The only thing louder than the sound of Sylvia Myles’ voice is her dinnerware. A cast of the greats and the near-greats completely dwarfed by a horrific script and outlandish pouffy clothing. Each new scene brought howls of laughter as Maggie Smith appears with hair like Little Orphan Annie and outfits straight from Carol Burnett’s character Eunice, but with less class.
And need I mention my beloved Roddy McDowall in a red white and blue peekaboo bathing suit with a matching ascot? It was almost too much to bear. The Cole Porter music was completely incongruous to the plot and so loud and constant that one expected to see the horn section emerge from one of Slvia Myles’ shirt sleeves. I would not recommend this film to anyone (well, maybe my enemies) but is enjoyable to see if only to be grateful disco is truly dead.