Odd Man Out

By Frank Rich

Odd Man Out SAINT JACK

Directed by Peter Bogdanovich Screenplay by Howard Sackler, Paul Theroux and Peter Bogdanovich

When a director's three latest films are commercial and critical bombs like Daisy Miller, At Long Last Love and Nickelodeon, where does he go next? In Peter Bogdanovich's case, it is back to basics. Saint Jack, the director's first film since 1976, is a sharp departure from the projects of his Hollywood heyday. Adapted from a Paul Theroux novel set in Singapore, the movie has a small budget, no big stars and not a single loving reference to a classic screwball comedy. Cybill Shepherd is nowhere in sight.

Still, some habits die hard. If Saint Jack is not another complete embarrassment for Bogdanovich, it nonetheless reveals his deficiencies as a film maker. Again he describes emotions without ever feeling them; he flogs tired ideas to death and gets bland performances from his cast. Saint Jack shows off Bogdanovich's considerable craftsmanship, but it has the look of a high-minded movie, too empty to arouse any emotion other than indifference.

The film's mode might be described as bargain-basement Graham Greene. The hero, an American expatriate named Jack Flowers (Ben Gazzara), is a pimp who, irony of ironies, has a heart of gold. Jack cares for his clients and his employees, provides for his friends, avoids depraved sex and even talks to cats. He is the proverbial good man in a bad time (1971, approaching the end of Viet Nam) and a first-class bore. Even his day-to-day working life lacks thrills. Most of the time Gazzara just wanders about aimlessly with a rueful grin plastered on his face, much as he did in John Cassavetes' tedious The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. Like all saints, though, Jack must be tempted by a truly immoral proposition: in the film's final stretch, a mysterious confidence man offers him $25,000 to blackmail a visiting U.S. Senator. This sleazy scheme brings Saint Jack to fitful life, but our hero shuts the door on temptation, all too predictably.

There is plenty of tame local color, including what must be some of the least erotic whorehouse sequences ever recorded in an R-rated film. Unlike Novelist Theroux, Bogdanovich does not have a particularly keen descriptive eye; he goes for tourist snapshots instead of true grit. Except for Denholm Elliott, who offers a fastidious portrait of a typically down-and-out British colonial, the actors do little to help the proceedings. Gazzara is fairly blameless, given his flat role, but the miscasting of his con-man nemesis is a disaster. Had a strong actor played the villain, who recalls Harry Lime in The Third Man, Saint Jack might have had some tension and dramatic heft. Instead, the director has placed himself in the role and then played it tepidly. No doubt it is healthy for Bogdanovich to be adventurous, but, for now, his new directions all appear to be wrong turns.

--Frank Rich

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