Sellers biopic an absorbing, painful tale.

Byline: Sid Smith

CHICAGO _ "The Life and Death of Peter Sellers" (HBO) turns on a highly theatrical, intelligent and sometimes annoying gimmick.

Geoffrey Rush ("Shine"), as Sellers, frequently steps out of the action, leaving the set and wandering amid the studio paraphernalia, and then assuming one of the other characters in the story _ Sellers' father, say, or his mother _ an echo of Sellers' own celebrated multiple character work in the likes of the 1964 "Dr. Strangelove."

The stratagem lends a precious, confusing, arty air to a story already fraught with complexity and shocking incident. But in the end it actually helps director Stephen Hopkins deliver a powerful, absorbing two-hour biopic.

Partly inspired by Roger Lewis' controversial biography, the details of the movie are a matter of debate. Some figures from Sellers' life, including his children, have been quoted disputing some of the facts. But enough of it is on record to suggest that Hopkins and his writers are more than fair to this famous comic genius. The result is an excruciating, at times repugnant, but always addictive account of the life of a great artist and sad, frequently despicable man.

The story begins with Sellers already in adulthood and a British radio star on "The Goon Show," trying, without luck at first, to break into the movies.

But we learn of his eerie relationship with his parents, especially the role played by his domineering, pushy mother (the superb character actress Miriam Margolyes). She encouraged his self-centeredness from his childhood, and always made sure he got the last piece of cake "even when it was on somebody else's plate." To some extent that accounts for his strange, childish, arrested role with women.

His first wife, Anne (Emily Watson), is portrayed as a virtual saint, putting up with his spoiled behavior and rages. Early in his financial success, when his young son foolishly but innocently paints a stripe on a prized new car, Sellers storms upstairs to the boy's bedroom and smashes all his toys. Later, in remorse, he brings the child a pony.

That little-boy lunacy characterized much of Sellers' life, including a subsequent and idiotic obsession with Sophia Loren during a movie shoot. (Sellers pawns his wife off on their decorator and manages to lose both women.)

His rages spilled over into his professional life, where he was a genius at improvisation (the real weapon behind Inspector Clouseau and "The Pink Panther" series) and an invaluable nightmare to the likes of Blake Edwards (played with astute sympathy by John Lithgow) and Stanley Kubrick (Stanley Tucci).

Ultimately, Sellers comes off as a wound-up, ever-ticking time bomb, likely to explode at any moment, and yet alternately a blank, empty canvas, part of his performance secret and an eerie personality link to his next-to-last role in "Being There."

Even his somewhat happy, hyper-hedonistic marriage to Britt Ekland (beautifully played by Charlize Theron) has its macabre side, Sellers mocking her cruelly when she tries to comfort him after his mother's death or turning on her when she becomes pregnant.

In later years, Sellers continued to play slapstick for money while fighting an almost losing battle for the respect "Being There" finally won.

Suffering from heart illness and reliance on pills, he is seen lonely and isolated in Switzerland, viewing old movies and maintaining a love-hate kinship with Edwards. He died at 54, his financial affairs so messy his children were left virtually nothing.

The performances are keen, surprising and deeply felt, the kind of acting common on HBO and rare on network movies.

Rush, in the thankless task of trying to re-create an inimitable icon, acquits himself and by midway manages to become Sellers, in all his pathos and despair, though not in his mimetic versatility. Theron, Lithgow, Margolyes and Stephen Fry (in a choice role as Sellers' creepily influential fortuneteller) are all excellent, evoking individuals who shared the thrill and curse of involvement with this incomparable _ and incomparably difficult _ clown.

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(c) 2004, Chicago Tribune.

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