What do we expect from a heist movie? Perhaps the thrill of a master plan coming together? A sly protagonist outwitting everyone in their path? Or maybe, just maybe, the satisfaction of seeing the precise mechanics of deception unfold like clockwork? Vittorio De Sica’s 1966 film After the Fox doesn’t care much for those expectations. Instead, it turns the genre on its head, delivering a comedy that—while uneven—dares to poke fun at the very ideas of success, celebrity, and the film industry itself.
At first glance, it’s an anomaly. De Sica is a master of Italian neorealism, whose Bicycle Thieves is enshrined in cinematic history as a heartbreaking portrait of postwar struggle. And yet, here we are. Somehow, he found himself directing a frivolous, madcap heist comedy starring Peter Sellers. How did this happen? Some say it was necessity—De Sica reportedly needed money to fund his gambling habit? Others point to Peter Sellers himself, who lured the legendary director into this peculiar partnership. Whatever the reason, After the Fox exists as a curious footnote in the careers of both men—one that begs us to reconsider what we expect from great artists when they step outside their comfort zones.
The story revolves around Aldo Vanucci, a.k.a. “The Fox” (Peter Sellers), a master thief who escapes from prison to pull off a daring heist: smuggling gold stolen during “the Cairo job” into Italy. But here’s the twist: Vanucci decides the best way to transport the gold is by disguising the heist as a movie production, complete with a faux director, a washed-up Hollywood star (Victor Mature as Tony Powell), and the help of his wide-eyed sister Gina (Britt Ekland). What follows is less a heist movie and more a satire of the film industry, celebrity culture, and the absurd lengths we go to for validation.
A Film That Plays by Its Own Rules
It’s important to note: After the Fox doesn’t try to be a traditional heist movie. In fact, it almost seems to forget it’s a heist movie altogether. By the time the third act arrives, we’re less concerned about the gold and more caught up in the chaos of Vanucci’s fake film production. This is a movie that meanders, that delights in tangents, and that often feels like it’s making itself up as it goes along.
This looseness is part of its charm. The film is stuffed with brilliant comedic moments: Sellers’ Vanucci, masquerading as the flamboyant, neorealist director “Federico Fabrizi,” barking nonsensical orders at the villagers of a small Italian town who are swept up in the excitement of movie-making. Or Mature’s Tony Powell, an aging actor desperate to reclaim his youth and dignity, battling his agent over whether he can still pass as a leading man. Every scene is laced with a sly wit and a knowing wink—an acknowledgment that this is all one big, ridiculous charade.
Perhaps the most fascinating dynamic in After the Fox is the way it skewers its own creators. De Sica, who once embodied the pinnacle of serious, socially conscious filmmaking, allows himself to be parodied here. In one particularly biting moment, a character dismisses “neorealism” as simply meaning “no money.” It’s a self-aware jab, one that lets us in on the joke: even the greats aren’t above a bit of silliness when the situation calls for it.
The Peter Sellers Paradox
At the center of it all is Peter Sellers, an actor whose genius for comedy is matched only by his knack for transformation. Sellers is at his best here, slipping seamlessly into disguises and personas, from the suave Fabrizi to the bumbling burglar. There’s a joy in watching him work, a sense that he’s having as much fun as the audience. But there’s also a hint of melancholy—a sense that Sellers, like Vanucci, is always performing, always hiding behind a mask.
This duality is part of what makes Sellers such a compelling actor. He’s a chameleon, capable of vanishing into any role, but you never quite reach him. Even in his most outlandish moments—slathered in bubbles while escaping from prison or directing a chaotic car chase—there’s a vulnerability that lingers beneath the surface.
A Satire of Celebrity and Success
What further elevates After the Fox is its sharp commentary on the absurdity of fame. The film lampoons everyone: the egotistical director, the washed-up actor, the starstruck fans who scream at every passing car regardless of who’s inside. In one hilarious sequence, a crowd gathers to watch Tony Powell arrive in town, only for someone to ask, “Who is it?” “I don’t know … but it’s someone famous!”
It’s a moment that feels timeless, a reminder that our obsession with celebrity hasn’t changed much in the decades since. De Sica and screenwriter Neil Simon (in his first screenplay) use humor to expose the hollowness of fame, but they do so with a light touch. The film never feels mean-spirited; instead, it invites us to laugh at ourselves and the ridiculous ways we chase validation.
The Flaws That Make It Human
After the Fox is messy, the pacing uneven, and the third-act courtroom scene feels like an afterthought. Critics at the time dismissed it as a “jumble,” and they weren’t entirely wrong. But there’s something endearing about its imperfections. This is a film that refuses to take itself seriously, that embraces its own chaos and invites the audience to do the same. Watching it is like stumbling upon a forgotten gem in a dusty corner of the cinema vault. It’s not polished or pristine, but it sparkles in its own peculiar way. It’s a film that makes you laugh, makes you think (albeit briefly), and leaves you humming its absurdly catchy theme song long after the credits roll.
The Legacy of a Delightful Oddity
In the end, After the Fox is less about the heist and more about the humanity behind it. It’s a film about people pretending to be something they’re not—criminals pretending to be filmmakers, an actor pretending to be young, a thief pretending to be a hero. And in that pretense, it finds its truth. De Sica may have made this film for a paycheck, but in doing so, he created something unexpectedly profound: a comedy that reminds us of the joy in failure, the beauty in absurdity, and the power of a good disguise. After the Fox may be flawed, but it’s a damned delightful romp that deserves a healthy cult status. Sometimes, it’s okay to just have fun.