That Old Feeling V: "We're Not Kids Any More"

It happens that 1968 was a time of achievement and promise for the then-young folks who, three decades later, would collaborate on "Town & Country." Beatty was nominated that year for two Oscars, as star and producer of "Bonnie and Clyde." Keaton was in the original Broadway cast of "Hair" (she earned her first notoriety by declining to take off her clothes during the show’s all-naked Act One finale). Hawn was wiggling her DayGlo tummy on "Laugh-In" and appearing in a Disney movie, "The One and Only, Genuine, Original Family Band," with future spouse-equivalent Kurt Russell. Heston was king of the world — the monkey world — in "Planet of the Apes." Fred Roos, one of the "Town & Country" producers, was casting director for "Petulia." Michael Laughlin, the original scriptwriter, produced the film "Joanna"; Buck Henry, the second writer, earned an Oscar nomination for the screenplay of "The Graduate." Cinematographer William A. Fraker shot "Rosemary’s Baby" and "Bullitt."

It would be terrific if "Town & Country" had the 1968 verve of these then-young turks, instead of the wan anxiety evident in the rest of Hollywood "68. Alas, the movie isn’t retro — it’s anachro. Like many a hero of the old sex comedies, Porter Stoddard (Beatty) is an architect, so fabulously successful that sleek chic types like Eugenie (MacDowell) chat him up on planes. ("How did you know I’m an architect?" he asks, and she blithely replies, "I love to fuck architects." Who knew they had groupies?) Porter has no money worries, no career anxieties; his 25-year marriage to Ellie (Keaton) is comfortable and ostensibly happy. He’s also indulging in an affair with a cellist, Alex (Kinski), who plays for him in the nude, a clef painted on her back, while he lies in bed and watches.

Watches with no special interest. For Porter is not a happy philanderer; he feels old, past it. Enthralling sex must be something only younger people can get up for. Walking through his home late at night, he hears erogenous groans from three erogenous zones: his son’s bedroom, his daughter’s and his maid’s. Six people are having fun, and Porter isn’t. Even the affair seems Porter’s attempt to convince himself he’s not totally dead from the waist down. His friend Griffin (Shandling) thinks of life as a journey of self-realization: "As people get older they become more who they are." But Porter sees aging as atrophying, a relentless process of diminishing, getting physically and emotionally pooped. Alex refers to her cello as her true love, and when she adds, "He’s over 200 years old," Porter remarks, "He must be exhausted."

One could argue that it is artistically appropriate to make a tired film about tired people. Not every picture has to have the tempo of a Jerry Bruckheimer car chase; "Town & Country" moves like an old, or at least senior, movie. It moves like Porter feels. People speak their lines at a moderate pace, wait a moment for whatever laughs the audience may cough up, then proceed with caution. But is it wise to photograph veteran stars in a way that piles even more years on them? The camerawork is none too flattering here; every adult looks like every other adult’s parent. Occasionally, in profile, Beatty strangely resembles another person prominent in 1968: Richard Nixon.

Beatty has often laced his films with teasing elements of autobiography: the outlaw star Clyde Barrow, the profligate hairdresser in "Shampoo," the crusading leftist in "Reds," the free-swinging politician in "Bulworth." Here, he lets moviegoers play with this question: What does one of the most accomplished womanizers of the century (the last century, of course), do when Romeo becomes a relic? The answer in "Town & Country": Keep on keepin’ on. For all his complaining about being old, Porter has four mistresses or near-misses — Kinski, Hawn, Elfman and MacDowell — as well as a loving, faithful wife. His adultery could be a constant, desperate search for love, or just an old habit that dies hard.

But caring about Beatty is a habit most moviegoers have broken. "Dick Tracy," which grossed $104 million in North America, was his last real hit. After that came "Bugsy" ($49 million), "Love Affair" ($18 million) and "Bulworth" ($27 million). Hell, Rob Schneider can beat these numbers, with pictures made at a third the cost. What’s Beatty to do? He’s the rare male star who’s never made action movies; he hasn’t tried the gruff-elder-statesman roles that have kept Clint Eastwood’s career rolling at 70 (Eastwood’s last film, "Space Cowboys," grossed a robust $90 million).

Beatty had a long career in two genres out of favor now: serious films about frazzled renegades (from "Bonnie and Clyde" to "Bulworth") and intelligent romantic comedies (from "Promise Her Anything" in 1964 to "Town & Country"). He also raised hopes with each new film that he would find a way to glamorize difficult projects with his charismatic cleverness. He did so, for nearly 30 years, as a producer-star. I suspect that filmmaking was, for Beatty, a channeling of his sexual appetite into the daunting romance of achieving the impossible.

If "Town & Country" fulfills expectations and fails at the box office, it won’t be the deepest sting for Beatty; he was only, as his publicists keep telling the press, an actor for hire. But it can’t elevate his ego to be headlining a flop. As he notes ruefully in the movie, "We’re not kids any more." Now that Hollywood’s favorite bachelor has been famously married for nine years, he might decide it’s time to retire on his laurels. But if he keeps making films, will it be as a habit, like Porter’s affairs, or a Bulworthian mad passion? And will the American moviegoer, who gets younger as the star gets older, somehow rediscover the passion of watching Warren Beatty?