Two Hits with Three Eros

Under the Yum-Yum Tree. "Let's live together but not sleep together," says an all-American jane (Carol Lynley) to an all-American jerk (Dean Jones). "That way we can test our character compatibility." Ugh? But don't go away. The plot doesn't really matter in this Hollywood version of the corny, porny comedy that ran for a season (1960-61) on Broadway. The only thing that matters is Jack Lemmon.

Lemmon plays the lecherous landlord of the Centaur Apartments, a fellow who rents only to women and has a key for every lock. The minute he sees the heroine he starts weaving Lemmoniacal schemes to lure her into his "sin bin," a flat with blood-red wallpaper, passion-pit living room, bed about the size of Luxembourg, and two Murphy violins that hideaway in a closet and at the flick of a switch pop out and play.

Oh, how the villain pursues her. He listens at her front door with a stethoscope. He even sneaks into her flat with a watering can and sprinkles her jonquils. Jerk: "I hate to tell you, but those flowers are artificial." Jack: "That's all right. There's no water in the can."

Lemmon's lecher is hilarious--partly because Lemmon is a marvelously skillful comedian, partly because he looks like a boy scout playing Bluebeard. And his satyr is a satire: a Pan in deadpan, a caricature of every young goat who can't say naaaaa.

Mary, Mary could hardly miss. Still holding forth in its third season on Broadway, Jean Kerr's wordly-wise comedy has been transferred to the screen almost 100% intact, and anyone who complains about its total disregard of cinema techniques should be taken out and dunked in a new wave. The best defense is just to relax and enjoy it.

The pure Kerr dialogue helps. Mary is Debbie Reynolds, giving one of her sprightliest performances as the wickedly witty, nearly divorced wife of Publisher Barry Nelson, who repeats his stage role in sharp, swinging style. "Life with Mary was like going into a telephone booth with an open umbrella," he rasps. "No matter which way you turned, you got it in the eye." Her bill of particulars includes: "It was hard to communicate with you. You were always communicating with yourself. The line was busy."

Before the divorce becomes final, husband and wife must meet once more to sort out a tangled income tax report, and of course a Joint 1040 leads smack into the subject of sex. Though already affianced to a socialite food faddist (Diane McBain), hubby chafes when an aging movie actor (Michael Rennie) begins to date his former mate. Everywhere that Mary goes, the ham is close behind. Nelson finally explodes--being the kind of guy, as Lawyer Hiram Sherman quips, "who thinks when he brings a book back to the library, it'll never go out again."

Director Mervyn LeRoy lets the pace lag from time to time, but relief is ever nigh. And are the gags still funny? Very, very.

A New Kind of Love is another game of footsy, one of those comedies that tries to make a virtue of its vice but can't decide which is which. In it, Paul Newman gamely plays an oversexed newspaperman exiled to the Champs Elysees after meeting too many deadlines with his boss's wife. Joanne Woodward is a department store buyer who treks abroad to pinch designs from Dior, Lanvin-Castillo and Pierre Cardin. Naturellement, she herself wears mannish styles and spectacles--she's a sort of hemidemisemivirgin, "a girl who tried love once but didn't like it."

When the two meet, crrraaaaazy things happen: Dior, Lanvin-Castillo and Cardin trot out their hautest couture; Maurice Chevalier sings a medley of old favorites; Thelma Ritter spouts excerpts from her treatise on contemporary mating habits. Soon all the 25-year-old virgins of Paris, apparently some 50 or 60 strong, go parading in homage to Catherine, patron saint of maidenhood. Woodward tags along, and St. Catherine tells her she'd better stop in at Elizabeth Arden's on the way home. Off go the glasses. On come the yawns.

Married since 1958, Stars Newman and Woodward here celebrate their fifth picture together. They are an attractive and talented pair, but the Lunts in their heyday could not have saved this one. So many men's-room jokes to memorize. So many interludes of leaden-footed fantasy to plod through. If A New Kind of Love didn't take the magic out of their marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Newman are odds-on to become the sweetest little old couple in Hollywood.

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