‘Adventures Of A Private Eye’ is the second in Stanley Long’s ‘Confessions’ type trilogy of light hearted smutters, following up on the commercial success of ‘Adventures Of A Taxi Driver’ from the year before. As Dolly Dolly has already pointed out, it has the most fantastic cast, all wasted in pointless and underwritten roles.
The star is Christopher Neil, a fresh faced hybrid of Hywel Bennett and Barry Evans. He’s personable enough, but he doesn’t have the charisma to carry the film and, in the distinguished company of the cream of British showbiz, he simply fades away completely. He also sings the theme song, a catchy but utterly forgettable number with a hint of glam and a dash of disco, and he makes quite a good job of it considering.
He plays the bumbling assistant to Jon Pertwee, a suave, womanising detective and international playboy. This bit is ridiculous really, as Pertwee is one of the least inconspicuous people there is. You could spot him a mile off. It’s also had to take Dr. Who as a shagger, but puts a slightly different perspective on what might have happened on those long nights in the TARDIS with Jo Grant and Sarah-Jane Smith. I’d always assumed cards, stories and, perhaps, a slide show. When Pertwee jets off somewhere exotic, Neil assumes the mantle and blunders into a case of blackmail and murder and all that sort of Agatha Christie nonsense, assuming that Agatha had just had a serious brain injury and had just sat through a couple of Benny Hill TV specials.
|Do you need a hand with those, Liz?|
|The best shot in the whole film.|
|The worst shot in the whole film.|
|I was hoping she'd beat him to death. No such luck.|
|Cross dressing. That's always funny, isn't it? Isn't it?|
As stated, there’s a cavalcade of guest stars, all acting as if they'd just started in the business. The performances are as broad as a Norfolk waterway, but nowhere near as attractive. Irene Handel, bless her, is saddled with a character called Miss Frigging, which is simply too much, I'm afraid. Harry H Corbett just drinks and laughs; Liz Frazer is neurotic and keeps clutching her ample bosom; poorly permed Angela Scoular wearily gets her kit off; Adrienne Posta does an interminable Liza Minelli impression ('I'm Lisa Moroni, with an I not an E, because that would make me an idiot' she trills, flashing a nipple as she does so). It's a right mess, a load of unfunny running about with an occasional sex scene thwarted by a husband or a policeman or John out of 'The Tomorrow People' (playing a gangster, for christ's sake).
|Lisa Moroni, Morone.|
|Yes, that is Milton Reid on the left. Poor Milton.|
|Dressed only in a towel on a bus with sliding doors - it sort of writes itself, doesn't it?|
In the end, after ninety minutes of unrelated, make it up as you go along panto, it all ends in a big melee where most of the cast roll on the floor - a huge, unsexy chaotic gang bang.
Oh, and cocky Jon Pertwee gets his cock cut off by a falling electric fan...
|Who's laughing now? That'll teach you to be rude to Dolly Dolly.|
So, how did I feel about this film in the end? There's no real point in getting angry about what was, ultimately, a self inflicted wound, so, I suppose, mostly --
-- with a little bit of --
-- and I'm going to have to put myself through it all again for the last in the series, 'Adventures Of A Plumber's Mate'. Wish me luck.