Altogether Altman is closer to Blake Edwards on this film than to his own best self – except that Edwards might not be so

Altogether, Altman is closer to Blake Edwards on this film than to his own best self – except that Edwards might not be so easily amused by people treading in dog shit (the encounter between a well-shod foot and a waiting turd is something of a recurring theme in Prt–Porter).The film is damaged as much by its occasional flashes of wit as by its long stretches of banality. Its French characters, like the prefect of police, Inspector Tantpis (Tant pis, too bad, get it), make Inspector Clouseau seem like a miracle of Gallic authenticity. Prt–Porter (written by the director with Barbara Shulgasser) is set in Paris, and makes perfunctory digs at Americans who go to France and then order burgers and fries, but the film itself uses Paris as a backdrop of the most clichd kind – postcardy images of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre-Dame at dawn and so on. How is it possible to be out of your depth in a world where there isn’t any?
It takes a particular kind of artistic death wish to have satire rebound on you quite so thoroughly. But when he tries the same sort of trick with a superficial society of high fashion, already teetering on the brink of self-parody, it is him that takes the fall. A few years ago when Altman invented a political candidate in collaboration with the cartoonist Garry Trudeau, and had him discuss issues with actual public figures in front of real audiences, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Robert Altman’s periodic need to make a terrible film (Images, A Wedding, Health…

the list goes on) is exercised one more time in Prt- -Porter, a supremely slack satire on the fashion business. She called off the operation to find out whether her lover was married, obedient to her growing sense of shame. “She’s in denial,” said the detective, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, but to less mercenary eyes it looked like she was emerging from it, freed from the infantile need for absolute proof. The others got exactly what they paid for – an engineered disappointment which would leave them the sweet, sickly consolation of being wronged.I have become addicted to The Real Holiday Show (C4), and that after only two hits.

The first edition was good, with its account of an accident- prone excursion to Guadeloupe, but the Wylies’ film of their fortnight in Lanzarote was something special, a Donald McGill postcard with a wistful message on the back. “The Blobby family on ‘oliday,” shouted Mr Wylie, displacing a startling amount of the Atlantic Ocean. “Ooh, me boobs fell aht!” yelled his wife, not wishing to be outdone. They bickered on the beach, got burnt, giggled and indulged their considerable appetites.