Peter Riegert was the secret sauce for The Mask's manic comedy

There’s a scene midway through Chuck Russell’s 1994 comedy The Mask that stands out as an absolute comic masterstroke—zero CGI cartoon antics required. Stanley Ipkiss (Jim Carrey) squirms under the magnifying glass of Lt. Mitch Kellaway (Peter Riegert), the detective sizing up the lowly bank clerk in his dinky apartment. It’s clear Kellaway isn’t merely questioning Ipkiss about the notorious “Mask” criminal plaguing Edge City; he’s making the case that this gangly weirdo is the culprit.

The joke that’s crucial to this interrogation builds as Ipkiss spins a ridiculous fib about his pajamas—a bizarre, nautical-themed set so hideous that Kellaway had previously deemed them “impossible,” the insinuation being that no rational person would ever wear them. Yet, Kellaway has discovered a scrap of this garish garment at the Coco Bongo nightclub, where he and a small armada of police were outmaneuvered by The Mask (during a lively dance number, naturally). How, how, could the pajamas have ended up there? After all, as Kellaway so curtly puts it, “There can’t be two idiots with pajamas like these.” 

And then, Ipkiss’s answer: “Those pajamas were stolen.”

With Kellaway’s response, the scene hits its zenith. Riegert delivers his line—”Someone stole your pajamas?”—with such genuine bewilderment that it pushes an absurd comic scenario into something approaching vaudeville. In contrast to Carrey’s wired performance, the Kellaway’s exasperation is hilarious, and the scene suddenly becomes reminiscent of double acts like Laurel and Hardy or Abbott and Costello—a set piece of contrasting personalities and harmonious comic timing. 

This scene is also one of several examples of how Peter Riegert, the unassumingly charming Bronx-born character actor, can elevate any material—even a madcap comic book movie like The Mask—with naught but his deadpan brilliance. With roles in films like National Lampoon’s Animal House and Crossing Delancey, as well as TV shows like Dads, Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, and The Sopranos, Riegert has been classing up popular entertainment for over half a century, though his most unsung effort just might be co-starring in The Mask.

Watching the 30-year-old film, it’s not difficult to understand why Peter Riegert gets short shrift when stacked up to its star-making reputation. In 1994, Carrey was already on a hot streak following the unexpected success of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, which put the young Canadian comic on the road to becoming the late 1990s’ most bankable movie star. His second movie of 1994 (his third, Dumb And Dumber, would further cement his stardom that December), a big-budget lounge lizard riff on a violent and obscure Dark Horse Comics series, was also responsible for launching the superstar career of a fresh-faced Cameron Diaz. Seeing the young actors bebop through a loud big band musical number, with Carrey’s green-faced lothario employing an ACME warehouse full of CG tricks and treats as they swing along, one can forget for a time that anyone else features in the movie.

Yet Peter Riegert looms large in The Mask; when we factor in the movie’s overall harshness, he stands out all the more. Look at where his character lives: Edge City, a crime-ridden hellhole of misery and greed, its vices manifesting in a methane haze of neons that blight its night skies. Nearly everyone has some kind of hustle, from Ipkiss’ abusive rich kid bank manager (Eamonn Roche) and parasite landlady (Nancy Fish) to the crooked auto mechanics (Tim Bagley and Johnny Williams) who take his Honda Civic for an extortionate ride. Then there’s the management at the Coco Bongo, where dwells Dorian (Peter Greene), an ambitious criminal who plots to muscle out his golf club-swinging mob boss (Orestes Matacena). 

Edge City is a rough place, and as one of its few straight-shooting public servants, Lt. Kellaway’s cynicism is appropriately caustic. Yet Riegert’s innate charm—his easy smirks, the gentle glint in his eyes, his sharp cadence that suggests a warm sense of humor—makes his character’s attitude feel agreeable.

The script (by Face/Off’s Mike Werb) occasionally allows Edge City’s bile to rise up in Kellaway, as it does in that testy interrogation scene with Ipkiss. His compounding frustration in collaring The Mask explodes during the finale—Kellaway and Ipkiss’s Coyote/Road Runner chase has been nipped in the bud by the mayor (whom Kellaway calls “chunky” before realizing who he’s speaking to)—with his final line (“Shaddap!”), delivered to his dopey partner Doyle (Jim Doughan). It’s the last time we see the character, so Reigert throws a winking sense of bluster behind it, a display of waggish showmanship from an actor who cut his teeth performing in Broadway comedies such as Larry Shue’s The Nerd.

There’s something so natural about Reigert’s interplay with Carrey, which might have something to do with the fact that neither actor had formal training. While age set the two apart, they were united by a zeal for comedy and a reverence for their influences. While Carrey grew up idolizing the likes of Art Carney, Jimmy Stewart, and Jerry Lewis, Reigert’s instincts were to study the work of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. (In a 2018 episode of Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast, Reigert confessed a fascination with vaudeville and that Keaton “taught [him] how to act.”) 

These influences show throughout the film, especially during a scene where Kellaway thwarts The Mask’s wooing of Tina Carlyle (Diaz). Kellaway yells, “Freeze!” and so The Mask does as he’s bid, turning into a human icicle: 

Kellaway, annoyed: “Put your hands up.”

The Mask, frozen: “But. You. Told. Me. To. Freeze.”

Kellaway: “All right, all right, unfreeze!”

Only two performers with a mutual appreciation for comedy history could understand the vital importance of timing in that exchange. Carrey may have been suspended by wires and imbued with Industrial Light & Magic’s digital work, but their exchange in this instant makes what could have been another cartoon moment into a performance piece. Later, when a cursory police search of The Mask’s pockets reveals a signed photo of Kellaway’s wife, Reigert and Carrey’s energies spike in unison, and the scene slays:

Kellaway: “Margaret! You son of a bitch!”

The Mask: “Geez, I figured you had a sense of humor. After all [glorious pause] you married her!”

Kellaway: *screams*

Looking at Riegert’s early career might explain why the actor, who had previously worked in less boisterous productions, feels so natural and right for this effects-heavy comedy. After his experience with the juggernaut success of Animal House, where he shared billing with another starry comic talent in the late John Belushi (“He was really, really free on camera,” Riegert reflected to Gottfried), Carrey’s high-wire mania must have seemed familiar, even approachable. Working with Carrey would also seem a breeze compared to the enormity of his prior co-stars, like Burt Lancaster in Local Hero. Speaking to The New York Post in 1997, Riegert said, “It never occurs to me that acting with a superstar is something to worry about. I figure the bigger, the better, because more will be demanded of me.”

Riegert’s sturdy professionalism is key to understanding why The Mask remains so irrepressibly funny. Carrey’s physical comedy is famously overwhelming, and Kellaway is such an easy character to screw up; a lesser actor could have taken a typical hard-nosed approach to the detective and would’ve been rightfully devoured by Carrey along with the scenery. Riegert’s strengths lie in a more measured approach. He leans into his experience and embraces the comedic influences that have long informed his talents. He was up to the challenge.

The next time you watch The Mask, set aside Jim Carrey’s full-tilt apotheosis as a Tex Avery cartoon (if you can; that “Red Hot Riding Hood” tribute still kills), and look more closely at how he engages with Peter Riegert. Carrey’s manic tomfoolery is legendary, but paired alongside a thoughtful and engaging character actor like Riegert, Carrey’s turn as Stanley Ipkiss revealed a softer, more vulnerable aspect to the young comedian’s work that he would later explore to stronger effect in films like The Truman Show and Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind.

“You have to be unaware of your mensch-ness to be a mensch,” Riegert once said of his Crossing Delancey character. “A man who is comfortable in his shoes.” As Lt. Kellaway, Riegert knew where he stood, which made Carrey’s earthquaking rise all the more memorable.