My Chauffeur

My Chauffeur is a shapeless, out-of-control mess that unaccountably garnered some good notices (and good business) earlier this year. This may be due to the film’s superiority to the usual exploitation fare, and because writer-director David Beaird tips his hat to a few classic screwball comedies form the past.

But, if Beaird lets us know he’s seen some great comedies, he doesn’t give much evidence of having learned any lessons from them.

The story has screwball elements. A dishwasher (Deborah Foreman, who essayed the titular role in Valley Girl) receives a mysterious employment summons from the millionaire owner (E.G. Marshall) of a limousine service. She reports for duty as a driver and sends the other drivers, an all-male enclave of suit-and-tie fuddy-duddies, into extended dithers when she breezes into the place, popping her gum and shaking her tailfeathers.

Her employment seems to be an excuse to have her meet Marshall’s son (Sam Jones), a joyless workaholic who runs Dad’s companies. She’s driving him to Northern California when they blow a gasket and must trek across the desert, accompanied by much chauvinist-feminist banter. After that, they fall madly into bed with each other.

The comic relief comes from Foreman’s other driving jobs, such as the punk musician named Catfight who tackles an overweight woman in a city park because she’s wearing blue, and a nutty sheik who wants a night out on the town.

The episode with the sheik is an excuse to get the hot Broadway magician-comedians Penn & Teller into the film. The sheik (played by Teller – I think) remains silent throughout, as a fast-talking hustler (that would be Penn, then) strips him of his money and provides the good times.

They pick up some party girls and everyone climbs into the back of the limo, which prompts Penn’s immortal line: “Ladies, it’s time for a little gratuitous nudity. You supply the nudity, Abdul supplies the gratuities.”

That, I’m afraid, is the funniest line in the movie, as the rest of the characters bounce helter-skelter among the disconnected scenes.

Particularly unfunny is Foreman’s performance. She’s been encouraged to mug outrageously, as though trying to lift the film up to her own level of energy (in the way that Bill Murray’s fooling can sometimes transform bad movies).

First published in The Herald, March 5, 1986

Looks like a paragraph or two got lopped off the end of this review. I wonder whether I talked about the (if I’m remembering correctly) weird twist ending. Beaird also directed Scorchers. I don’t recall what the positive reviews were all about. Sam Jones was billed without his middle initial here (J.), an important part of the ineffability of being the star of Flash Gordon, I would think.