Writer/director Henry Brommel has done a wonderful job with his film, "Panic," from the year 2000, and that includes his choice of cast: William H. Macy, Tracy Ullman, John Ritter, Neve Campbell, Donald Sutherland, Barbara Bain, David Dorfman. Brommel has cast Ullman and Ritter in decidedly un-funny roles, and the offbeat casting is a welcome change from what we normally see.
"Panic" is the story of a hit man, Alex (Macy) who actually works for his father (Sutherland). He covers his true profession by doing mail order work; by all appearances, he and his wife (Ullman) and their son Sammy (Dorfman) are a typical suburban family. Unhappy with his life, Alex seeks the help of a psychiatrist (Ritter), telling only his mother (Bain). In the waiting room, he meets a young woman (Campbell) to whom he is immediately attracted, which complicates his situation further. His mother breaks her promise and tells his father about the psychiatrist. When Alex receives his next assignment, he discovers that he is to kill his psychiatrist.
This is a profound story of a gentle, good man made into a killer by a monster of a father, with his mother's knowledge, who kills to please his father but also can't stand up to him and quit. His rage is so deep-seated that he has lost emotional attachment to just about everything and everyone except his son - and it's finally his son who wakes him up out of a nearly lifelong repression. When it's time for "Panic" to moves, it does - quickly.
"Panic" doesn't seem panicked at all. In fact, it moves very slowly. But it moves slowly not because it's poorly made - the slowness is deliberate, mirroring Alex's own psyche slowly coming out of the fog. By making a decision about Sara, the Campbell character, and by seeing his mark, his own psychiatrist, as a living, breathing human being, Alex starts to make the connections between what he does and who he is -and how they don't jive. And the difference between the two could lead to the loss of another psyche, Sammy's.
William Macy gives another brilliant performance, as a loving father, a distant husband, and a cold killer, the child of two monsters who never cared a damn for his feelings or desires, a man who realizes finally that he has to step up to the plate or have the cycle repeated.
This is not the kind of drama that plays well in a movie theater. It's too adult, too small, too subtle, too character-driven, and too good.

This film, though ostensibly a comedy, is deadly serious. Its subject is Imperialism (with a capital I): how Britain, foolishly, humiliatingly, tries to convince itself that it's still a great power after World War II. At home, the Empire is run by amiable dolts, benevolent Tories who are so in-bred that they can't distinguish close relatives; the Offices of Government consist of long forgotten archives (a dig at Orwellian paranoia?), inhabited by indolent rats, and ante-rooms wherein lounge bored synacures, reading popular novels.
Abroad, Britain clings to the old pomp; but pomp out of context looks threadbare and silly, especially when its embodied in bumbling twits. Carlton-Browne is an unsentimental picture of decline, with none of the lachrymose rot that marred the supposedly anti-imperialist Jewel in the Crown.
The film is also about the Cold War, bravely admitting that it's a dangerous farce, whose participants deserve mockery and contempt, not fear and respect. It's about how colonialism, characterised more by neglect than tyranny, destroys the colonies it deserts, robbing them of amenities, power, and, most importantly, self-respect, leaving them vulnerable to the machinations of dangerous cowboys.
It's the seriousness, of course, that kills it. That's not to say that weighty subjects can't be treated in comedy - The Miracle Of Morgan's Creek, Dr. Strangelove and The Life Of Brian have all proved that. Indeed, one might suggest that serious themes should only be treated by comedy - it allows for a clearer-eyed view.
The problem with Carlton-Browne is that every situation must have a significance beyond the merely comic, so that it becomes weighed down and unfunny. In the three films mentioned above, much of the comedy arises from character reaction to an extreme situation, not the extreme situation itself. Here, the script is too poor to sustain rich comic characterisations, and some of the greatest comedy talent ever assembled - Peter Sellers, Terry-Thomas, Raymond Huntley and John le Mesurier - are criminally wasted.
Terry-Thomas, sublime so often, shows that he couldn't handle lead parts, and that he needed to play sneering, arrogant bounders, not brainless toffs. The music is made to carry much of the comedy, but its heavy irony only draws attention to the lack of hilarity on screen. (To be fair, unlike the majority of British comedies of the period, which were stagy and underproduced, the Boultings often try to make their points through film itself, by montage and composition) Only Huntley manages to raise genuine laughs, and that's by essaying a character he could have played in his sleep.
None of the Boultings' farces have dated well - they're never thought through enough. Although Carlton-Browne revels in the decline of the Empire, it also seems to be anti-democratic and militaristic. I'm sure this wasn't intended, but these blunders are bound to happen if you allow worthy intentions to take precedence over comic intelligence and film form.