As fascinated as I am by the Taylor-Burtons, I approach their movies with equal parts anticipation and trepidation. For me, there are certain things they always bring to mind: class, elegance, romance, and, inevitably, fighting. It’s the fighting that scares me, and when I saw that The V.I.P.s is about a bunch of swanky people fogged in at an airport, I could only imagine a sort of Breakfast Club for rich people. I was certain it would quickly devolve into non-stop quarreling as tempers flared and patience waned. Thankfully, the film defied all of my expectations, and turned out to be one of the most watchable movies Liz and Richard ever made.
One by one, we meet our V.I.P.s and quickly learn that life on the A-List is not all it’s cracked up to be. Being that fabulous takes its toll on the spirit. Under a veneer of privilege and power, each character is struggling to fill an emotional void.
Max (Orson Welles) is a filmmaker desperate to flee the country and avoid the tax man. Accompanying him is a young foreign actress whose talent is said to equal her intelligence. She’s pretty sure this is a compliment, but you can draw your own conclusions. Though she makes a pleasant arm-piece, Max has no energy to invest in the relationship. He spends every waking moment plotting to hold onto his money.
Meanwhile, Les Marshall (Rod Taylor) and his secretary (Maggie Smith) are desperately trying to close a business deal. Everything seems to hinge upon a check clearing, or not clearing, or possibly being postdated. I may have gotten up to make tea at just the wrong moment, but I found their predicament rather vague for most of the movie. What is clear, however, is that this secretary is hopelessly in love with her employer. She’s always one step ahead of him, ensuring that he never has to fuss over trifling details or experience discomfort…. If only he’d notice her and dump his shallow wife!
Also bungling her way into First Class is a duchess (Margaret Rutherford) who can’t seem to wrap her brain around the whole flying experience. She keeps popping pills and waxing poetic about the Queen Mary. In truth, she doesn’t want to be going anywhere, but must fly to The States to save her home. This too is a bit vague, but becomes crystal clear in the final act.
All of these characters feel like excess baggage when there’s a sordid love triangle involving the Taylor-Burtons to think about. Paul (Richard Burton) escorts Frances (Elizabeth Taylor) to the airport with the understanding that she’s heading to Jamaica for a short vacation. He presents her with an expensive parting gift, just as he always does, but she seems quite bored by the whole affair. In fact, there’s another affair that interests her a great deal more. Frances is actually planning to elope to New York with Paul’s friend, and renowned gigolo, Marc (Louis Jordan)!
Throwing a wrench in everything is, of course, the fog. All the V.I.P.s are getting antsy, but the only story with any weight is Frances and Marc’s. Will Paul find his Dear John letter before they take off? Will he come back and confront them? Cue the ominous music, because he most certainly does. He returns to the airport with a gun in his pocket, desperate to win Frances back. Should he kill Marc? Pay him off? It seems that all is lost, but he can’t quite let go.
Once the passengers are settled in at the airport hotel, Paul goes to Frances again. He tries to tell her how much he loves her, but it’s too late. Frances is tired of being treated like an expensive mistress—she wants to be loved and needed. In a fit of anger, Paul yells, “you’re destroying both our lives for a male WHORE!” The way he says “whore” could shatter glass, so it’s fitting that Frances smashes her hand into a mirror just moments later.
After this dramatic scene, the two men come face to face again, and you have a perfect opportunity to ponder the old “Who Would You Do?” question. There’s dapper, dependable Paul whose red tie matches his red scarf, which matches the red lining in his overcoat. Paul with the dashing blue eyes. Paul who gives you jewelry every time you turn around. And then there’s Marc. Smarmy, greasy, weasely Marc. Skinny, slimy, and entirely likely to give you Syphilis. Again Paul is spurned, but this only makes the film’s finale more intense.
With only hours to go before the planes are scheduled to take off, I had the sinking feeling that the various story lines were never going to intersect. Happily they all come together in unexpected but thoroughly satisfying ways, leaving just one burning question: what about Paul and Frances? After a night of drinking, Paul is bleary-eyed, teary-eyed, heartsick, and vulnerable, a state which can only be described as 100% hot. Will he use the gun in his pocket before Frances realizes he needs her? It’s certainly worth watching The V.I.P.s to find out.
