Directed by dancin’ man Gene Kelly of all people, this must be the only movie in history built on the conundrum of where, when, why and how Walter Matthau should use his penis for evil.

As investment counselor Paul Manning, Matthau is happily, lovingly married to the beautiful blonde Ruth (Inger Stevens, Hang ‘Em High), but his best pal, smarmy lawyer Ed (Robert Morse, TV’s Mad Men), boasts about having his cake and eating it, too. Why, due to Ed’s continuous but well-concealed affairs, he claims he hasn’t been irritated by his wife in about six years! Ed promises to show Paul the ropes of the effective cheating process, and does, which makes up nearly all of A Guide for the Married Man.

Ed’s quite the font of knowledge when it comes to infidelity dos and don’ts. He has dozens of stories to share, which Kelly depicts via all-star vignettes. These feature such luminaries — or “technical advisors,” as they’re credited — as Jayne Mansfield, Sid Caesar, Lucille Ball, Carl Reiner, Linda Harrison, Jack Benny, Polly Bergen, Art Carney, Joey Bishop, Terry-Thomas and more. Whether within or outside of these It’s a Horny, Horny, Horny, Horny World mini-movies, almost every bedroom features separate beds, which seems awfully prudish for the time, yet plenty of bosomy babes in their undies (most notably Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice?‘s Claire Kelly and Diary of a Madman‘s Elaine Devry), which seems awfully raunchy for the time.

Only 1967 could get away with such an icky premise, by rendering it completely charming, yet still be funny and sexy. Then again, this being ’67, and Matthau being Matthau, you also know before The Turtles even finish singing the catchy theme song that he’s not about to make an odd coupling with anyone else but his loyal (if too subservient) Suzy Homemaker. To that end, Stevens is perfect casting as a doting dream wife: smart, sociable and absolute dynamite in a bikini. You know Guide is fiction because the film opens with her wanting it bad, but the only thing Matthau opts to bury is his big ol’ nose … in a book. —Rod Lott

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With cinema attendance then taking a licking at the antennas of free TV, director Frank Tashlin literally stopped the story of his 1957 comedy, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?, to take a swipe at his competition’s inferior nature to the magnificence of the movies. Delivered by star Tony Randall, the pointed jabs include mentions of a tiny picture, constant commercial interruptions and the nagging menace of horizontal hold.

Not mentioned is the main advantage movies had over TV: Jayne Mansfield. A year after they hit it big with The Girl Can’t Help It, Tashlin again called upon the bleached-blonde bombshell to infuse his sex comedy will all the sex it needed. She rose to the challenge with resolute effervescence and her trademark ditzy noises, which will either endear or enrage. The result, while subordinate to Girl, is one big ball of fluffy fun.

Although her character is named Rita Marlowe, Mansfield more or less plays herself — or her Hollywood public persona, at least — an actress whose “oh-so-kissable lips” mild-mannered ad exec Rock Hunter (Randall) wishes to exploit in a job-saving campaign for a cosmetics client. She agrees, but also uses him to get even with her high-profile boyfriend, a Tarzan-esque actor (real-life hubby Mickey Hargitay). Whereas most straight males would be unable to resist Mansfield’s advances, Hunter’s heart aches for his secretary (one-time Cary Grant spouse Betsy Drake), whose curves can’t compete because they’re practically nonexistent.

Forever underappreciated, Randall excelled at these kind of underdog, cog-in-the-system roles, and he provides Success with the majority of its laughs, both verbal or physical. Mansfield excelled at dumb, too, which unfortunately got her typecast, but this is one of her very best showcases. As satire, the film is lightweight — just like the Madison Avenue world it spoofs with kid gloves, and never more memorably than in the commercial parodies that wreak havoc with the opening credits. As with Help It, Hunter holds no “real” ending, yet it made me smile so wide, this guy can’t fault it. —Rod Lott

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Frank Tashlin’s background directing Looney Tunes paid off big — in more ways than two — in the rock ‘n’ roll comedy The Girl Can’t Help It, giving him the opportunity to work with the live-action cartoon that was Jayne Mansfield. At 40-21-35, her curves are so improbable, they make for the kind of exaggerated fantasy that existed only via pen and ink, not flesh and blood.

And yet, here she is, filling the frames of this vibrant, buoyant rom-com as Jerri Jordan, the shapely kept woman of gregarious gangster “Fats” Murdoch (Edmond O’Brien, D.O.A.) who wants to make her a singing star. To do so, he hires agent Tom Miller (Tom Ewell, The Seven-Year Itch) because he knows Miller is desperately in debt and has a reputation for keeping his hands off clients; Jerri’s chassis invites nothing if not eager mitts.

Tashlin obviously knew this, and thus, created a scene of Mansfield making a scene simply by strutting down a sidewalk. The resulting reactions — physical, chemical, what-have-you — comprise some of the funniest visual gags committed to film. Half of the movie’s point is how seriously people refuse to take a woman with a body like that; unlike much of her career afterward, Mansfield’s actually allowed to act, and does a wonderful job. Both she and her character are smarter than they’re given credit for, no matter how many thrifty erections they so inadvertently inspire.

Girl is equally known for showcasing a wealth of acts from the sock-hop era of pop music, and the flick’s jukebox is as well-stuffed as Mansfield’s sequined gowns. Those seen (and heard) in action include Little Richard, Gene Vincent (“Be-Bop-a-Lula”), Eddie Cochran and Fats Domino. Best of all is Julie London, who croons “Cry Me in River” in full while appearing as a ghost in Miller’s apartment. It’s as sexy as anything Mansfield does, without the torch singer even trying. —Rod Lott

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Disorganized Crime isn’t particularly well-written or well-acted. It’s definitely not well-directed. And yet, ever since I caught the crime caper on its opening night, I’ve held a mild affection for it. Hell, it’s not even all that funny, but fits the bill for an entertaining and harmless disposable comedy — something of a then-specialty for Touchstone Pictures.

Frank Salazar (L.A. Lawyer Corbin Bernsen) stakes out a small-town Montana bank as a potential big score, and invites four of his criminal buddies to help with the heist. Trouble is, no sooner has he mailed them letters — the Evite was roughly a decade away — that he’s arrested by two doofus cops (Ed O’Neill, then on Married … with Children, and River’s Edge punk Daniel Roebuck) who wish to escort him back to New Jersey.

Meanwhile, arriving in the sleepy town by Amtrak are Salazar’s invited tech whizzes, safecrackers and general ne’er-do-wells, played by Fred Gwynne (Pet Sematary), Rubén Blades (Predator 2), Lou Diamond Phillips (La Bamba) and William Russ (Death Bed: The Bed That Eats). Get this: They can’t find Salazar! Yuk-yuk! After a lot of bickering and double-crossing, the guys plot the break-in anyway without him.

Writer/director Jim Kouf (scribe of Stakeout, Rush Hour and National Treasure) bounces between the two slapsticky storylines as if they’re the most riotous things ever. It’s not, of course, but bears a fair share of bright bits, most of them provided by, ironically enough, the least famous: Russ. Maybe I just like the way he says, “Yes, I have some fucking toothpaste!” Those who prefer their laughs to be less verbal may be inclined to prefer O’Neill in his underwear, or most of the felons stepping into cow poop. I don’t know of anyone, however, who’ll like the grating harmonica soundtrack. —Rod Lott

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While rare, Hollywood on occasion births a sequel greater than the original: The Godfather: Part II, The Empire Strikes Back, Hillbillys in a Haunted House. The latter is the 1967 follow-up to the prior year’s Las Vegas Hillbillys. Arguably, Vegas boasts more star power, but lacks Haunted‘s — how you say? — je ne sais quois. Ah, yes: gorillas and Joi Lansing’s garguantas.

Vegas does have Jayne Mansfield and Mamie Van Doren. As the appropriately named Tawny, Mansfield pops in and out of the movie, with each appearance accompanied by that percussive “bong” sound that signifies cups-poureth-over pulchritude. So there’s that. Director Arthur C. Pierce (Women of the Prehistoric Planet), I salute you.

After nearly 15 minutes of country music performances, a story takes root: Tennessee good ol’ boy Woody Wetherby (Ferlin Husky, a real-life singer probably more or less playing himself) is called to settle the estate of his newly croaked uncle, so he and near-illiterate pal Jeepers (Don Bowman) hop in a jalopy with an umbrella for a roof and head for Sin City. Woody has inherited the strip’s near-empty Golden Circle casino and bar … and an accompanying $40,000 in debts. If only he could get some quality singers to attract paying customers.

One comes built-in — and built — with waitress Boots Malone (Van Doren), who likes to sing and dance atop the bar, and attracts the eye of Woody: “She reminds me of a 2-year-old filly that’s ready to be tamed.” Woody dreams many more live music numbers; 007’s dentally challenged nemesis Richard Kiel appears as muscle; and everyone in the movie has so much fun, it ends in a pie fight. Glad to see someone had that much of a ball. —Rod Lott

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