I’d like to preface this little discussion by saying that there’s no significance behind Blake Edwards’ S.O.B. being my “introductory” post. It just so happened that I was watching the movie the other day and thought to myself, “Now if I ever did get around to doing that whole blog thing, this would certainly be one I’d like to talk about.” I guess S.O.B. is sort of the catalyst that got me on here, trying to figure out how to use this damn website, so we have it to thank for that.
If you were to ask me for a short list of all-time favorite movies, Blake Edwards’ S.O.B. would probably make it into the Top 20, certainly Top 25. It’s a “comfort movie” for me. I have a thing for filmmakers who make movies that tear down/satirize the entertainment business. When Billy Wilder did it, it was Sunset Boulevard. When Sidney Lumet and Paddy Chayefsky did it, it was Network. And now, in 1981, Blake Edwards presents his own, uproarious, tit-filled, excretory farce of a picture with S.O.B. A moniker that does not, as some may guess, stand for “Son of a Bitch”, but for “Standard Operational Bullshit”, and boy, does this movie have plenty of S.O.B.!
It’s not short on stars either.
Above: 1981’s definition of Squad Goals.
A bit about the plot and its players:
Hollywood producer Felix Farmer has never been a critical darling, but his fluffy populist pictures always make big bucks for the studio, so he’s in good shape. That is, until he makes a movie called Night Wind starring his purer-than-pure, honest-as-the-Doris-Day-is-long wife, Sally Miles. Exploiting Sally’s image as America’s Sweetheart, Night Wind appears to be Cotton Candy On Celluloid. It flops. Boy, does it flop. Not only do the critics pan it, but nobody shows up at the theater. This literally drives Felix crazy. Our first encounter is of him lying on his deck, looking not unlike the Johnny Depp of recent years.
Above: The ever-loving Richard Mulligan, who won Emmys for Soap and Empty Nest turns in an Oscar-worthy performance as a man so crazy he would put Howard Beale to shame.
As if things weren’t bad enough for poor Felix in his fragile state, Sally decides to up and leave, taking the children and her violently gay assistant along with her.
Above: The only time Dame Julie Andrews™ isn’t wearing fur in this picture is when she isn’t wearing anything. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Just as Felix is pulling off a half-hearted suicide attempt that leaves a Cadillac in the Pacific Ocean, several of Hollywood’s most despicable cronies are converging at Casa Crazy. They include:
TIM CULLEY (William Holden), an old friend of Felix’s and presumably the director of Night Wind. He loves booze, Sinatra, and underage girls.
DR. IRVING FINEGARTEN (Robert Preston), a slightly spaced-out, slightly effeminate, self-titled Quack, who might just be the nicest person in the building.
BEN COOGAN (Robert Webber), the neurotic, Jewish press agent who can’t keep his orafices shut.
POLLY REED (Loretta Swit), a gossip columnist who is the poster child for Harpies, Anonymous.
Above: Big Bill and his Jailbait. Holden must’ve had a thing for directors tearing the facade off the system, too. He appeared in Sunset, Network, and of course this little gem. S.O.B. was his last picture.
Above: The Music Man himself. One year after this, Bobby Baby would reunite with Edwards and Andrews for Victor/Victoria, which would garner him his first and (sadly) only Oscar nomination.
Above: Culley, Finegarten, and Coogan. The Three Muscatels. Character actor Robert Webber should be given mad props for some of (most of) the things he’s made to do in this.
Left: A lot of this movie feels like the actors are using the scenery for an eating competition. Nobody fits more set pieces down her gullet than Loretta Swit. She’s marvelous.
Another suicide attempt ensues. While trying to hang himself, Felix falls through the floor and lands on Polly, putting her in traction (Hooray! It doesn’t stop her for long, though). There’s a subplot involving a Marisa Berenson/Robert Vaughn/David Young love triangle. A party ends up being thrown at the beach house. It’s a party so depraved, so nasty, so very HOLLYWOOD that it snaps Felix out of his Blob State and into his FUCKING INSANE State. He realizes that all the public wants is sex, sex, sex! He talks the studio executives into selling him Night Wind so he can recut it into his modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. Sally is contractually obligated to appear in the reshoots. One thing leads to another, and thanks to one of Dr. Finegarten’s shots, America’s Sweetheart goes wild in the way only Sophia Loren, Glenda Jackson, Jane Fonda, and Liv Ullman can.
Below: A candid shot of a post-injection, pre-boobie moment. 
Sally’s nude scene has got everybody buzzing, and the studio suspects that Night Wind could be a hit after all, so they convince Sally to use the California Community Property law to sign the rights of the film back over to them. When Felix finds this out, the result is an epic car chase and a shootout that leaves him full of bullets, but also full of hope that his death could mean “another ten million at the box office.” Suddenly, the industry that killed Felix is saluting him. The Night Wind soundstage is filled to capacity with Hollywood goons, including that double-crosser Sally and her imported Swami, who gives Felix’s eulogy. Culley, Finegarten, and Coogan aren’t present at the funeral. Neither is Felix. The three fellas got completely wasted and stole the late producer’s body so they could give it a viking funeral at sea.
Above: “What do we do if he catches anything?”
Now, I’m leaving out a helluva lot. I just gave a ridiculously incomplete plot synopsis. S.O.B. has a lot going on. It feels like every single joke has a callback or payoff, making for a seemingly endless knot of tiny subplots that don’t directly contribute to the main story of the making of Night Wind. The cast also features the likes of Robert Loggia, Stuart Margolin, Craig Stevens, John Pleshette, Hamilton Camp, Paul Stewart, Benson Fong, Virginia Gregg, and Larry Goddam Storch.
The screenplay, written solely by Edwards, is too sardonic to not be based on very specific events. We can at least assume that the pre-wet Night Wind is in reference to Edwards’ experience with Darling Lili. And there’s almost no need to draw attention to the fact that S.O.B. concerns a beloved director convincing his White Bread Wife to go topless for the sake of a movie. Unlike Night Wind, however, S.O.B. did not become the biggest moneymaker in Hollywood’s history. It was however, a decent critical and financial success. It holds a 90% on Rotten Tomatoes and made upwards of $15,000,000. It was the 50th highest-grossing movie of 1981. Impressive for a year that held the likes of Raiders of The Lost Ark, Cannonball Run, For Your Eyes Only, The Great Muppet Caper, The Fox and The Hound, Arthur, An American Werewolf in London, Mommie Dearest, My Dinner With Andre, Halloween II, On Golden Pond, Superman II, Chariots of Fire, and Reds.
Gee, I guess compared to Melting Nazis, Michael Myers, Werewolves, and Joan Crawford, Richard Mulligan’s overacting isn’t all that impressive.
This was the start of the Reagan years, after all. Excess was in. Now, I’m not knocking Reagan, but his “era” is darn easy to satirize.
It should also be of note that M*A*S*H* and Dallas were more or less at the top of the ratings game at this point. I don’t know if that’s why the movie features Larry Hagman and Loretta Swit, but it’s nice to see them here. Dallas was popular because from the early to mid 80s, primetime soaps were Da Bomb. And The Big D was certainly the best of them. M*A*S*H* was popular because in 1981 it was just about the only television comedy that had some semblance of a brain. Seriously. Look at the 1980-81 Primetime Schedule: Alice, Happy Days, Three’s Company, Too Close For Comfort, The Jeffersons, Diff’rent Strokes, The Facts of Life, The Love Boat. Keep in mind that several of these shows were certainly high quality- at one point. By this time, they were well past their prime. M*A*S*H*, Taxi, Soap, WKRP in Cincinnati, and Barney Miller were bright lights in a darkly saturated world. The early 80s are a low point for television comedy that could only be rivaled by the late 60s and, in my opinion, present day. (But that’s a discussion for another time.) No wonder Blake Edwards was fed up.
We can, of course talk about how relevant certain themes in this movie are today. In 2017, we can’t deny that studios are shifty and go where the money is. Gratuitous gimmicks pull in the masses who are willing to watch anything as long as it doesn’t challenge them. Dame Julie Andrews™ showing her tits is just as horrifying as anything on The Disney Channel.
Maybe S.O.B. would’ve gotten more traction had it come out two or three years later and it hadn’t been so very Blake Edwards. I’m not saying Blake Edwards is a bad director by any means. But he’s certainly flawed. Even with the car chases and shootouts and boobs, the movie needs to be trimmed down. I love Shelley Winters to death, but really, her subplot in this movie could’ve been taken out and nobody would know the difference. The fact that the Good Stuff (guns, boobs, vomit) is spaced so far apart wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if the intermittent dialogue scenes weren’t framed in Edward’s go-to Wide Shot. I know Wide Shots are good for comedy or whatever, but for goodness sakes, the last time anybody did this kind of thing was in the 30s.
I shouldn’t act like such a shit towards this movie. I really do love it, or I wouldn’t have wanted to briefly discuss it this way. If you watch S.O.B., you’re in for a really good time, especially if you like boobs. Take a shot every time you see a nipple in this movie. One shot for each nipple. Before you drink it, you have to quote Dr. Irving Finegarten and say “L’chaim! …Whatever that means.”
The hills are alive, indeed.
Some Fine Old Chestnuts 