Going to the Dogs.(Review)

Spy movies don't do much for me. Most of them traffic in the sort of improbabilities and loopholes that might be acceptable in life, though not in an honest work of fiction. Yet I must also admit to not having the right puzzle-solving sort of mind for these movies' convoluted twists, and what may be another moviegoer's meat, might be my poison.

In any case, The Tailor of Panama strikes me as mildly, or not so mildly, preposterous. Based on John le Carre's 1996 novel, it was adapted for the screen by the novelist himself, along with Andrew Davies and John Boorman, the director. A somewhat shady MI6 operative, Andy Osnard, who has been in repeated trouble because of his habit of amassing large gambling debts, shagging prominent wives, and blowing his cover, is sent to quasi-Siberian Panama to redeem himself if he can. The novel exploits the potential troubles from the turning over of the Canal to Panama in 1999, and from the sinister dealings of General Noriega. It seems hard for viewers of the updated movie to believe that someone is thinking of selling the Canal to the combined powers of China and Taiwan, and even harder to believe that those two might agree on anything.

This unlikely scenario is actually the fantasy of Harry Pendel, a Jewish cockney who has transplanted himself to Panama, passing himself off as a bespoke tailor to the local upper crust as partner in the prestigious (but fictitious) house of Braithwaite and Pendel of Savile Row. Actually, he learned tailoring in jail while serving six years for arson, and the elegantly appointed business he runs-including a clubroom with leather armchairs and a life-size portrait of the supposititious Braithwaite (in fact, his uncle Benny)-is all built on lies. It seems to me that Savile Row tailoring is no more taught in jail than is Harry's posh accent, but he could have started the business on the money of his adored wife Louisa, an American in a high government job in Panama City.

Arriving there, Osnard picks Harry as the most likely Brit with access to valuable inside information, although I wonder just how many state secrets he thinks can be gleaned while measuring some honcho's haunches. Andy blackmails (and bribes) poor Harry into providing "intelligence"-which is, the audience learns, in fact totally invented by Harry.

Obviously, transposing the material to the present day has painted le Carre into improbable corners. But there are also basic problems, such as the cute happy ending, out of character for both of its beneficiaries. On the other hand, the film profits undeservedly from Andy Osnard's being played by Pierce Brosnan, whose previous involvement with 007 doubles your fun in watching that bond broken here as the master spy is deconstructed into a shoddy character. Another mildly amusing bit is that Braithwaite/Benny is played by Harold Pinter, himself a product of London's lower-class Jewish East End.

The film's larger flaw is its split personality. Not only are our already-grudging sympathies divided too evenly between Andy and Harry, but also the entire tone of the movie wobbles between spy thriller and satire on the genre. This is further worsened by the thriller part's being unthrilling, and the satire's lacking teeth. Also, le Carre's debt to Graham Greene's superior Our Man in Havana, however honestly acknowledged, remains a shadow over the proceedings.

Nor are there performances in Boorman's Panama equaling those in Carol Reed's Havana. With all due respect to Geoffrey Rush, his tailor is no match for Alec Guinness's vacuum salesman; likewise, Pierce Brosnan cannot hold a candle to Noel Coward, and Brendan Gleeson, with his Hispanic accent constantly turning Hibernian, is not the equal of Ralph Richardson. Nor is the script on a par with Greene's. At one point, Osnard says spying is "dark and lonely work, like ...