BY NICK ANEZ
Business isn’t exactly booming for private
detective Peter Joseph Detweiler, better known as P.J. His makeshift office is
in a bar belonging to his only friend Charlie. His sporadic jobs include
entrapping cheating wives and he is not above drowning his sorrows in liquor. So
when wealthy magnate William Orbison offers him a substantial fee to be a
bodyguard for his mistress, Maureen Prebble, he is in no position to refuse. What
P.J. doesn’t know is that Orbison has already hired someone else to commit a
murder. How this murder and the shamus’s new job intersect is the crux of the
terrific 1968 neo-noir from Universal, P.J.
(U.K. title: New Face in Hell.)
Private detectives were prominent in the late
1960s and included Harper (1966), Tony Rome (1967), Gunn (1967), and Marlowe (1969).
P.J. appeared in the midst of this
surplus, which may account in part for its box office failure. The movie quickly
disappeared, at least in its original form. Due to one extended and bloody
sequence in a gay bar as well as to other scenes of violence and sexuality,
Universal drastically cut and re-edited the movie for its television network
presentation. For decades afterward and until just recently, the original
version of the movie was never officially released on home video; only inferior
bootleg copies of murky prints were available and even some of these were the
edited television version.
Philip Reisman, Jr.’s screenplay is based on
his original story co-written with producer Edward Montagne. The script initially
unfolds as a conventional mystery but gets increasingly complicated with each
twist and turn. Maureen appears to definitely need a bodyguard, in view of threatening
letters as well as a shot fired into her bedroom. And there is no shortage of
suspects who would like to see her dead. Orbison’s emotionally fragile wife,
Betty, tries to pretend that her husband’s paramour doesn’t exist. Betty’s relatives
despise Maureen because of her emergence as principle beneficiary in Orbison’s
will. Orbison’s Executive Assistant, Jason Grenoble, due to his apparent
affluent upbringing, is displeased about being used as a flunky. Making P.J.’s job
more difficult is Orbison’s decision to take everyone, including relatives and mistress,
to his hideaway in the Caribbean island of St. Crispin’s. And it is in this
tropical setting that P.J. is forced to kill a suspect. This seems to be the
end of the case. But it is really only the end of the second act. The third act
is filled with intrigue, deception, blackmail and three brutal deaths.
John Guillermin is an underappreciated
director who created admirable films in many genres, including mystery, adventure,
war and western as well as the disaster and monster genres. His success could
perhaps be due not only to his skill but to a style that is unobtrusive. He
directs P.J. in a straightforward
fashion, not allowing any directorial flourishes to interrupt the flow of the
story. With cinematographer Loyal Griggs, he cleverly contrasts the seedy
sections of New York City with the natural beauty of St. Crispin’s. However,
this beauty is soon tainted by the presence of Orbison, whose wealth the
island’s economy requires to flourish. Guillermin allows each of the characters
within Orbison’s band of sycophants enough screen time to make an impact.
Basically, they all appear to be self-centered, greedy and nasty. Orbison is
especially sadistic, in addition to being notoriously miserly. Maureen doesn’t
apologize for providing sexual favors in exchange for future wealth. Betty is
willing to be repeatedly humiliated to obtain her customary allowance. Grenoble
continually demeans himself to keep his well-paid position. And then there is butler
Shelton Quell, who is not as harmless as his effeminate mannerisms suggest. This
is a sordid group of characters that P.J. is involved with but his dire
financial state has apparently extinguished his conscience, particularly since
he soon becomes intimately involved with the body that he is guarding. P.J.’s
essential irony arises from the fact that he is equally greedy, at least
initially. He also seems to be morally bankrupt. When he encounters Orbison
leaving Maureen’s cottage, it doesn’t faze him that they have just engaged in a
quickie. P.J. knows that he has sold his gun to Orbison just as Maureen has
sold her body.
In the early 1960s, George Peppard became a
major star in expensive films such as and How
the West Was Won (1962) and The
Carpetbaggers (1964). In 1966, he
starred in another big-budget film, The
Blue Max, the first of three movies he would make with John Guillermin. In
the late 1960s and early 1970s, he starred in several smaller-budgeted movies.
While some of them, especially Pendulum,
The Groundstar Conspiracy and Newman’s Law are exceptional, others are
unremarkable. The commercial failure of these movies diminished his status and relegated
him to supporting roles and television. This was regrettable because he had
genuine star quality as well as considerable talent. However, he made a
well-deserved comeback by achieving massive popularity as the star of the hit
television series, The A-Team, and
his small screen success is a worthy consolation prize.
As P.J. Detweiler, Peppard creates a unique
private eye that puts him apart from his cinematic brethren. P.J. initially appears
disillusioned with his life and work. Like many film noir protagonists, he is one
of society’s alienated outcasts. He is not just down and out but seems resigned
to his dismal situation. When he is offered the lucrative position of
bodyguard, he is so destitute that he agrees to a humiliating audition of fisticuffs.
As he begins his job, he appears impassive to the decadence of Orbison’s
environment. However, after he has been duped and discarded, he asserts himself
and becomes a traditional detective who is determined to pursue clues and solve
the mystery. But unlike traditional detectives, he doesn’t derive any pleasure
from the solution to the crime. The fact that he has been maneuvered into
facilitating a murder has emotionally drained him. At the end of the film, he forces
a cheerless smile at Charlie but he is unable to sustain it, replacing it
quickly with a look of despair. All of these emotions are reflected in
Peppard’s superb portrayal.
As William Orbison, Raymond Burr splendidly returned
to the villainous roles that he had portrayed in previous decades before
becoming a household name on television as lawyer Perry Mason, a role he played
for nine years. P.J. was released six
months after Burr started his second successful series as police chief
Ironside, a role he would portray for eight years. Audiences who were
accustomed to seeing him embody honorable characters must have been shocked to view
his malevolent Orbison. Though he projects a sophisticated veneer for Orbison, Burr
fully evokes his perverted obsession with wealth and power through his
modulated tone and menacing visage. With his atypically silver hair and
imposing size, he conveys malignant authority. In the scene in which Orbison
brings his wife and mistress together, the actor’s expression of merciless pleasure
invites unmitigated contempt. Burr’s Orbison deserves an honored position among
noir’s loathsome villains. (Incidentally, in advertisements for the movie,
Burr’s name is below Gayle Hunnicutt’s name but in the movie itself Burr’s name
precedes Hunnicutt’s.)