Jerry Lewis: The “Legendary Jerry” Collection – DVD

by Travis Mackenzie Hoover If you're savvy enough to read film criticism, you probably know it's supposed to be funny that the French love Jerry Lewis. We all have a big, self-satisfied laugh when we first hear that, as if anyone could take Jerry Lewis seriously. (We certainly didn't.) But the thing is, there aren't a lot of people who will admit to actually seeing one of his movies–the Lewis hate-on has become so intense that the only thing remaining of him is the joke; he's the scapegoat of anti-French resentment and anti-intellectual hostility, as if only frogs and eggheads could possibly find anything redemptive in his work. Thus a generation has shunned his films, never to know if there really is a centre to the onion, something more than mugging to the Lewis mystique.

We at FILM FREAK CENTRAL have decided to put a stop to this. Over the next ten weeks, we will be interrogating the Lewis canon (as it relates to Paramount's recently released DVD box set "Jerry Lewis: The 'Legendary Jerry' Collection") for traces of artistic merit–assuming there are some to be found. We may come up with revelations; we may come up with suggestive patterns; or we may come up with nothing whatsoever. By the end, though, we hope to have definitively answered the question of whether the French are onto something–and if we can really point fingers in a culture that conversely embraces Betty Blue. And Luc Besson. And Amélie. Originally published: November 11, 2005.

THE STOOGE (1952)
*½/**** Image A- Sound B+
starring Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Polly Bergen, Marion Marshall
screenplay by Fred F. Finklehoffe and Martin Rackin
directed by Norman Taurog

It must be said that Jerry Lewis was never an inept performer–he merely colluded in the sentimentalizing of his capricious talent, dulling its edge and demeaning himself into a cross-eyed punching bag for the "straight" cast. His irrefutable craft is, frankly, the sole explanation for The Stooge being vaguely tolerable. Paired with the insincere sincerity of obnoxious Dean Martin and framed by the sincerely mediocre Norman Taurog, Lewis is the only aesthetic thing going on in the picture–you find yourself wondering why he didn't dissolve the useless partnership with Martin sooner than he did. Punishing Lewis with this movie is like forcing Groucho Marx and Carmen Miranda to submit to the witless Copacabana.

The plot invites speculation as to whether it's intended as a meta-film about the whole Martin/Lewis symbiosis, although by the end you won't have the energy to care one way or the other. Eager to become the centre of attention, '30s vaudevillian Bill Miller (Martin) embarks upon a solo career that depends on old jokes and his accordion skills, and consequently goes nowhere fast. For reasons too tedious to enumerate here, he eventually collides with childlike lyricist Ted Rogers, who, when pointed out to the audience during a number, behaves so bizarrely that he's perceived as part of the act. A contract is struck, a routine created, and suddenly Bill is a hit–largely due to the unbilled talents of oblivious, worshipful Ted. As the duo rises to the top, Bill refuses to give Ted his due, underpaying him and denying him credit, straining his own marriage, his work relations, and the will of the audience to keep from shooting the screen accordingly. So much for the theory that Bill and Ted have excellent adventures.

The problem is not that Lewis is made to look like an infantile freak–it's the way that the rest of the production demeans his infantile freakishness that rankles. While the funnyman knocks himself out trying to stylize and athleticize his performance, everyone else is acting as if it's "Leave It To Beaver" time: they regard Lewis as a local eccentric (which is to say with mirth but never solidarity), clinging tenaciously to a square normality that's impossible to endure. Nobody else in the film has any personality–even when Lewis is signed up for a pigtailed girlfriend (Marion Marshall), the filmmakers don't have the decency to conceive someone as freaked-out as he is. Martin (as opposed to the character) looks down on him with such smirking contempt that you want to slap him, and his lacquered '50s wifey-wife (Polly Bergen) is decent to the point of inhumanity. The Stooge alternately offers up Lewis as an object of comic pity and takes great pains to distance itself from his gift.

It would take a great ironic talent (like subsequent Lewis collaborator Frank Tashlin) to read something into this mess, but Taurog's direction is as ironic as a religious pamphlet and as eye-catching as a funeral procession. He blows what little humour the script has on laboured line-readings and ham-fisted timing, generally catching everything in long, formless shots that serve no function other than to present an unchanging proscenium arch. This isn't so bad for appreciating Lewis on his own, but it slaughters the already-strained material–a gimme scene like the one involving Ted and a fold-away sink doesn't come off because it's so indifferently photographed. Taurog's uptightness seals the doom of Lewis' image, ensuring that we laugh at him but resist the pull of his unknowing nonconformity.

THE DVD
In spite of its shortcomings, The Stooge gets by all right on DVD. The full-frame image is fairly crisp, slightly grainy, and worn-looking, though not to the point of distraction. An accompanying DD 2.0 mono soundmix is average at best. The Paramount disc's only extra is the film's trailer.

99 minutes; NR; 1.33:1; English DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-5; Region One; Paramount

THE DELICATE DELINQUENT (1957)
**/**** Image A- Sound B+
starring Darren McGavin, Martha Hayer, Robert Ivers
written and directed by Don McGuire

I fear that Lewis's first solo flight as a performer could set the tone for this collection: it's not funny enough to be good (or good enough to be funny), yet it's too pathologically interesting to write off altogether. Lewis plays Sidney Pythias, a bumbling janitor mistaken for a JD by crusading cop Officer Damon (Darren McGavin). After making irritating classical connections between their names, Damon decides to give Sidney the self-confidence to be "somebody," i.e., a policeman. This, of course, is the springboard for Sidney to prove himself cosmically inept at every task, reaching a crescendo when, apropos of nothing, the police academy introduces a sumo wrestler in a self-defense class. Unfortunately, Lewis fails completely to make us laugh at any of his mugging, as he's constantly attached arrows that underline the pathos of his actions. But that Sidney's/Lewis's inability to succeed at any task isn't remotely humorous is entirely beside the point: there's a sense that The Delicate Delinquent doesn't really want to be a comedy–so much of it is wrapped up in the star's desperate need for attention and complete lack of self-esteem that it becomes fairly uncomfortable to watch. Displacing absent father Dean Martin onto squeaky-clean McGavin, it furnishes Lewis with someone to look up to and catch his pathetic falls, which is really the subtext of his flailing, failed characters, anyway. The experience of watching the whole desperate fantasy unfold is hard to shake off, because it evokes a true anguish even as it attempts to disavow it. And while it weighs you down with silent-movie sentiment, it's a fascinating X-ray of a damaged celebrity's brainpan.

THE DVD
The DVD's 1.77:1 anamorphic widescreen presentation is crisp and mostly spotless, with good shadow detail as well. Its fidelity to every shade of grey is remarkable, rendering the transfer a credit to its media, though fine detail is occasionally perverted by edge enhancement. The Dolby 2.0 mono soundtrack is similarly clean, if slightly lacking in the potency that allows for top marks. The only extra is The Delicate Delinquent's theatrical trailer.

100 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

THE BELLBOY (1960)
**½/**** Image A- Sound A- Extras B-
starring Alex Gerry, Bob Clayton, Sonnie Sands, Eddie Shaeffer
written and directed by Jerry Lewis

First things first: Jerry Lewis's directorial debut shows evidence of real self-awareness–maybe a little too much. The short (71-minute) gagfest The Bellboy confirms that the comic had learned at the foot of master Frank Tashlin in deploying a barrage of antic, ultra-modern jokes in MAD MAGAZINE quantities. The thinnest of plots sees Lewis playing childlike bellboy Stanley, who alternately fails and succeeds beyond measure in his ministrations at Miami's Fontainbleu Hotel: fat women enter for a diet and emerge thin (only to revert to obesity after a massive box of bonbons); Stanley winds up a marvel at the bottom of a glass-walled pool; and "Jerry Lewis" appears with an entourage large enough to populate a small country. There's no rhyme or reason for any of it–Stanley wanders obliviously through a world he doesn't understand, never uttering a word and causing frequent havoc.

This would be rather Tati-like had Lewis not felt the need to spell everything out for us. The decision to begin with an announcer declaring that this is a new gags-only kind of film straddles a line between self-reflexivity and "See how clever I am?" scenery-hogging. Most of The Bellboy's jokes walk that line, refusing to demonstrate yet constantly calling attention to their dubious significance. But though his real-world personal appearance smacks of martyrdom (and the moment when Stanley speaks will make you shake your fist and throw things), there's no denying a sense of what J. Hoberman would call "vulgar modernism" that appears entirely by design. The Bellboy isn't exactly good, but it shows such a willingness to try things that you'll feel sheepish if you don't laugh just a little.

THE DVD
The Bellboy's 1.85:1, 16×9-enhanced DVD transfer is razor-sharp, crackling with detail and good at rendering infinite shades of grey, although deep black is almost absent. The Dolby 2.0 mono sound is perhaps a little lacking in potency by comparison. As for extras, a commentary track features Lewis and, for no apparent reason, Steve Lawrence. It's a complete fiasco; the pair mostly cracks up over random jokes whenever they deign to speak at all. Though it's peppered with occasional revelations, such as Lewis having filled prop luggage with 45-pound weights, it's mostly mutual admiration of the most tedious kind. Meanwhile, three rehearsal clips find Jerry guiding Walter Winchell through his initial voice-over (1 min.), the latter getting annoyed at having to endure more takes; a plainclothes Lewis working out a telephone gag (1 min.); and "Jerry's Nightclub Act" (4 min.), wherein Lewis performs a pistol routine and tosses a cane for what appears to be a deleted sequence.

A trio of official deleted scenes have the hotel manager jumping around trying to simulate…something, a gag with Lewis carrying more bags than is humanly possible (none of which seem to have weights in them), and some cut footage of the enormous entourage joke. A blooper with Milton Berle consists of Jerry cracking up, while "Jerry Receives a Letter from Stan Laurel" bizarrely features the star alongside cast member Bill Richmond (as Laurel) reading a joke letter in which Laurel suggests an alternative title. Four promo spots include one with Winchell endorsing the film and one with Lewis as a crass executive. Finally, "The Bellboy Bus Tour" (1 min.) compiles home movies of the film's promo tour, with Lewis's son Chris offering commentary. In and of themselves, these supplements are hardly revelatory (or funny), but they're interesting enough as curios from a bygone era–and remarkably well-preserved to boot.

71 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

CINDERFELLA (1960)
*½/**** Image B Sound A- Extras C+
starring Ed Wynn, Judith Anderson, Henry Silva, Anna Maria Alberghetti
written and directed by Frank Tashlin

One generally expects something abrasive from career cynic Frank Tashlin, but Cinderfella is cynical about all the wrong things and credulous of some rather offensive ones. Once again finding Lewis as an unmanned naïf (this time named Fella), the film hypothesizes that it's the fault of his evil stepmother (Judith Anderson) and wicked stepbrothers (Henry Silva and Robert Hutton)–i.e., a castrating mother and a couple of not-so-butch wonder boys. That Fella becomes the film's gold standard for masculinity should tell you everything you need to know about the movie's agenda: though fairy godfather (Ed Wynn) seems a little light in the loafers, it comes to naught as he explains that the Cinderella myth has ruined the lives of husbands women have settled for in the absence of Mr. Right. Thus Fella has been chosen to win the heart of visiting Princess Charming (Anna Maria Alberghetti), thereby closing the fairy-tale gap. If only Mother and brothers would stop locking him in the attic.

I suppose it's a little much to expect feminism from the man who juxtaposed Jayne Mansfield and milk bottles, but the monstrous misogyny of this movie is somewhat hard to take. Cinderfella sells the Jerry-is-pathetic angle by attaching it to a cringe-inducing and, moreover, unsympathetic he-man program. Worse, this is the best-directed of the first four films in the "Legendary Jerry" collection–Tashlin gives a star performance with his usual searing palette and careful, anti-realistic compositions. But it's effort poured in the wrong direction entirely: I was finally unable to look past the shortcomings of the piece and see the whimpering star underneath. If the curt treatment of women in this movie is what to expect from an actualized Jerry, let him clean the pool and wash the car well away from me. The doubled-up, drunken-jerk-at-a-bar mentality is pretty unpleasant; the whole thing is enough to make you swear off the use of quotation marks forever.

THE DVD
Paramount doesn't do Cinderfella any favours by failing to knock their DVD release out of the park. In addition to occasionally coarse grain, the disc's 1.85:1, 16×9-enhanced transfer has colour-separation issues that often prohibit fine detail and cause flesh tones to fluctuate wildly. Still, saturation itself is pretty strong for a film that demands the attention, and the Dolby 2.0 mono audio is crisp and clear, especially during the pair of execrable musical numbers featuring our man Jerry. Extras include another commentary pairing Lewis with Steve Lawrence that's at least less sparse than their previous track, though Tashlin is barely mentioned Tashlin at all and the two come off as obsessed with the greatness of Lewis's more obvious achievements. Five blooper clips that aren't very funny as well as the film's theatrical trailer round out the package.

87 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

THE LADIES MAN (1961)
***/**** Image A Sound A- Extras B
starring Helen Traubel, Kathleen Freeman, Hope Holiday, Pat Stanley
screenplay by Jerry Lewis and Bill Richmond
directed by Jerry Lewis

At last, evidence that the French are not completely insane. Lewis's whacked-out sophomore effort as a director proves not only that he had learned from the patchiness of The Bellboy, but that he possessed a formal intelligence well past what his American critics were willing to give him credit for, too. Taking place in a massive Tara-like boarding house for women, The Ladies Man uses the set in ways reminiscent of the house in Mon Oncle or the apartment in Rear Window (though not, of course, as brilliantly as either). The storyline is a slender thread indeed: though it sets up Lewis as jilted Herbert H. Heebert, said house's new resident handyman, it does everything in its power to mock the idea of narrative by then dropping him into a series of bizarre set-pieces that rampage through the house's labyrinthine walls. It's a sustained, meticulously designed movie whose cinematic brio can't help but impress.

Never mind that The Ladies Man isn't all that funny. (And to be fair, it's much funnier than anything else so far in the Paramount collection.) A gag involving Herbert destroying a visiting boyfriend's hat goes on so long and is so demeaning that your eyes pop out of your head, while a sequence involving a black-clad resident and her all-white apartment (with accompaniment by Harry James) is so deeply strange that you can't believe it's from the same guy who does that telethon every Labor Day. Colour is used sparingly but shockingly, and I swear that the wide shots of the cross-sectioned house were the inspiration for the opening of Tout va bien. For once, Lewis himself is calling attention to the jokes instead of himself, making even the de rigueur saccharine interludes inoffensive. Weirdo cineastes, your ship has come in; see this one twice for sure.

THE DVD
Paramount's DVD release does the film justice with a crisp 1.78:1, 16×9-enhanced transfer that handles the deep Technicolor hues extraordinarily well. Although the image is perhaps a hair oversaturated, it's remarkably detailed for a film with such a sizzling palette and more than makes up for the disappointment of the Cinderfella disc. The Dolby 2.0 mono audio is rudimentary by comparison. Extras begin with another useless Lewis/Lawrence commentary, the two back to cracking up at the jokes and remarking vaguely about vague topics. Expect nothing more revelatory than information on the pair of soundstages that housed the set (where young Francis Coppola hung out). "Archival Materials" include two deleted scenes involving matron Helen Traubel singing opera and a wisely-excised bit after Herbert and the girls put on a show; outtakes involving Lewis asking the same question different ways to Traubel and comically berating a crewmember; a two-minute MDA public service announcement that's unpleasantly blunt; a minute-long time-lapse whisk through the construction of the film's massive set; a dance rehearsal for the big climax; and auditions for housemates Pat Stanley and Sylvia Lewis, during which Lewis acts smug and condescending from behind the camera. Teaser and standard theatrical trailers for The Ladies Man round out the platter.

95 minutes; NR; 1.78:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

THE ERRAND BOY (1961)
**/**** Image A Sound A- Extras C
starring Brian Donlevy, Howard McNear, Dick Wesson
screenplay by Jerry Lewis and Bill Richmond
directed by Jerry Lewis

After the minor triumph of The Ladies Man, The Errand Boy is a bit of a letdown. Although the two films share a love of big conceptual gags and a disdain for straight narrative, The Ladies Man has flaming colour, a bizarre set, and the infinite possibilities of a kook in every room; The Errand Boy quite simply lacks the earlier film's virtuosity. Both unleash Lewis in menial capacities (here he's Morty S. Tashman, failed billboard-sticker-upper turned unwitting spy for Paramutual Pictures), but this one drops him in the middle of a vast studio backlot and spreads its visual interest fairly thin. Lewis/Tashman has some choice bits (knocking over some suits of armour only to watch them get up again; "speaking" an orchestra while imitating a studio head), though most of his schtick just hangs in space, failing to link into a single maelstrom of comic force.

The hero's name is an obvious nod to frequent collaborator/mentor Frank Tashlin, and the film is a very self-reflexive attack on the film industry. An opening narration points out the difference between image and reality before Lewis is unleashed as sort-of revenge for Hollywood's many condescending sins. Yet the satire doesn't seem sincere–it's more wink-nudge for people in the movie colony than it is an actual sustained polemic. And the obligatory scene where Tashman spills his sad little guts to a puppet says it all for Lewis's limitations: what looks like the set-up for a satiric moment is instead a straight-faced monologue on how small and pathetic he really feels. Lewis's inability to bring gag and soliloquy into one formal unit does him no favours and blows any humorous capital by pretending we've been watching something serious all along–especially since his rampage across the set is far more pointed comment than any eleventh-hour verbal diarrhea.

THE DVD
The Errand Boy boasts another terrific Paramount transfer, letterboxed at 1.77:1 and enhanced for 16×9 displays. The usual crisp clarity and tonal subtlety are lavished on a b&w film with a surprising amount of fine detail. (For what it's worth, one scene is negligibly marred by print scratches.) Sounding a little tinny at times, the Dolby Digital 2.0 mono sound doesn't impress like the image. As for extras, the suits apparently figured out that Lewis and Steve Lawrence do not a commentary make and have thus restricted their mike-time to a four-clip "select scene commentary." They divulge that: a) Jerry was responsible for the "sensitive" material when he wrote with Bill Richmond; b) looking back, there were things Lewis would have differently; and c) Brian Donlevy had short arms. The freak. But what a swell actor! Four bloopers (including one with commentary from son Chris Lewis), six promo spots, and the film's trailer round things out.

77 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-5; Region One; Paramount

THE NUTTY PROFESSOR (1963)
***/**** Image A Sound A Extras A-
starring Stella Stevens, Del Moore, Kathleen Freeman
screenplay by Jerry Lewis and Bill Richmond
directed by Jerry Lewis

I was at first a little unnerved by The Nutty Professor's move towards straight narrative. If the worst of Lewis's work–until then a random-gag generator–had consisted of eleventh-hour attempts at theme and pathos, what would a whole movie that aped those elements be like? Sure enough, the first half-hour comes as no news to Lewis watchers, with the star as nerdy professor Julius Kelp being manhandled by bigger men and clumsily blowing up his classroom. But once he decides to bypass the gym with medical experiments, transforming himself into Rat Pack jerk Buddy Love in the process, the film shoots through the ceiling. Buddy is so loathsome and spot-on that he takes your breath away. His abuse of waiters and hostile come-ons to comely co-ed Stella (Stella Stevens) add up to a brilliant characterization with genuine gravitas. This time, when the obligatory be-yourself platitudes show up at the end, they actually mean something.

The searing colour that helped make The Ladies Man memorable is even better deployed here. As Kelp's laboratory is demolished during his initial transformation, chemicals splatter on the floor to create a tableau suggesting a child's finger-painting. It's a bravura moment in a bravura sequence that uses all manner of crazy angles to disturb–Lewis takes the scene seriously. Meanwhile, a student hangout called The Purple Pit lives up to its Freudian name with a throbbing shade of magenta complemented by searing contrasts in the costumes. The whole thing is so brilliantly artificial that it can't help but hit buttons in your brain, and if The Nutty Professor ain't exactly art, it sure is impressive. However inhibited the film is by taking its sweet time to get going, it's ultimately the performer and director flexing his muscles to the point of lifting the theatre above his head.

THE DVD
Paramount's transfer captures every eye-damaging colour with flaming accuracy. The 1.77:1, 16×9-enhanced image is terrifically vibrant without oversaturating, and reasonably well-detailed to boot. The Dolby Digital 5.1 remix sounds equally fine, getting mileage out of the silly sound effects as well as the musical numbers' upright bass; its extremely round tones are crisp yet never harsh. Another Lewis/Lawrence commentary accompanies the film–and though there are plenty of bad jokes and statements of the obvious, occasional nuggets of insight bring more focus to this go-round. Their revelation that the flaming-violet Purple Pit needed 250 instead of 50 ASA nearly knocked me off my chair.

Meanwhile, "Perfecting the Formula" (15 mins.) gives a brief overview of The Nutty Professor's place in Lewis's canon, marking as it did a departure from the kiddie flicks he'd been making up to that point. Included is Stevens's cooing over her great close-ups, the contributions of the various cast members, and other assorted trivia. A 30-minute "Jerry Lewis at Work" featurette takes us from his solo flight in The Delicate Delinquent to The Patsy in 1964; it shows how he stumbled into directing after failing to nail down Billy Wilder for The Bellboy and contains a mild amount of delving into his method on each of the films, The Nutty Professor excepted. Five deleted scenes (one of which is Stella Stevens's way-sultry entrance at the Purple Pit), six promos, no fewer than fourteen bloopers, a short, pointless home movies taken from a 1973 wax-museum dedication (with commentary by Lewis fils Chris Lewis), screen tests for Kelp (with different hair) and the school dean, and a 3-minute B&W alternate scene of Kelp calling his father comprise a section of Archival Materials. The Nutty Professor's theatrical trailer rounds things out.

107 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

THE PATSY (1964)
*/**** Image A- Sound A- Extras B-
starring Ina Balin, Everett Sloane, Phil Harris
screenplay by Jerry Lewis and Bill Richmond
directed by Jerry Lewis

The problem thus far with our man Jerry is that he alternates berserk shtick with gooey sentiment and the two don't really belong together in the first place. One obvious solution would be to chuck the ham-handed latter while keeping the glorious former, but The Patsy goes fatally in the opposite direction by synthesizing the two. The standard springboard has the staff of a recently-deceased comic grooming bellboy Stanley Belt (Lewis) to take their late boss's place. But instead of ripping through some deflationary chaos and wrapping up with an inadequate moral, Lewis guns for Chaplin status by making himself aw-gee pathetic while doing his bits–essentially informing us of undertones we'd be able to recognize on our own. Instead of a harmonious blending of form and theme, the heavy-handed moralizing destroys the comedy and results in very painful viewing indeed.

Lewis surrounds himself with a bunch of talented character vets (including Everett Sloane, John Carradine, and Peter Lorre) who have no business being in one of his movies–not comedians, but actors, their presence ensuring that you're anchored when you should be flying. The cherry on the cake is secretary/adoring love interest Ellen (Ina Balin), who's just as normal as can be and provides the exploitative staff with the requisite finger-wagging conscience. None of this would inspire you to lob bricks at the screen if the jokes were decent, but as Lewis's self-awareness has ballooned into self-importance, the gags have to do double-duty as underdog-cheering mush. The only half-acceptable bit has Stanley trying and failing to not destroy an antique-laden house; every other sequence is poisoned by the absurdly-telegraphed message about being yourself and blah, blah, blah. That this directly follows the triumph of The Nutty Professor is baffling–perhaps the horror of Buddy Love made Lewis want to retreat further into the realm of the cuddly.

THE DVD
Paramount comes through for Jerry once again, though things are marginally less sparkling this time around. The 1.78:1, 16×9-enhanced transfer is just a hair too soft, a problem when rendering the hard-focus image and its searing blocks of colour. Still, detail isn't too obviously obscured. The Dolby 2.0 mono sound is similarly adequate. As for extras, another select-scene commentary finds Lewis and Steve Lawrence providing tidbits beneath the main titles, the opening come-on from the staff to the Patsy, and the bulk of the antique-destruction sequence. Strangely, more information is on offer here than in the set's more complete commentaries. A deleted scene with Balin rationalizing the actions of the group (and indulging in insufferable sentiment), nine bloopers, and the trailer round out the disc.

101 minutes; NR; 1.78:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-9; Region One; Paramount

THE DISORDERLY ORDERLY (1964)
*½/**** Image A- Sound B+
starring Glenda Farrell, Everett Sloane, Karen Sharpe
written and directed by Frank Tashlin

I had thought, going into this retrospective, that Lewis would seem like an apt pupil for but pale imitation of the crass master Frank Tashlin. How wrong I was: where Tashlin was content to colour garishly within the lines of a narrative, Lewis was more prone to taking off on formalist flights unthinkable in the Tashlin universe. Tashlin's The Disorderly Orderly steps on considerable visual gags in order to facilitate sentimentality that's horrible even by Lewis standards. Once again Lewis plays an unprofessional professional, this time a neurotic med-school failure named Jerome Littlefield who tears up a private hospital by way of "trying too hard." But they can't leave it at that, and so a plot is constructed around Jerome's mental problems and how they thwart his romances with both a comely nurse (Karen Sharpe) and a failed suicide (Susan Oliver). The turgid pathos doesn't mix with the frenetic shtick, and the result is heavy, tiresome, and ultimately unpleasant.

Early, terrible puns (such as a mineral water fountain that rattles when you drink) set us up for some impious fun, but the jokes struggle to hold their own against the bad romance and worse excursions into the evil hospital CEO (Everett Sloane). Sloane's part, though comic, would embarrass a Mack Sennett two-reeler once he's called upon to fire people and put the narrative crisis in motion. Worse, a scene in which Oliver explains her miserable life to a psychiatrist is shrill and creepy in its misogyny–you can't tell whether it's meant to be funny, but you're completely sure it doesn't belong in this picture. There are a few choice gags (a leg-taping scene gets out of control in classic Lewis fashion), but they're crushed by the ugly bids for sympathy and the big stupid chase finale. You're happy to be discharged from The Disorderly Orderly.

THE DVD
Another fine transfer from Paramount: the 1.78:1 anamorphic widescreen image is crisp and vivid, with evenly saturated colours and a more-than-acceptable level of detail. The Dolby 2.0 mono sound is perhaps a little hushed but hardly defective. The only extras are four lengthy outtakes (preserved in b&w) of Lewis clowning around and The Disorderly Orderly's theatrical trailer.

89 minutes; NR; 1.78:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-5; Region One; Paramount

THE FAMILY JEWELS (1965)
*/**** Image A Sound A Extras C-
starring Sebastian Cabot, Miss Donna Butterworth
screenplay by Jerry Lewis and Bill Richmond
directed by Jerry Lewis

The Lewis DVD collection ends not so much with a whimper as with a painful groan. The Family Jewels is pretty much the movie detractors can point to as a reason to hate the comic, and with its horrible self-indulgence and crushingly unfunny jokes, it almost single-handedly justifies their prejudice. Young Donna Peyton (Donna Butterworth) stands to inherit $30 million after losing her father, but no amount of money is worth the half-assed Kind Hearts and Coronets gambit of Lewis assaying all five of the scheming uncles vying for her guardianship. Not a one of these personas stacks up to his standard schlemiel (to say nothing of Buddy Love from The Nutty Professor), and matters are compounded by Lewis's sixth role as Donna's virtuous chauffeur, Willard. The driver is, of course, the most deserving of Donna's love, thus facilitating the cloying sentiment that is the enemy of Lewis's craft and which sinks this project completely.

Though the film is clearly geared towards children, that's not the real source of discomfort. Worse is that none of the shtick characters register as characters–they're little more than funny hats and false beards so thinly sketched in their mannerisms that they look like the work of an amateur. Lewis at his worst was at least skilful in rendering his grotesqueries, but hidden behind costumes and facial hair, he's mostly operating on autopilot. Topping things off is the insistence of normal-seeming Willard as the protagonist of the piece: we're for the first time seeing Lewis treat himself seriously–and aside from some nominal clumsiness, he's about as fun to watch as drying paint. A slack mise-en-scène and ugly makeup intensify the annoyance of the production, as if Lewis had suddenly decided the effort wasn't worth it. I know that watching The Family Jewels was an effort–and it sure as hell wasn't worth it.

THE DVD
Still, Paramount delivers another glorious transfer. The 1.77:1, 16×9-enhanced image is brilliant in its colour and crystalline in its clarity, while the Dolby 2.0 mono sound largely without fault. Extras include the last of the sparse Lewis/Steve Lawrence commentaries, in which a couple of technical tidbits are revealed between vast swathes of silence and laughter at things that aren't that funny. Why couldn't they have paired Lewis with, say, David Bordwell? Two screen tests for Lewis and Butterworth, two bloopers, and The Family Jewels' theatrical trailer round things out.

99 minutes; NR; 1.77:1 (16×9-enhanced); English DD 2.0 (Mono), French DD 2.0 (Mono); CC; English, Spanish subtitles; DVD-5; Region One; Paramount