Giving a lift to portraits

"Jumpology" isn't the latest degree course in advance knitwear pattern-making. It was a term devised by photographer Philippe Halsman to describe his method for getting the worthy, the wealthy and the self-regarding to drop their guard for a portrait. In other words, he made them jump in the air.

In a way, I've spoilt the exhibition already, because the jumping shots are far and away the highlight of this retrospective. Edward and Mrs Simpson is my personal favourite: royal gravitas is literally left behind for a gravity-defying portrait. Hand in hand they bounce upwards, clearing the floor by at least 12 inches. Their shoes lie abandoned on the floor behind them like relics of formality.

Halsman was right to clock how a jump revealed more of a personality than the grounded, self-conscious pose. Tony Perkins takes a long-legged, right-angular kick, while Monroe goes all out for a hair-dishevelling, knee-tucked spring. Richard Nixon, by contrast, adopts a stately vertical projection, looking less like a leaper than someone coming in to land from another planet.

But refined normality characterises the rest of the show. Halsman may have spent his early years in Paris with the Surrealists (where he forged a lifelong collaborative friendship with Dal'), but their influence on his work is negligible. A penchant for dramatic lighting (instead of the then standard soft focus) is arguably all that the Latvian photographer took to America's post-war consumer utopia. It was here that he set the standard for glamorous media photography, with a record 101 covers for Life magazine.

So on rolls a predictable roster of the world's most sumptuous beauties - Grace Kelly, Liz Taylor, Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn - all radiating buffed and lacquered finesse. Aside from a pouting Brando, Halsman's male portraits steer clear of beef-cake. Instead, we get brains (Einstein) and politics (JFK), depicted with sculptural solidity. There may be few surprises, but only the sourest old puritan could resist seduction.

With one exception: visitors pained by the grating genre (still alive and well today) of comedian portraiture will note that Halsman may well be responsible for its jaded iconography of exaggerated physiognomies and wacky poses. Somebody, please, change the record.

? Philippe Halsman, National Portrait Gallery . Until 2 September. Tel: 020 7312 2463.