Popeye

I always assumed there must be something transcendent about this 1980 live-action Popeye adaptation, seeing as a) it sure seems like a really dopey idea, b) there was nothing in Robert Altman’s critically admired oeuvre at that time (or since) to suggest he was the obvious guy to direct it, and c) it was the brainchild of Robert Evans, who produced The Godfather and Chinatown. Could it really be as artless a ploy as, “We lost the bidding war for Annie; what other Depression-era comic strips can we get the rights to?” But alas, it’s just as ill-conceived as it appears on the surface, albeit with the incompatible addition of a distinctly Altman feel.

It’s not without its charms: The massive set constructed in Malta for the production (which apparently still stands today) is impressive, as is the cast’s full commitment to the bit (likely fueled by the reportedly bottomless supply of cocaine on set). Shelly Duvall’s Olive Oyl is a seamless wonder, Bill Irwin’s standout slapstick steals every scene he’s in, and I’d swear Roberta Maxwell’s wide-eyed Nana Oyl was actually a time-traveling Kate McKinnon.

But it’s otherwise a plotless, interminable two hours (those Max Fleisher cartoons were short for a reason), and Harry Nilsson’s songs are uniformly terrible, with largely unintelligible lyrics to match the largely unintelligible dialogue (with the exception of the sweet “He Needs Me,” which was mercifully exonerated decades later in the vastly superior Punch-Drunk Love). I suppose there’s something to appreciate in how very bizarre this film is, but its cynical core comes through too clearly to elicit much charity.