The Statue

A decade ago—it seems almost like ten light-years—movie sex spoofs always seemed to star Doris Day as the virginal career girl who invariably headed off Rock Hudson's pass. The sex farces of the Seventies promise to treat the same subject far more candidly—and graphically. As if to offer proof of this premise, Cinerama will shortly release The Statue, a none-too-serious, one-tracked sex romp that simply could not have been made in the early Sixties. In his 83rd movie, Oscar winner David Niven portrays Alex Bolt, a "glottologist" who, at the start of the film, has invented a universal language that he calls, appropriately enough, Unispeak. For his efforts, Bolt is awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and is to be additionally honored by a statue of himself that will stand outside the American embassy in London. Fittingly enough, our ambassador—played by erstwhile Man from U. N. C. L. E. Robert Vaughn—commissions the glottologist's equally respected sculptress wife to create her husband's likeness. Rhonda Bolt, portrayed by voluptuous Virna Lisi, produces what turns out to be the real star of the show: an 18-foot-high marble statue of Niven in the nude. (Actually sculpted by a team of Italian artists, the statue weighs 500 pounds and, during filming, was secreted in a specially guarded room at Rome's Cinecitta studios, where part of this English-American coproduction was shot.) Although Bolt is at first flattered by the painstaking artistry of his wife's labors, he notices on closer examination that not every feature of the statue seems to be modeled after his own. Specifically, Bolt becomes more than mildly upset when, after checking out the statue and himself, he concludes that his wife has fashioned the private parts of the statue's anatomy (parts he refers to as "Charley") after another man—with whom she, presumably, has had more than casual relations. When Bolt confronts his wife on this score, she not only heatedly denies the accusation but also offers to prove her devotion to Bolt by inviting him to make love to her then and there. The glottologist decides to go along with her wish, but, much to his dismay, discovers he's become so obsessed by the thought of his mate committing adultery that he can no longer function in bed. Bolt comes to the conclusion (the best he can do under the circumstances) that all will be well once he discovers the identity of the male model—and also whether or not his wife has been unfaithful. To aid in his investigation, he gets from the housekeeper a list of all the men who have visited his wife's studio in the past year, and begins running down every suspect. One of his sojourns takes him to an English rock musical where, during the finale, the cast—and members of the audience—strips onstage, giving Bolt the chance to inspect the show's leading man. Sorry, old man. He next travels to Rome, where, aside from encountering some smashing signorine, his sortie meets with equal failure. Next, he tracks down an artist with insatiable sexual appetites whom, he has reason to believe, Miss Lisi may have satisfied more than once. Bolt finally finds his man secreted in a monastery and gets him out in the open, so to speak. But after photographing the painter's "Charley," he sees he's come up again with the wrong man. Bolt's search for Superstud takes him to France, to yachts in the Aegean and finally back to Italy, where he unveils the solution to the mystery, much to his and—the producers hope—the audience's satisfaction. It's all done with tongue planted firmly in cheek and plot planted firmly in the burlesque-blackout genre. About the only offcolor sight gag or innuendo overlooked by director Rod Amateau was to give his picture the title it really deserved: Where's Charley?