When I started out in 2020 and could barely notch up 100 views a month it seemed like I would never make any significant impact in movie blog world. But now with views in the region of 11,000 a month, I have amassed a grand total of 250,000 views.
Seems an unlikely reward for doing something that gives me so much pleasure. I love watching movies – two, sometimes, three contemporary ones on my weekly Monday outing to the cineplex and then one a day for the rest of the week. However, the bigger reward is being able to mine a decade that is scarcely touched by contemporary academics. I’m sure critical reappraisal, like everything, goes in cycles. I recall massive interest in the films of Humphrey Bogart or Bette Davis. At various times horror or sci fi and noir have been the order of the day.
Although I grew up in the 1960s, I didn’t do much cinemagoing. I lived in the one town in the whole of Britain that – thanks to the planners of a new town – lacked a cinema. Excursions were limited to a family outing at Xmas – a roadshow trip to see The Sound of Music (1965) or Oliver! (1968) – and the summer holidays, which might mean the sumptuous Jason and the Argonauts (1963) or, more likely, less memorable Disney fare. One summer me and my brother were despatched into Glasgow for a matinee showing of El Dorado (1967) – I’m not sure my mother was so aware of Howard Hawks, but still. I also saw Lawrence of Arabia (1962) on reissue and when I could choose to spend my pocket money any way I liked I walked a couple of miles to the La Scala in Clydebank and plonked down my cash for a matinee performance of Custer of the West (1967), Krakatoa, East of Java (1968) and Carry On Again Doctor (1969).
I also sauntered once a week down to the main road to check out the giant hoarding that showed what was showing at the La Scala. Unusually, I was kept well informed of what was on at the main first- and second-run houses in Glasgow because I attended secondary school in the city center and, if I took a later train home, could potter along the two main intersecting streets and check out the stills outside eight cinemas and I learned if you pressed your glass to the window of the front door you could spot a poster advertising what was coming next. By that time I had started buying Photoplay and ABC Film Review.
But my real education started at university. I could rearrange my own schedule to suit and nip off to the cinema at any point and with the beginnings of the multiplex found there were even more movies on offer. I was astonished to discover the university offered a film course as part of a drama course so that was a movie a week, plus I joined the university film society and for a time reviewed movies for the university newspaper so that automatically extended by viewing pleasure to include both the esoteric and the common. I would also scour the city for older films putting in a rare appearance. I saw Spartacus (1961) – on a five-hour double bill – in the vast chasm of the Parade in Dennistoun, visited the Vogue in Riddrie, the Lyceum in Govan, the Odeon at Anniesland, the Mayfair in Battlefield, the Kelburne in Paisley and many others.
Thereafter, I had created a lifelong pleasure. When I moved to London, one of the joys of my Saturday afternoon was nipping into the West End and not just trawling past all the first run houses but also pottering along Wardour St and peering into the windows of all the major studio head offices and discovering forthcoming films that had hadn’t even been mentioned in the fan magazines or even the more esteemed Films and Filming.
I discovered, too, that I didn’t have to wait months, as in Glasgow, for a new film to turn up even at the first run houses, but could see pictures virtually the moment they appeared. Thus, I was one of the first in the queue for Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Alien, Midnight Express and if I didn’t care to fork out West End prices I had two triples close to my home.
Excepting my Monday outings, I don’t have to go anywhere. I just dig into my massive selection of DVDs, prop my feet up every evening and watch an old movie. I’ve no idea, really, why I decided on the 1960s as my chosen era. Perhaps it was because my cinematic education was formed in the 1970s and due to city planners and disinterested parents I had missed out entirely on the 1960s – I didn’t see my first James Bond until the 1970s.
My viewing doesn’t follow, thank goodness, any discernible critical or academic bent. I just pop into the machine whatever takes my fancy. But I’ve realized that students of movies usually stick to a tried-and-tested route, usually decided by previous academics who ignored the vast catalog of movies in favor of a select few and while claiming to study a “period” actually ignore the era because they don’t have a clue what audiences of the decade actually watched and would be shocked that their eclectic tastes were not reflected by the ordinary moviegoer.
Anyway, it’s thanks to you, my viewers, that I owe the honor of celebrating reaching the 250,000-view landmark. So three cheers to you for following me on my journey.
More interesting for the personalities involved – Sam Waterston, Charlotte Rampling, an ex-fighter pilot, an Australian pop star and a model – than the film itself, which presents a European arthouse take on youngsters freewheeling around Europe looking for their share of the free love purportedly available everywhere.
There’s not really any story, mostly it’s scenery, and whatever tension there is rarely rises to the point of drama. However, it is refreshing to see a picture not steeped in angst that reflects the normality of life rather than superficially-imposed heightened confrontation. On a tour of Italy, American college buddies Taylor (Sam Waterston), the shy, gawky one, and Bert (Robie Porter), the better-looking confident one, take up with British girl Marty (Charlotte Rampling). The guys make a pact not to compete for the girl’s attentions, but that idea doesn’t last long. The title suggests she might end up with one – or both. In trying to sell the film, the marketeers felt obliged to make that idea more implicit.
The guys make plays for other girls they meet but seem to find little genuine action and in that sense it is more true to life than other films of the period which suggested sex was there for the asking. But none of the characters are particularly interesting and while that is also more realistic it diminishes enjoyment. The highlight is a naked Taylor attempting to save a girl from drowning in the sea, but in keeping with the film’s tone he is beaten to it by a boat.
There’s not much sign here of the intense dramatic style Oscar nominee Sam Waterston would later bring to the movies. This was his third film after small parts in The Plastic Dome of Norma Jean (1966) and Dick Van Dyke vehicle Fitzwilly (1967) and he wouldn’t hit his stride until The Great Gatsby (1974).
Perhaps the oddest movie fate befell Charlotte Rampling, also a later Oscar nominee. How else to explain that she followed up this picture with Luchino Visconti’s The Damned (1969) and preceded it with Roger Corman’s Target: Harry (1969). With a career that at this point appeared to follow no particular pattern, after making an impact in Georgy Girl (1966) as a libidinous flatmate, she took a small role in The Long Duel (1967) before reaching leading lady status opposite Franco Nero in Italian thriller Sequestro di Persona (1968). Her languid screen persona was turned on its head with The Night Porter (1974). And then she was swept up in Alistair MacLean thriller Caravan to Vaccares (1974).
Who was Robie Porter you might very well ask and why did he only make two pictures, the other being The Carey Treatment (1972)? He was an Australian pop star, specializing in instrumentals on a steel guitar, with a series of hits including two at number one. He chanced his arm in Britain, without repeating that success, then moved to the U.S. and landed parts in television series Daniel Boone and Mannix. After Three, he returned to the music business, as part-owner of record label Sparmac and producing for the band Daddy Cool.
Other names in Three, in bit parts only, none making any discernible impact in the picture, included model Edina Ronay, daughter of celebrated food critic Egon Ronay, who had appeared in A Study in Terror (1965) and Prehistoric Women (1967). Equally as celebrated, if for other reasons, was Gillian Hill, best known as one of the girls cavorting naked with photographer David Hemmings in Blow Up (1966).
Writer-director James Salter was a genuine Hollywood curiosity. He hit a peak of cinematic activity in 1969, with two screenplays filmed – Downhill Racer (1969) and The Appointment (1969). This is pretty much a companion piece to Downhill Racer (1969) which has a bunch of professional skiers on a similar scenic tour and often sitting around with not much to do although that film builds in confrontation and more standard love affair.
Generally considered a “writer’s writer” – i.e. adored by his peers more than the public – his first novel The Hunters (1958), based on his Air Force experiences, was turned into a movie starring Robert Mitchum. He dabbled in documentary film-making, whose impact can be seen in his feature films, but was better known for a short erotic novel A Sport and a Pastime set in Europe. None of his 1969 trio were hits, he ended up in Hollywood limbo, and he didn’t reappear on the movie credits list until Richard Pearce’s sci-fi Threshold (1981) starring Donald Sutherland.
Something of a cult in the peplum vein, Hercules (Reg Park), wanting to enjoy domestic life with his wife and son, is instead drugged by Androcles, King of Thebes (Ettore Manni) and spirited away by ship to Atlantis whose Queen Antinea (Fay Spain) is intent on global domination and the resurrection of the dethroned god Uranus to his rightful place in the heavens.
This isn’t your normal Hercules, either, not that keen on demonstrating his strength, preferring to sleep or lie around. It’s not your normal ship either, Androcles, unable to persuade his senate to properly fund the expedition, has crewed his ship with renegades who are inclined to abandon Hercules on the nearest island And unbeknownst to Hercules, his son has come along for the ride.
Of course, nothing goes according to plan and Hercules is soon shipwrecked on an island where he finds Ismene (Laura Efrikian) imprisoned on a rock as a sacrifice to the gods. Rescue never being simple, Hercules has to first withstand fire then tackle in quick succession snake, lion, eagle and a giant lizard. Ismene turns out to be Antinea’s daughter and the Queen, rather than being delighted at her return, is appalled for, according to the way the ancient world works with all its prophecies and religious ritual, the girl must be sacrificed to prevent the destruction of Atlantis.
Nor is Atlantis your usual kingdom. Even setting aside the peculiarities that mark the Greek world, this is a place where abnormality rules. Hercules finds Androcles, whom he believed died in the shipwreck, but it turns out to be a vision, or some kind of shape-shifting being. The Queen believes she can subjugate nature and has a tendency to throw those who disappoint her into an acid bath. There is a fiery rock that controls life and death.
Like most of the peplum output, you have to accept a standard of production lower than the Hollywood norm, and the terrifying beasts sent to test the hero are not at all convincing, but on the plus side are feats of imagination that mainstream American studios would never conjure up, unless it was something that fitted into the swashbuckling genre. You pretty much have to go with the flow and accept what is offered in terms of narrative oddity. Bear in mind, too, that there is no one dressed in as skimpy a costume as suggested by the poster.
You also need to be get hold of a good copy. Several versions are available, some for free, where the colors are so washed out you can hardly determine what is going on never mind enjoy the costumes, creatures and sets as intended. This was filmed in Technirama 70, shot in 35mm but blown up to70mm widescreen for exhibition, so should generally be of a high technical standard – this was the process used by Spartacus (1960).
It’s not a film to fit into the so-bad-it’s-good category, but of course imagination too often exceeds budget which renders the filmmaking somewhat random at times and like the bulk of the peplums acting skill is not at a premium. As you might expect, the British-born Reg Park was a bodybuilder first – three times winner of the Mr Universe title – and an actor second. He played Hercules again another three times and Maciste once but outside this narrow comfort zone made no other films. But he was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s inspiration, so that was probably enough. American Fay Spain (The Private Life of Adam and Eve, 1960) never got beyond bit parts as a B-movie bad girl and television, although she was seen in The Godfather: Part II (1974). Italian Laura Efrikina made her debut here and cou would later spot her as Dora in the Italian television mini-series David Copperfield (1966).
Director Vittorio Cottafavi was steeped in peplum, from The Warrior and the Slave Girl (1958) to Amazons of Rome (1961) but although he worked consistently in television made only one other picture, 100 Horsemen (1964).
Producer Harold Mirisch purchased the rights to the 1960 Broadway hit play by Lilliam Hellman as a way of hooking William Wyler. He had originally signed up the director in the mid-1950s when his Paramount contract came to an end. This was before the Mirisch Brothers was an independent production entity and later responsible for films like The Apartment (1960), The Magnificent Seven (1960), West Side Story (1961) and The Great Escape (1963). At that point Mirisch worked for Allied, the upmarket offshoot of B-picture outfit Monogram. Allied backed Wyler’s Oscar-nominated western Friendly Persuasion (1956).
In 1960 Wyler was the most celebrated Hollywood director of the era, not just with three Oscars and ten nominations, but riding as high as anyone ever had after the monumental critical and commercial success of Ben-Hur (1959). He had his pick of the projects and had shown “great eagerness” to do Toys in the Attic. He was friends with the playwright Lillian Hellman and had filmed These Three (1936) from her stage play The Children’s Hour and The Little Foxes (1941) from her original screenplay.
But Wyler decided instead to opt for a remake of The Children’s Hour (1961), assuming that changes in public perceptions would permit him to bring to the fore the lesbian elements kept hidden in his previous adaptation, but, critically, it was a Mirisch production.
In his absence, the Mirisch Bros decided to stick with Toys in the Attic, possibly to bolster their attempt to be seen as a purveyor of serious pictures and hence a contender for Oscars, which would solidify their reputation, as would soon be the case. After consultations with distribution and funding partner, United Artists, “it was decided that…since we had considerable investment in (Toys in the Attic)… we should try and put together a film,” explained Walter Mirisch.
Next in line for directorial consideration was Richard Brooks who had acquired a reputation for adapting literary properties after The Brothers Karamazov (1958), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) and Elmer Gantry (1960). Initially, Brooks “had been so insistent and enthusiastic” about becoming involved. However, he, too, rejected the opportunity. He, too, after Oscar and commercial success, was riding high. “It was not because he did not wish to work with the Mirisches because he would be delighted to make a picture for them…but he felt it would be wrong for his career to do a film so similar in mood and background as the one he was working on, Sweet Bird of Youth (1962).”
In fact, it was probably more to do with his financial demands. He wanted $400,000 a picture, which was extremely high at the time, plus “a drawing account of $2,000 a week” (i.e. payment in advance of an actual production). While Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Elmer Gantry had been box office hits, they were nothing like Ben-Hur. And Brooks already had other pictures in mind. He had purchased a book called Goodbye My Son – never filmed – and was already revving up for Lord Jim (1965) funded by Columbia.
Walter Mirisch eventually settled on television director George Roy Hill (Thoroughly Modern Millie, 1967). This would have been his debut except preparations for the movie dragged on and in between Hill helmed Period of Adjustment (1962), an adaptation of another play, this time by Tennessee Williams. He would later direct Hawaii (1966) for Mirisch.
The play had been a significant hit, running for just over a year on Broadway at the Hudson Theater, and making $129,000 profit on a $125,000 investment, though it incurred a loss of $48,000 on a subsequent tour. Hellman did pretty well out of it too. She received ten per cent of the gross and twenty per cent of the profit – a total of around $36,000 – exceptionally good going for a playwright, especially when other monies would be forthcoming from movie rights and foreign and amateur runs. Director Arthur Penn’s share of gross and profit came to over $10,000 in addition to a $5,000 fee.
Turning a play or musical into a movie came with one inbuilt problem. It was inevitably subject to delay. No movie could go into production until the play had exhausted its theatrical (as in stage-play) possibilities. In this case, that meant 58 weeks in the original run and then another 20 weeks once it hit the road. Any contract with a significant movie player would have to include the possibility that in the meantime star or director would have lined up other projects while awaiting the green light on this one, and that in itself could cause further hold-ups.
Hill was in greater demand than Mirisch anticipated, juggling four separate projects – Period of Adjustment, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for MGM (never made), and the $2.5 million A Bullet for Charlemagne starring Sidney Poitier (not made) as well as Toys in the Attic.
Jason Robards, star of the play, was the obvious contender for the movie role. But he lacked box office cachet, so he was bypassed in favor of Dean Martin, “an attractive motion-picture figure.” However, in the time it took the movie version of the play to reach the public, Robards was potentially a screen star. He had bought himself out his stage contract after 37 weeks – paying $3,950 for the privilege – having been offered second billing on By Love Possessed (1961) opposite Lana Turner, and in Twentieth Century Fox’s ambitious mounting of Tender Is the Night (1962) opposite Jennifer Jones. While Robards would never become as big a star as Dean Martin, he was the superior actor, later adding two Oscars and one nomination to his name.
In addition to being much better known to cinema audiences than Robards, “we felt he (Martin) would bring humor to it” – Martin having originally made a splash as part of the Martin-Lewis comedy team of the 1950s – “as well as an audience that might expand the normal constituency of that type of film.” Trade magazine Box Office agreed with the decision, viewing Martin as a “good choice for the haunted show-off.”
The play’s other stars – Oscar nominee (and later winner) Maureen Stapleton (The Fugitive Kind, 1960) – and Irene Worth (Seven Seas to Calais, 1962) – were ignored in favor of Geraldine Page, who incidentally scored an Oscar nomination in Summer and Smoke, and Wendy Hiller (Sons and Lovers, 1960), who already had an Oscar. Shooting began on September 16, 1962. Hill tried to “inject more suspense, more action, more melodrama into the movie version,” without cheapening the material. He was convinced the hiring of Martin was inspired, and would prove a personal turning point, as he gives “the best dramatic job of his career.”
Titles didn’t matter so much on Broadway, plays sold on the name of the writer or the star. Mirisch feared Toys in the Attic would either mean nothing to a general audience ignorant of the picture’s origins or be considered so obscure as to serve to confuse them. So, they planned to rename it Fever Street or “some sensational substitute.” Hill was furious, pointing out the “violence of his feelings” to this title. He complained that “others will assume that it is an exploitation title…a cheap gimmick to get people into the theater (cinema) … automatically puts the picture in a low budget quickie picture category that might be appropriate for 42nd St all-night houses or a second feature at Loews 86 St.”
Hill felt changing the title would demonstrate that Mirisch was “ashamed to have bought the play Toys in the Attic, have no faith in the picture, are resorting to panic tactics to get some money out.” And that Fever Street would have the opposite effect, and “keep people away in droves.” His impassioned plea worked, and the original title remained.
While backing down on the title, Mirisch veered towards the exploitative in the main poster which showed Dean Martin slugging Yvette Mimieux.
However, United Artists remained in two minds about the release policy. Despite the prestige of being chosen for the San Sebastian Festival, United Artists opted to open it in New York as part of a “showcase” run. That was a relativelynew distribution notion, a version of regional wide release. It would eventually be refined to allow several weeks in prestigious first run venues first, but inclusion in this release pattern meant first run was simultaneous with an opening in – in this case – another 20 New York neighbourhood cinemas. Had UA had more faith in the project, it might have benefitted from an opening just in first run. The $55,000 first week from two first run houses on Broadway was judged a “wow” result by Variety. First run in other major cities suggested a prestige title – “very stout” $15,000 in Boston, a “sock” $14,000 in Washington D.C., “neat” $14,000 in Buffalo, while it was “bright” in Kansas City ($8,000), Los Angeles ($10,000) and Chicago ($18,000).
Hill’s concerns about United Artists’ ability to sell the picture were mirrored in the result. “It did not turn out well,” concluded Walter Mirich, “It’s a grim story. It was not well reviewed and was not financially successful.” Part of the reason for its failure, he argued, was that it “probably appeared at the end of a cycle” of American Broadway adaptations of heavy Tennessee Williams dramas.
While the movie came in $70,000 below the $2.1 million budget, the savings were put down to the fact that it was filmed in black-and-white rather than color, as had been originally envisioned. The box office followed a common, but disturbing, trajectory, a big hit in the big cities, mostly ignored elsewhere. But it was not as bad as all that. Mirisch tallied the domestic box office as $1.7 million with another $900,000 from the overseas box office. By its estimation, once marketing costs were considered, it was facing a loss of $183,000. But that was before television revenue entered the equation and that should have at the very least, made up the difference. There were various pickings later on, too, picked up by CPI under the “Best of Broadway” label in 1981.
SOURCES: Walter Mirisch, I Thought we Were Making Movies, Not History (University of Wisconsin press, 2008) p157-159. Leon Goldberg, “Office Rushgram: Final Cost on Toys in the Attic, May 13, 1964, United Artists Files, Wisconsin Center for Film and Theater Research; “Mirisch Pictures Box Office Figures,” UA Files; Letter,” George Roy Hill to Walter Mirisch, March 15, 1963, UA Files; “Lillian Hellman Could Mop Up if Toys Clicks,” Variety, February 4, 1960, p103; “Toys Exit,” Variety, January 18, 1961, p72; “George Roy Hill To Direct Toys for Mirisch Co,” Box Office, January 22, 1962, pE8; “Hollywood Report,” Box Office, February 22, 1962, p16; “George Roy Hill Announces First Film on UA Deal,” Box Office, March 19, 1962, p16; “Bloomgarden Had Varied Fortune,” Variety, August 29, 1962, p49; “Toys in Attic Chosen for San Sebastian Festival,” Box Office, June 10, 1963, pE8; “Premiere Showcase,” Variety, July 31, 1963, p22. Box office figures from Variety issues dated August 7, August 14, August 21, September 4, September 11 and October 23.
Dean Martin is at his best when he’s not playing the character you expect. Coming over as big and brash came to define his screen persona, and that just wasn’t, unless a comedy job where he was being set up to be taken down a peg or two, as interesting as his quieter, slow-burn performances in Rough Night in Jericho (1967) or Five Card Stud (1967). To some extent Geraldine Page was known for over-the-top performances, generally quivering on the edge of some emotional disaster. Even in Dear Heart (1964), which I adored, despite her lively exterior, that was her character.
So you match that pair with relatively raw director George Roy Hill (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 1969) and you can see the problems he has reining them in, especially as the movie is based on a topline Broadway drama written by the highly-venerated Lillian Hellman (The Chase, 1966). Screenwriter James Poe (Riot, 1969) accommodates some scenes outside the smothering atmosphere of the home of sisters Carrie (Geraldine Page) and Anna (Wendy Hiller).
Given it’s set in sweaty muggy New Orleans, the shadow of Tennessee Williams hangs heavily over the picture, though the Deep South twangs are not fully in evidence. Throw in that their brother Julian (Dean Martin) has brought home a child bride Lily (Yvette Mimieux), suspicious not just of her newfound environment but of her possibly already-straying husband, plus that he returns a wealthy man, when normally his entrepreneurship has usually dealt a losing hand, and you have the making of a rather predictable tale of home truths, overheated emotions and a hint of incestuous longing.
This is the kind of tale, reverberating with unhappiness and frustration, that requires an unlikely trigger to get going. It’s not as dumb as the murderer in the recently-reviewed “five-star” so-bad-it’s-good Doctors Wives (1971) who funds an escape from police custody by blackmailing his wife’s extensive band of lovers and getting a colleague to momentarily pretend to take on his identity.
This time it’s an overheard phone call and the conniving Carrie who suggests to the new bride that Julian has taken up with old lover Charlotte (Nan Martin), the source of his newfound wealth by helping him buy up cheaply land that her husband Cyrus (Larry Gates) needs for his business. This not only puts the marriage in danger but, when Cyrus realizes he has been duped by his wife, Julian’s life is threatened.
This is one of those films where the plot threatens to run away with the story which is essentially that the two sisters have come to expect that their wastrel brother is dependent on them and cannot accept it when he is not. Whereas dealing with a depressed loser maintains the family status quo, coming to terms with a winner takes some doing and jeopardizes existing relationships.
The sisters are equally jealous of each other, so there’s constant niggling. Escape is in the offing for too many of the characters. Julian, from his down-at-heel existence, the sisters from their poverty, Charlotte from her clearly over-dominant husband and Lily from what seems like an ill-chosen husband. That, in several instances, escape pivots on revenge makes the situation sweeter.
The sisters have the best scenes, but that’s a limitation. While audiences watching a stage play might remain in rapt awe at actresses dealing with their frustrations, within the confines of a movie, it weighs the picture down, two old maids quarrelling is hardly a concept that would have movie fans signing up.
Stage plays often suffered from translation to screen, if the characters were not sufficiently louder than life. It’s significant that none of the works of Arthur Miller, not even his masterpiece Death of a Salesman, managed this. Tennessee Williams was more successful because of leading characters with explosive temperaments. The Glass Menagerie (1950), A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), The Rose Tattoo (1955), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) and Suddenly, Last Summer (1959) were showered with Oscar wins and nominations and generally hit the box office mother lode.
Lillian Hellman was largely in the Arthur Miller category when translating her stage plays to the screen. While The Dark Angel (1935) and These Three (1936) had enjoyed some success, The Children’s Hour (1961) had stumbled at the box office.
Fans of Dean Martin didn’t enjoy him going all hi-hat and in truth he comes up short compared to Wendy Hiller (Sons and Lovers, 1960) and Geraldine Page, both nominated for Golden Globes. Yvette Mimieux (Diamond Head, 1962) continues to show promise and Gene Tierney (The Pleasure Seekers, 1964) puts in an appearance.
Amicus was part of an unholy triumvirate – the others being Hammer and American International – serving up horror during the 1960s to a global audience. Less prolific than the others, Amicus, headed up by expatriate New Yorkers Milton Subotsky and Max Rosenberg, had an American distribution deal with Paramount.
However, the pair had been more successful, at least in Britain, on the sci fi front, Dr Who and the Daleks (1965), an adaptation of the highly successful BBC television series, had been a huge hit on the domestic front, with the sequel Daleks Invasion Earth 2150AD (1966) not too far behind. But both had landed like a damp squid in the U.S.
Nor had their previous incursion into the horror fields done much better. Dr Terror’s House of Horrors (1965) had only managed a release as a supporting feature in Britain. The same fate was accorded The Skull (1965), but only after sitting on the shelf for a year. So a great deal was riding on their third horror picture. The whopping success of Dr Who and the Daleks, at least in Britain, guaranteed them a stay of execution.
“I like making horror films,” said Subotsky, “or perhaps I should say films of imagination rather than reality. The second thing is I like silent pictures. I think you should be able to tell a story visually and not by talking. And in horror films you can have long stretches of action.”
The Psychopath – initially going before the cameras as Schizo – looked a promising venture. The biggest name attached was quite a catch, even if not one who would feature in the picture. Robert Bloch, courtesy of Pyscho (1960), filmed to enormous critical and commercial acclaim by Alfred Hitchcock, was the most famous name in horror. He had penned the story that became The Skull. In addition to buying the rights to his story, this time Amicus lined him up for screenwriting duties.
In front of the camera, Amicus gambled on Patrick Wymark, a big British television star courtesy of The Plane Makers (1963-1965) who was elevated to top billing after playing the second lead in The Skull. Direction was once again by Freddie Francis, who had won the Oscar for cinematography for Sons and Lovers (1960). Francis specialized in horror – helming The Brain (1962), Paranoiac (1963), Nightmare (1964) and The Evil of Frankenstein (1965) before becoming Amicus’s in-house director with Dr Terror’s House of Horrors (1965) – the first of the portmanteau features with which Amicus would later be associated – and The Skull.
He was credited with a distinct individual visual style – attracting the attention of Cahiers du Cinema and French critics – and was considered a safe pair of hands. However, that last element was tested here. Halfway through shooting it was obvious the movie was going to come up short in terms of running time. It was already intended to be a tight little feature, at a projected 80 minutes. It was apparent that without substantial changes the movie would come in ten minutes shy of the planned time. Even at 80 minutes, it would struggle to qualify for main feature status. At 70 minutes, it would have no chance.
The producers did not always see eye-to-eye. Although Milton Subotsky had been responsible for setting up the project, Rosenberg soon took over. Complained Subotsky, “I found Max could really be a bully when he wanted and he had nasty temper. I’ll admit I was never good at standing up for myself and he just walked all over me.”
However, when the movie hit the running time stumbling block, Rosenberg had to turn to his colleague for help. Subotsky had written Dr Terror’s House of Horrors, Dr Who and the Daleks and The Skull. Taking a utilitarian approach, Subotsky availed himself of whoever was on set or available.
The burden fell on Robert Crewdon who played the sculptor Victor. Subotsky added his murder scene which was shot in a scrapyard created on the back lot at Shepperton with a batch of old cars purchased for £300. Subotsky apparently also directed the scene since Freddie Francis was busy elsewhere.
However, the running time wasn’t the only problem. Once the picture was complete, it was fairly obvious who the killer was. So Subotsky took over the task of re-editing the movie as well. “Apart from wanting to be a writer, (Milton) wanted to be an editor,” explained Freddie Francis.
Subotsky rearranged the picture so that “every time Patrick Wymark opens his mouth, we cut away from him, and overlaid his dialog, and every time someone replied we overlaid their dialog. And we changed the whole last scene with post-synched dialog and that way we changed the murderer.”
Though reviews were generally positive – “atmospheric thriller” (Box Office), “top grade shocker” (Variety), the backers were not happy with the result, even the extended version. The extra 13 minutes of footage wasn’t sufficient to win a main release of the British ABC circuit – it went out as support and later was reissued with The Skull. In the U.S. it had a varied, though hardly wide, release. In some cities, Paramount sent it out as support to The Naked Prey. In first run in St Louis, Cincinnati, Boston and Portland, it was the main feature with supports including reissues of Nevada Smith (1966) and Lady in a Cage (1964) Box office was generally “tepid,” “mild” or “dull”. It supported A Study in Terror (1965) in Kansas City and Chamber of Horrors (1966) in Toronto. It didn’t make much money in either country, but did very well in Italy.
Robert Bloch wasn’t pleased either. “The idea is better than the film,” he complained. “It would have made a better one-hour teleplay than a feature.”
This was the third in Amicus’s four-picture deal with Paramount and after The Deadly Bees (1967), the Hollywood studio severed contact.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this company best known for its horror output is that for a considerable period it tried to shuck off that tag. To some extent, it became a horror specialist by default because other projects failed to get off the ground – for example in 1964 it was scheduled to make How I Won the War with Richard Lester for United Artists and Adventure Island based on an Arthur C Clarke tale for Universal – or because a switch into other genres failed to hit the box office mark.
After the dual flop of The Deadly Bees (1967) and Torture Garden (1967), the duo lined up spy thriller Danger Route (1969) and literary drama A Touch of Love/Thank You Very Much (1969) with Oscar winner Sandy Dennis. They should have been followed by adaptations of Ancient Pond by Courtney Brown – described as “a novel of passion and revenge in a war-ravaged city” – and sci fi satire The Richest Corpse in Showbusiness by Dan Morgan, both novels purchased in 1967. But neither was greenlit and eventually Amicus returned to what it did best – horror.
As evidenced by its popularity in Italy often considered a forerunner of the giallo subgenre. While the involvement of Robert Bloch brings hints – mother-fixation, knife-wielding killer – of his masterpiece Psycho (1960), here some of those themes as reversed. And the stolid detective and younger buddy suggests the kind of pairing that would populate British television from The Sweeney (1975-1978) onwards. Surprising, then, with all these competing tones that it comes out as completely as the vision of director Freddie Francis (The Skull, 1965), especially his use of a rich color palette that would be the envy of Luchino Visconti (The Leopard, 1963).
Theoretically mixing two genres, crime and horror, the resonance figures mostly towards the latter. Considering the crime element just for a moment, this features a serial killer, in the opposite of what we know as normal multiple murder convention, who leaves a memento at the scene of the crime rather than taking one away such as a lock of hair or something more intimate. Also, the list of suspects rapidly diminishes as they all turn into victims, still leaving, cleverly enough, a couple of contenders.
What’s most striking is the direction. Francis finds other ways rather than gore to disturb the viewer. The first death, a hit-and-run, focuses on the violin case, dropped by the victim, being crushed again and again under the wheels of the car. There’s a marvelous scene where a potential victim tumbles down a series of lifeboats.
The camera concentrates more on the villain’s armory than their impact: noose, knife, oxy-acetylene torch, jar of poison, the lifeboats, the aforementioned car. There are intriguing jump-cuts. We go from the smashed violin to a very active one, part of a string quartet. From toy dolls in rocking chair to skeletal sculpture. From a string of metal loops choking a victim to a man forking up spaghetti.
We go from the very conventional to the jarring, serene string quartet and loving daughter to wheelchair bound widow talking to the dolls, so real to her she shuts some naughty ones away in a cupboard. We move from one cripple to another, from real toys to human toys, to a human who talks like a wind-up toy.
It soon occurs to our jaded jaundiced cop Inspector Holloway (Patrick Wymark) that the victims are connected, all members of the string quartet who were on a war crimes commission during the Second World War. At each murder the memento left, a doll with the face of the victim, leads the detective to investigate doll makers and then a doll collector, Mrs von Sturm (Margaret Johnson), widow of a man the commission condemned. Could it be the simplest motive of all – revenge? But why now?
The string quartet are an odd bunch, and on their own, you wouldn’t be surprised to find all of them capable of murder – sleazy sculptor Ledoux (Robert Crewdson) with naked women in his studio, the wealthy Dr Glyn (Colin Gordon) so weary of his patients he wished he’d become a plumber instead, the selfish over-protective father Saville (Alexander Knox) whose neediness prevents his daughter Louise (Judy Huxtable) marrying. Her American fiancé, Loftis (Don Borisenko), a trainee doctor, is also in the frame.
Mrs von Sturm could be the killer, her wheelchair a front – apparently housebound she manages a visit to Saville, though still in her chair. Her nervy son Mark (John Standing) also appears an odd fish.
As I mentioned, Holloway scarcely has to disturb his grey cells, the deaths of virtually all the suspects eventually make his job pretty darned easy. But Francis’s compositions let no one escape. Long shot is prime. Staircases fulfil visual purpose. The creepiness of the doll scenes wouldn’t be matched until Blade Runner (1982). Stunning twists at the end, and the last shot takes some beating.
Margaret Johnson (Night of the Eagle, 1962) is easily the standout, but she underplays to great effect. Patrick Wymark (The Skull, 1965) steps up to top-billing to act as the movie’s baffled center, with more of the cop’s general disaffection than was common at the time. Alexander Knox (Fraulein Doktor, 1969) knows his character is sufficiently malignant to equally underplay. The false notes are struck by Judy Huxtable (The Touchables, 1969) and Don Borisenko (Genghis Khan, 1964), both resolutely wooden.
Freddie Francis is on top form. Not quite in the league of The Skull. Commendably short, scarcely topping the 80-minute mark.
Has there ever been actress so skilled at displaying fear as Daliah Lavi? Where the female stars of horror movies too quickly succumbed to the scream and goggle eyes, Lavi could run a whole gamut of terror without uttering a sound and continue doing so for virtually an entire picture. Top-billed ahead of the reigning king of British horror Christopher Lee, this is another acting tour de force, not quite sustaining the intensity of The Demon (1963) but at times not far off it.
Italian director Mario Bava (Black Sabbath, 1963), here masquerading as John M. Old, has stitched together a mixture of horror, and an early form of giallo, the picture taking place in the classic old dark house, in this case a castle perched on a rock above the sea, the deaths grisly, and almost fits into the “locked room” subgenre of the detective story, where the murders appear impossible to carry out.
The disgraced Kurt Menliff (Christopher Lee) returns to his ancestral home, begging forgiveness from his father Count Vladimir (Gustavo De Nardo) and hoping to reclaim his inheritance and his betrothed Nevenka (Daliah Lavi). While his father exonerates him, Kurt is denied the rest, Nevenka already committed to marriage to his brother Christian (Tony Kendall). Other tensions are soon evident: the housekeeper Giorgia wants revenge on Kurt for the death of her daughter and Christian is in love with another, Katia (Evelyn Stewart).
Nevenka who outwardly protests how much she hates Kurt quickly reveals masochistic tendencies as she gives in to a whipping. But Kurt’s sudden inexplicable murder instigates an investigation, suspicion falling firstly on the father, then Christian and finally Giorgia.
But Nevenka is convinced Kurt is not dead, although his body has been entombed in the castle crypt. Torment creeps into her face at his funeral and we can almost see her grow gaunt in front of our eyes. In a brilliant scene where she tracks what she imagines to be the sound of a whip it turns out to be a branch lashing a window in a storm. Some of her supposed visions are easily explained, muddy footsteps leading from Kurt’s tomb actually belonging to the limping manservant Losat (Luciano Pigozzi). But how do you account for the hand, in an almost 3D shape, reaching out to her in the darkness? Or her ecstasy in still being whipped, her nightdress stripped from her back?
Although sometimes relying too heavily on atmospherics – windows swinging open at night, storm outside – Bava brilliantly marshals the real and the imagined, until the investigation into murder involves all the characters. Once the film begins, the drawbridge in a sense comes down, and nobody else enters the castle, and so we move from one character to another, each with their own motive for possibly committing dire deed. And with each passing moment we return to the demented Nevenka, who wishes Kurt dead but cannot live without him, and, craving the whip, cannot escape his sadistic power. Her faith in Kurt’s resurrection is so intense that the others are soon seeking signs that the dead man is still alive.
This is a horror superior to Hammer. Using the same leading man, the British studio generally expected Lee to be over-the-top, his innate malevolence generally very obvious from the start. Here, he is at his most handsome and although definitely sadistic, the emphasis is less on his pleasure than that of his victim. And while Bava resorts to a similar kind of set, this castle is remote, has no relationship with villagers, and exudes regal dominance rather than just the normal fear of a Dracula picture. Bava employs a more subtle color palette and the piano theme tune by Carlo Rusticelli has a romantic tone.
But for all Bava’s proven skill, this would not be the same without Lavi. I doubt if there is a single actress in the horror domain throughout the 1960s who could match the actress for portraying fright, as she marches up the scale from mere anxiety to full-blown terror. And although women in Dracula movies succumbed to vampire teeth with more than a frisson of sexuality, there is a different deeper sensuality at work here, in what must rank as one of the greatest-ever portrayals of masochism embedded in love.
As noted previously, Lavi, in stepping onto the bigger Hollywood canvas of Lord Jim (1965) and The Silencers (1966), lost the intensity she displayed here and never came close to matching this performance or that of The Demon. Christopher Lee, although claiming to dislike his experience, continued to rule the horror world until he was afforded a wider audience through James Bond, Star Wars, J.R.R. Tolkien and Tim Burton.
Tony Kendall, making his debut, soon graduated to the Kommissar X series, spaghetti westerns (he played Django twice), horror (Return of the Evil Dead, 1973), and thrillers such as Machine Gun McCain (1969). Evelyn Stewart went down much the same route, her long career sprinkled with gems like Django Shoots First (1966), The Sweet Body of Deborah (1968) and The Psychic (1977).
Mario Bava continued to exploit the horror vein including Blood and Black Lace (1964), Planet of the Vampires (1965) and Lisa and the Devil (1973) with Telly Savalas and Elke Sommer.
An absolute delight, great storytelling married to groundbreaking special effects produces an adventure picture of the highest order. Though mostly known for its Ray Harryhausen stop-motion animation, its success also relied heavily on the direction of Don Chaffey (The Viking Queen, 1967) and a great script. It’s one of the few films to benefit from not being viewed in its original size, the small screen minimizing the flaws of the special effects. In essence it’s a combination of three genres – the Italian peplum, the men-on-a-mission picture and the classic detective story.
Plus there are interesting stabs at philosophy – if man refuses to believe in the gods, do they cease to exist? And if the golden fleece brings peace and prosperity to a nation what will happen to that country when it is stolen? And if various people call on their own gods for help will that not create conflict in heaven as much as on earth? And the ultimately question – what can man achieve without celestial interference?
While the episodic structure derives from the clues meted out piecemeal to hero Jason (Todd Armstrong) during his long voyage to find the golden fleece these often come minus vital pieces of information ensuring that surprise remains a key element.
Without doubt special effects are the triumph, although some work better than others. The highlights for me were the towering bronze statue of Talos and the skeleton warriors. I can’t be the only one who thinks that some of the visuals in Game of Thrones were inspired by the sight of Talos astride two land masses separated by the sea. Talos is not so much a man-mountain as an actual mountain, first viewed coming round the corner of a cliff top, his head topping it. But where, except for cunning Jason, the crewmen are viewed primarily in miniature in relation to the giant Talos, the skeletons are the same size as the adventurers and the fight scene all the more impressive as the ensuing battle appears completely real.
Scale allows Harryhausen to wriggle out of the problems of contact. If the creatures are out of reach anyway, there’s little need to attempt to bring them into close proximity. The way the Harpies are utilized, close enough to strip clothes from a blind man but otherwise hovering just out of reach, is a classic example of clever direction. The multi-headed Hydra, on the other hand, is the least convincing monster simply because it is impossible for Jason to get close to the beast. Scale is also one of the film’s best weapons. The scenes where a miniaturized Jason is transported to Mount Olympus to face the gods are well done as are the occasions when the gods peer down on tiny man.
Outside of the special effects and the varying degrees of excitement aroused, in the background there is constant intrigue. Jason is the son of the King of Thessaly slain by the usurper Pelias (Douglas Wilmer) and his crew includes Acastus (Gary Raymond), son of Pelias, whose task is to cause trouble and if Jason succeeds in his endeavor to kill him. On top of that, there is a heavenly battle over Jason’s fate. Jason, having defied Zeus (Niall MacGinnis) by first of all refusing to believe he exists and that his life is determined by fate, becomes enmeshed in a battle between the king of the gods and his wife Hera (Honor Blackman) who grants Jason a get-out-jail-free card, the ability to call on her help, but only five times.
Jason determines to recruit his own team and in the manner of The Guns of Navarone (1961) and The Professionals (1966) they are all experts in their fields but unlike that film and The Dirty Dozen (1967) are willing conscripts. The team also includes Hercules (Nigel Green) and Hylas (John Cairney) and in the first of the film’s many surprises and reversals, the weedy latter is able to beat the muscular former in a contest of strength.
There is enough incident to keep the story ticking along but Don Chaffey fills in the blanks with montage, the various essentials of a ship – sails, oarsmen, sides, stern, figurehead, pace set by drumbeat – and a full color palette from the bright blue sky, to dawn and dusk and sunset and night, a wonderful image of rowers at sunset on the sea the pick. He also makes great use of the sea – pounding surf, storms, the sea turned tempest by the clashing rocks, a shipwreck. And we have dancing girls, colorful costumes, ancient backdrops and the sense that the budget has been well spent
Some scenes call for immense skills in coupling special effects with real characters. For the clashing rocks sequence five elements are simultaneously in play: the crew in danger, a tempest, rocks crashing into the water, the ship itself and Neptune.
And the romance is well handled dramatically: if Jason rescues Medea (Nancy Kovack) then she too rescues him. Love produces conflict. To love Jason, Medea must betray her country. There is hardly a moment when Jason, confronted either by monsters or kings, does not face death.
In addition, there is a stunning score by Bernard Herrmann (Psycho, 1960).
Any top-notch acting would have been over-shadowed by the special effects. Which is just as well because the entire cast is drawn from the lower strata of the stardom ladder. Todd Armstrong, from the Manhunt tv series (1961), needs only not to mess up, which he manages adequately. Nancy Kovack (Diary of a Madman, 1963) does well to make an impact given she does not appear until the final third. This did not turn out to be much of a star-making vehicle for either. Honor Blackman drops the slinky persona with which she had made her name in The Avengers tv series (1962-1964) and instead plays a confident goddess willing to out-maneuver husband Zeus.
The rest of the cast comprises a regiment of future movie supporting actors – Nigel Green (Tobruk, 1967), Niall MacGinnis (The Viking Queen, 1967) and Douglas Wilmer (The Brides of Fu Manchu, 1966). Future television stars range from Patrick Troughton (the second Dr Who) and Scottish actor John Cairney (This Man Craig, 1966-1967) to Laurence Naismith (The Persuaders, 1971), Gary Raymond (The Rat Patrol, 1966-1968), Mike Gwynn (Poison Island, 1965) and Andrew Faulds (The Protectors, 1964).
The screenplay was written by Jan Read (First Men on the Moon, 1964) and Beverley Cross (The Long Ships, 1964), husband of Maggie Smith. Cross returned to ancient worlds again for producer Charles H. Schneer for Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (1977) and Clash of the Titans (1981)
Although the ending appeared to leave the door open for a sequel, none was made. A huge box office hit in Britain, it did not repeat its success elsewhere.
I first saw this film as a boy and was so enthralled I wouldn’t have noticed if there was anything awry with the special effects. I have not seen it since. Coming at with some degree of skepticism I found that attitude misplaced. I was equally enthralled.
Interviews are always over-hyped. These days, with thousands of media mouths to feed, interviews are surface-friendly, a big splash to hook the reader and then very little content. Stars and directors do not grant, as they did in the past to the likes of Rolling Stone or Vanity Fair, in-depth interviews where the journalist has been granted several days holed up with the subject.
More likely, a reporter is stitching something together after being in a room with a hundred other media skunks being told the same rehashed story.
So it came as an enormous surprise to find an interview as refreshing as this. In part it succeeds because the interviewer isn’t a journalist at all, but an actor, Paul Mescal, star of Scott’s latest opus, Gladiator II, and in part because it reads like a conversation between mates, one where the dialog follows no set path as it would had a journalist been in charge and dives into the director’s artistic development in great detail. Part of the joy of the feature is that Mescal ignored four pages of “suggested questions” set by The Guardian newspaper’s features team in favor of going his own way. So what we get is Scott responding to Mescal’s urgent curiosity rather than to an old hack asking the same old questions.
Scott explains his obsession with cinema from an early age resulted in him getting a free pass to his local Odeon by agreeing to paint huge posters for their forthcoming features. At night he watched television endlessly – “image, image, image,” he recalls.
He had little intention of pursuing a cinematic career when studying at art college in 1962 but came across a 16mm Bolex cine camera and decided to make a short film, Boy and Bicycle (1965), funded to the tune of £65 by the college, and helped along by brother Tony, mother doing the voiceover, which he later edited at the BBC, sneaking in at night when everyone had gone home. He didn’t learn to edit – he just did it. At the BBC where he originally worked as a set designer he was considered “the oik from up north” compared to the Oxbridge set in power. Paid £75 a week, he was delighted to be offered commercials which paid £100 a time. So he quit the BBC and set up his own advertising business, making 100 commercials a year. “I learned that the best and fastest solution – because I paint with pictures – was to be a camera operator….I could do anything with a camera.” And did that job on Alien, Thelma and Louise and others.
On Blade Runner, he was “inventing the wheel…a new language but I wasn’t a kid. I was 44 and already had my second Rolls Royce.”
The most important lesson he learned was casting. “I try to form a partnership with the actor. And so I’m listening to you as much as you’re listening to me. That is essential. A casting director can be as valuable as a good cameraman…I didn’t come to that (casting) with any formal training….You just cast the actor. Once they’ve said yes, they’re gonna work it out in the kitchen by themselves…On the set I say, “show me.” We’ll rehearse it on camera, and I go “wow” or “where did that come from” or “no.” I’ve already seen all the colours in their paintbox. I watched eight hours of Normal People (before I cast you i.e Mescal). Within that you cover a lot of emotional layer and ground.”
He considers shooting Boy and Bicycle as the defining moment of his career. He recalls being in the trunk of his father’s car – father driving it – with the Bolex and “my brother’s to the side on a bicycle. We drive underneath the bridge.” When he edited it he though it was “good.” He chased John Barry to get permission to use a piece of his music. The composer’s going rate was £1500, but after six weeks of persuasion gave in.
Next on the agenda. Possibly a sequel to Gladiator II and various other projects. But Scott has a hankering to do a musical and/or a western, set around 1829, “pre-trains with cattle catchers and pre-batwing saloon doors. Where the force of nature is the biggest enemy you’ve got.”
I reckon I’ve sampled enough of this much lengthier interview.
You can find the full, much more extensive interview here:
The Magnificent 60s 