Sleeper (1973, Woody Allen) (Patreon)

51/100

Umpteenth viewing, but the most recent was no later (and probably some years earlier) than 1995. Apparently, my taste in comedy has shifted considerably since then, as I used to consider this by far the best of Allen's "early, funny" films (that title now passes to Love and Death, which still cracked me up just six years ago), whereas this time I sat stonefaced through the vast majority of Miles' antics. Not hard to diagnose the problem, however subjective said diagnosis may be: Sleeper was Allen's bold, persona-defying attempt at silent physical comedy—the Preservation Hall Jazz Band provides a jaunty score that could have worked very well live—and that's just not his forte. Oh, he tries, depriving himself of any dialogue for long stretches, pulling endless goofy faces, flailing around as if composed of melting taffy (or shuffling pseudo-robotically when in disguise), etc. But there's no stealthy elegance or precision to his haphazard movements, no practiced charisma in his facial expressions. Most of the film's non-verbal setpieces fail to achieve liftoff in pretty much the same way that Miles does when he dons a "jetpack" with a small helicopter-style rotor and runs around flapping his arms. It's possible that I hadn't yet seen much Chaplin, Keaton or Lloyd when last I watched this, and so didn't recognize what's missing; it's also possible that I just ignored the parts that don't work and focused on the parts that do (which I'll address momentarily). But the ratio's about 4:1 the wrong way, and given that Sleeper seeks to do absolutely nothing except get laughs—and it aims primarily for uproarious, helpless belly laughs, not wry, knowing chuckles—my prolonged silence and feeling of slight embarrassment are pretty damning.

On the rare occasions when it's a standard Woody Allen comedy, however, it slays. I heaved a sigh of relief when Miles finally emerges from cryogenic simpleton-itis and starts spewing one-liners in Allen's familiar neurotic style; it's plainly evident how much more relaxed and confident he is wielding words and inflections, rather than struggling to amuse us by eating (or seeming to eat, anyway) a surgical glove while sporting the vacant expression of a dairy cow. I don't imagine that the scene in which Miles annotates a selection of 20th-century photos and artifacts was in any way improvised, but Allen manages to make it seem as if he's been handed a bunch of random items and is just riffing off the top of his head. ("This is, uh, Charles de Gaulle, he, uh, he was a very famous French chef, had his own television show, showed you how to make soufflés and omelettes and everything...") And the film truly kicks into high gear once Luna gets radicalized, allowing Allen and Keaton to genuinely work as a team. She's a much stronger physical comic than he is—compare his generically overwrought Blanche DuBois to her almost surgically accurate Brando-as-Kowalski (honestly one of the better Brando impressions I've seen; doubt I appreciated it as a teenager)—and I laughed harder at Luna's frantic pantomimed effort to look "medical," which takes place in the background while Miles delivers jokes dead center, than at any of Allen's overt goofiness. If I'd previously given Sleeper way too much credit, it's because the final 15 minutes, with Miles and Luna forced to pose as cloning surgeons, constitute the Early, Funny Period's high-water mark, from an argument conducted in silhouette behind screens (the first real hint of any formal prowess in Allen's films; Gordon Willis subsequently reworked it for Manhattan's great planetarium sequence, achieving the same effect with lighting alone) to the magnificent flustered duet that is "checking the cell structure." I still adore isolated bits and pieces—there are just fewer of those than I'd remembered, and much more strained mugging.