This late Billy Wilder flick, one in a series of European productions that were to close the curtain on his long-running career, is in a way as rancid as the smell surrounding the main character it portrays, a storyboard synthesis of several real-life movie stars ranging from Garbo to Dietrich. Drawing on biographical accounts of the secluded lives of geriatric Hollywood divas from the Golden Age of post-War cinema, Wilder clumsily attempts to weave in an intrigue, which never really takes off as it is hopelessly drowned in tiresome dialogues, seemingly endless takes, fatuously clichéd characterisations and across-the-board foul acting (with the notable exception of William Holden). Though the starting premise may sound appealing a nostalgic glimpse on a waning period in the history of film replete with rumor-ridden accounts of the lives of the rich and famous it falls miles short of a feature-length story. Wilder must have sensed this as he was going along, since he spends considerable time on paraphernalia and frighteningly lame side acts, the worst of which is undoubtedly Mario Adorf casting a shrewd Greek hotel manager, literally crumbling under a make-up that turns him into Manuel of the Fawlty Towers series minus the slapstick. What could have been an insightful commentary on Wilder's own professional milieu, feeding on the filmmaker's unique experience, ended up as a sluggish conspiracy plot leading to an anticlimactic half-hour long resolve with a distinct TV feel to it. Film buffs should probably see it, because it shows where Old Hollywood went in the 1970s while a brat generation took over the studios and set an entirely different pace. Billy Wilder deserves credit for trying to find his own in this new environment, but Fedora is a somewhat dispiriting example of an aging cinéaste grappling with his own glorious past.
Review of Fedora
