should come to no great surprise to anyone, really.) Her funeral is an event unto itself and chief among the mourners is her once-upon-a-time lover and soon-to-be-has-been producer, Barry “Dutch” Detweiler (William Holden). Just two weeks before her suicide, Dutch had visited her in the hopes of convincing Fedora to return to the screen as a new Anna Karenina.

Not only does she refuse the role, but she tells him a strange tale that she’s being held captive in a private Villa on an island near Corfu, Greece. Her gaolers included her shady chauffeur Kritos, her shadier and jumpier servant Miss Balfour, her personal physician and possible plastic surgeon, the mysterious (and shady but less-jumpy) Dr. Vando and, last but not least, the extremely old Countess Sobryanski. When Dutch tries to help Fedora escape, Kristos clonks him unconscious, in which state he remains for over a week. By the time he recovers, Fedora has killed herself.

Dutch flashes back to the time when he first met the beautiful and (supposedly) talented Fedora, when they were both young, when he was an up-and-comer and she was an already-there. In the form of Stephen Collins (an almost-acceptable choice for a younger Holden), they begin their brief and torrid affair. As Dutch’s career ramps up, Fedora disappears for a spell, then reappears years later without having aged a day. Her only affectation seems to be for shoulder-length gloves, which she wears everywhere. It’s even in her contract that she be permitted the accessories on film, regardless of the role or the temperature.

Fedora resumes her stardom with nary a hitch. But she starts to get weird after meeting and falling for Michael York. Prior to their first scene together in a new film, he confesses that he was so taken with her as a child that he wet himself in the theater. And if that isn’t a turn-on, you tell me what is.

Thus, the film drags itself along like a man dying of a gunshot wound. Constantly, we’re reminded of Fedora’s stature, her beauty and her second-to-none talent. That we’re shown little of Fedora’s acting seems to be neither here nor there, and in the presence of the actors around her—Holden, Henry Fonda in a cameo, Jose Ferrer (constantly looking for an escape hatch as Dr. Vando)—Ms. Keller does not hold her own. (Truthfully, she is less-wooden than York, but what English writing desk isn’t?) 

 Ew.

At the same time, we’re also constantly reminded of what a sleazy, degrading, sweatshop of a business that is show. Hollywood, as described by Dutch and portrayed by its citizens, is the literal polished dog-dropping of the world. Beneath all the marble and champagne and chandeliers is the churning stuff Hell wishes it were made of. And the older Dutch gets, contrasted with the still-youthful Fedora, his own star begins to fade, then dim, then get lost under a couch. This Anna Karenina deal is his last shot at staying relevant in the world obsessed with youth.

And when Fedora takes her own life, something snaps within him. In Fedora he saw not only her youth but his own as well. She was a perfect thing and obviously the fame and her keepers had poisoned her mind.

Now here’s that spoiler I warned you about: when Dutch confronts the Countess at Fedora’s funeral and accuses her and her accomplices of this complicitness and murder-accessory, the truth is revealed: Countess Sobryanski is actually Fedora. The dead girl was her daughter, Antonia. It seems that one too many “treatments” from Dr. Vando disfigured the star and she forced Antonia to take up the role, playing Fedora in public. Therefore the gloves, for only her hands would give away her real age. When Antonia wanted to run away with York, her madness was finally revealed… uh, the jig was up, so to speak, so the Countess, Kristos, Miss Balfour, Vando (the Professor, Mary-Ann…) kept her drugged and secluded until Vando could come up with a cure for York-love. As a way of proof, the Countess offers Dutch the contents of Antonia’s room, in which are kept drawers full of gloves, and diaries filled with the sentence “My name is Fedora.”

Dutch then sees that Hollywood has no incorruptible corner, that innocence is its eternal meal, and it will never be cheated of its hunger for youth.

Billy Wilder was at the top of the food chain by the time he made the daring, The Apartment in 1960. After that, his career started on a more downward spiral. It had a brief recovery for 1966’s The Fortune Cookie, which netted Walter Matthau an Academy Award, Wilder unfortunately followed it with The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, which was brutalized in post by the studio and has never been fully restored. Never a big fan of the business in which he worked, descended even further into bitterness and anger—the bitching in Fedora makes Sunset Boulevard seem like a dirty fork in comparison.

Fedora was Wilder’s penultimate film and it seethes and gnashes against Hollywood. Based on a novella by actor-turned-novelist Tom Tryon (wrote The Other, starred in I Married a Monster From Outer Space), Wilder had trouble securing financing for the film. Hollywood suits claimed that the failure of recent “Hollywood movies” W.C. Fields and Me, Gable and Lombard, etc., made Fedora automatically uncommercial. Wilder showed them! He found some wealthy Germans and shot in and around Europe. Like Dutch, he spent a good deal of time trying to Woo Marlene Dietrich for the title role, but the actress hated the book, the script and allegedly Wilder’s tie. (I may have made that last part up.) The resulting film is a slog and has little of Wilder’s twinkle, his grin in the face of doom. Holden was often a screen surrogate for Wilder but there’s little satire in the frustration here. It shows in the faces of the actors, especially Ferrer and especially Holden (who would be in 1981 (after completing a slightly more-Wilderish Hollywood movie, Blake Edwards’ S.O.B.), of a headwound sustained by a drunken trip into a nightstand, and his body wouldn’t be discovered for four days). Holden looks tired and in some scenes he is clearly inebriated. Whatever it took to get through his director’s painful personal struggle.

The film was a commercial failure—it kept audiences laughing, but in all the wrong places. While some critics were kind to it, for the most part it was reviled in the press. It was the first movie Wilder had made in four years (following the most bitter adaptation of The Front Page) and he wouldn’t make another one until Buddy, Buddy in 1981. Following this film’s failure he ostensibly retired from the business he so loathed and spent his twilight years cultivating a world-reknowned art collection. To his credit, he never slapped on a pair of shoulder-length gloves to hide his age.

Now for the apology: since we first met, my wife Amy talked about this “gloves” movie she saw on TV as a kid. We consulted other film scholars, including my father and even Josh Becker (who’s seen, like, everything), but nobody could recall seeing a movie “where the daughter of this old actress wears long gloves so no one would know she was younger than she could have been. And she had notebooks filled with ‘My name is Fiona, or Folana’, something like that”. Even the ever-reliable internet offered no help. The closest we thought we’d come was an episode of either The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits (yeah, my memory ain’t so good either). After a while, it became a family joke at Amy’s expense. Anytime anyone was at a loss for a movie title, someone would chime in, “Are there gloves in it?” And we talk about movies a lot in the Watt household, so we all decided that, obviously, Amy was nuts. “No,” she’d say, “I saw it with a babysitter.”

“Did this baby sitter give you little activites like licking stamps or eating special brownies?”

Which would usually result with me suffering from a throat full of teeth.

And as oh-so-smart as we all are, peerless in our movie knowledge, I found Fedora by accident. I was on a Wilder kick while researching him for a book and tried to run down all of his unreleased stuff by, uh, grey-area means. I’d never even heard of Fedora at the time I downloaded—er, procured it. So when I popped it in, not only was Amy vindicated, but I realized that I’d seen it as well, as a kid around her age and probably on the same TV station. I instantly recognized the scene where the young Collins met a topless Keller swimming in a marble pool. The scene caught my eyes at such a young age for two reasons: 1) I had been a devotee of Collins’ short-lived adventure series Tales of the Gold Monkey (long before he got all Jesus-y on us), and 2), dude, there were boobs on regular TV! HBO was not unknown to us in 1982, so people my age knew what boobs looked like, but here they were right after a commercial! Yeah, they were distorted by the water but, still. I was lucky my grandmother hadn’t made me turn it off.

So after eighteen years of being together, my doubts of my wife’s sanity were washed away, along with a good dose of crow. (Sorry, sweetie!) When I excitedly called my father about this fact his response was underwhelming. “Oh, okay, sure. I think I saw that when it came out. Awful movie, isn’t it?”

Yes it is, dad. Yes it is. (See for yourself and watch the whole thing HERE.)

But like the most famous line from one of Wilder’s best movies goes: “Nobody’s perfect.”

  Image courtesy of Billy Wilder Blogspot

THE FRONT PAGE (1974)

With the print industry dying a slow, strangling, agonizing death in the current climate of iEverythings, it seems not only fitting and nostalgic but grimly ironic to take a look at a story that has both lionized and demonized both the newspaper business and the crack journalists who work for The Fourth Estate. Written in 1928 by former Chicago writers Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, The Front Page is as true in its cynicism as it is today, performed on stage almost constantly since its pre-Crash premiere and, without taking into consideration the numerous television versions, has been directly adapted for the big screen no less than four times.

The gist: The Front Page takes place on the day before poor Earl Williams, commie sympathizer or dupe and the alleged murderer of a black policeman, will be led to the gallows. Crammed inside the Press Room of Chicago’s Criminal Courts Building, reporters from most of the city big sheets play poker and make horrifically inappropriate jokes about the various horrors of the world as well as Earl’s big kick-off. Enter Hildebrand “Hildy” Johnson, crack reporter from the Chicago Examiner, there to say goodbye to the gang. He’s off to get married and get a respectable job. More importantly, he’s looking to get out from under the Examiner’s tyrannical editor, Walter Burns, who’d commit murder to get that scoop-worthy headline. Suddenly, shots rip through the windows—Earl Williams has escaped! When the other hacks race out to the scene, Hildy stays behind to bask in the quiet. Through the window crashes Earl Williams—a meek little guy who’s been railroaded by the Chief of Police and the Mayor (a corrupt Chicago mayor? Such fancy!) for an election-week stunt. Hildy is faced with a dilemma. He can either leave with his fiancée, Peggy, as planned, and escape Burns and the soul-killing news biz forever, or he can stay behind, shelter Williams and write a piece that will exonerate him once and for all. But to do that, he’d need the help of the hideous con man, Burns.

Keppler: “This is my first hanging.”

Hildy: “Don’t worry kid, this is Williams’ first hanging too.”

The play’s first trip to the movies came about in 1931, starring Adolphe Menjou and Pat O’Brien. (Don’t “who?” me! Menjou was the original “Billy Flynn” in Roxie Hart, basis for Chicago. O’Brien was friggin’ Father Connolly in Angels with Dirty Faces. “Who” indeed.) It played pretty close to the original script with very little action occurring beyond the press room.

Murphy: “Update on the Williams hanging: Sheriff Hartman's just put 200 more relatives on the payroll to protect the city against the Red Army, which is leaving Moscow in a couple of minutes. Bet a dime.”

Arguably the most famous and beloved of the adaptations is Howard Hawks’ near-perfect His Girl Friday with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. (Spin the dial, so to speak, to one of the cable movie sections, guaranteed it’s playing on one of them this very minute.) Working from Charles Lederer’s script, Hawks flips Hildy’s gender and makes her the ex-wife of Walter Burns, which bringsWalter into the story earlier and adds not only the much-needed team-up but a bit of Hayes-approved sexual tension. It also stars the fastest-spoken dialogue in movie history.

Thus far, the last remake of The Front Page is an untidy and unpleasant little mess from 1988, starring Burt Reynolds and Kathleen Turner called Switching Channels, the setting a television news stage, rather than the press room. Mean-spirited and misanthropic rather than cynical, this movie reportedly suffered from the two leads’ mutual abject hatred of each other, which is reflected in the film’s energy. If it weren’t for Joan Cusak as a loony assistant, the movie would be a complete wash.

Between the sublime and the hideous is adaptation #3 which premiered in 1974. Starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. Directed by Billy Wilder. With a script by Wilder and his astute partner I.A.L. Diamond. Gold, right? Sheer gold. Run with it, Duffy and let it hit the streets!

Well, gold plated, at least. Still a good value with today’s market.

Hildy: [to Sherriff Hartman] “You what I think, Hartman? I think you let Earl Williams out yourself so he could vote for you next Tuesday.”

By the ‘70s, Wilder’s career was faltering under the weight of his own greatness. Bitter at the Hollywood industry that he more or less owned in the ‘40s and ‘50s, Billy made some odd choices. For one thing, the snappy Hechtian/MacArthurian dialogue was “sweetened” by Wilder and Diamond, mostly to great effect, but so married were they to their own words that they forbade the rapid-fire overlapping delivery that made His Girl Friday such a hit. Even Lemmon and Matthau wanted to keep the furious pace, but Billy the writer wouldn’t hear of it, likely in direct opposition of Billy the Director.

Walter Burns: “Jeez, Hildy. why didn't you tell me? Kid, I woulda thrown you a little farewell party... “

Hildy: “Oh, no, no, no! I know your farewell parties! When Ben Hecht was leaving for Hollywood, you slipped a micky in his gin fizz. It took four of us to get on the California Limited.”

Walter Burns: “Ben Hecht! Used to be one of the greatest newspaper men I ever knew. Look at him now, sitting under palm trees writing dialogue for Rin Tin Tin.”

Secondly, given the freedom to not only use the spicy language of pre-code Front Page but also the saltier speech of the ‘70s, the use of profanity is almost constant. Not a big deal today, when Baby’s Day Out sounds like Scarface (hyperbole intended), but for a movie set in 1929, the language sounds incongruous, even if it is actually more accurate. All the “goddamns” and “bullshits” muck up the rhythm of the patter moreso than the line-then-next-line delivery.

Hildy: “I wouldn’t cover the Last Supper for you if you had it in the Pump Room of the Palmer House!”

Thirdly, when you go to see a Lemmon/Matthau movie, you expect the two of them to be in the room together for more than just the third act. By hewing to the original Hecht and MacArthur structure, Walter Burns (Matthau) is kept at the Examiner for far too long. Not that Lemmon (as Hildy) isn’t entertaining by himself (or surrounded by Charles Durning, Herb Edleman, a glib Harold Gould, a giddy Austin Pendelton), but the give-and-take that made The Odd Couple and The Fortune Cookie so wonderful and electric is held off to the point where the movie seems to slog along until the last forty minutes. Once Walter Burns finally shows up, things pick up steam again, but by then the meanness and the hysteria and the overacting (Carol Burnett and Vincent Gardenia) has worn a path through the audience.

Like Switching Channels later, Wilder’s The Front Page adds too many barbs to the wire. The cynicism doesn’t seem borne out of world-weariness on the parts of the newspapermen and the corrupt governing system, but out of some sort of utter hatred for the world. Some may find nihilism and fatalism funny, but here it crams the other elements against the wall. Wilder made his career revealing the skuzzy side of the world to the audience with black-humor. Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard spring immediately to mind when you think of cultural skewering and reversal of expectation. But towards the end of his career, Billy had started to see the world through smoked glass. That antagonism spilled into his work and literally weighed it down (just as it would in Fedora and Buddy Buddy).

For those like myself who believe that bad Billy Wilder is better than no Billy Wilder at all, The Front Page is hardly an appalling waste of time, but far from honorable satire. Maybe if Wilder had updated it to the decade in which it were made, the culture shock may have been lessened, the jokes seeming a little more biting with current issues addressed. But the idea of a “Red”, who’s reputation was made for sticking “Release Sacco and Vanzetti” into fortune cookies would have been too trite for 1929. In 1974, it was almost insulting and doesn’t adequately translate. (Although the idea that Williams got beaten up by a crowd of pimps for trying to get hookers to unionize is definitely funny.)

Dr. Max J. Eggelhofer: “Tell me, Mr. Williams, were you unhappy as a child?”

Earl Williams: “Not really. I had a perfectly normal childhood.”

Dr. Max J. Eggelhofer: “I see. You wanted to kill your father and sleep with you mother.”

Earl Williams: [to Sheriff Hartman] “If he's gonna talk dirty ...”

Even Billy himself would admit that The Front Page was, despite its moderate box office success, a mild misfire. “I'm against remakes in general,” he said, (Nobody's Perfect: Billy Wilder, A Personal Biography, Charlotte Chandler, 2002.) “Because if a picture is good, you shouldn't remake it, and if it's lousy, why remake it? . . . It was not one of my pictures I was particularly proud of.”

It wasn’t the remake status that held The Front Page back. The themes are universal even today in the era of information saturation: political malfeasance and nonfeasance; reporters out for blood to smear across their headlines (or click-through links) and the weariness that comes from a slow loss of soul; equally bloodthirsty readers ready to form a pitchfork-bearing Simpsons mob at the slightest change of wind, seeing injustice in jaywalking and racism in Neopolitan ice cream.

Think what Hecht and MacArthur would make of today’s “journalism”? Live blogging from anywhere, just so you can say “First”. (“First” being the new scoop.) Letters to the editor morphed into virulant posts left on Yahoo! News, revealing the basest of all human traits as misanthropy spews across the screen. Aside from the technology, nothing has changed since 1928, certainly not human behavior when one thinks nobody is looking. 

BUDDY BUDDY (1981)

In 1966, Billy Wilder wrote and directed what was considered to be his last inarguably great movie, The Fortune Cookie. Notable for many things, particularly the first on-screen pairing of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, a Golden Globe nod and an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for Matthau, nominations for the screenplay by Wilder and his long-time collaborator I.A.L. Diamond, as well as for Cinematography and Art Direction. It was a box office hit and solidified that Wilder was an unmitigated Hollywood maestro.

Four years later, after a series of stalled productions, Wilder wrote, produced and directed The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, meant to be an “event” picture it was butchered by United Artists and opened to critical applause but little financial success. Following that came a series of failures: Avanti! (1972), The Front Page (1974—surprisingly given the reteaming of Matthau and Lemmon) and Fedora, a movie whose tumultuous production almost forced Wilder into retirement.

After another three years, give or take, Wilder began to complain publically that he was being discriminated against in Hollywood, because of his age, because of his last few “failures”. Movie culture had changed underneath him. What used to be daring—the smoldering infidelity of Double Indemnity, promiscuity of Some Like It Hot and The Apartment—was now tame in the time of Taxi Driver, The Godfather, Jaws, Carnal Knowledge, The Graduate.

Then MGM acquired a quiet French black comedy from 1973, L'Emmerdeur, starring Lino Ventura and Belgian pop singer Jacques Brel. Screenwriter Francis Veber (Les Fugitifs, Le Chevre) adapted his play Le contrat specifically for Edouard Molinaro (La Cage aux Folles). A hitman named Milan who checks into a hotel to take out his next target, a witness for an upcoming trial. In the room next door is François Pignon, who keeps trying to kill himself now that his wife left has him. The resulting story is a comedy of misadventure as Milan is forced to deal with Pignon in one way or another to keep the sad sack from attracting unwanted attention.

In France, L’Emmerdeur was extremely successful (Veber himself would direct a remake in 2008), to the point that the Yiddish word “schlemiel” is translated as “François Pignon”. In the United States, L’Emmerdeur was released as A Pain in the A__, finding a decent-sized audiences in the Art Houses and on the emerging world of cable television (especially a young upstart channel called Home Box Office). MGM figured they had nothing to lose by remaking it for the casual, non-subtitle-reading American viewer, and to that end, they brought it to Billy Wilder.

Wilder, desperate to get back to work after a three-year black-out, leapt perhaps too quickly at the opportunity. He and Diamond hammered out the finished script in a matter of weeks and embarked on a whirlwind production. Later in life, Wilder would say, “If I were to meet all of my movies in a room, Buddy Buddy is the one I wouldn’t want to face.”

Buddy Buddy begins with a pair of murders—a mailman leaves a bomb in the box of one man and a milkman poisons the cowjuice of another. Both are the blank-faced Trabucco, who is working his way through the witnesses of a huge upcoming land fraud trial. Last on his list is mobster Rudy “Disco” Gambola, who has turned state’s evidence for the prosecution. “Hello Mr. Green?” he says, calling his bosses. “Oh, Mr. White... let me speak to Mr. Brown...” (Sound an eentcy bit familiar?)

Trabucco checks into a hotel room, begins to assemble his high-powered rifle when a loud noise comes from the room next door. Through the connecting passage, he finds Victor Clooney lying unconscious in his bathtub, around his neck a noose made from the curtain sash. Since Victor tried to hang himself from the shower pipe, water pours into the room and he’s now in more danger of drowning than strangling.

From there, Clooney continues to inadvertently make Trabucco’s life miserable. Mistaking the hitman’s insistence that Eddie the Bellboy not involve the police—“Can’t you see this man needs compassion? The warmth of human understanding?”—for genuine concern and the extended hand of friendship, Clooney bedevils the poor hitman to no end. Forced to assemble and disassemble his rifle more times than is necessary, Trabucco tries to first get incapacitate Clooney by tying him to a chair (“You’re making it very difficult for me to like you!”), then rid himself of Clooney entirely—thwarted by the sudden appearance of cops escorting a woman in labor to the hospital—then pawn him off at the same sex clinic where Clooney’s wife left him for the head therapist.

Each time, Clooney returns to wreak more havoc on Trabucco’s life and plans. This was his last job, of course; the one he could retire on. The one that could get him killed if he botched it. “This was gonna be it. Enough money to retire on because in this kind of work you don't qualify for social security.” An easy gig if he could just get this schlemiel of a François Pignon off his damned back! Along the way he grows to, well if not like Clooney per ce, at least begrudgingly tolerate him. This change in relationship lead to the movie’s best moments: those involving Matthau, Lemmon and their trademark back-and-forths.

Clooney: Have you ever been married, Mr. Trabucco?

Trabucco: Once but I got rid of her. Now I just lease. I once knew a guy, he had two heart-attacks. So they put in him a pace-maker. So his wife divorced him. She said it was interfering with the tv-reception.

Clooney: Are you from L.A.?

Trabucco: Not necessarily.

Even with the winning team of Matthau and Lemmon, and a bizarre supporting cast of Paula Prentiss, Klaus Kinski, future MacGyver co-star Dana Elcar and an early appearance from Ed Begley, Jr., Buddy Buddy never really gets up a full head of steam. Perhaps hewing a little too closely to the understated pacing of L’Emmerdeur, Wilder’s and Diamond’s manages a lot of chuckles but never the belly-laugh you’d expect from the team. The movie transitions from one scene to the other in fits and starts and only really comes into its own when Clooney is finally tired of the humiliation and becomes his own man, to defend Trabucco.

Trabucco: Do me a favor.

Clooney: Yes ?

Trabucco: Fuck off.

Cue screeching brakes and an entire audience suffering whiplash from severe brain disconnect. In the late ‘70s, such language was far from uncommon. The double-entendre had already been demoted to single and before too long, even Julie Andrews would pop her top (in Blake Edwards’ S.O.B.). But there was an oddness to hearing the word “fuck” come out of Walter Matthau. There’s also something unsettling watching Lemmon discuss orgasms and penis size with Prentiss and Kinski (heck, Kinski playing a man any woman would leave her husband for is unnerving enough). With one word, Wilder crashed into New Hollywood.

It wasn’t a new word for him. In fact, in his private life, he was known to enjoy using it. Probably even enacting it. I don’t like to think about that, though. Matthau was notoriously grumpy, acerbic, misanthropic. But he didn’t work blue—especially not with Lemmon. MGM saw a way to bring a tired workhorse in from the pasture for another go, thinking it would be a cheap way of getting a moderate hit on the screen.  In an attempt to “spice things up” for modern audiences, Wilder and Diamond failed to realize that along with new viewers, older Wilder fans still came to the movies to see a Wilder Movie. That had been his point all along. He wasn’t too old and he was still big, Norma Desmond big and you don’t get bigger than that.

Those unfamiliar or dismissive of Wilder may think me prudish right now but the trouble was, Wilder didn’t work blue because he didn’t have to. Wilder was an intellectual and thrived by confounding the censors. He hid the dirty stuff between the lines of dialogue, between fade downs and fade ups. It was akin to Groucho Marx exposing himself to an audience—it wasn’t beneath him; there was no need. Wilder and Diamond’s script worked too hard for the new viewers. They gave them what they wanted and you should never do that. Wilder always gave the audience something new, something they hadn’t known they’d wanted. That was the key to Billy’s brilliance. Desperation for work forced him to sell out in every sense of the word. He didn’t make the movie he wanted to see, but what he wanted to sell.

Buddy Buddy failed at the box office but did reasonably well on cable. The critics jumped up and down on it for many reasons, language not being among them. The disinterested pace, the uncomfortable characters. Matthau was criticized for not being Clint Eastwood, whom many felt would have been a better choice for Trabucco, a sentiment that was shared by both Wilder and Matthau. And like Trabucco, many found Clooney very difficult to like. For years, Klaus Kinski denied he was even in it! (Think about that—you’re in the room with Kinski, the movie is on TV and he’s just shaking his head. “But…but Klaus—that’s you! You’re right there! Look, see you on screen?”) At the time, it seemed like a sour note on which to end. For Wilder, it would be the last feature he’d direct.

With thirty years of hindsight, Buddy Buddy can be viewed as a slight, flawed, but still reasonably solid offering from Billy Wilder. It wasn’t The Fortune Cookie, but the nice thing was Billy never sold you the same thing twice. In fact, it’s fun to watch it back-to-back with L’Emmerdeur for both the similarities and the differences. They’re both low energy comedies with light chuckles, no guffaws. They’re even both sporadically available on DVD (although Buddy Buddy is currently only available on a Spanish import).

While it’s not the case, it could be easy to leave a discussion of Buddy Buddy on one exchange of dialogue. It’s tempting, but it’s only partially true, just like the sentiment behind it:

Clooney: Here I am, almost didn't make it.

Trabucco: Almost doesn't count.