sctwilm We have another suspect in the death of the studio system, if "A New Kind of Love" is what passed for comedy in the early 1960s. Despite the star power in the cast, the spectacular wardrobes and the Parisian locations, this film was the biggest dud I've viewed in a long time. Mel Shavelson was an old-time comedy writer who wrote for some of the biggest stars, but the culture seems to have passed him by by 1963. The dialogue is painfully incoherent, trying desperately for laughs instead of logic. As others have observed here, the characters are unmoored from any motivational continuity, and the script instead relies on stereotypes and farcical slapstick. What a huge disappointment. Thank goodness Paul Newman will be remembered for his triumphs, and not for this dross.

Shannon Okay, so it's not an art piece, a great classic, or a stellar example of brilliant film- making. But does every movie have to be? This movie is cute, charming and clean (especially when compared to the most of the filth being made today). Paris looks gorgeous, as do Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, and the haute couture fashions are to die for. Sometimes you're just in the mood for something light and frothy, where you don't need to think, analyze or criticize. This movie is ideal for that purpose. I particularly enjoyed the witty comments in the opening credits regarding the fashions used in the picture. While not worth running out and buying (although thanks to my husband and an Amazon wish list accident I do now own the DVD), it would certainly be worth watching if it ran on TV, or even renting if you have a particular fondness for this era, or these actors.

jost-1 1963 lay somewhere between Ozzie and Harriet and Janice Joplin and this movie was raunchy "adult fare" for the time but sanitized. The characters couldn't say "virgin" but did say "maiden", couldn't even say "prostitute" but could say it in French ("fille de joie" or something). If you can imagine Paul Newman as a rakish cad who writes Beaudelaire verses on the bare bottoms of his nightly conquests and his real-life partner Joanne Woodward as a dike dress-designer turned tender hearted and vulnerable real woman posing as a prostitute after praying to St. Catherine, then you have a greater (much) ability to suspend disbelief than I do. Badly miscast leads, especially Woodward, despite one sexy scene in a teddy at the end. Otherwise, enjoy Paris, enjoy 60's color, and 60's sophistication and pretend that you are sneaking a look at the naughty movie that your parents wouldn't want you to see.

Vince-5 That quote, uttered by a tearful Joanne Woodward, is the perfect summation of this frothy sex comedy: It gives us a brief taste of something delicious before breaking off and leaving us cold and disappointed. Let's start at the beginning. Paul Newman is at his coolest as a slick swinger, and Joanne Woodward is appealing as the unkempt, androgynous fashion consultant everyone keeps mistaking for a man. There's a terrific opening, followed by some snappy montages and split screens. But then, about halfway through, the fun's over and the frustration begins. Suddenly everything is presented before the camera in a very bland manner as the plot becomes a ponderous romantic chase into nothingness. The characters begin spouting cliches about love and marriage. And to top it off, the film pulls that awful hooker-housewife double standard still widely in use today: If a man enjoys sex he's a playboy, if a woman enjoys sex she's a tramp. The whole thing becomes so obtrusive and heavy handed that not even the charm of Paul, Joanne, and the bubbly Eva Gabor can save it. Despite being set in red hot, exquisitely photographed Paris, A New Kind of Love's traditional, preachy, and ultimately boring sensibilities would be more at home in suburban Iowa.