EVER wonder what drove Steve Martin to have that preposterous plastic surgery? Here’s a suggestion. Maybe the aging comic – back again as Inspector Clouseau – wanted to be able to look himself in the shaving mirror without crying big fat tears of shame and regret.
Don't worry, Steve. It's not you prancing about like a nincompoop in the sombrely mirthless Pink Panther 2. It's somebody whose head has been replaced by a cellophane bag stuffed with orange marzipan. Shave that other man's Venusian face and contemplate early glories.
Steve is not the only distinguished figure debasing himself in this atrocious sequel to that (let’s be fair) only modestly terrible remake of the Peter Sellers classic. The villains include Jeremy Irons and Johnny Halliday. The heroes – a group of international detectives tracking down a master thief – take in Alfred Molina, Andy Garcia and Indian megastar Aishwarya Rai Bachchan. John Cleese, who hasn’t been properly funny since Jimmy Carter was in the White House, does nothing to rehabilitate himself with his desperate turn as the perennially irritated Inspector Dreyfus.
Who have we forgotten? Well, Lily Tomlin, Jean Reno, Emily Mortimer and Geoffrey Palmer, to name but a few. It usually takes Michael Winner to get this many famous people into a film of such strikingly low quality.
I wonder whether, when they meet in the catering bus for fun-size Mars Bars and polystyrene coffee, they pretend that they genuinely admire the material. I would like to think that, rather than acting as if they are doing something honourable, they clink Twixes and rejoice in their good fortune at finding a job that pays them good money for rolling in manure.
After all, it’s only fair that somebody should get a laugh out of this wretched enterprise. You certainly won’t.
