After the charming delights of Tucci’s Renowned Night, this knockabout ’30s farce comes as a unsympathetic damp squib. Its intentions are made clear from the opening credits sequence: with its taste and intertitles recalling silent movies, hapless pair Arthur (Tucci) and Maurice (Platt) vie to play the ‘death scene’ for one of their cons. Two inadequacy-stricken thesps, they load away as stewards on the ‘Continental’ liner to abscond a mandate of assault on a boozy, talentless English thea- trical knight (Molina), however suitable the great man to appear, cops in lug. This is distictly proficient- fashioned fare, with Necessity-age capers and dastardly disguises, organized at the edge of self-parody, ham with egg on the face. In scenes that blend the worst of Agatha Christie with the ignoblest of Brian Rix, cameos known a-plenty, each more embarrassing than its predecessor. Plots contrive, robberies crop up, fraud descends, lies are plied - our spirits flag.
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