Crime Without Comedy

Why did Napoleon advance on Moscow? Why did Harold Stassen run for Mayor of Philadelphia? Why did the King of Scotland accept that weekend invitation at the Macbeths'? Why did Marcello Mastroianni and Peter Sellers --international stars who can pick their scripts and name their salaries--waste themselves on these low-explosive, misfiring bombs?

Shoot Loud, Louder ... I Don't Understand, a comedy murder that actually contains neither, casts Mastroianni as a bumbling Neapolitan sculptor who is never quite sure of what he has seen and what he has merely dreamed. When a killing apparently takes place next door, he hurls himself variously into 1) the chase, 2) the pneumatic embrace of Cover Girl Raquel Welch, whose acting ability ranges from busty to hippy, and 3) conversation with his dumb uncle (Eduardo De Filippo), who hasn't spoken to anyone in 50 years and communicates by blasting off homemade firecrackers. By the time the non-crime is non-solved, the movie may well earn itself a theaterful of non-viewers.

After the Fox presents Sellers in a garlicky farce that could barely make the late late show on Sicilian TV. Most of the actors race around the screen like men outrunning the sound of their own words. Sellers himself is cast as a sort of Unlucky Luciano who poses as a sort of Federico Foolini. He makes a film about some crooks smuggling $3,000,000 worth of gold bullion into Italy--and uses the movie project as a cover for some actual smuggling. The phony film is shown at his trial. It is intended to look absurdly awful, but customers may not get the point: the rest of Fox looks just about as bad.

How did Sellers get into this mess? He obviously counted on such proven professionals as Scriptwriter Neil Simon (The Odd Couple) and Director Vittorio De Sica (Marriage--Italian Style) to work a miracle and save the show. Was he ever wrong.

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