More Spinach, Less Altman

ON JANUARY 17th, 1929, Elzie Segar introduced into his comic strip "Thimble Theater" a character named Popeye, a one-eyed, banananosed sailor who smoked a corncob pipe. III-favored, inarticulate, but possessed of a keen sense of "humiligration," Popeye quickly rose to star billing in the strip. His broad and timeless appeal lay in his simplicity and in his embodiment of a universal revenge fantasy. As his creator Segar put it: "I'd like to cut loose and knock the heck out of a lot of people, but my good judgement and size hold me back. Instead I use my imagination and let the sailor do the scrapping." Of course, Popeye never used force unjustifiably. "Treat ever' body right and if they steps on ya, sock 'em!" was his motto. The comic strip did not glorify but rather burlesqued violence, turning it into slapstick. He became and remains an incongrous folk hero--a cross between one of the Stooges and Superman.

ALMOST FIFTY YEARS after the first Popeye cartoon, director Robert Altman and cartoonist-author-screenwriter Jules Feiffer have adapted the sailor to another medium--that of the musical-comedy feature film--using real people instead of animated figures. When such heavies team up with a talent like manic Robin Williams to interpret a piece of American folklore, the result ought to transcend the original material. Instead, they produce a faithful if restrained reproduction of the cartoon version--and somewhat of a disappointment.

Altman has gathered together the whole crew of crazy caricatures and shipped them off to the ramshackle town of Sweethaven. In residence, there are the Oyls, most notably Olive, Popeye's confused and confusing "sweet pattootie"; Swee'pea, Popeye's mischievous "adoptik infink"; the villainous, animal-like Bluto; J. Wellington Wimpy, the hamburger moocher; Rough-House, the short-order cook; Geezil, a boarder at the Oyls; and Poopdeck Pappy, Popeye's long-lost father. Several other bizarre characters skulk about having no apparent role other than adding to the absurdity.

The plot, as in a typical Popeye cartoon, is thin. Popeye arrives in Sweethaven looking for his father. He lodges at the Oyls, becomes smitten with Olive and does battle with her betrothed, Bluto. Popeye eventually finds his father, rescues Olive and Swee'pea from Bluto and, thanks to a handy can of spinach, sends the brute packing.

THIS PLOT PROVIDES the framework for the usual action--Popeye slugging his way through run-ins with Bluto and other assorted ruffians. The fight scenes underscore the limitations of the premise. Clever camera and stunt work not-withstanding, human beings simply cannot contort themselves the way cartoon figures can. Robin Williams can only cock his wrist a couple of times for the famous twister punch. As a result, the slapstick gains in immediacy but loses the necessary hyperbole.

The casting seems intended for faithful representation rather than enhancement of character. Williams plays Popeye straight and he plays him well. He looks the part in his sailor's garb, with a crew cut, "squinky" eye, corncob pipe, ruddy complexion, and latex-enlarged forearms and calves. He also has the gravelly muttering voice and the "pronunskiation" down, and his singing and dancing pass muster. What seems curiously lacking is evidence of Williams' brilliant gift for improvisation. Glimmers shine through occasionally, as when Popeye throws a tantrum because he doesn't want to eat his spinach. Williams, television's "Mork," also contributes a few one-liners, but Altman never turns him loose.

Shelly Duvall achieves a remarkable resemblance to the original Olive. Tall and awkward, her loose outfit and clodhoppers emphasize her rubber-legged shapelessness; the wishy-washy, quavering voice ring true. The other characters are instantly recognizable--but that's it. Comic-strip depth does not suffice for a full-length movie. Swee'pea (Altman's grandchild, incidentally) is an exception--a uniquely expressive and, of course, cute baby.

THE FILM appears not to take itself seriously as a musical comedy although Harry Nilsson's songs are plentiful, appropriate and tuneful. Even in the most lightweight musical, one or two songs often transcend the limits of the plot and stand on their own merits. None of the new songs in Popeye however, are likely to outlast the film.

The attempt to transfer Popeye from the cartoons to the movies might have been doomed from the start. After all, why bother having people do what animated figures do better? Moreover, no movie can keep up with the breakneck pace of a cartoon. Yet Altman seems to have all the ingredients for a blockbuster film. He succeeds in creating a busy visual and auditory atmosphere, but he fails to take advantage of his opportunity for free play on several levels. As just two examples, he throws in a few bits of scatological humor, and completely avoids using the Popeye story as a serious metaphor. A bawdy or allegorical interpretation of Popeye might have potential, if developed. But Altman doesn't take any chances. Given the freewheeling precedents of Popeye cartoons, Altman might have taken more liberties.

In the very first animated Popeye cartoon, while singing his macho theme song, Popeye reveals that, under his shirt, he wears a corset. Robin Williams might have developed this image, but in Altman's limited and narrow Popeye, we never find out.