Strong contender for cult status especially when post-production murder and sexploitation are thrown into the pot. A vanity picture but one with serious underlying purpose. Sole venture from director Robert Gottschalk, who doubled up as writer and producer. So, all-out auteur. This popped out by pure coincidence while I was in the middle of my annual widescreen/ 70mm/ Cinerama binge and thus pricked my interest.
And if you know your widescreen, the name of Robert Gottschalk will not be far from your lips. Because he invented Panavision. It’s still in use but in the roadshow era it was one of the contributing factors to directors heading for the biggest widescreen they could get. MGM properly introduced it with the 65mm Raintree County (1957) and then more strikingly, in terms of box office, with Ultra Panavision 70 for Ben-Hur (1959).
Ultra Panavision was used for sections of How the West Was Won (1962) and completely on Mutiny on the Bounty (1962) and Battle of the Bulge (1965) and it was revived by Quentin Tarantino for The Hateful Eight (2015). Super Panavision 70 was more regularly employed as was 35mm Panavision
Dangerous Charter had two aims. Firstly, to showcase the advantages of Panavision, hence the lax pace, the striking images of a yacht moving in a variety of directions across the water, often with sunset behind, the kind of awesome shot that might be favored by the likes of David Lean. Secondly, Gottschalk wanted to get into the production business, aiming initially at six movies a year, including a 70mm effort called Owyhee to be filmed in Hawaii in the summer of 1959.
Ben-Hur did the job of showcasing the process for him, so the production unit fell by the wayside and Dangerous Charter, made over a few weeks in 1958, sat on the shelf for four years after an initial attempt at distribution by Filmserve Distribution Corp fell apart, and as a result now conveniently falls into my purlieu.
So really, it’s a late 1950s movie masquerading as an early 1960s one, after it was picked up as a cheap support vehicle by the nascent Crown International.
It’s a shame Gottschalk didn’t quite have the same technical mastery of other elements of movie making as he did over camera and lenses. But in its favor, the movie is short, has a terrific villain, springs more twists than you might expect and certainly showcases his widescreen invention.
Three down-on-their-luck fishermen come across a deserted drifting yacht, the Medusa, with one corpse on board. The cops give it to them in lieu of a salvage fee, intending to use, in a cute sense of irony, the fishermen as “bait” to try and hook whoever was responsible for its abandonment.
The trio are only too happy to accept the gift. Aspiring skipper Marty McMahon (Chris Warfield) is in love with daughter June (Sally Fraser) of the captain, Kick (Chick Chandler), and there’s a chirpy deckhand Joe (Wright King). Pretty soon a money-no-object charter appears in the shape of Dick Kane (Richard Foote) and for $10,000 they agree to take him to La Paz on a 10-day return trip and pick up a passenger Monet (Peter Forster). June boards as cook.
Ongoing friction between Marty and June – he refuses to marry her until he can properly earn a living – spills over into some modest canoodling between the girl and the guitar-playing Dick, a stolen kiss as far as it gets before she warns him off.
Monet turns out to be quite a character. Plummy-voiced, white-suited, charming, friendly, think a slick Robert Wagner (Banning, 1967), accommodating and even entertaining. In short order, however, the Medusa is hijacked. And not for the valuable boat but for its even more valuable cargo of drugs.
The thugs threaten to hold June, by now decked out in a fetching pink swimsuit, hostage and there’s not much the boatmen can do to counter the threat. Their radio has been disabled by Dick who turns out to be a junkie. Marty tries a clever trick, flying the boat’s flag upside down, the nautical sign of distress, but that attempt to garner local attention is nipped in the bud. Monet has planted a bomb on board so there’s a ticking-clock countdown and a zinger of a climax when Dick, furious at being tortured via cold turkey by Monet, takes his revenge in a superb suicide by ramming their speedboat into the bigger boat, killing both.
Mostly, it’s juiced up by long shots of the boat on the water, which, while selling the process, rips the heart out of any tension. But towards the end it picks up the pace. The upside-down flag idea is scuppered when other fishermen assume they’ve just made a mistake and point this out within the hearing of Monet.
Marty has to scream at the other terrified screaming crewmen to shut up because the only way he can locate the bomb is by its give-away ticking. And when the bomb explodes harmlessly over the side and Monet decides to turn round and bump off the witnesses the old-fashioned way it’s Dick who twists the wheel towards doom.
There’s no great acting, but Peter Forster does a convncing job of an unusually civilized gangster and June Fraser attracts the eye. Chris Warfield, with little claim to fame as a television and support actor in pictures, later turned to direction under the pseudonym Billy Thornberg in the sexploitation vein, Teenage Seductress (1975) and Sheer Panties (1979) among his lurid portfolio. This proved a movie swansong for June Fraser, otherwise a bit player. You might remember Robert Forster from Escape from the Planet of the Apes (1971) but not much else.
Robert Gottschalk went back to turning Panavision into a hugely successful company before being murdered by his lover at aged 64.
How often does a government hoodwink a morally upright citizen into deceitful action for the cause of the greater good? In this case physicist Professor James Bower (Montgomery Clift) doesn’t need a great deal of urging because what’s at stake are Russian space race secrets and the man selling them is a Russian scientist he knows from translating his books. It’s apparent from the outset that in setting out to make contact in East Germany, he is walking into a trap. It’s moody, and drab in the vein of The Quiller Memorandum (1966), shot in soulless German streets, and of course it is the final performance, after a four-year screen absence, of a frail-looking Clift, an iconic Hollywood star for nearly two decades.
But genres can be confusing. Although tagged as a spy picture it’s not really a spy film. It’s a character study. In fact, two character studies. And when you get to the end and realise the sacrifice made in order not to compromise principle, it turns into quite a different movie, one with considerably more depth than you might have imagined.
Bower is a rather adept amateur spy, neatly dodging being followed, and capable of nipping between two moving trams to evade pursuit. His instructions lead him to asking for a particular prescription and being sent in apparent haphazard fashion to an intended meeting with Dr Salter, his contact. Instead he is led to Counselor Peter Heinzmann (Hardy Kruger).
His hotel room is not merely bugged but fitted with electronic instruments to prevent sleep and distort his mind. Meanwhile Heinzmann is engaged in a hawk-vs.-dove battle with Orlovsky (David Opotashu) to determine whose methods, the latter preferring torture and brainwashing, would prove the more successful in forcing Bower to betray the whereabouts of the would-be defector. And there is also a doctor’s receptionist Frieda (Macha Meril), with whom romance so obviously beckons your natural moviegoer instinct is to regard her as lure rather than friend.
It’s a chess game, Bower a pawn, with the net growing tighter, imprisoned in more ways than one, being groomed for defection himself. Although there is double cross, triple cross, murder and an excellent chase, and a final unexpected, very human, twist, it’s far from your typical spy thriller, in general subtle in tone except for the nightmarish hotel scenes. Heinzmann is also a pawn, fighting a system that sees degradation as its most potent weapon and even while a danger to Bower displays humanity.
Quite what the set was like is anybody’s guess given than not only was Clift dead by the time of the film’s release but that Belgian director Raoul Levy (Hail,Mafia, 1965) – better known as the producer of many Brigitte Bardot films and now helming only his second film – had committed suicide.
If ever there was proof of star power, this is it. Even when the film is meandering and the plot at times impenetrable, Clift exerts an almost hypnotic hold on the viewer. Despite his clear infirmity, the intensity of expression that enraptured audiences from films as disparate as Red River (1948), From Here to Eternity (1953) and The Misfits (1961) has not vanished. Since many scenes are just meetings that scarcely progress the story, it is quite a feat to keep audiences interested. Far from his greatest performance, he still displays screen presence.
He is helped along by Hardy Kruger (Flight of the Phoenix, 1965) in one of his more measured performances, both sharing the knowledge that in doing good for their country they are betraying themselves. David Opatashu (Guns of Darkness, 1962) is excellent as his quietly ruthless superior and there should be mention of Karl Lieffen as the constantly complaining Major. Even as a dowdy East German, Macha Meril (Une Femme Mariee, 1964) still captivates. Serge Gainsbourg contributed the music.
We are so accustomed to Hollywood rewriting every other country’s history it comes as a something of a surprise when they get a taste of their own medicine. And in such elaborate style. At the time this was by some distance France’s most expensive movie, a roadshow production made in Super Technirama 70, the widescreen technology favored by productions as diverse as Walt Disney’s animated The Sleeping Beauty (1959), Biblical epic Solomon and Sheba (1960), British drama The Trials of Oscar Wilde (1960), Samuel Bronston’s El Cid (1961) and Zulu (1964).
I wouldn’t have known from this picture how important a figure Lafayette was in French history. On a couple of forays to Paris I had placed no significance on shopping at the retail metropolis known as Galeries Lafayette. However, it turns out he was a major player in the French Revolution and helped to write the Declaration of the Rights of Man. But I wouldn’t have learned anything about his later career as this picture concentrates on his early life.
This long-lost restored picture was the official highlight of this year’s Bradford Widescreen Festival, mostly I assume because until the restoration it hadn’t been seen anywhere for half a century and because Bradford of all places is a sucker for restoration and its audience often includes more than a smattering of ex-industry professionals who can comment on its technical proficiency.
Although released in France in 1962 it didn’t cross the Atlantic or the English Channel until a few years later, but only for short selective engagements, during a period when there were was no shortage of roadshow material what with Its a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World still hogging Cinerama screens and My Fair Lady (1964) and The Sound of Music (1965) embarking on extensive runs.
This turned up in London in 1965 at the Casino Cinerama where How the West Was Won had played for over two years and it was also shown in Liverpool and enjoyed a couple of weeks in my home town of Glasgow at the Coliseum.
While the American alliance with France during the final stages of the War of Independence was critical to turning the tide against the British I suspect the exploits of the titular character (Michel Le Royen), an aristocratic stripling of 19 years of age, have become somewhat embellished in Hollywood Errol Flynn style.
The movie also ignores the irony that the principles of freedom and independence from regal rule spouted by many of the main characters came back to bite them several years later when the French Revolution sought to separate the brains of the aristocrats from their bodies. The French Emperor helped fund the American Revolution, assuming notions of independence were fine for foreign countries rising up against the British, a particular thorn in the French side at that point.
There’s also a considerable tinge of entitlement and for all its democratic principles the nascent new nation bowing down to the aristocratic breeding of the Frenchman and giving this inexperienced soldier the title of Major-General and putting him in charge of their least-disciplined troops, the irregular starving militia.
Never mind his age, he can hardly speak English and his aristocracy is hardly going to endear himself to his raw troops. And you can hardly ignore the ironic entitlement that when all other wounded men are left to look after themselves, our hero is carted off to George Washington’s (Howard St John) palatial servant-heavy mansion.
Still, according to this story and presumably the legend the young commander did indeed snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, in one engagement when his men were racing away in ignominious retreat he seized the torn American flag and inspired his men to return to battle and victory.
For a near three-hour picture it’s short on military action, though presumably that’s in the interests of historical accuracy so that means wading through countless scenes of politics both in France and America. In his home country he’s treated as something of a traitor for embarking on his own private war against the British. In America Congress is always on the back of George Washington, refusing him the funds and help he needs, insisting such would be in ample supply should he win a battle, the future President retorting back that victory would be guaranteed should he be given funds.
The absence of military set pieces is in part in recognition of the strategy endorsed by Washington, of avoiding a pitched battle with a superior enemy in favor of a guerilla war of attrition. There are more scenes of thousands of extras marching than of them engaging in any meaningful activity, though I’m assuming that could have been a budgetary restriction.
Whether’s it’s true or not there’s some clever stuff on the French political scene, the Emperor Louis XVI (Albert Remy) prone to taking advice from his wife Marie Antoinette (Liselotte Pulver) whose ear is being bent by La Fayette’s wife (Pascale Audret) but the self-serving attitudes on both sides will be recognizable to everyone.
There’s a stab at an all-star cast, Jack Hawkins (Lawrence of Arabia, 1962) as the British commander Cornwallis though the director – or perhaps the star himself given his idiosyncratic ways – has rendered Orson Welles as American ambassador Benjamin Franklin virtually unrecognizable, even his noted diction smothered.
The torch of freedom never had a more handsome advocate than in the hands of Michel Le Royer but it’s virtually a one-note performance though admittedly nobody expected much more from Errol Flynn.
There was a contract makeweight that studios occasionally ceded, something they viewed as a form of vanity from their opposite number across the negotiating table. That was to be given the copyright to your own films seven years after initial release. Studios didn’t believe the concession was worth much than a few dollars to add to a star or director’s pension, otherwise they wouldn’t have allowed it in the first place. In the 1950s, with remarkably few exceptions, a film was done and dusted on initial release. Should there be any more juice remaining, that would be mopped up by a judicious reissue before the seven-year deadline was up.
Once the studio system collapsed in the late 1940s and long-term contracts became devoid, studios battled each other to win over stars and directors with a proven track record. In his negotiations, Alfred Hitchcock asked for, and received, the copyright for five of the pictures that would later prove to be the ones that formed the cornerstone of his revived critical reputation.
In 1981, restoration, thanks to Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1927), had become big business. But optimism only lasted as long as it took for Warner Brothers to lose a sizeable sum on a restoration of A Star Is Born (1954)
Fortunately, another reissue poster boy was waiting in the wings. Universal, its classic division now headed by Jim Katz, looking for a follow-up to Napoleon, was in the right place at the right time. Legend has it that Hitchcock movies had gone missing from the circuits. While that was the case regarding the Paramount quartet to which he owned or shared copyright – Rear Window (1954), Vertigo (1958), The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) and The Trouble with Harry (1955) – it was not true of the rest of his portfolio.
Critical acclaim for the director had grown faster in Europe than America, one measure of his standing being The 39 Steps (1935) chosen to close the annual Venice Film Festival in 1968.[i]The 39 Steps received a new lease of life in the U.S. in the 1970s as the result of an unusual stimulus. In 1971 PBS television kicked off the year with a five-month weekly series of classic foreign films, including this Hitchcock. Viewers were soon persuaded that there was nothing like seeing old movies on the big screen and following the broadcast the film was reissued in Washington, Pittsburgh and Dayton, in a double bill with The Lady Vanishes (1938), and on its own in Cleveland. [ii]
While exposure in small-capacity arthouses limited earnings, it burnished Hitchcock’s artistic reputation. Both The Lady Vanishes and The 39 Steps continued to entertain new generations of movie lovers and remained popular on repertory programs, for example, in New York and Boston, while The Lady Vanishes, nearly forty years late, made its debut in Japan along with Foreign Correspondent (1940) and Young and Innocent (1937) aka The Girl Was Young.[iii] Remakes of The 39 Steps (1978) starring Robert Powell, best known for the television mini-series Jesus Of Nazareth, and The Lady Vanishes (1980) with Elliott Gould and Cybill Shepherd only served to remind critics of the vastly superior originals.
After Hitchcock’s death in 1980, Universal bought up the Paramount package and in 1983 reissued four of them plus Warner Brothers’ Rope (1948) with new prints and advertising campaigns. Apart from The Trouble with Harry, none could complain of having been undersold or particularly neglected. But they did fit into the “lost classic” category because they were impossible to see, all withdrawn by Hitchcock from the theatrical market for decades, Rear Window, for example, last seen in 1962.
The films would be released in the following sequence – Rear Window, Vertigo, The Man Who Knew Too Much, The Trouble With Harry and Rope– targeting small-to-medium first run theaters, which could support a lengthier engagement (seven to ten weeks) without feeling the commercial strain, rather than arthouses. Universal was bullish, demanding new film terms. The advertising campaign was uniform, Hitchcock’s name more prominent than any individual star. Drawing on the MGM Fabulous Four and Chaplin retrospectives, theaters were expected to commit to showing the films one after the other, achieving, in effect, a Hitchcock Festival lasting up to twenty or thirty weeks. No director aside from Chaplin had been honored in this fashion. Retrospectives of John Ford, Billy Wilder, Howard Hawks or William Wyler had been confined to arthouses or museums, individual films shown for one performance, not weeks at a time.
“Initially,” explained Jim Katz, “we’ll attract people who saw the films when they (first) came out but we’re counting on them to spread the word to the younger generation.” The studio viewed it as “an example of preservation and restoration that can also make money.” A commercial retrospective focused around one director appealed because Universal had other candidates, namely Preston Sturges and Douglas Sirk, who could benefit from a similar approach. The marketing employed a clever mixture of the artistic and commercial, where possible the individual films launched at film festivals, Rear Window leading the way by re-premiering at the New York Film Festival on September 30, 1983, beginning its New York engagement at four cinemas before rolling out in fifteen cities during October.[iv]
The results were spectacular. Rear Window’s opening week in New York commanded $120,000 (equivalent to $400,000 today) running neck-and-neck with other big-budget films of the day, and taking $150,000 in one cinema in Chicago over four weeks. More importantly, when widened out to non-arthouses the movie held its own, with $130,000 from 27 in New York. By the end of November, the nationwide haul was $2.1 million and by the end of the year $3.8 million. Records were broken in Washington, Vancouver, San Francisco and Portland.
While Rear Window had been a big hit in its day, Vertigo had fallen some way short and there were question marks over whether the James Stewart-Kim Novak combination could match the James Stewart-Grace Kelly. While not hitting Rear Window peaks, Vertigo did better than expected, opening with $91,000 from four cinemas in New York, $50,000 in four cinemas in Los Angeles, $35,000 in San Francisco and $19,000 in Philadelphia. In America, the marketing strategy did not quite work out, the films, especially the last two in the series, better in arthouses than first run, but the Hitchcock Festival concept proved a winner. The next year, the reissues were themselves reissued, a double bill of Rear Window/Vertigo chalking up $14,200 in its first week in New York and Rear Window continuing to play the arthouses well into 1985.[v]
On its U.S. reissue Rear Window earned $4 million in rentals, Vertigo $2.5 million, The Man Who Knew Too Much $1 million, The Trouble With Harry $750,000 and Rope nearly $600,000.[vi] In addition, North By Northwest (1959) entered the equation.[vii] By the time the quintet had played out, for patrons suffering withdrawal symptoms, a Hitchcock Film Festival, all the films crammed into one week, rolled out among arthouses in 1985, whipping up nearly $250,000 in five weeks.[viii]
As important, in terms of legacy and commercial fulfillment, was the impact on ancillary markets. Priced at $59.98, the videocassette of Rear Window was quickly certified gold, meaning sales of fifty thousand copies, adding another $3 million in gross revenue. In due course, the entire quintet appeared on video followed by thirteen other Hitchcocks on a special video promotion.[ix] Screenings of rarer Hitchcocks were welcomed with delight and the precursor to theatrical or video release.[x] The five Hitchcock oldies were the most important reissues of the 1980s because, although an event, they were more accessible to the general filmgoer than the silent classics or Hollywood’s string of hard-done-by quasi-classics. Crucially, commercially they fitted in perfectly to the new dynamic, huge sums in theatrical followed by big ancillary sales. Hitchcock demonstrated that the reissue machine need never run dry if properly oiled and maintained through each new technological cycle or anniversary. In 1996 Vertigo underwent more rigorous restoration and a 70mm version, after its presentation at the New York Film Festival, exhibited astounding commercial appeal – $148,000 from two cinemas in eight days and $800,000 from just eight cinemas in four weeks – and while the reissue was not on the scale of the 1983 revival the grand tally (gross, not rental) was $1.86 million (cueing a further ancillary round) and followed by the restoration of Rear Window which collected another $1.57 million (gross, not rental) in 2000. [xi]
SOURCES: Brian Hannan, Coming Back to a Theater near You, A History of the Hollywood Reissue 1914-2014 (McFarland, 2016) pp425-429.
[i] Brian Hannan, Hitchcock at the Box Office (Glasgow: Baroliant Press, 2104). This formed part of a retrospective of the director’s early films ending with The 39 Steps. Festival director Luigi Chiarini commented: “It seems fitting that young directors and film authors should learn from a great master of cinema.” But the homage was dropped after a festival boycott by U.S. producers. When it ran the next year, the closing film became The Lady Vanishes.
[ii] Hannan, Hitchcock at the Box Office. In 1971 The 39 Steps/The Lady Vanishes took $4,000 at the 150-seat Outer Circle Two ($1.75-$2.75) in Washington; in Cleveland The 39 Steps at the 448-seat World East ($2.50) grossed $3,600 while The Lady Vanishes at stablemate 448-seat World West ($2.50) took $2,100. In 1972, the double bill grossed $2,300 at the 500-seat Guild ($2.50) in Pittsburgh and at the 1,000-seat Cinema East in Dayton, Ohio, clocked up $2,900 and $1,000. In 1973 it was reissued in Paris and also made $3,200 at the 455-seat Severance ($2.50) in Cleveland. Source: “Picture Grosses,” Variety.
[iii] Hannan, Hitchcock at the Box Office. In 1975, The 39 Steps and The Lady Vanishes were shown on a split week programme (i.e. one shown on three days and the other one four) at the 900-seat New Yorker Theater ($2-$3.50) in New York and made $4,200. The following year at Boston’s 150-seat Orson Welles II ($1.50-$3) the films were shown as a double bill for $4,800. (The week before, a double bill of the original The Man Who Knew Too Much and Young and Innocent had taken $4,900.) In Japan, The Lady Vanishes on a double bill with Casablanca notched up $14,500 in Tokyo, the fourth week of $9,000 an improvement on the $8,300 of the third. Source: “Picture Grosses,” Variety.
[iv] “Out of Circulation Hitchcock Pix to Be Released by UI Classics,” Variety, August 29, 1983, 3.
[vi] “Big Rental Films of 1983,” Variety, January 11, 1984, 11; “Big Rental Films of 1984,” Variety, January 16, 1984, 16.
[vii] Brian Hannan, Darkness Visible: Hitchcock’s Greatest Film, Glasgow: Baroliant Press, 2014). North by Northwest ran for six weeks in a tiny 199-seat theatre in Washington with weekly takings of up to $11,000, as well as Baltimore, Pittsburgh and Cleveland. In Chicago it was on a double bill with Dial M For Murder and in Boston with Fritz Lang’s Fury. Overall, it had added another $800,000 in grosses since its last major reissue in 1966. Source: “Picture Grosses,” Variety.
[viii] Hannan, Darkness Visible. In Boston the Hitchcock Festival took $7,400 in its first week and $10,000 in its second. In Washington second week revenues outgrossed the first, jumping to $18,000 from $13,700. Source: “Picture Grosses,” Variety.
[ix] “Majors Gold and Platinum Titles Led by Warner,” Variety, January 13, 1984, X). Cashing in on the reissues, Universal had sent Psycho out on video.
[x] In Los Angeles a forty-six-film retrospective in Los Angeles saw rare screenings of his first film The Pleasure Garden (1925) as well as the 3D version of Dial M For Murder (1954).
[xi] Hannan, Darkness Visible. North By Northwest (1959) also received the restoration treatment, but was largely ignored by the public.
Only thing better than seeing this on the big screen is seeing it on biggest screen possible, Some clever clog has blown it up to 70mm by scanning the “original 6-perf 35mm Vistavision camera negative in 13k with all restoration work completed in 6.5k. The 70mm film print was created by filming out a new 65mm negative.” I don’t know what it means either – except that extra 5mm is the soundtrack and perfs refers to height – but I’m delighted with the result.
Not only does the crop spraying scene bask in greater glory but the pivotal scrambling on Mount Rushmore where Hitchcock used the wide screen at its widest takes on a vivid clarity that’s just impossible watching a DVD when characters are literally hanging off the furthest edges of the screen.
But setting aside the widest widescreen-ness what seeing it on the big screen more than anything restores is the audience experience and that allows the sly humor to reach its full potential. I hadn’t realized just how funny this darned picture is, not just the eye-rolling mother treating her grown-up son as a michievous scamp, and the zingers of lines but the interplay between the various characters.
And putting to one side Hitchcock’s wizardry it is a tour de force for screenwriter Ernest Lehman. I must have counted at least 20 narrative beats, not just thriller or action twists and turns but changes in our appreciation of the characters, plus the devilishly clever sexual banter. And while hero Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant) is a hero by accident, heroine Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint) is heroine by design, and thanks to her exceptionally callous boss, The Professor (Leo G. Carroll), likely to pay a heavy price for wanting to do something worthwhile in a life that from her looks seems as if aerated, gliding along with nary a care in the world, her beauty ensuring she would always garner easy attention.
There are some exceptionally clever moments that emanate from Lehman rather than Hitch. The elusive villain hiding behind a variety of identities is finally unmasked as Vandamm (James Mason) at an auction when the auctioneer calls out his name as he buys an artefact that contains stolen microfilm. And so a scene that appeared there for a different purpose – the emotional one of Van Dam realizing he has been cuckolded and Kendall realizing she is going to lose the only man she ever truly loved – turns out to play a vital role in the narrative, critical to the ending.
Given Hitch suffered from accusations of misogyny it’s astonishing how often he serves up exceptionally self-confident women who can string men along, in this case two men, Eve using Roger for mere sexual gratification while seducing Van Dam for the more serious business of snaring a traitor and giving her life meaning. And can there have been a more convincing femme fatale? That is, not the obvious kind as in film noir where a male dupe is easy pickings for a clever female and her seduction techniques over-obvious.
Here, the seduction is not only very gentle, and to some extent baffling, and achieving through language and screen dexterity a marvellous intimacy, but her femme fatale-ness only revealed when she secretly sends a note to Van Dam asking what does she do with her victim in the morning.
There are lot of elements more obviously coming to your attention on the big screen. The irony of a cab firm being called “Kind Taxis” especially in New York where their drivers err on the side of the irate. The train porter whose clothes we think Roger has stolen only for a quick cutaway to reveal him counting his bribe. The cleverness of that disguise. How many red-capped porters will you find in a train station?
A lot of the time Cary Grant (Walk, Don’t Walk, 1966) doesn’t have a great deal to do except react sometimes to very little at all. When he’s waiting to be collected at the crop field he makes his feelings known through shifting his gaze and jiggling with his trouser pockets.
There’s even a scene that might have given Sergio Leone the idea for his famous shootout in Once Upon a Time in the West (1969) where, on first meeting, Roger and Van Dam circle each other with the camera taking each’s POV.
This is just overloaded with delights – the drunken Roger telling the cops to call the cops, using his only phone call in jail to call mother, escaping from thugs in an elevator by the “women first” device, the amazing innocence when he encounters locked doors, clearly expecting them still to be left open to facilitate his escape.
Hitchcock – and to a greater degree in The Birds (1963) – ushered in the random action explosion (gas tankers always seem to be convenient) that would become de rigeur in the genre and used with less finesse here when the crop plane crashes into the tanker and car passengers stop to gawk allowing our hero the chance to steal one and escape.
It generally passes unnoticed how Hitch sets up his main character. At the start of films, especially these day when viewers are in on the gimmick, most audience eyes are on spotting the directing putting in his trademark appearance, rather than assessing Roger as a workaholic advertising executive, dragging his secretary out of the office when she should be on her way home so he can dictate a few more lines to her in a taxi, and inadvertently setting himself up as the kind of man who tells lies for living who for once must stick to the truth.
Grant’s acting ability was rarely fully recognized. Here the more urgent question seems to be how many suits he got through in filming (16) rather than the way he holds the picture together. And only Hitch would keep the audience waiting 30 minutes before introducing the female lead and make it hard for the maternally-dominated Thornhill to exude any sexual attraction after being under the thumb of mother for the first section.
This was the British premiere of the 70mm version so look out for it turning up at your local arthouse. Perhaps someone will go the whole hog and accord Hitch the contemporary honor of re-tuning his pictures in Imax.
I am assuming that I saw the 70mm version of the new 4k that’s just being released.
Worth seeing alone for super-slinky leather-clad uber-sadistic Donetta (Suzanna Leigh) who delights in torturing the daylights out of any secret agent who crosses her path, in this case Michael Donovan (Gene Barry). She’s got a neat line in handbags, too, the poisonous kind. Two stories cross over in this London-set spy drama. American Donovan (Gene Barry) is under surveillance from both foreign powers and British intelligence. When his contact comes into unfortunate contact with a handbag, he finds himself on the sticky end of the attention of Shevik (Marius Goring) while at the same time employed by the British spy chief Goldsmith (Michael Rennie) to find the mole in their camp.
The three potential suspects are top-ranking intelligence officers: Col. Redmayne (Richard Todd), British spy Peter Langley (Tom Adams) and backroom underling Kitteridge (Colin Gordon). On top of this Langley’s wife Anne (Joan Collins) adds conscience to the proceedings, growing more and more concerned that the affairs of the secret state are taking too much precedence over her marriage.
The hunt-the-mole aspect is pretty well-staged. Kitteridge always looks shifty, keenly watching his boss twisting the dials on a huge office safe containing top secret secrets. Langley is introduced as a villain, turning up at Shevik’s with the drugs that are going to send Donovan to sleep for eight hours for transport abroad in a trunk. But he turns out to be just pretending and aids Donovan’s innovative escape. Charming but ruthless Redmayne is also under suspicion if only because he belongs to the upper-class strata (Burgess, Philby and Maclean etc) that already betrayed their country.
In investigating Langley, Donovan fixes on the wife, now, coincidentally, a potential romantic target since her husband is suing for divorce. She is particularly attracted to Donovan after he saves her son from a difficult situation on the water, although that appears manufactured for the very purpose of making her feel indebted. However, the couple are clearly attracted, although the top of a London bus would not generally be the chosen location, in such glamorous spy pictures, for said romance to develop.
As you will be aware, romance is a weak spot for any hard-bitten spy and Shevik’s gang take easy advantage, putting Anne, her son and Donovan in peril at the same time as the American follows all sorts of clues to pin down the traitor.
This is the final chapter in Gene Barry’s unofficial 1960s movie trilogy – following Maroc 7 (1967) and Istanbul Express (1968) – and London is a more dour and more apt climate for this more down-to-earth drama. Forget bikinis and gadgets, the best you can ask for is Joan Collins dolled up in trendy min-skirt and furs. Gene Barry, only too aware that London has nothing on Morocco or Istanbul in the weather department, dresses as if expecting thunderstorms, so he’s not quite the suave character of the previous two pictures, but that does not seem to dampen his ardor and the gentle romantic banter is well done.
Joan Collins, in a career trough after her Twentieth Century Fox contract ended with Esther and the King (1960), has the principled role, determining that the price paid by families for those in active secret service is too high. No slouch in the spy department himself, essaying Charles Vine in three movies including Where the Bullets Fly (1966), Tom Adams plays with audience expectations in this role.
It’s a marvelous cast, one of those iconic congregations of talent, with former British superstar Richard Todd (The Dam Busters, 1955) and Michael Rennie, television’s The Third Man (1959-1965), Marius Goring (The Girl on a Motorcycle, 1968) and Suzanna Leigh (The Lost Continent, 1968) trading her usual damsel-in-distress persona for a turn as terrific damsel-causing-distress.
Shorn of sunny location to augment his backgrounds, director Peter Graham Scott (Bitter Harvest, 1963) turns his camera on scenic London to take in Trafalgar Square, the zoo, Royal Festival Hall, the Underground, Regent’s Park with the usual flotilla of pigeons and ducks.
Sequels boomed in the 1960s mainly thanks to multiple spy spin-offs in the James Bond/Matt Helm/Derek Flint vein but for every From Russia with Love (1963) and In Like Flint (1967) there was a more tepid entry like Return of the Seven (1966). One of the prerequisites of the series business was that the original star reappeared. But Ursula Andress who played the title character in Hammer’s She (1966) declined to reprise the role.
John Richardson did return from the first picture but in a different role, as the immortal Killikrates within the lost city of Zuma. So Hammer brought in Andress lookalike statuesque Czech blonde Olinka Berova (The 25th Hour, 1967), even emulating the Swiss star’s famous entrance in Dr No (1962), although instead of coming out of the sea Berova is going in and substituting the bikini with bra and panties, but the effect is much the same.
Story, set in the 1960s, has supposed Scandinavian Carol (Berova) mysteriously drawn south against her will and driven by voices in her head conjuring up the name Ayesha. We first encounter her walking down a mountain road in high heels only to be chased through the woods by a truck driver. It transpires she had unusual powers, or someone protecting her has, for the lorry brake slips and the truck crushes the driver. Next means of transport is a yacht owned by dodgy drunken businessman George (Colin Blakely) and before you know it she is in Algeria, assisted by Kassim (Andre Morell) who attempts to forestall those trying to control her mind, but to no avail.
Philip (Edward Judd), whose character is effectively “handsome guy from the yacht,” follows as she continues south and eventually the pair reach Kuma, where she is acclaimed as Ayesha aka She. Kallikrates’ immortality depends on her with some urgency crossing through the cold flames of the sacred fire. There’s a sub-plot involving high priest Men-hari (Derek Godfrey) promised immortality for returning Ayesha to Kuma and further intrigue that comes a little too late to help proceedings. You can probably guess the rest.
There’s no “vengeance” that I can see and certainly no whip-cracking as suggested in the poster. Berova, while attractive enough, lacks the screen magnetism of Andress and the mystery of who Carol is and where she’s headed is no substitute for either pace or tension and Berova isn’t a good enough actress to convey the fear she must be experiencing. The script could have done without weighting down the Kuma high priests with lengthy exposition explaining the whys and wherefores. Neither a patch on the original nor the expected star-making turn for Berova, this is strictly Saturday afternoon matinee fare and the slinky actress, despite her best sex-kitten efforts, cannot compensate.
Director Cliff Owen (A Man Could Get Killed, 1966) assembles a strong supporting cast, headed by Edward Judd (First Men in the Moon,1964) and Colin Blakely (a future Dr Watson in Billy Wilder’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, 1970). You can also spot Andre Morell (Dark of the Sun, 1968), George Sewell (who later enjoyed a long-running role in British television series Special Branch, 1969-1974) and television regular Jill Melford.
Curious change of pace for writer Peter O’Donnell, best known at this point for creating another sultry heroine, Modesty Blaise (1966).
These days fact-based magazine articles commonly spark movies – The Fast and the Furious (2001) inspired by a piece in Vibe, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019) started life in Esquire – but it was rare in the 1960s (see Note below).
However, a series of seven lengthy historical articles in the multi-million-selling Life magazine in 1959 about the Wild West, extensively illustrated with material from the time, captured the attention of the nation. Bing Crosby acquired the rights, not as a potential movie, but for a double album recorded in July 1959 on a new label Project Records set up specifically for the purpose – two months after the series ended – and a proposed television special.
When the latter proved too expensive, the rights were sold to MGM which then linked up in a four-film pact with Cinerama to create the first dramatic picture in that format, the three-screen concept that had taken the public by storm in 1952 with This Is Cinerama. Since then, Cinerama had focused exclusively on travelogs and coined $115 million in grosses from just 47 theaters, including $9 million in seven years at the Hollywood theater in Los Angeles. Eight years in its sole London location had yielded $9.4 million gross from a quartet of pictures, Cinerama Holiday (1955) leading the way with (including reissue) a 120-week run, followed by 101 weeks of Seven Wonders of the World (1956), 86 for This Is Cinerama and 80 weeks for South Seas Adventure (1958).
Box office was supplemented with rentals of the projection equipment. But the novelty had worn off, lack of product denting consumer and industry interest, many of the theaters set up for the project returning the equipment, so that by the time of this venture there were only 15 U.S. theaters still showing Cinerama. The company went from surviving primarily on equipment royalties to becoming a producer-distributor-exhibitor. Ambitiously, the company believed it could generate $5,000 a week profit for each theater, and, assuming growth to 60 houses, could bring in $15 million a year.
Crosby initially remained involvement – crooning songs to connect various episodes – but that idea was soon abandoned. Director Henry Hathaway (North to Alaska, 1960), claimed he came up with the movie’s structure. “The original concept was mine,” he said, “The first step in the winning of the West was the opening of the canal, then came the covered wagon, next the Civil War which opened up Missouri and the mid-West then the railroads, and finally the West was won when the Law conquered it instead of the gangs; which was the theme I worked out for the picture.
“So I conceived the whole idea and then got writers to work on the five episodes. Each episode was about a song originally. Then I travelled all over the country to find locations.”
For once this was a genuine all-star cast headed up by actors with more than a passing acquaintance with the western: John Wayne (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, 1962), Oscar-winner Gregory Peck (The Big Country), James Stewart (Winchester ’73, 1950), Richard Widmark (The Alamo, 1960) and Henry Fonda (Fort Apache, 1948) with Spencer Tracy (Broken Lance, 1954) as narrator plus George Peppard (Breakfast at Tiffany’s, 1961) in his first western.
The two strongest female roles were given to actresses playing against type, Carroll Baker (Baby Doll, 1956), who normally essayed sexpots, as a homely pioneer and Debbie Reynolds (The Tender Trap, 1955), more at home in musicals and comedies, as her tough sister. The impressive supporting cast included Lee J. Cobb, Eli Wallach, Walter Brennan, Robert Preston, Carolyn Jones and Karl Malden.
Glenn Ford and Burt Lancaster were unavailable. Frank Sinatra entered initial negotiations but ultimately turned it down. Gary Cooper, also initially considered, died before the film got underway.
Initially under the title of The Winning of the West screenwriter James R. Webb (The Big Country, 1958) was entrusted with knocking the unwieldy non-fiction story into a coherent fictional narrative. In effect, it was an original screenplay at a time when Hollywood was turning its back on bestsellers, “the pre-sold theory less compelling.” His first draft accommodated various montages covering the journey from the Pilgrim Fathers to the building of the Erie Canal and the Civil War and it was only in subsequent drafts that the tale of Linus Rawlings (James Stewart) emerged with surprising focus on female pioneers.
Webb’s initial ending had involved a father-son conflict, presumably a fall-out between the Rawlings played by James Stewart and George Peppard, but that was abandoned in order not to finish on a “note of bitterness” not in keeping with spirit of the movie. Although he did not win a credit, John Gay (The Happy Thieves, 1961) also contributed to the screenplay.
Given the film’s episodic structure it is amazing how well the various sequences fit together and a narrative thrust is maintained. The story covers a 50-year stretch beginning in 1839 with the river sequence bringing together James Stewart and Carroll Baker. After Stewart is bushwhacked by river pirates, he marries Baker and they set up a homestead. The next section pairs singer Debbie Reynolds with gambler Gregory Peck whose wagon train is attacked by Indians on the way to San Francisco. Later, Stewart and son George Peppard enlist in the Civil War (featuring John Wayne as an unkempt General Sherman).
Stewart dies at the Battle of Shiloh. Peppard joins the cavalry and later as a marshal in Arizona meets Reynolds and prevents a robbery that results in a spectacular train wreck. It took a superb piece of screenwriting to pull the elements together, ensure the characters had just cause to meet and to create solid pace with a high drama and action quotient.
The undertaking was too much for one director. Initially, it was expected five would be required but this was truncated to three – John Ford (The Searchers, 1956), Henry Hathaway and George Marshall (The Sheepman, 1958) although Hathaway carried the biggest share of the burden and Richard Thorpe (Ivanhoe, 1952) handled some transitional historical sequences.
The directors broke new ground, technically. The Cinerama camera was actually three cameras in one, each set at a 48 degree to the next and when projected provided a 146-degree angle view. Each panel had its own vanishing point so the camera could, uniquely, see down both sides of a building.
But there were drawbacks. The cumbersome cameras required peculiar skills to achieve common shots. Directors lay on top of the camera to judge what a close-up looked like. Sets were built to take account of the way dimensions appeared through the lens, camera remaining static to prevent distortion. When projected, the picture was twice the size of 65mm and before the invention of the single-camera lens led to vertical lines running down the screen. Trees were built into compositions to hide these lines.
“You couldn’t move the camera much,” recalled Hathaway, “or the picture would distort. You have to shove everything right up to the camera. Actors worked two- and three-feet away from the camera. The opening dolly down the street to the wharf was the first time it had ever been done.”
Despite a lengthy pre-production of over a year, and an eight-month schedule due to start on May 28, 1961, and a completion date of Xmas 1961, MGM anticipated a 1962 launch, Independence Day pencilled in for the world premiere. The original $7 million budget mushroomed to $12 million and then to £14.4 million, $1 million of that ascribed to adverse weather conditions, hardly surprising given the extent of the location work. A total of $2.2 million went on the 10 stars and 13 co-stars, virtually talent on the cheap given the salaries many could command, transport cost $1 million and there was another million in props including an 1940 vintage Erie canal boat.
Rain and overcast skies added $145,000 to the cost of shooting the rapids sequence in Oregon and another $218,000 was required when early snowfall scuppered one location and required traveling 1,000 miles distant. Nearly 13,000 extras were involved as well as 875 horses, 1,200 buffalo, 50 oxen and 160 mules. Thousands of period props were dispersed among the 77 sets. Over 2,000 pairs of period shoes and 1500 pairs of moccasins were fashioned as well as 107 wagons, many designed to break on cue.
Virtually 90 per cent of the picture was shot on location to satisfy Cinerama customers accustomed to seeing new vistas and to bring alive the illustrations from the original Life magazine articles. Backdrops included Ohio River Valley, Monument Valley, Cave-in-Rock State Park, Colorado Rockies, Black Hills of Dakota, Custer State Park and Mackenzie River in Oregon.
The picture, including narration, took over a year. Cinerama sensation was achieved by shooting the rapids, runaway locomotive, buffalo stampede, Indian attack, Civil War battle and cattle drive. Motion was central to Cinerama so journeys were undertaken by raft, wagon, pony express, railroad and boat, anything that could get up a head of steam.
Initially, too, the production team had been adamant – “rigid plans for running time will be met” – that the movie would clock in at 150-155 minutes and there was some doubt, at least initially, on the value of going down the roadshow route in the United States. Roadshow was definitely set for Europe, a 15-minute intermission being included in those prints, a continent where both roadshow and westerns were more popular than in the States.
Big screen westerns in particular in Europe had not been affected by the advent of the small-screen variety. Some films received substantial boosts abroadd. “The Magnificent Seven and Cimarron (both 1960) took giants steps forward once they made the transatlantic crossing.” British distributors also reported “striking” success with The Last Sunset (1961) and One-Eyed Jacks (1962) which had toiled to make a similar impression in the U.S.
In the end the decision was made to hold back the release in the U.S. in favor of The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm, which had begun shooting later and ultimately cost $6 million, double its original budget. Rather than bunch up the release of both pictures together, MGM opted to kick off its Cinerama U.S. launch with Grimm in 1962 and shifted How the West Was Won to the following year. MGM adopted the anticipation approach, holding the world premiere in London on November 1 1962 and releasing the picture in roadshow in Europe.
A record advance of $500,000 was banked for the London showing at the 1,155-seat Casino Cinerama (prices $1.20-$2.15) on roadshow separate performance release. Before the advertising campaign even began in October, a full month prior to the world premiere, over 62,000 reservations had been made via group bookings. Critics were enamored and audiences riveted. The cinema made “unusually large profits” and after two years had grossed $2.25 million from 1722 showings.
Dmitri Tiomkin (The Alamo, 1960) was hired to compose the music, but an eye condition prevented his participation though he later sued for $2.63 million after claiming he was fired before the assignment began. Alfred Newman (Nevada Smith, 1966) wrote the thundering score but uniquely for the time MGM shared the publishing rights with Bing Crosby.
In the U.S. Bantam printed half a million copies of a paperback tie-in, sales of the soundtrack were huge and there was a massive rush to become involved by retailers and museums with educational establishments an easy target.
Audience response was overwhelming, a million customers in the first month, two million by the first 10 weeks at just 36 houses, some of which had only been showing it for half that time. But it failed to hit ambitious targets – predictions that it would regularly run for three years in some situations “based on the star roster and the fact the pic offers more natural U.S. vistas than anything yet done on the screen” proving wildly over-optimistic. Still, it had enjoyed 80 roadshow engagement including eight months at the Cinerama in New York and grossed $2.3 million in 92 weeks in L.A, $1.14 million after 88 weeks in Minneapolis and $1.5 million after one week fewer in Denver.
By 1965, as it began a general release roll-out with 3,000 bookings already taken, it had already passed the $9 million mark in rentals including a limited number of showcase breaks the previous year.
Nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, it won for screenplay, sound and editing. The movie became MGM’s biggest hit after Gone with the Wind and Ben-Hur. In my recent book The Magnificent ‘60s, The 100 Most Popular Films of a Revolutionary Decade I placed it twelfth on the chart of the decade’s top box office films.
It provided a popularity fillip for most of the big stars involved, none more so than James Stewart who, prior to shooting, had been on the verge of retirement. Box office appeal diminishing, work on his next picture Take Her, She’sMine postponed by the Actor’s Strike, after the death of his father he had “quietly begun to make plans to get out of his Fox contract, retire, and move his family out of Beverly Hills.” He had spent $500,000 on a 1,100-acre ranch and was already well set for leaving the movies behind having accumulated a large real estate portfolio in addition to oil well investments.
SOURCES: Brian Hannan, The Magnificent ‘60s, The 100 Most Popular Films of a Revolutionary Decade (McFarland, 2022) p168-170; Marc Eliot, James Stewart A Biography (Aurum Press, paperback, 2007) p350-351; Sir Christopher Frayling, How the West Was Won, Cinema Retro, Vol 8, Issue 22, p25-29; Greg Kimble, “How the West Was Won – in Cinerama,” in70mm.com, October 1983; “Reisini Envisions Cinerama Leaving Travelog for Fiction Pix,” Variety, December 14, 1960, p17; “Metro in 4-Film Deal with Cinerama,” Variety, March 1, 1961, p22; “Cinerama Action Awaits Plot Tales,” Variety, March 8. 1961, p10; “Fat Bankroll for How West Was Won,” Variety, May 24, 1961, p3; “Return to Original Scripts,” Variety, June 28, 1961, p5;“MGM-Cinerama Set 3-Hour Limit For West Was Won,” Variety, August 23, 1961, p7; “Hoss Operas in O’Seas Gallop,” Variety, August 23, 1961, p7; “Coin Potential As To Cinerama,” Variety, September 20, 1961, p15; “Changing Economics on Cinerama,” Variety, October 11, 1961, p13; “Bantam’s 22 Paperback Tie-Ups in Hollywood,” Variety, October 25, 1961, p22; “How West Was Won for July 4 Premiere,” Box Office, December 11, 1961, p14; “Crosby Enterprises Holds West Cinerama Songs,” Variety, January 24, 1962, p1; “Grimm First in U.S. for Cinerama but Abroad West Gets Priority,” Variety, April 4, 1962, p13; “Cinerama Fiscalities,” Variety, April 11, 1962, p3; “Cinerama Story Pair Burst Budgets,” Variety, May 16, 1962, p3; “Tiomkin’s $2,630,000 Suit Vs MGM et al,” Variety, June 27, 1962, p39; “Hathaway a Pioneer,” Variety, July 25, 1962, p12; “Bernard Smith Clarifies Fiscal Facts,” Variety, August 8, 1962, p3; Review, Variety, November 7, 1962, p6; “London Critics Rave Over West,” Variety, November 7, 1962, p19; “Brilliant World Premiere in London for West,” Box Office, November 12, 1962, p12; “West in Cinerama the Big Ace,” Variety, November 14, 1962, p16; Feature Reviews, Box Office, November 26, 1962; Bosley Crowther, “Western Cliches; How West Was Won Opens in New York,” New York Times, March 28, 1963; “Big Book Aid for West,” Box Office, April 1, 1963, pA3; “West Was Won Seen By 2,000,000 in 10 Weeks,” Box Office, June 3, 1963, p15; “How West Was Won for 19 Showcase Theaters,” Box Office, June 15, 1964, pE1; “West End,” Variety, November 11, 1964, p27; “How West Was Won Ends Roadshowing,” December 9, 1964, p16; “3,000 Bookings Expected for How the West Was Won,” Box Office, May 3, 1965;
NOTE: Robert J. Landry (“Magazines a Prime Screen Source,” Variety, May 30, 1962, 11) pointed to Cosmopolitan as the original publication vehicle for To Catch a Thief (1955) by David Dodge in 1951 and Fannie Hurst’s Back Street (1932), serialized over six months from September 1930. Frank Rooney’s The Cyclist’s Raid – later filmed as The Wild One (1953) – first appeared in Harpers magazine. Movies as varied as Edna Ferber’s Ice Palace (1960) and The Executioners by John D. MacDonald, later filmed as Cape Fear (1962) were initially published in Ladies Home Journal. The Saturday EveningPost published Alan Le May’s The Avenging Texan, renamed The Searchers (1956), and Donald Hamilton’s Ambush at Blanco Canyon, renamed The Big Country (1958) as well as Christopher Landon’s Escape in the Desert which was picturized under the more imaginative Ice Cold in Alex (1958).
I’ve got Alfred Newman’s toe-tapping theme music in my head. In fact, every time I think of this music I get an earworm full of it. Not that I’m complaining. The score – almost a greatest hits of spiritual and traditional songs – is one of the best things about it. But then you’re struggling to find anything that isn’t good about it. For some reason, this western never seems to be given its due among the very best westerns.
Not only is it a rip-roaring picture feature the all-star cast to end all-star casts it’s a very satisfying drama to boot and it follows an arc that goes from enterprise to consequence, pretty much the definition of all exploration.
Given it covers virtually a half-century – 1839-1889 – and could easily have been a sprawling mess dotted by cameos, it is an astonishingly clever in knowing when to drop characters and when to take them up again, and there’s very little of the maudlin. For every pioneer there’s a predator or hustler whether river pirates, gamblers or outlaws and even a country as big as the United States can’t get any peace with itself, the Civil War coming plumb in the middle of the narrative.
Some enterprising character has built the Erie Canal, making it much easier for families to head west by river. Mountain man fur trader Linus Rawlings (James Stewart) on meeting prospective pioneers the Prescotts has a hankering after the young Eve (Carroll Baker) but as self-confessed sinner and valuing his freedom has no intention of settling down. But he is bushwhacked by river pirates headed by Jeb Hawkins (Walter Brennan) and left for dead, but after saving the Prescotts from the gang changes his mind about settling down and they set up a homesteading.
We have already been introduced to Eve’s sister Lilith (Debbie Reynolds) who has attracted the attention of huckster Cleve Van Valen (Gregory Peck) and they meet again in St Louis where she is a music hall turn and widow. Her physical attraction pales in comparison with the fact she has inherited a gold mine. He follows her in a wagon train which survives attack by Cheyenne, but still she resists him, not falling for him until a third meeting on a riverboat.
Zeb Rawlings (George Peppard) wants to follow his father to fight in the Civil War. Linus dies there, but there’s no great drama about it, he’s just another casualty, and the death is in the passing. In probably the only section that feels squeezed in, after the Battle of Shiloh a disillusioned Zeb saves General Sherman (John Wayne) and Ulysses S. Grant (Harry Morgan) from an assassin.
The space at the top of this ad was for cinemas to stick in their own name.
Returning home to find Eve dead, Zeb hands over his share of the farm to his brother and heads west to join the U.S. Cavalry at a time when the Army is required to keep the peace with Native Americans enraged by railroad expansion. Zeb links up with buffalo hunter Jethro Stuart (Henry Fonda), who appeared at the beginning as a friend of his father.
Eve, a widow again, meets up in Arizona with family man and lawman Zeb who uncovers a plot by outlaw Charlie Gant (Eli Wallach) to hijack a train. Zeb turns rancher once again, looking after her farm.
But the drama is peppered throughout by the kind of vivid action required of the Cinerama format, all such sections filmed from the audience point-of-view. So the Prescotts are caught in thundering rapids, there’s a wagon train attack and buffalo stampede, and a speeding train heading to spectacular wreck. There’s plenty other conflict and not so many winsome moments.
Interestingly, in the first half it’s the women who drive the narrative, Eve taming Linus, Lilith constantly fending off Cleve. And there’s no shortage of exposing the weaknesses and greed of the explorers, the railroad barons and buffalo hunters and outlaws, and few of the characters are aloof from some version of that greed, whether it be to own land or a gold mine or even in an incipient version of the rampaging buffalo hunters to pick off enough to make a healthy living.
And here’s the kicker. Virtually the entire all-star cast play against type. John Wayne (Circus World, 1964) reveals tremendous insecurity, Gregory Peck (Mirage, 1965) is an unscrupulous though charming renegade, the otherwise sassy Debbie Reynolds (My Six Loves, 1963) is as dumb as they come to fall for him, and for all the glimpses of the aw-shucks persona James Stewart (Shenandoah, 1965) plays a much meaner hard-drinking hard-whoring version of his mean cowboy. Carroll Baker (Station Six Sahara, 1963) is an innocent not her usual temptress while George Peppard (The Blue Max, 1966) who usually depends on charm gets no opportunity to use it. .
Also worth mentioning: Henry Fonda (Madigan, 1968), Lee J. Cobb (Coogan’s Bluff, 1968), Carolyn Jones (Morticia in The Addams Family, 1964-1966), Eli Wallach (The Moon-Spinners, 1964), Richard Widmark (Madigan), Karl Malden (Nevada Smith, 1966) and Robert Preston (The Music Man, 1962).
Though John Ford (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, 1962) had a hand (the short Civil War episode) in directing the picture, it was a small part, and virtually all the credit belongs to Henry Hathaway (Circus World) who helmed three of the five sections with George Marshall (The Sheepman, 1958) taking up the slack for the railroad section.
And though you might balk at the idea of trying to cover such a lengthy period, there’s no doubting the skill of screenwriter James R. Webb (Alfred the Great, 1969) to mesh together so many strands, bring so many characters alive and write such good dialog.
I’m still tapping my toe as I write this and I was tapping my toe big-style to be able to see this courtesy of the Bradford Widescreen Weekend on the giant Cinerama screen with an old print where the vertical lines occasionally showed up.
Astor had yanked La Dolce Vita from the Henry Miller Theatre in December 1961 perhaps a bit prematurely but, unless willing to wait until spring when another arthouse became free, it had nowhere else to put Les Liaisons Dangereuses, which had performed extremely well in its native France with 639,000 admissions.
Anxious to get this latest hit, the Henry Miller Theatre had offered a fat guarantee. Although only 1¾ hours long, compared to the three-hour La Dolce Vita, it was launched as a roadshow, with three performances a day, at 2.30pm, 7.00pm and 9.30pm. This was an equally controversial film; it only managed 10 days play in February in New Jersey before being closed down by the authorities, although by then it had been seen by 7,500 customers.
Believing there was a lot more juice left in the Fellini film, Astor acquired all the worldwide rights, including all existing contracts with current distributors, for $1.35m. The film had not yet been released in Latin America, which was expected to provide strong box office. This proved correct; for example, it grossed $100,000 in Chile. Despite not being entered in the foreign film category of the Oscars, La Dolce Vita managed nominations for best director, best screenplay, best art direction and best costume design, for which it won. Nino Rota’s music was nominated for a Grammy.
In the summer, Astor continued to expand, acquiring the Pathe American distribution company, a deal which included 18 unreleased films such as Bryan Forbes debut feature Whistle Down the Wind. The purchase was part of a broader strategy to give Astor a deeper penetration of the market, guaranteeing them better playoffs for their own films. Even so, questions were beginning to be asked of the company’s financial situation. President George Foley complained: ‘People seem to have the knife in us.’ He explained that, in the wake of the company’s explosive growth from a turnover of $500,000 to $4m it was guilty of over-ambition, and it was trading profitably.
But that was not correct and soon the company required a $1m loan. Negotiations dragged on and when they were concluded in August, the loan granted by the Inland Credit Co was only half that requested.
However, La Dolce Vita remained a cash cow. After completing a 34-week run at the Henry Miller Theatre in December, it transferred to two cinemas in New York, the Embassy and the Beekman, where, with lower admission prices, it took an astonishing $44,500 in its first week. Thereafter, it shifted to 15 neighborhood cinemas in New York. Its longevity was assisted by the shortage of mainstream product created by the major studios investing so much money in roadshows. That meant the big studios made fewer feature films, leaving exhibitors scrabbling to fill playdates. Some cinemas survived by extending the playing period of existing bookings, but for other cinemas, accustomed to a weekly change or lacking the audience-base to support films running for two or three weeks, this was impractical.
More and more local cinemas turned to foreign movies. Often these movies, sometimes helped along by lurid titles, received the saturation treatment previously given to horror or science-fiction films. La Dolce Vita was able to take advantage of these changes in exhibitor strategy. But where you might have expected a subtitled film to play at the bottom of a double bill (local theatres always showed two films), more often than not La Dolce Vita was by that time so well-known that it was advertised as the main feature.
By September it had clocked up 3,000 bookings, a record for a subtitled film, and expected at least another 2,000 before the well ran dry. It also started to be reissued, turning up in programmes with A Cold Wind In August and Two Women. At year’s end it was Joe Levine’s turn to crow. Two Women was the top foreign film of the year and with a gross of $6m took 30th position at the annual box office race.
By now Astor’s rapid expansion was taking its toll. Ironically, La Dolce Vita, the gamble that had succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams, had inspired too many other gambles that had failed. In the old days, the revenues generated by Anotnioni’s Rocco and His Brothers and Vadim’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses would have put them in the category of hits. While favoured by the critics, the Italian film did not fare well at the box office. The Vadim film, hampered by a Condemned rating from the Production Code and by mixed reviews, managed only 300 bookings and ended up costing Astor $500,000. Last Year at Marienbad had only managed a $350,000 gross.
Not only did none of the films replicate the success of La Dolce Vita, they did not justify the amounts Astor had paid for them. In January 1963 Inland Credit announced a public auction of Astor’s assets. This crisis was quickly resolved with a new loan repayment schedule. There were no irregularities involved, just an inexperienced company diving into the acquisition market with too much enthusiasm. Having quit its plush offices in Madison Ave and cut back on staff, Astor remained optimistic. The cash cow La Dolce Vita was not dead yet and in February was reissued again, this time in a double bill with British film Victim starring Dirk Bogarde, on the RKO circuit in New York.
There were high hopes for the adaptation of the Brendan Behan play The Quare Fellow and The Black Fox. Better, there was a new full-length Fellini on the horizon. Based on its first six weeks in Rome and Milan, where it notched up $320,000, the producers of 8½ were projecting an Italian gross of $3m. Astor had marked out June for its US premiere.
But Astor did not make it to June.
In March, Inland Credit called in its loan. Astor battled this in court, but the judgement went again them. The company which had single-handedly launched arthouse films into the mainstream was out of business. The rights to La Dolce Vita were acquired by Landau-Unger, who had made the American arthouse hit The Pawnbroker starring Rod Steiger. But their reissue of La Dolce Vita in 1965 was underwhelming and they sold on the rights to AIP, another company which saw marketing foreign films as the way to mainstream credibility. AIP was famous for horror and exploitation films and for turning out both on ludicrously short shooting schedules. It had ransacked almost the entire portfolio of Edgar Allan Poe for Fall of The House Of Usher, The Pit And The Pendulum, The Premature Burial and The Raven.
Fellini, of course, had an unassailable name at the arthouse box office. While 8½ attracted neither the critical kudos, although it did receive an Oscar nomination and took the BAFTA for best foreign film, nor the box office of its predecessor, it was still good for $3.6m gross. Counting the grosses of 8½, La Dolce Vita, La Strada and his share of Boccaccia 70, Fellini was, with De Sica, the top foreign filmmaker. De Sica added his box office clout to that of Loren in The Condemned of Altona and Marriage Italian Style, which won Loren another Oscar nomination, and in Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, which was named Best Foreign Film in 1965 at the Oscars.
Like Astor, AIP was not a company that played by the rules. In 1966, it decided to reissue La Dolce Vita in a dubbed version. One of the main reasons for this was to achieve a sale to television, a medium still hostile to subtitled films.
The dubbed film went against Astor’s original agreement with the National Legion of Decency (now re-named the National Catholic Office of Motion Pictures), but by now there were more contentious films on the market. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf had gone out with a ‘no under-18’ policy. And the Production Code’s A+IV classification (morally objectionable for adults but with reservations) had been slapped on Alfie, 8½, Tom Jones and The Servant. So AIP sidestepped a Legion condemnation by agreeing to a ‘recommended for adults’ advertising campaign and accepted the Code’s A+IV classification.
Quite why AIP chose two cinemas in Virginia and Oregon, respectively, to launch the new dubbed version is anybody’s guess. Perhaps it was inexperience, or a belief that the movie was played out in the bigger cities, or market hostility to a company best known for a different product. Or maybe this was simply a tactic to generate television interest, similar to the way some movies are released these days for a week in cinemas to fulfil a contract prior to DVD release. Eventually, however, La Dolce Vita found its way to its spiritual home, an arthouse in a big city and in its opening week at the 868-seater Four Star in Los Angeles in October it took a ‘socko’ $10,000. And like Astor before it, AIP found it had a bigger hit on its hands than it could imagine when the dubbed version took another $3m.
The tactic worked and next year La Dolce Vita was screened on television, with, once again, astonishing results.
In November, on the independent WOR-TV station, it swept aside in the ratings a Frank Sinatra special and I Spy. Unsurprisingly, the network served up the dubbed version. But there were a few eyebrows raised at the bowdlerisation. ‘Homosexual’ was changed to ‘depraved’ and ‘fascist’ to ‘scandal’. By then, the arthouse movie was rejuvenated by movies like Elvira Madigan, A Man and A Woman and Belle De Jour. But La Dolce Vita was the one that had opened to the door for arthouses movies into the mainstream and it was fitting that by the end of the decade it was declared the foreign film champ of all time with a gross that had risen to $15m.
In my exclusive chart of The 1960s Top 100 Movies according to US box office it was ranked 91st, above such films as To Kill A Mockingbird, Blow Up, Where Eagles Dare, Cool Hand Luke, The Thomas Crown Affair and The Pink Panther. Even to people who never visited an arthouse cinema, Fellini was a household name and the term La Dolce Vita passed into the general vocabulary.
SOURCES: Brian Hannan, La Dolce Vita and the American Box Office Bust-Out (Baroliant, 2018) ; “Brian Hannan Revisits La Dolce Vita,” Cinema Retro, No 33.
The Magnificent 60s 