Mr. Joyboy invites Aimée over to meet his "Mom," an obese, bed-ridden hag who moans in ecstasy over food commercials on TV while her aproned son cooks for her and tells Aimée that he plans to buy a big tub to give Mom her sponge baths in. (This outdoes even Philip Wylie's spewings on the subject of the American mother (194-217).) When Steiger's Mr. Joyboy shows Aimée his bedroom he says with breathy maidenliness, "I wanted you to see it—I don't know why," and effectively sends up the curdled euphemistic propriety that has been the bane of American popular culture since forever and is the one target Waugh hits dead on with his book (and gives it its title).
The movie's best sequence, however — involving Milton Berle and Margaret Leighton as a wealthy couple whose beloved pooch Arthur has died — is an invention. When Dennis arrives to collect the corpse and arrange for its disposal, Mr. Kenton is in the midst of managing his wife's hysterical accusations that he killed Arthur by not loving him enough. (He refused therapy.) It's a nightmare situation, as if Mr. Kenton (rather than Berle) has been miscast as a supporting player in his wife's histrionics and yet he can't refuse to play his part. He tries to reason with her, her voice ripe and yodelly with grief, but whenever he turns to Dennis, Berle's show-biz vet's weariness shows right through and he's instantly nothing but business.
After his wife slaps him and then asks why he must always hurt her (Leighton gives a towering parody of grande-dame theatrics), Mr. Kenton pours himself a drink (once he gets the glass upright) and sits down to work out the details with Dennis as quickly as possible. Dennis asks him in the ornate euphemisms of the trade how he wants the dog's body disposed of — entombment, empyrement, dissemination, or eternalization — to which Mr. Kenton replies, "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about." When Dennis explains, Mr. Kenton thinks that burning sounds good. Dennis then asks, "Will you require a niche in our sanctum sanctorum or would you prefer to keep the ashes at home?" at which Mr. Kenton almost chokes on his scotch and mutters, "Not at home, pal, not at home, no."
Berle's gulp and no-nonsense answer suggest more than the rest of the movie in its entirety how far from common feeling the funeral biz has strayed. That one reaction is actually more expressive than Waugh's book as well, because Waugh, as was his style, condemns by implication rather than overt statement, which is fine, until his wit deserts him as it did in The Loved One. Berle may not be subtle but he is concise and pungent, and that moment is a pearl.
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