Brian Hannan

Grenfell (2023) ****

The single take has been the Holy Grail of directors ever since Alfred Hitchcock just about managed to use it for the entirety of Rope (1948). A quarter of a century on critics were raving about the complete one-take circle Michelangelo Antonioni achieved in The Passenger (1975) and half a century later for Sam Mendes’s 1917 (2019). Every now and then an audacious director tries to earn kudos by employing the single take for long periods or editing a film in such a way as to get the same effect.

Oscar-winning British director Steve McQueen (12 Years A Slave, 2013) has jumped to the top of that particular technical tree by shooting all of Grenfell in one single mostly silent aerial take. I happen to be a big fan of the single take, much as I thoroughly enjoy reading long sentences in books. And for the same reason: the result is often hypnotic.

The movie opens in the sky a good distance from London to which the camera moves in stately progression. Below is traditional English countryside cut up by long avenues of trees. As we approach the city of London, all that divides the close-packed houses are other houses, although, it being England, there are still swathes of green.

This is what Grenfell looked like in 2009. Now it’s windowless and blackened.
Photocredit: Robin Sones, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=59911338

We take a right as we fly over Wembley Station, the soccer fan’s Holy Grail, home of the F.A. Cup Final, international football matches and countless rock concerts including the legendary Live Aid (most recently replicated in Bohemian Rhapsody, 2018). Gradually, in the distance appears something untoward. We are not close enough to the ground to see when buildings have lost their sheen, but high enough so that they still seem solid. But up ahead, coming slowly into view, is a jarring spectacle.

A charred skyscraper. Grenfell Tower. The remains of a devastating fire that in June 2017 killed 72 inhabitants. Some of the lower floors are white, which makes the upper floors stand out in sharper contrast. What work is going on is hard to determine – there’s a crane and men working on scaffolding. Maybe they are just adding more white panels to cover up the ruin, some kind of PR exercise to rid the city of the monstrosity and the memory of what happens when money talks and warnings are ignored.

The building is a rarity for such a devastating fire. After blazes with such a high death toll, there’s not much left of a structure, usually an empty shell, or as with the 9/11 Twin Towers nothing at all. This was a different kind of fire. Faulty easily-combustible plastic “cladding” – “siding” to use the American term as in the ubiquitous “aluminum siding” that Richard Dreyfuss and Danny DeVito sold in Tin Men (1987) – caused the catastrophe, allowing flames to race up the sides, emanating toxic smoke, too quickly for those inside to escape.

The camera takes a few turns around the building and you can glimpse the dead interior and imagine the lives once lived.

It’s not a long film. Only 24 minutes, and a chunk of that taken up with just getting there. Now it stands as a monument to injustice. Though the building lies within a prosperous London borough, only the poor lived here, and possibly might have only done so until they could be kicked out and the building demolished by a more normal means so that upmarket apartments could be sold to richer people.

As the camera rotates round the building, coming at it from slightly different angles, and without music to infuse it with deceptive grandeur, the result is less hypnotic than disorientating and your mind has to work hard to snatch at the images being shown, taking a while to realize that there’s going to be no coup de theatre, no grandstand finish, no sigh of relief – none of the “oh, that’s what it’s all about” that accompanies some opaque arthouse picture.

It ends as it begins with a blank screen, no credits.

It’s something of a cult film. There’s only one print and it’s only showing in one cinema, and not the kind you find in a multiplex, just a space within the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park in London. Admission is free and there are several showings at day. It was self-funded by McQueen, who had links to the Grenfell community, went to art school nearby and ran a stall at a market not far away. But it’s not intended for commercial purpose. There might not even be a DVD or end up on a streaming channel as I guess part of the experience is to see it with a group of people and all come out shell-shocked to the foyer and stare at the list of the names of the victims.

It’s running in London till May 10 so maybe if you’re over for the Coronation of King Charles you might just happen upon it. I was in London on Sunday past visiting my son and he had arranged the tickets. He’s pretty good at this sort of thing, one other time I saw him he had got tickets to see that eternally-long film about clocks (whose name I forget) at the Tate. I doubt if anyone’s going to fly thousands of miles just to see it, but my guess is it will eventually go on tour and be shown in one museum after another.

Unlike the Twin Towers, there’s no one group to blame, but like the worst of ordinary disasters it’s a combination of various corporations and community officials whose watchword is greed or disinterest rather than common humanity.

Shadow of Treason (1963) **

Tracking down forgotten B-pictures it’s easy to convince yourself you’re going to uncover an under-rated gem. Sadly, despite mixing film noir with espionage and a treasure hunt, this fails dismally at getting over the line.

And that’s a shame because the credits roll over a background of long shadows, recalling instantly to mind not a film noir trope but the later famed poster of The Wild Bunch (1969). And there’s an excellent repetitive theme by Martin Slavin (Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace (1962), an interesting striptease involving a bear, and a superb chase sequence where the pursuer is in a wheelchair. Otherwise, it’s got such a convoluted storyline you wished someone could get on top of it sooner rather than dragging the audience from Trieste to Dubrovnik to Somaliland.

*Femme fatale No 1 Anita West literally in a hole with John Bentley.*

In his final movie British star John Bentley, who brought to life both Paul Temple and The Toff, plays Steve, a drifter of unspecified means, who saves cabaret singer/stripper Tina (Anita West) from assassination. Hired by her as bodyguard/detective, he learns her father was a German spy who has left her a list of names and a map to hidden treasure and strangely enough she has been receiving regular anonymous donations of cash. It soon becomes obvious to Steve that blackmail is the source of this unexpected bounty. And that he is caught in the middle. Some people want to pay him off, others to kill him off.

It doesn’t help that he is seduced by both Tina and Nadia (Faten Hamamah), daughter of Litov (Vladimir Leib), one of those being blackmailed but now confined to a wheelchair.

Along with Mario (Ferdy Mayne) and Michel (John Gabriel) they are all soon convinced that the solution to all their problems will be joining Steve on a trip to Somaliland to find the hidden treasure, cash the father was reportedly carrying to pay his team of spies.

*Femme fatale No 2 Faten Hammamah looking disgruntled.* *You could say the same about Bentley.*

Usually, with any kind of picture involving hunting for treasure, the audience is invited to be baffled by various clues, but here none are offered and the audience simply remains baffled. Once in Africa, of course, the action hots up, courtesy of stock footage of stampeding elephants and a variety of dangerous animals and by the double-crossing that appears essential to such schemes. Eventually, they end up in a cave, where the only bit of treasure detecting actually takes place. Assume more double cross and you’re just about there.

Director George P. Breaksaton (The White Huntress, 1954) must take full responsibility for this mess since he was also the writer and producer. Apart from the various sequences previously mentioned, he has little idea of narrative drive or even narrative. None of the characters connect with each other and certainly not with the audience.

John Bentley does his best but that’s mostly down to frowning and grunting and trying to get a share of everyone’s spoils. He’s intended as some kind of James Bond lounge lizard given the movie begins simply because he follows an attractive woman in a nightclub. But he really has very thin material to work with. Neither of the femme fatales, Anita West (Shadow of Fear,1963) and Egyptian star Faten Hamamah, has enough in the smouldering department and if they did weren’t inclined to waste it on the likes of Steve.

Hardly a fitting end to Bentley’s career. More of a curiosity than an entertaining watch.

Mister Buddwing/Buddwing (1966) ****

Perhaps it was something in the ether that this very under-rated Kafkaesque examination of fractured identity emerged the same year as John Frankenheimer’s equally maligned Seconds and the year after the more successful Mirage. A superb opening sequence transports us to a world of alienation and discordance, often the only sound that of a man’s footsteps.

Face unseen, yet camera in his point of view, in the early morning a man (James Garner) examines the pockets of his suit, pulling out some pills and a piece of paper with a telephone number, pulls off a ring with the inscription “from G.Y.” He begins to walk, shakily, camera still in his POV until he arrives at an upscale New York hotel and sees himself in the mirror. That doesn’t help. He still doesn’t recognize himself. Using the lobby phone, he calls the telephone number.

It’s a woman called Gloria (Angela Lansbury). She calls him Sam. She gives him her address because that, too, has slipped his memory. Visual stimuli outside make him think his name is Buddwing. Sam Buddwing has a reassuring feel to it.

But when arrives at Gloria’s apartment, she doesn’t recognize him. Though married, she “puts out” so he could be a casual sexual acquaintance. When she pours him coffee, unable to remember how he takes it, he bursts into tears.

And so begins a disturbing odyssey, “a tug of war in his mind,” as he tries to piece together his memory and find his lost self. Memory is triggered by the sight of a woman across the street getting into a cab. Instinct tells him this is Grace. He follows in another cab, encountering a disgruntled customer who tells him an odd tale about taking a drunken woman to Oyster Bay. She disappears inside Washington Square College. He thinks he might be the escaped mental patient Edward Volloch mentioned in a newspaper headline. Unasked, a man called Schwarz sits down at this table in a cafeteria and suggests he must be Jewish.

He finds “Grace” (Katharine Ross) on a park bench. Even though she fails to recognize him and tells him her name is Janet, he drifts back to his time with the real Grace who cuts his hair on a beach, runs from a downpour into a church. He tells her he wants to become a composer.

When Janet evades him he is confronted by a cop but, of course, has no proof of identity. The scene turns ugly and uglier still when chased by a vagrant and he starts to see double.

And so it goes on. He finds two more versions of Grace. On hearing of his condition, the first, an actress (Suzanne Pleshette), encourages him to “be what you want to be” while Buddwing opines “we are all impersonating an identity.” The second, a drunk (Jean Simmons) appears to be the source of cab driver’s story

The actress attempts suicide after becoming pregnant, the drunken woman takes him to a crap game, where, taking turns rolling the dice, they win a heap of cash.

All in all it’s a brilliant jigsaw, avoiding the sci-fi elements of Seconds and the thriller aspects of Mirage, but with the brooding atmosphere of both. But where the character in the Frankenheimer makes a deliberate decision to change identity and Gregory Peck in Mirage is able to put together the various pieces of his life, Buddwing simply stumbles along, totally unconvinced of his identity – at one point he is “nobody” – building up an idea of his life only as an adjunct to the mysterious Grace who keeps changing shape and personality until it seems completely incongruous that the first innocent Grace (Ross) could merge into the more blustery, sexually aggressive, Grace (Simmons).

Of course, when he does discover the truth, by random connection, that’s as shocking as anything else, shattering the somewhat idealized picture of the self he has contrived from the various jumbled meetings with the various disconnected women. Equally, the ending could be another illusion.

This might also play out as a metaphor for the screen life of James Garner (The Americanization of Emily, 1964) who had been trying to rid himself, not entirely successfully, of his previous persona as Maverick in the television series. His company, Cherokee, co-produced the picture, which smacks of the same determination to be taken more seriously as Rock Hudson with Seconds, a move that did not go down well for either with public or critics. But Garner is every bit as good as Hudson and he spends much of the film either in hollow-eyed bafflement or in idyllic circumstance on the cusp of turning sour.

Once Angela Lansbury appears, you get the sense this is going to be episodic and that the female cast will appear in the reverse order of their billing. But Katharine Ross (Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here, 1969) apart, a newcomer, the other three more experienced actresses rip up their screen personas. Angela Lansbury (Harlow, 1965) is an addled woman of easy virtue. Suzanne Pleshette (A Rage to Live, 1965) takes her character to suicidal levels while Jeans Simmons (A Rough Night in Jericho, 1968), especially notable, essays her inner dirty-mouthed drunken Elizabeth Taylor.

And this is hardly the stuff director Delbert Mann (Fitzwilly, 1967) is made of, despite an Oscar for Marty (1955) better known for light comedy. But he never takes the easy way out, sticking it to Buddwing as a man endlessly tormented by himself. Dale Wasserman (Quick Before It Melts, 1964) wrote the tantalizing script from the bestseller by Evan Hunter (Last Summer, 1969).

A mesmerizing watch and time it was given the same retrospective treatment as the cult Seconds.

From the Terrace (1960) ***

When your plot pivots on the hero diving into an icy pond to save the grandchild of a Wall St multi-millionaire – and reaping the career benefits – you are kind of in trouble. Not as much, though, as having a self-righteous hypocritical prig of a hero who lacks the self-awareness, a mark of the John O’Hara bestseller on which the film is based, to realize he is turning into a carbon copy of his father.

But it is handsomely-mounted and a decent enough melodrama with an excellent cast, though you would have to say, given the better material, Joanne Woodward (A Big Hand for the Little Lady, 1966) out-acts husband Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963), adding a rather contemporary element of a free-loving wife who manipulates the constraints of an era (post WW2) when divorce in high society was highly frowned-upon.

It’s a shame it drifts into predicable melodrama because the initial stages are niftily put together. A woman (Myrna Loy) is found dead drunk on a train, steel magnate husband Samuel (Leon Ames) ensuring he is not at home for her return, both actions meaning nobody is there to welcome only son David Alfred Eaton (known as Alfred at the start of the film and David at the end for odd reasons) when he returns from the war.

A few quick scenes establish that: the father holds a grudge against the living son because he has not got over his dead son; he has ignored his wife in favor of his career; he bullies his staff; the wife has embarked on an affair.

David Alfred’s character is quickly established: he refuses to be stiffed by a cab driver; is adored by the household staff; refuses to work in his father’s business; and beats up his mother’s lover.

After that, for all the emotional shifts through the gears, it slows down, not so laborious as devoting too much time to the inner workings of high society – O’Hara’s metier – rather than the new small-plane-building business into which David Alfred pours his energy. That is, if he has much energy left over after stealing Mary (Joanne Woodward) from fiancé Jim (Patrick O’Neal), a psychiatrist.

You are probably already aware that society operates in various strata. A mill owner is only on the verge of society and looked down upon by the likes of Mary’s wealthier parents who in turn are no match for the grand life enjoyed by the aforementioned Wall St broker MacHardie (Felix Aylmer). Snobbery is rife and money talks. And if you lack the dough you’ve got no say in anything as David Alfred discovers in an aeronautical business venture, his partner Lex (George Grizzard), who has put up all the money, excluding him from key decisions.

Luckily, while driving in the countryside there’s a drowning child to be rescued and a grateful grandfather willing to set you up in his business. But that means sacrifice. David Alfred is away from home so much his neglected wife instead of turning to alcohol merely turns to men. There’s a wonderful scene when after a telephone call with her husband promising not to see Jim again (at this point no impropriety apparently committed as far as David Alfred is concerned), Mary lies down on the bed and turns to an unseen figure and says, “You’re not to come up here any more.”

But there are too few scenes so slickly written. On a job in Pennsylvania David Alfred falls for industrialist’s daughter Natalie (Ina Balin), and as though this is key to their romance tells her to call him David rather than Alfred. As his stock rises in the company, he maintains a hypocritical front with his wife, who he knows is now engaged in various affairs, denying her suspicions that he is having a fling with Natalie. Mary is quite happy to maintain an open marriage since her status depends on her husband’s position and she still quite fancies him now and then.

You can see how this is going to end, but self-righteousness allows David Alfred to ignore that he is merely repeating the mistakes of his father. In sharp contrast to his wife who is all too conscious of her failings but contrives to make the best of the situation, and would happily continue in an unhappy marriage if only he would play ball. Although nothing is made of this, it’s obvious that David Alfred, despite his progress in the Wall St company, doesn’t have the business cojones of his father. He quit the plane business because Lex wanted to spend more time perfecting the prototype rather than rushing to the market in order to make money quickly. By following his own instinct, Lex is later proved correct, the business grown so big it attracts the attention of MacHardie.

There’s a sense here of Paul Newman pulling his shots. Though he is ruthless in making wife play second fiddle to career, and has no qualms really about playing away from home, nor about edging out MacHardie’s ineffectual son-in-law from the business, he lacks the killer instinct. The ruthlessness and amorality that made The Hustler (1961) and Hud (1962) so enjoyable is sadly missing. Handsome box office idols – the likes of William Holden apart – were reluctant to play the devious.

Mark Robson (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965) directs as if this is an upmarket Peyton Place and can’t resist at least one close-up of Newman’s baby blues. The script by Ernest Lehman (The Prize) only occasionally sparkles but I suspect there was a lot to trim from the O’Hara doorstopper. As I said, Joanne Woodward is the stand-out and you will be surprised to learn that Patrick O’Neal is also minus his later ruthless screen persona. Felix Aylmer (Masquerade, 1965) and Ina Balin (The Commancheros, 1961) are the pick of the supporting cast.

An interesting more than a riveting watch, mostly to see Newman before he reached screen maturity.

No Highway in the Sky / No Highway (1951) ****

Having just read the Nevil Shute novel on which this movie is based, I was keen to see how it transferred to the screen. It got off to a great start with the casting. James Stewart was several classes above the author’s description of the main character, but Marlene Dietrich more than fitted the bill of the Hollywood star as a passenger in the early days of Transatlantic air travel.

Widowed aeronautics research engineer Dr Honey (James Stewart), accent explained by him being a Rhodes Scholar who stayed on in Britain, is so absent-minded that he tries to enter a neighbor’s house and when he gets angry in a discussion with a visitor to his own house puts on his hat and coat and decides to leave. He has discovered a potential flaw in a new range of British airplanes and is despatched by boss Dennis Scott (Jack Hawkins) to Canada to examine the remains of a crashed prototype, the accident previously ascribed to pilot error.

*It was called “No Highway” in Britain as that was the title of the novel.*

However, once on board, he discovers the plane is perilously close to the danger level of flying time his research indicated. In between frightening the life out of stewardess Marjorie (Glynis Johns) and star Monica (Marlene Dietrich) with his predictions of doom and instructing them where best to hide in the plane in the event of crash-landing in the ocean, he tries to get the pilot to turn back. When that fails, he inadvertently charms the life out of stewardess and star.

When the plane lands, even closer to the danger zone in terms of flying hours, and still no one listening to his concerns, he manages to render the plane unflyable. The aeroplane company refuses to fly him home, leaving him stranded. That provides enough time for Monica and then Marjorie to turn up unannounced at his home in England to help look after his young daughter Elspeth (Janette Scott). When Honey finally returns, he faces an inquiry, and looks set to lose his job, virtually unemployable thanks to his antics in Canada. At the last minute, he is reprieved, fresh evidence from the crashed plane proving his research correct.

Meanwhile, Monica, forced to return to Hollywood, loses out in the battle for Honey’s affections. Marjorie, a former nurse and imminently more practical, is in any case better placed to help look after a growing girl, and eventually Honey sees sense and asks her to marry him.

Really well done with terrific performances all around, but vastly helped by the screenwriters who dumped three sub-plots in order to stick to the knitting of the tale. Honey, far removed from the man in the street persona that saw James Stewart through his Frank Capra movies, attracted female interest through his principled stand. Most importantly, the writers removed the section where Elspeth is seriously ill in her father’s absence. Secondly, in the book Scott was sent to Canada to find the crashed plane, involving a trek through perilous terrain, but that’s been excised, the search completed off-screen by others, the vital information relayed by letter. Thirdly, the remains of the tail, which had previously not been found, were located in the book by supernatural means, Elspeth being called upon to use a planchette to help find it.

In removing all this material, the movie is re-shaped partly as a Capra movie, with the downtrodden Honey achieving success through persistence, but, more importantly, allowing the movie to focus on the potential love interest. Needless to say that is determinedly old-fashioned, both women having forged successful careers now viewing work that was initially exciting rapidly pall. The book sets Monica thinking how much better life would have been if as a humble office girl she had married the kind but not handsome man who had caught her eye instead of now being thrice-divorced. Marjorie is even more old-fashioned, seeing a genius who needs looked after as much as his daughter requires a mother.

So there’s no point going anywhere near this if you’re not willing to accept a past where a woman’s role was primarily seen as a home-maker. But don’t jump to pointing the finger at the author as being equally old-fashioned because a later book, A Town Like Alice, not only turns the main character into a war hero but depicts her as a successful entrepreneur.

James Stewart (The Rare Breed, 1965) takes a considerable chance on playing the absent-minded professor but his endless well of screen charm allows him to pull it off brilliantly. Marlene Dietrich, top-billed when teamed with Stewart for Destry Rides Again (1939), has an excellent role as a rueful prima donna. Glynis Johns (Lock Up your Daughters!, 1969) is equally at home with a part that calls for her not to just fall at Honey’s feet. She was one of handful of British rising stars. Jack Hawkins (Masquerade, 1965) was on the cusp of being named Britain’s biggest box office attraction while Kenneth More (The Comedy Man, 1964) was a few years away from receiving that honor. Janette Scott (Day of the Triffids, 1963) gave notice of her talent.

As much as James Stewart’s career was linked to Frank Capra and Alfred Hitchcock, Henry Koster (Mr Hobbs Takes a Vacation, 1962) made five pictures with the actor, all excepting this comedies, including Harvey (1950). He does a fine job of keeping Stewart from spinning away too much in the direction of the geek professor and keeping the story pinned down.

Nevil Shute was an engineer to trade – he had worked in the British airship industry – so his books tend to be peppered with the scientific. That’s easy to digest when reading, but harder to absorb when watching a movie. R.C. Sheriff (The Dam Busters, 1955) and Oscar Millard (Angel Face, 1952) do an excellent job of condensing the novel, finding cinematic ways of getting across important material.

I had come at this, as I said, mainly to see how the author’s work was translated to the screen, but came away totally absorbed in a fine picture. What was left out helped the picture while the author’s later A Town Like Alice (1956) lost half its power by ending halfway through the original story which later saw the courageous heroine go onto to become a serial entrepreneur in a male-dominated society in Australia.

Obviously, I’ve deviated from my chosen field of 1960s pictures, but this is well worth a watch.

You can catch it on YouTube in a number of versions – the original, a colorized version, one with English subtitles and one where a musician has made his own edit and dubbed his own modern score on the picture.

Behind the Scenes: The Roadshow Conundrum

Widescreen – Cinemascope, Vistavision et al – had brought audiences back to the cinema in the 1950s so the next decade, with box office cratering, Hollywood doubled down on an even bigger concept, big-budget 70mm extravaganzas, sometimes with the added benefit of Cinerama, to be shown in separate performances (two shows a day rather than four or five) which challenged the prevalent continuous performance system of exhibition.

From an academic perspective the project appeared – with minor hiccups – a major success as Ben Hur (1959) gave way to West Side Story (1961), Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and How the West Was Won (1962)and from there to the solid gold box office of The Sound of Music and Doctor Zhivago (both 1965). But there were obstacles to overcome.

Firstly, you needed the cinemas. The U.S. had little problem filling that need, exhibition was going through an explosion on a scale unseen since 1950. From 1961 work began on building 170 cinemas and 72 drive-ins and the rate of construction would scarcely abate for the rest of the decade, allowing plenty room for houses to decide to pitch their tent as roadshow cinemas. It was the oppsite situation in the United Kingdom, with hardly any cinemas beng planned. most of what were termed new cinemas little more than the converation of a giant cinema into two or three more screens. In Glasgow, for example, the Coliseum which revamped in a 70mm Cinerama house was nothing more than a redeployment of an existing cinema while the ABC2 towards the end of the decad was built by splitting the existing ABC Regal. In Britain roadshow capacity was constrained compared to the American experience.

Secondly, cinemas had to install the expensive 70mm projection equipment, though the prospect of increased ticket prices generally softened the blow of that outlay.

Thirdly, And then studios had to find enough cinemas willing to fall in with their concept and agree to hand over their houses for the long runs deemed essential to the success of these movie behemoths, often clocking in around the three-hour mark.

Follow the release of the roadshows in the world’s biggest cities like New York, London, Paris and Tokyo and you will find there was no shortage of cinemas willing to accommodate the grand plan. But go further afield, beyond areas where academics and historians usually pitch their tents, and you will find a different story.

Until recently, I had been one of the historians who accepted the notion that roadshow fitted seamlessly into the exhibition business, that 70mm pictures ran for months – if not years – at a time in countless venues worldwide. But when I started to examine the roadshow from the perspective of my home town of Glasgow, in Scotland – the country’s biggest city and outside of London the one with the biggest appetite for movies – I found a different story. And I wonder if that experience was replicated all over the world rather than the previously accepted model.

At the start of the 1960s Glasgow – whose ten first run cinemas lay along two intersecting streets – boasted just one roadshow house, the Gaumont, which currently, and for the previous 18 months, had been showing South Pacific (1958). The Gaumont only scheduled nine shows a week, one per evening plus matinees on three days, rather than the 12 or 15 shows a week more likely in New York or London. One of the roadshow’s big selling points – films playing until demand ceased – was also its Achilles heel. A movie that performed as well as expected could not be shifted. So there was no room at the cinematic inn for the flurry of roadshows headed Glasgow’s way. There was going to be an unavoidable queue unless distributors did the unthinkable and skipped roadshow in favour of general release.

The situation wasn’t helped by the British deciding that movies not made with roadshow in mind such as The Nun’s Story (1959) should be given the separate performance increased price treatment.

For a time in Glasgow the ABC Regal in Sauchiehall St – along with the Odeon in Renfield St the city’s most dominant picture house – offered temporary relief. In fact it had already stepped into the breach for The Nun’s Story. But since the Regal was the jewel in the crown of the ABC chain’s distribution network in the West of Scotland that caused further release issues. Independent arthouse the Cosmo was also willing to step up to the plate, hosting the two-year-old Gigi (1958).

But it wasn’t until September 19, 1960, that Ben-Hur (1959), considered the hottest picture on the planet, was given an opening at the Regal. That was good news and bad news. It ran for nine months which was great for the Regal but it caused a massive backlog in the ABC circuit which had to offload top product to rival cinemas. The Regal was clearly so crucial to the ABC operation that it didn’t dip its toes into roadshow waters for another year, for King of Kings (1961), but at Xmas rather than Easter which possibly accounted for its poor performance – only five weeks of a run. Before the ABC Coliseum reopened as a roadshow/Cinerama venue in September 1963 with MGM’s How the West Was Won (1962) – almost a year after its London opening – the only roadshow given screen-time at the Regal was Mutiny on the Bounty (1962) which ran for six weeks.

But with the Regal refusing to play ball most of the time, what happened to the rest of the industry’s roadshow releases? The Gaumont took what it could – Lawrence of Arabia (26 weeks), The Longest Day (23), Can-Can (18), Spartacus (15), West Side Story (14), The Alamo (13) and El Cid (13) the standouts, playing for a “season” or more. Exodus and Judgement at Nuremberg were poorly received, just three and two weeks respectively.

And that was the final flaw in the Hollywood grand notion. When these big roadshow movies hit a box office brick wall, the cinemas primed to receive the product had to find other movies to prop up the system. The idea of being just an occasional source for roadshow might work for the likes of the ABC Regal, but provided an unnecessary complication for the Gaumont, the city’s de facto roadshow house. It was helped out by movies made in 70mm that American distributors quickly shuffled into general release such as Barabbas, which ran in Glasgow for seven weeks at the Gaumont.

To plug holes left by lack of audience interest in the likes of Exodus or Judgement at Nuremberg, the Gaumont simply improvised. Solomon and Sheba was not made with roadshow in mind but with big stars in Yul Brynner and Gina Lollobrigida, a Biblical setting and healthy running time, it was deemed worthy of roadshow, running for nine weeks.

A less obvious contender for roadshow was The Guns of Navarone, but the excellent cast and British tub-thumping turned it into a contender and it ran for a quite astonishing 21 weeks, especially as that included more performances than usual, a matinee every day rather than three allocated days.

The appearance of Psycho at the Gaumont was a clever trick. Alfred Hitchcock had determined that the film, to maintain its shock value and for the publicity value of such a move, must be shown out of the standard continuous performance system. To fulfil that obligation it ran as a separate performance number and at the only cinema in town known for regularly taking that exhibition route, so less of a shock to the public, but with three performances a day to meet demand. That as another nine weeks eaten up.

For the rest of the time, when the roadshow well was dry or failed to hit box office targets, Gaumont simply turned general releases into roadshow, 35mm and all. Song without End starring Dirk Bogarde ran for four weeks, Tunes of Glory with Alec Guinness and John Mills locking horns. Some pictures, deemed too weak for roadshow, like Cimarron, Pepe and Gypsy were simply chucked into general release in Glasgow.

Once the production of roadshows hit its stride in the mid-60s, with both the Gaumont and Coliseum in play, most of the 70mm features found a home, the Regal called in occasionally to help out (as with My Fair Lady and Cheyenne Autumn) although the British predilection for blowing up 35mm movies given a general release in the U.S. to fit the 70mm roadshow format (The Dirty Dozen and Where Eagles Dare the most notable) meant demand always outstripped supply.

The roadshow business also served to highlight differences between cities. The length of time a roadshow picture ran was never consistent and some of the difference were quite marked, a film that was a huge success in one city not quite as sterling a performer in another.

Oscar Wilde (1960) ****

You might be surprised to learn there were two Oscar Wildes. Not the famed writer and a doppelganger of course but two films on the same subject that were released in the same month. This is the low-rent version, costing a fraction of the rival The Trials of Oscar Wilde directed by Ken Hughes. It’s easy to be disdainful of the cheaper effort, with little cash available for scenery and costumes, but somehow it rises above budget limitations. Structurally, both movies focus on the trial – or in the case of The Trials of Oscar Wilde the three trials he endured – but the glossier pictures it has to be said glosses over a great deal.

While I enjoyed it at the time, I now find that in trying to make a modern martyr out of Oscar Wilde, the Ken Hughes picture built him up so much that it was difficult to find any flaw in his character. We never find out what was the actual slur the Marquis of Queensbury made on Wilde, resulting the playwright taking him to court for libel. And that version begins with Wilde and Alfred Lord Douglas (“Bosie”), son of the Marquis, already deep into their affair.

On the other hand, Oscar Wilde, the final film of Hollywood veteran director Gregory Ratoff (Intermezzo, 1939), starts at the beginning of their relationship with greater emphasis on Wilde’s practicality rather than his wit and Bosie’s (John Neville) tortured relationship with his hypocritical father (Edward Chapman) who, while taking the moral high ground, keeps a mistress. On Wilde (Robert Morley) being described as a sodomite by the Marquis, Bosie’s desire to see his father humiliated in court verges on revenge. “You weren’t looking for a friend,” Wilde astutely tells his lover, “You were looking for a weapon.” Bosie is big on humiliation – he is the one to break the news of Wilde’s duplicity to the author’s wife (Phyllis Calvert). So determined is he on the court case that he fails to tell Wilde that his father has private detectives scouring London to find evidence.

While in court Wilde can keep the jury in stitches with his epigrams, he soon comes up against the Marquis’s formidable lawyer Sir Edward Carson (a quite stunning performance by Ralph Richardson). From Carson we learn a great deal more of Wilde’s practices, some of which nowadays would be termed grooming. Essentially, Carson paints a portrait of a predator, an older man (Wilde was 41) whose uses his wealth and wit to court many lovers, mostly aged around 20, but some as young as 16, barely the age of consent.. And when he felt his secret life was in danger of being exposed, he went so far as to pay for the passage to America of one of his lovers, Alfred Woods, to get him out of the way.

No matter that Wilde at the start can gloss over his promiscuity, complaining that Carson is misinterpreting innocent gestures of friendship, the cunning attorney soon has the author tied in knots as he wheels out one by one information regarding the various lovers.

It’s quite odd to realise that The Trials of Oscar Wilde in presenting the more accurate truth – that the author underwent three trials – fails to provide little more than a surface treatment of the man’s real-life affairs. Oscar Wilde perhaps delves too deeply for audiences brought up to consider the author a martyr who deserves the free pass allocated all writers of genius. I found Oscar Wilde the more riveting watch because, of course, I already knew the outcome, but the sight of the famed writer, encouraged by the vengeful Bosie, hung out to dry by his own hubris, and for a man of such wit to be outwitted in the courtroom by Carson was an exceptional watch.

Of course, the imprisonment of Wilde for the crime of being a homosexual is detestable. Even at the point this film was made homosexuality was a crime. So it’s fascinating to see how much The Trials of Oscar Wilde skirts round issues that Oscar Wilde had little problem in spelling out.

I was surprised how much I enjoyed Robert Morley’s performance. I may be wrong, but I think this was the only time he was accorded leading man status. Mostly, he was a supporting actor (The African Queen, 1951, say, or Genghis Khan, 1965) and often just playing a version of his self. Of course, he is outshone by a simply brilliant Ralph Richardson (Khartoum, 1966). John Neville (A Study in Terror, 1965) presents a more in-depth performance than in the rival picture. One-time British box office star Phyllis Calvert (The Golden Madonna, 1949) does well in a small but pivotal role. You might also spot Dennis Price (Tunes of Glory, 1960) and Alexander Knox (Mister Moses, 1965).

Lacking a budget to do much more, Gregory Ratoff sticks to the detail and draws out two superb performances, aided by a tight script by Jo Eisinger (Gilda, 1946; Cold Sweat, 1970) based on the play by Leslie and Sewell Stokes and the work of Frank Harris. As swansongs go, this is hard to beat.

Vastly underrated.

Catch it on YouTube.

NOTE: Oscar Wilde appeared in first run in Glasgow at the La Scala cinema in June 1960 one week ahead of The Trials of Oscar Wilde at the first run ABC Regal and ABC Coliseum.

Fathom (1966) ***

If audiences rallied to the sight of Raquel Welch wearing nothing more than a fur bikini for the entirety of One Million Years B.C. (1966) and a skin-tight suit in Fantastic Voyage (1966) Twentieth Century Fox must have reasoned they would surely return in droves were the star to spend most of Fathom in a succession of brightly-colored bikinis.

Given such a premise who would care that a sky-diving expert was named after a nautical measurement? Or that Fathom (Raquel Welch) came nowhere near the height indicated by her name? Or that the character as described in the source material (a novel by Scottish screenwriter Larry Forester) had a distinctly harder edge; murder, sex and drugs among her proclivities.

With Our Man Flint (1966), the studio had successfully gatecrashed the burgeoning spy genre and spotted a gap in the market for a female of the species, hoping to turn Modesty Blaise (1966) starring Monica Vitti and Fathom into money-spinning series. The Fathom project was handed to Batman, The Movie (1966) co-conspirators, director Leslie H. Martinson and screenwriter Lorenzo Semple Jr. (Flash Gordon, 1980).

Female independence was hard-won in the 1960s and there were few jobs where a woman was automatically at the top of the tree. Burglary was one option for the independent entrepreneur (see The Golden Claws of the Cat Girl) and sport was another.

Welch plays an innocent bystander recruited for her top-notch sky-diving skills (her aptitude demonstrated in the opening sequences) to help Colonel Campbell (Ronald Fraser) of British intelligence recover the “Fire Dragon,” a trigger that could explode a nuclear bomb. Her sky-diving skills are required to land in the courtyard of playboy Peter Merriwether (Anthony Franciosa).

That turns out to be baloney, of course, a MacGuffin to point her in the direction of a valuable Chinese heirloom. And then it’s case of double-cross, triple-cross and whatever cross comes next.

There’s an intriguing mystery at the heart of this picture and a couple of top-class hair-raising moments. In one she is trapped in a bull ring and stunt double Donna Garrett had a few very definite close calls trying to avoid the maddened beast. In another she is stalked at sea by a circling motor boat while being peppered with harpoons. There is also an airplane duel and a ton of great aerial work. A couple of comic sequences are well wrung – Campbell pins his business card to one of the prongs of a pitchfork being brandished with menace by Fathom while Peter delivers a classic line: “The only game I ever lost was spin the bottle and that was on purpose.”

The biggest problem is that the film veers too far away from the source material which posited the heroine as a much tougher character, one who can despatch bad guys with aplomb. Instead, Fathom is presented almost as an innocent, bundled from one situation to another, never taking charge until the very end. Minus karate kicks or a decent left hook, she is left to evade her predators by less dramatic means. She has a decent line in repartee and by no means lets the show down. However, the idea, no matter how satisfactory to fans of the actress, that Fathom has to swap bikinis every few minutes or failing that don some other curve-clinging item, gets in the way of the story – and her character. Into the eccentric mix also come a millionaire (Clive Revill) and a bartender (Tom Adams).

There’s no doubt Welch had single-handedly revived the relatively harmless pin-up business (not for her overt nudity of the Playboy/Penthouse variety) and had a massive following in Europe where she often plied her trade (the Italian-made Shoot Loud, Louder…I Don’t Understand in 1966 and the British Bedazzled in 1967) but she was clearly desperate for more meaty roles. Those finally came her way with Bandolero (1966) and 100 Rifles (1969) and Fathom feels like a lost opportunity to provide her with that harder edge.

She’s not helped by the odd tone. As I mentioned she gets into plenty of scrapes and proves her mettle with her diving skills. In the hands of a better director and with a few tweaks here and there it could have been a whole lot better and perhaps launched a spy series instead of languishing at the foot of the studio’s box office charts for that year.

Anthony Franciosa (Rio Conchos, 1964), still a rising star after a decade in the business, who receives top billing, doesn’t appear for the first twenty minutes. And then he behaves like a walking advert for dentistry, as though his teeth can challenge Welch’s curves. But some of the supporting cast look like they’ve signed up for a completely different movie. Richard Briers (A Home of Your Own, 1965) – Ronald Fraser’s intelligence sidekick – looks like a goggle-eyed fan next to Ms Welch and Clive Revill (The Double Man, 1967) thinks it’s a joke to play a Russian as a joke. Ronald Fraser (Sebastian, 1968) provides decent support.

But it is certainly entertaining enough and you are unlikely to get bored.

Behind the Scenes: “Planet of the Apes” (1968)

J. Lee Thompson (The Guns of Navarone, 1961) saw a much-needed boost to a drifting career vanish when he ducked out of this project – he had spent considerable time developing the project – in favor of Mackenna’s Gold (1969). Blake Edwards, first director attached, probably also lamented losing out. This was to have been Edwards last outside film before committing exclusively to Mirisch.

Producer Arthur P. Jacobs, who had bought the rights to Pierre Boulle’s Monkey Planet in 1963, could hardly believe his luck after the calamitous Doctor Dolittle (1967). Unusually, the two films were not cross-collaterized, a standard studio device whereby the losses on one film were played against the profits in the other, which would have almost certainly resulted in no profit payments to Jacobs.

And you could probably say the same for eventual director Franklin J. Schaffner, relegated to television and movie stiffs like The Double Man (1967) after the failure of big-budget historical drama The War Lord (1965) and his abortive attempt to film the Travis McGee novels of John D. MacDonald, whose total sales exceeded 14 million. He wasn’t involved in Darker than Amber (1970), the first McGee title to be filmed. Heston, who Schaffner had directed in The War Lord, pushed for his involvement.

Charlton Heston was also in dire need of career resuscitation, his past five movies – Sam Peckinpah’s Major Dundee (1965), The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965), The War Lord (1965), Khartoum (1966) and realistic western Will Penny (1967) – had all tanked. “In my view,” he opined, “I haven’t made a commercial film since Ben-Hur,” clearly ignoring the success of El id (1961).

And once it became a success Warner Brothers regretted letting it go. The studio had been involved in the project when Blake Edwards was to direct. The movie was cancelled due to cost – it was budgeted then at $3-$3.5 million – and script and production problems. The studio might also have shied away after learning of the booming budget and lengthening schedule for MGM’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Twentieth Century Fox ended up forking out $5.8 million to turn the project into reality.

As was often the norm in Twentieth Century Fox pictures, studio head honcho Darryl F. Zanuck found a part for his mistress, in this case Linda Harrison as Nova, the mute love interest. She was a graduate of the studio’s program of investment in young talent. Others included Jacqueline Bissett (The Detective, 1968) and Edy Williams (The Secret Life of An American Wife, 1968). Had Raquel Welch (One Million Years B.C, 1966) considered the opportunity to don a fur bikini again, it is doubtful Harrison would have won the role. But she turned it down as did Ursula Andress (The Southern Star, 1969). Angelique Pettyjohn (Heaven with a Gun, 1969) was auditioned

Former child star Roddy McDowall (Lassie Come Home, 1943), Kim Hunter (A Streetcar Names Desire, 1951) and Maurice Evans (The War Lord) fleshed out the ape contingent. Ingrid Bergman (The Visit, 1964), also in much need of a career uplift, turned down the role of Zira. Other stars in the frame for roles included Yul Brynner, Alec Guinness and Laurence Olivier. Edward G. Robinson should have played Zaius, but couldn’t manage with the make-up.

Source material was Monkey Planet by Pierre Boulle, author of Bridge on the River Kwai. Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling took a year and a reported 30 drafts to turn in a viable screenplay and the former blacklisted Michael Wilson, whose name had been removed from the credits of Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) and Lawrence of Arabia (1962), added the polish. Wilson had won an Oscar for A Place in the Sun (1951) and another one for Friendly Persuasion (1956) although that was actually awarded to Jessamyn West since Wilson’s involvement was kept secret. If he had not been blacklisted, he would have been in the unusual position of having won four screenplay Oscars, although in the end the others were retrospectively awarded.

If you were looking for a sci-fi picture with dramatic heft, decent action, mysterious outcome and an examination of the human condition this was a more straightforward bet than 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). While Fox reckoned its previous sci-fi venture Fantastic Voyage (1966) had worked out well, it had reservations about the cost of Planet of the Apes and the possibility of making an ape setting believable. In this case the special effects’ conundrum was make-up for the apes. If they just looked like humans wearing monkey suits the movie would not fly. Fox spent $5,000 on a test with Heston in a scene with two apes before it greenlit the movie.

Faces that could not express emotion and were as stiff as a botox overdose would invite audience ridicule. In the end the studio spent a reported million dollars on pioneering ape renditions by John Chambers, who previously been a surgical technician repairing the faces of wounded soldiers. He had a team of 78 make-up artists There were almost as many scripts as crew and the changes wrought as the picture moved closer to being greenlit were to switch from a futuristic setting to a primeval one (which, incidentally, saved on costs), covering up the breasts of the female prisoners and inventing the stunning ending.

There were three possible endings, the one shot being that favored by the star.. Heston’s hoarse voice was not in the script, but an incidental by-product of him catching the flu. Apart from studio sets, the movie was filmed in blistering heat in Arizona. The rocket ship crashed into Lake Powell in Utah, ape city – modeled on the work of celebrated Spanish architect Gaudi – was constructed in Malibu Creek State Park, and the final scene was filmed on Zuma Beach in Malibu.

Unlike Fantastic Voyage which told audiences what the mission was, but in keeping with 2001: A Space Odyssey, Planet of the Apes opens with mystery. Like Rosemary’s Baby, the movie is viewed through the eyes of an innocent, one who cannot quite cotton on to his fall down the evolutionary food chain. Albeit more hirsute and muscular than Mia Farrow, nonetheless the casting of Heston dupes the audience into thinking he is somehow going to win, rather than just escape. He is an experiment who has wandered into the wrong planet. But there are few films that can top that shock ending. And the movie more than fulfills the “social comment,” on which Heston was very keen, contained in the Boulle novel.

SOURCES: Russo, Joe, Landsman, Larry, and Gross, Edward, Planet of the Apes Revisited, The Behind the Scenes Story of the Classic Science Fiction Saga (New York: Thomas Dunne Books/St Martin Griffin, 2001); Hannan, The Making of The Guns of Navarone, 187. “Warners Ape World,” Variety, March 18, 1964, 4; “High Costs Impress Capital,” Variety, March 23, 1964, 3; “Planet of Apes Off for Present,” Variety, March 10, 1965. “Michael Wilson Under His Own Name For A.P. Jacobs,” Variety, December 14, 1966, 7. “MacDonald Novels Cue Major Pictures Corp.,” Variety, May 17, 1967, 5; Austen, David, “It’s All A Matter Of Size,” Films and Filming, April 1968, 5; “Fox’s Talent School,” Variety, June 26, 1968, 13; Film Locations for Planet of the Apes,” www.film-locations.com.

I have to confess this Behind the Scenes article would have been better if I had not loaned out – and never got it back – my copy of The Making of Planet of the Apes by JW Rinzler which was published five years ago.

Planet of the Apes (1968) *****

Still astonishing that the two movies that rocked sci-fi to its core came out the same year. Initially beloved mostly by dopeheads 2001: A Space Odyssey quickly achieved ultra-academic status. But it’s difficult to ignore the fact that that Planet of the Apes had the greater long-term effect, given it spawned umpteen sequels and two sets of remakes.

You could also argue that the concept is even bolder than the Kubrick, not just man’s treatment of animals, but the idea of man being subject to a superior species, and inside an action-packed picture there’s plenty of time to digest the unimaginable and engage in debate about the nature of man. The elevator pitch might have been: “Take Hollywood’s strongest hero and torture him one way or another.”

Part of the movie’s genius is the unsettling opening, swirling, almost deranged, camerawork, a discordant score, the confident occupants of a spacecraft heading into the unknown finding the kind of unknown that fills them with dread rather than awe. Two thousand years into the future a spaceship doesn’t gently touch-down on a strange planet, but crashes into it, luckily landing in a lake, the three survivors escaping the sinking craft.

The audience knows a great deal more than they do, that the arid desert in which they find themselves stretches everywhere. But then they realize, with supplies that will last only three days, the soil here will not support life. But they are quickly upbeat when they find a small plant followed by substantial greenery. The sight of crucified figures on a hill is put to one side when they hear running water and rush to dive naked into a pool, confidence restored that they won’t die of thirst and should at least be able to eat vegetable matter.

The pool is a clever reversal. Usually open water is there for a female to disport herself. Now we’re seeing Charlton Heston’s bare backside. And another reversal: when clothes disappear it’s usually so a female has to come out of the water exposed.

But from the sight of the crucified apes, for the next seven minutes, their world is completely turned upside down. Chasing after their clothes they find inhabitants, automatically assumed to be inferior because they are mute and dressed like cavemen. But then the tribe hears a noise and panics. We see horses hooves, the tops of the flailing sticks used to beat prey out from the undergrowth, rifles, the natives, like dumb beasts, being driven into nets.

Then the first sight of an ape astride a horse wielding a gun. There can’t have been a more astonishing image, not even from the mind of Stanley Kubrick, in the whole of Hollywood sci-fi. Man is not just an alien in a world ruled by apes, but treated like an animal and only kept alive for scientific experiment. That man is rendered mute is hardly surprising because the apes don’t expect their captives capable of uttering an intelligent word.

From then on we’re in familiar and unfamiliar territory. There’s little more cliched than a captive trying to escape, success and failure the next beats. There’s little more cliched than a captive striking up a relationship with an imprisoned female, the pair contriving to achieve freedom.

Where this breaks new ground is that, in addition to making a connection with Nova (Linda Harrison), Taylor (Charlton Heston) woos a female ape scientist Zira (Kim Hunter) who tries to help him become accepted by her people. In the opening section, Taylor had opined, “somewhere in the universe there must be something better than man” but in the arrogance of humanity had assumed he be treated as an equal rather than an inferior.

So it becomes a duel of words. Taylor forced into being told how terrible humans are, and it’s hard to argue with the ape conclusion, while at the same time making the case for mankind, and especially himself, as a special type of species. There’s more than enough meat in the script, riddled with brilliant lines, to make audiences think deeply about the impact of man on the world. You could cast your mind back to the slaves of Spartacus (1961), trying to be accepted as equals, forced into revolt when that is denied. And to some extent that’s the imagined set-up here: Taylor will escape and establish some kind of resistance movement.

But that’s not what director Franklin J. Schaffner (The War Lord, 1965) has in mind at all. He’s been leading us by the nose to the most stunning ending in all of sci fi, and one of the most astonishing climaxes in the entire history of the movies, a shock wrung through with irony.

The movie is a supreme achievement, in springing its multitude of audience traps, turning the world upside down. Jarring soundtrack and discomfited camerawork add to the stunning images. The ape world is revealed as complex, filled with engaging characters.

Outside of Number One (1969), this is Charlton Heston’s best performance as he moves through a range of emotions, cocky, puzzled, confident, baffled, captive, pleading, arguing the case for humanity, before spilling out into straightforward heroic mode of escapee. For the first time ever Hollywood now had a genuine box office star to headline sci-fi pictures and Heston would carry the torch for The Omega Man (1971) and Soylent Green (1973)

At every level a masterpiece.