The Singing Detective

Boris Vian was the author of surrealist novel Froth On The Daydream. I say ‘was’ because Boris is sadly no longer among us. Having sat down to view the film adaptation of his meisterwork, he got such a nasty shock that he keeled over from a heart-attack. Well, if you had just learned that your best literary efforts had become the basis for Italian schlock-classic I Spit On Your Grave, you might feel a little green around the gills as well.
Apparently the late TV auteur Dennis Potter worried about a similar fate and having witnessed the atrocious Steve Martin version of his famous creation Pennies From Heaven, who could blame him? Writing the film version of his signature mini-series The Singing Detective must have seemed like a decent insurance measure then, and so it has proved – for this new film credits him as the sole author, and surviving family members were also consulted. The bad news is that, frankly, they need not have troubled themselves on our account.
For those of you who haven’t been watching the outer recesses of the BBC2 schedules for many years, The Singing Detective is a none-too-cheerful romp through skin diseases and oedipal entanglements. In the film, Robert Downey Jr. takes on the central role as a drug-addled writer incapable of distinguishing between fantasy and reality, and battling demons that are largely of his own making. Hardly a quantum leap for Robert, but as ever he puts in a towering performance as the titular gumshoe author struggling with the burden of his own cynicism, hallucinated ‘50s musical numbers and debilitating psoriasis.
Of course, because this is a Dennis Potter project, it turns out that the root of all our hero’s problems stem from his mommy being a dumb slapper. This news will come as absolutely no surprise to the audience after being subjected to dozens of visions of his mother/wife as a whore. Besides, everyone knows that ‘mother-did-it’ is invariably the outcome where psychoanalytic inquiry is involved in movies.
But predictability isn’t the worst problem here. The already difficult and deeply misogynistic material (debilitating skin diseases are hardly going to have the kids queuing ‘round the block) is frequently delivered in a rather dull fashion, a lot of it doesn’t translate to an American setting and the soundtrack sounds like some godawful, bargain-basement, only-available-through-TV-compilation.
Thankfully, Downey Jr. saves the day, delivering Potter’s devilishly jaundiced world-view and menacing barbs with incomparable aplomb. His rants in favour of “Genocide, Infanticide and President Bush” make the entire enterprise worthwhile, but recommended only for those with a tar-black sensibility and a strong gut. Those struggling with disturbing oedipal issues should also take a gander.