My Chauffeur

David Beaird avowedly set out to imitate the screwball comedies of the 1930s and 1940s and has succeeded admirably, thanks to adorably spunky Deborah Foreman and her stuffy foil, Sam J. Jones. They make quite a pair.

It’s cute and high-spirited, and it shows some talent and verve. Watching it, you feel that Beaird is capable of something really good; even when his material goes stale and tasteless, there’s a joie de vivre in his direction.

This could have been a sweet, charming little romantic comedy, but it is ruined by excessive vulgarity and gratuitous nudity.

Despite the presence of such performers as E. G. Marshall and Sean McClory and the comedy team of Penn (the hustler) and Teller (the Arab), My Chauffeur remains a victim of low literacy, muddled characterizations, frequently rudimentary acting and unrealized yearnings toward humor.

My Chauffeur has moments of pure daffiness, unhinged stuff. But it is also the most ineptly made comedy in years, so badly made that it is ultimately unwatchable. [20 March 1986, p.B6]

The film starts out gently enough, capturing the after-hours banter of the chauffeurs as they play cards and try to ward off Casey`s intrusion. Unfortunately, this charming opening quickly degenerates into a film so needlessly obscene and offensive that it is hard to imagine what its creators were hoping to achieve.