Paul Newman is the same private detective he played in "Harper" but about the only connection between the two films is his mostly offhand attitude towards events. "The Drowning Pool" is set in New Orleans and doesn't have a dozen recognizable character actors in supporting roles. It's more focused, less ambiguous, and doesn't end with a great big question mark. Newman digs up all the answers and leaves the resolution in the hands of the locals. Of course he gets slugged a few times and almost drowned but he does some slugging of his own.
It's a complex mystery story and rather routine. The director was Stuart Rosenberg, who gave us a genuine handful in "Cool Hand Luke" but here is saddled with a pedestrian script. A lot of sentiment is lavished on the apparent suicide of Joanne Woodward, a local belle whom we've hardly gotten to know. The ultimate killer is a flighty young girl who hardly seems capable of such intrigue.
Yet the film has its moments. There is, for instance, Paul Newman's first abduction by the local oil baron, Murray Hamilton. In a scene we're all familiar with, three or four over-sized goons approach Newman and order him into their car. Newman backs away with a determined expression and says, "Look, I think it's only fair to warn you fellas that my hands are registered in California as lethal weapons." One of the fellas opens his jacket to reveal an automatic tucked into his belt. Newman laughs it off with a joke about only being a brown belt. But the switch from defiance to compliance is done with a panache that only Newman could deliver. Burt Reynolds would have tried but not succeeded. Neither Sylvester Stallone nor Clint Eastwood would have bothered trying.
Then, later, there is a short exchange between Newman and Murray Hamilton, who is sitting on a couch complaining that his bad stomach won't let him eat the shrimp étouffé that he himself has prepared. Hamilton, who was a great snooker player against Newman in "The Hustler," asks with a vast phony smile just what it is that Newman wants. "I want a big chunk of those oil fields," Newman replies. A moment passes while Hamilton continues to smile off into empty space, before replying, "You know, in addition to this bad stomach of mine, I think Nature has left me a little hard of hearing." I know it's not funny in print but it is on screen.
Final moment: Newman and the nicely assembled Gail Strickland are in their underwear gasping for the bit of air remaining in a space at the top of a hydrotherapy room in an abandoned mental hospital. (Don't ask.) Gail Strickland has always reminded me of Gayle Hunnicut, another Southern beauty, so much so that I've come to believe they're one and the same person. No? Then let me ask: Has anyone ever seen them in the same room at the same time? I thought not. Q.E.D.
It's a complex mystery story and rather routine. The director was Stuart Rosenberg, who gave us a genuine handful in "Cool Hand Luke" but here is saddled with a pedestrian script. A lot of sentiment is lavished on the apparent suicide of Joanne Woodward, a local belle whom we've hardly gotten to know. The ultimate killer is a flighty young girl who hardly seems capable of such intrigue.
Yet the film has its moments. There is, for instance, Paul Newman's first abduction by the local oil baron, Murray Hamilton. In a scene we're all familiar with, three or four over-sized goons approach Newman and order him into their car. Newman backs away with a determined expression and says, "Look, I think it's only fair to warn you fellas that my hands are registered in California as lethal weapons." One of the fellas opens his jacket to reveal an automatic tucked into his belt. Newman laughs it off with a joke about only being a brown belt. But the switch from defiance to compliance is done with a panache that only Newman could deliver. Burt Reynolds would have tried but not succeeded. Neither Sylvester Stallone nor Clint Eastwood would have bothered trying.
Then, later, there is a short exchange between Newman and Murray Hamilton, who is sitting on a couch complaining that his bad stomach won't let him eat the shrimp étouffé that he himself has prepared. Hamilton, who was a great snooker player against Newman in "The Hustler," asks with a vast phony smile just what it is that Newman wants. "I want a big chunk of those oil fields," Newman replies. A moment passes while Hamilton continues to smile off into empty space, before replying, "You know, in addition to this bad stomach of mine, I think Nature has left me a little hard of hearing." I know it's not funny in print but it is on screen.
Final moment: Newman and the nicely assembled Gail Strickland are in their underwear gasping for the bit of air remaining in a space at the top of a hydrotherapy room in an abandoned mental hospital. (Don't ask.) Gail Strickland has always reminded me of Gayle Hunnicut, another Southern beauty, so much so that I've come to believe they're one and the same person. No? Then let me ask: Has anyone ever seen them in the same room at the same time? I thought not. Q.E.D.