Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines or How I Flew from London to Paris in 25 Hours 11 Minutes (1965)

Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines is the kind of big-hearted comedy that feels handcrafted: a lovingly detailed Edwardian postcard brought to life with real, rickety flying contraptions, sunlit countryside vistas, and jokes that land with the buoyancy of a well-timed gust of wind. Ken Annakin turns the London-to-Paris air race into a breezy spectacle of near-misses, mechanical mischief, and romantic sparks, all wrapped in a tone that’s more genial than biting and more charming than cynical. The pleasure isn’t just in who wins, but in watching these daredevils wobble skyward with absurd confidence while the film winks at national rivalries and human vanity without turning mean. If you’re allergic to broad, old-school comedy and affectionate caricature, it may feel quaint—but if you want a funny, stylish crowd-pleaser with genuine cinematic lift, this one earns its place in the hangar.

Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines is clearly aiming for a big, old-fashioned, roadshow-style comedy: a cheerful tribute to early aviation, stuffed with gags, national caricatures, and elaborate stunt work. When it’s clicking, the flying sequences and practical crashes are genuinely impressive, and the film has a breezy, Sunday-afternoon charm that modern CGI comedies rarely match. The problem is it’s long and often feels it, stretching a thin story over repeated mishaps until the humor can start to feel like a series of sketches rather than a momentum-building race. If you don’t enjoy broad 1960s “everyone gets a stereotype” comedy or you need tighter pacing and sharper punchlines, this will likely test your patience even if you admire the craftsmanship.