Release Date: July 18, 2003
Starring: Rowan Atkinson, John Malkovich, Natalie Imbruglia, Ben Miller, Tim Pigott-Smith
Directed by: Peter Howitt
Written by: William Davies, Neal Purvis, Robert Wade
Distributed by: Universal Pictures
MPAA Rating: PG (comic nudity, some crude humor, language)
I spent most of Johnny English’s surprisingly painless, 88-minute runtime trying to pinpoint exactly what Rowan Atkinson’s comic appeal is. Sure, most viewers -- especially those who plunk down ten bucks to see this movie -- know that he’s a funny character, but I’ll tell you exactly what it is that makes him so. Much like Michael Richards, who played the sprawling, gangly Kramer on TV’s “Seinfeld,” Atkinson appreciates the fact that much of comedy is in the face. Knowing this, he’s free to spend 88 minutes delightfully arching his eyebrows, rolling his eyeballs, wiggling his sinewy lips, flashing nervous smiles, and poking his bulbous nose into places it doesn’t belong. And if you’re game, he’ll probably use all of the above to convince you to drop your inhibitions and take part in this breezy spy movie farce that’s several notches below the Austin Powers series but still worth a look.
Besides the James Bond crowd, the other demographics that will have fun watching Johnny English are fans of Atkinson’s 1997 cult hit, Mr. Bean, and, of course, the English. While there is definitely a lot of Bean in both Atkinson’s portrayal of the title’s bumbling secret agent and the plot -- once again Britain entrusts this good-natured goofball with its national integrity -- this is clearly a comedy designed to appeal to British audiences. There’s the theme song, done by Britpop icon Robbie Williams; then there’s a gag in which a chase scene temporarily halts at one of London’s many zebra crossings (it comes early on; blink and you’ll miss it); and on top of it all, well, there’s no shortage of gratuitous jokes at the expense of the French.
Then again, these days, that sort of humor is likely to appeal to both British and American audiences. So it’s fortunate that the film’s arch-villain is the French prison magnate (yes, you read that correctly) Pascal Sauvage, who is played by John Malkovich. The actor never misses a chance to ham it up, drawling a nearly incomprehensible string of pseudo-French in one scene when he’s called upon to give a speech to a gathering of English gentility.
Sauvage’s plot, since all businessmen-cum-bad guys must have one, is to steal the crown jewels of England and, because he can trace his ancestry back into the country’s royal family, get the queen and her living kin to abdicate their rights to the throne. He’ll thus be next in line and, having been rightfully crowned, will use his power to turn the entire island of Britain into an enormous prison.
Don’t ask why (it’s never wise to pose such questions in movies like this). But out to stop him are Johnny English (Atkinson); his trusty, Quixotic sidekick Bough (Ben Miller); and the mysterious Lorna Campbell (Australian pop singer Natalie Imbruglia), who eventually turns out to be an Interpol agent. The three of them aren’t exactly the first-stringers -- a disaster in the prologue scene spells out just exactly why the British government can’t send somebody else -- but, by the time the end credits roll, they get the job done and leave room for a sequel (or a whole series of them, should things be profitable enough).
English is responsible for most of the screwing around. He’s no secret agent, but he is a master at extricating himself from blame for some rather stupid blunders, such as when he accidentally paralyzes a secretary and must distract his boss’s attention until the paramedics have taken her away.
In this fashion, director Peter Howitt (Antitrust) and his three writers can’t seem to decide whether Johnny is completely inept or merely underappreciated. After all, he does pull some rather slick moves in his Aston Martin (which comes at the end of the film’s only original stunt -- English has his car towed, only to chase it down and drive it off the back of the tow truck) and he knows a thing or two about kung fu. But he also has a propensity for getting his clothing stuck in, say, a locked door or a rotating sushi bar, and his gun always seems to fall apart when he needs it most.
He doesn’t light any sparks with Imbruglia, either, but her performance as the inaugural “English girl” is staler than cardboard and won’t win her any points with the producers of the James Bond films. And despite the fact that Atkinson has a natural talent for sophisticated facial comedy, the writers still have him (literally) slogging his way through toilet humor and exposing the Archbishop of Canterbury’s bottom in the film’s most tasteless joke.
But never mind that. His Johnny English is mostly an enjoyable creation, and although the film in general borrows heavily from the 007 franchise, English himself is, unlike Austin Powers, almost completely free of Bondish innuendo. It wouldn’t be Hollywood’s best idea if there were to be another Johnny English film, but if it meant another chance to watch Atkinson do his thing, you’d hear no complaints from me.
-- Craig Roush (crr225@nyu.edu)