Brian Hannan

Behind the Scenes: United Artists’ Mea Culpa: Why Flops Flopped, 1969-1971, Part Three

Box office hits like Never on Sunday (1960), La Dolce Vita (1960), Zorba the Greek (1964), A Man and a Woman (1966) and Z (1969) gave Hollywood the wrong idea. Studios believed they could take advantage of the cheaper costs of shooting in Europe, set up alliances with critically acclaimed French, Italian, Greek, German and Swedish directors as well as several top overseas marquee names, and create a pipeline of product to fill out release schedules with pictures that were as acceptable to neighborhood cinemas as to arthouses.

The reliance of United Artists on this source was as much to blame for the box office crisis it endured as the other films covered in the first two articles in this series. In many cases, the studio gave directors their head, not reining them in on budgets, allowing several final cut, and assuming that critics and awards at festivals like Cannes, Berlin and Venice would do the job of selling the product to the domestic market.

On the basis of Polish director Jerzy Skolimowski winning the Golden Bear at Berlin for Le Depart / The Departure (1967) starring Jean-Luc Godard protege Jean-Pierre Leaud – and its subsequent arthouse success – UA bequeathed him big-budget The Adventures of Gerard (1970), set during the Napoleonic War, based on a book by Sherlock Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle, and headlined by rising British star Peter McEnery (Negatives, 1968) and established Italian import Claudia Cardinale (The Professionals, 1966) and a supporting cast including Jack Hawkins and Eli Wallach.

“The picture turned out to be one of the worst disasters in the history of the company,” the company directors told the shareholders. “It was the result of reliance on one of the new fashionable foreign film directors. The picture was beset by problems due to the unprofessional excesses…indulged in by the director.” The outcome was a movie that could not be reshaped into a “more acceptable form” and that ending up occupying “a limbo area between adventure and farce.” Prospects were so poor, the studio doubted if it would even recoup marketing and advertising costs never mind any of the production costs.

Theoretically, Burn! / Quiemada (1969) should have fared better. At least it had a proper star in Marlon Brando, even though his marquee value was being questioned. This had been placed in the hands of Italian director Gillo Pontecorvo whose The Battle of Algiers (1966) had been nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. The studio had hoped to “combine interesting message with entertainment values.” However, personality conflict between director and star saw the picture to go “way over budget.” Prospects remained dim because “despite all efforts to persuade the director to reduce it to realistic length,” it was deemed overlong and “badly cut.” It fell between the stools of the arthouse audience who would have appreciated the message and the action audience who would have welcomed the more commercial elements. It was marked down for “a substantial loss.”

On the strength of a nomination for the Palme D’Or at Cannes for The Shop on Main Street (1965), the studio backed a project by its Hungarian director Jan Kadar. The Angel Levine (1970) attracted investment because the director had achieved “a certain cult,” the recording career of star Harry Belafonte had reached new heights, and the story was supposed to have a special appeal to ethnic groups. “Everything went wrong. The direction and performance came out slow and leaden. The story…didn’t work.” The picture was over budget and overlong. “The director could not be persuaded to make the necessary cuts” resulting in expectation of another “substantial loss.”

Italian director Elio Petri had enjoyed cult success with the offbeat sci fi The 10^th Victim (1965) starring Marcello Mastroianni and Ursula Andress. For A Quiet Place in the Country (1968) he had lined up top British Oscar-nominated actress Vanessa Redgrave and rising Italian star Franco Nero who had played lovers in Camelot (1967). It was greenlit at a time when the studio believed there was a wider market among discriminating audiences for foreign films previously restricted to arthouses. But it had become clear that films in this category faced “inevitable loss.”

You probably haven’t heard of That Splendid November (1969), greenlit to “fulfill a pay-or-play commitment to Italian star Gina Lollobrigida” (Strange Bedfellows, 1965). While targeting the European market, it was hoped it would do additional business in America. It didn’t. Once again, the director (Mauro Bolognini) was allowed too much leeway. He had not been “persuaded to make the changes that would improve its chances” while the studio discovered that La Lollo had lost her marquee luster.

However, United Artists had also committed to potential “breakout” pictures, foreign movies aimed at American arthouses. The bulk of the overseas pictures that had thrived in the U.S. had done so via the arthouse circuit after being favorably reviewed by critics. These were considered relatively low-cost and low-risk investments. But, as events proved, these were as big a gamble as more high-budget projects.

Red, White and Zero / The White Bus (1967) proved “an utter failure” despite the presence of three top British directors, Lindsay Anderson (This Sporting Life, 1963), Oscar-winner Tony Richardson (Tom Jones, 1963) and Peter Brook. Although made for the arthouse market, these proved fewer in number than anticipated when the film was greenlit.

A French heist film entitled Score “would not be made today,” admitted the UA executives. Hoping to capitalize on the caper genre, the studio discovered no one was interested. Three French pictures, Philippe de Broca’s Give Her the Moon (1970) starring Philippe Noiret, The American and Lent in the Month of March (1968), were written off due to the softening of the arthouse market, as was Yugoslavian number It Rains in My village (1968) starring Annie Girardot. French/Brazilian Pour Un Amour Lointain (1968), “one of the poorer foreign pictures,” had such dismal prospects it was denied U.S. distribution. German picture Gentlemen in White Vests (1970) lacked appeal even its home market.

SOURCE: “Comments supplementing notes to Balance Sheet and Statement of Operations of United Artists Corporation for 1970,” United Artists Archive, Box 1 Folder 12 (Wisconsin Center for Theater and Film Research).

Behind the Scenes: United Artists’ Mea Cupa, Why Flops Flopped, 1969-1971 – Part Two

The United Artists strategy was to forge alliances with directors. The studio tended not to finance one-off projects, instead focusing on building long-term relationships. In part, this was a safeguard. Cross-collateralizing eliminated some of the risk between balancing out profit and loss. So a director could not waltz off with profits from a hit leaving the studio to pick up the losses from a flop. Ongoing agreements with major movie makers included Oscar-winners Billy Wilder, Tony Richardson and John Schlesinger plus Woody Allen, John Boorman and Robert Downey. In making such deals, the studio ceded substantial profit percentages and, as importantly for the directors, final cut.

Its relationship with Billy Wilder, for example, went back over a decade. The mishits of One, Two, Three (1961) and Kiss Me, Stupid (1964) were more than offset by the income from Some Like it Hot (1959), The Apartment (1960), Irma La Douce (1963) and to a lesser extent The Fortune Cookie/Meet Whiplash Willie (1966). Wilder’s cherished Sherlock Holmes project had been on the UA schedule for years. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970) starring Robert Stephens, hardly a marquee name, stretched the relationship to the limit. “In order to recreate the Sherlock Holmes era,” the UA board explained to shareholders, “the picture cost far in excess of its worth. Since Billy Wilder has absolute control of what he makes, we were unable to make the desired cuts in the film in order to improve it. We have a film that is roughly three times more expensive than it is worth. Substantial loss is…inevitable.”

The studio had reached a new commercial high in the market for adult-oriented critically acclaimed pictures with Midnight Cowboy (1969), which won Oscars for Best Picture and for director John Schlesinger. Following the company’s normal arrangement, it put up the money for his follow-up Sunday, Bloody, Sunday (1971) starring Oscar-winner Glenda Jackson. But that proved a misstep. The film went $600,000 over budget and UA attributed its poor performance to a “very slow-paced film” coupled with “an extremely low-key” narrative plus “Schlinger’s reluctance to cut the film adequately.”

Directorial final cut also proved an obstacle to Ned Kelly (1970). Backing Tony Richardson’s Tom Jones (1963) had proved a masterstroke, opening up a financial goldmine and showering the picture with critical acclaim and four Oscars including Best Film and Best Director. The fact that Richardson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) had flopped did little to discourage the studio’s faith in him. In addition, the casting of Mick Jagger (“A big personality for the younger audience”) prove misplaced. Again, the director clashed with the studio. Again, the “very slow pace” was an issue. As was directorial control. UA conceded: “We have not been able to persuade him to make the cuts to improve the film.”

Part of the reason for Ned Kelly’s failure was that, with Mick Jagger in the title role, the target audience was the young. But the stream of youth oriented movies, triggered by the success of Easy Rider (1969) was a bubble that burst too soon. UA had invested in two pictures about “the contemporary drug scene.” I’m not sure The Heir was ever released. It had been subject to production delays and “because we don’t have the right to final cut, we can’t get the director to pick up the pace of the storyline.” As a result of the studio’s experience on that picture, approval of a second film on a drugs theme, Born to Win (1971), was held up until the budget was whittled down to $850,000 – and that was a picture that had the advantage of proven star in George Segal (The Owl and the Pussycat, 1970), a completion guarantee and cross-collateralization with another movie.

British director John Boorman was also riding high after Point Blank (1967) and although a reunion with star Lee Marvin for Hell in the Pacific (1968) didn’t come close to matching the thriller’s success, he was “the type of director picture companies were gravitating to in 1969” especially as he had “ a very special reputation with campus film groups and youth oriented film makers.” UA considered him a great catch. “He was considered one of the voices of a new wave of picture making – daring, innovative, imaginative.” However, the project he sold to the studio, Leo the Last (1970), in retrospect, “could justify a cost of only a few hundred thousand dollars” rather than the extra hundreds of thousands the director spent “trying to achieve his own ideas of perfection.” Once again, attempted intervention was foiled – “by contract he could not be overruled.”

The verdict passed on Woody Allen after the studio had greenlit Bananas (1971) was: “Today we would veto any Woody Allen film at this cost.” Here was another example of the studio backing a nascent talent. This had been given the go-ahead before results were in on the first picture Allen had made (Take the Money and Run, 1969) for another company.

And in retrospect the studio could find no justification for some of the moves it greenlit. The verdict on Norman Lear’s Cold Turkey (1971), which ran $1 million over budget, was brutal: “An overpriced film with a has-been personality (Dick Van Dyke)…a minor American comedy with no overseas value.”

Equally has-been was Rosalind Russell, star of Mrs Pollifax-Spy (1971), “a victim of the reduced potential for old-time star films.” UA had anticipated a “zany, tongue-in-cheek adventure comedy.” What it got was “a run-of-the-mill old-fashioned piece of work…totally unacceptable to younger audiences and too dull for the older audiences.”

Timing was the problem with Hal Ashby’s The Landlord (1970). “What was expected to be provocative material for the new modern film audience of 1968-1969…emerged as a film…of limited interest to the audience of 1970.” While the studio admitted “it was the type of film we intend to continue to make”, that came with the proviso that it could only be realized “at a quarter of the cost.”

Another piece of provocative material that failed to find an audience was Robert Downey’s Pound (1970), described as “a roll of the dice.” Downey had broken out of the indie mold with the satirical Putney Swope (1969). “When this film was programmed, we had every reason to believe that even with a less successful result, this director could reach a personal following type of audience large enough to justify this cost. However, by the time the picture came out, avant garde audiences of this nature had become more selective and increasingly fewer in number.” Again, the verdict pulled no punches: “The picture has little value – domestic or foreign.”

“A daring film on a provocative theme” appeared the main attraction of Pieces of Dreams (1970). It was certainly daring – a disillusioned priest has sex with a social worker. Rising stars Robert Forster (The Stalking Moon, 1968) and model Lauren Hutton (Little Fauss and Big Halsy, 1970) lacked the marquee appeal to save it. “By the time it came out it was no longer considered daring. “Thought-provoking” but not “dramatic or sensational” enough was the consensus.

The Way We Live Now (1970) is best remembered, if at all, for the debut of Linda Blair (The Exorcist, 1973). It proved “another fatality of the unhappy rush in 1969 to make a so-called “now” picture…At its modest cost it seemed a valid investment at the time. Today it would not be made at any cost.”

Behind the Scenes: United Artists’ Mea Culpa – Why Flops Flopped, 1969-1971 – Part One

United Artists – one of the biggest box office hitters of the 1960s – should have emerged relatively unscathed from the financial tsunami of the end of the decade. While pictures like its The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) certainly hit the buffers, it wasn’t in the position of having to swallow the titanic losses suffered by rivals Paramount (Darling Lili, 1968) or Twentieth Century Fox (Star!, 1968, Justine, 1969). Even though the studio’s banker, the James Bond series, suffered a downturn in the absence of Sean Connery, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969) still turned a decent profit.

However, when, in 1970, UA was staring down the barrel of a $50 million loss, the cause was more commonplace. Audiences worldwide had changed. Though every studio had followed trends taking them into youth-oriented pictures after Easy Rider (1969) and into more adult realms following Oscar-winner Midnight Cowboy (1969) and indulged the whims of a new generation of directors, something just did not add up. The studio believed it had, based on previous releases, invested in a solid range of movies, that overall would contain strong appeal.

For movies released between 1969 and 1971, UA had spent $80 million. But even before one-third of this output hit the screens in 1971, the studio was already projecting a colossal loss of $50 million, even after including sales to television.

Results in 1970 proved a shock to the system. “For the first time since the present management team assumed control of the company,” reported an internal memo dated February 28, 1971, “very few pictures released through the year showed promise of recouping their negative costs. It became clear that pictures which by our own experience would have brought back their costs or better in other years, would suffer severe losses in 1970. This was true of pictures in all cost brackets, high and low.”

And “after six uninterrupted years of substantial profits,” the studio was struggling to explain this sudden downturn. The situation was even more calamitous because the movies UA had readied for 1971 release were already expected to fare badly. In the light of changes in the marketplace, most of these movies would not have been greenlit in 1970 or made on reduced budgets.

Of course, the studio did not entirely blame itself. “The thirty-five films could not have been fully and properly evaluated in 1969. The conditions revealing the need for reevaluation…did not occur until 1970.” And even then, the “ominous” signs were only obvious towards the end of the year. Adventurous and more formulaic pictures alike foundered at the global box office.

In an act of mea culpa, United Artists set out the reasons why their flops had flopped. Their output broke down into roughly three sectors – star-led product, risky projects investing in new directors, and movies that targeted critical acclaim or appealed at least initially to the arthouse brigade.

Audience rejection of movies featuring big stars was the biggest pill to swallow.

Of Hornet’s Nest (1969), the studio observed: “In the early and mid-1960s pictures with Rock Hudson as star would do global grosses justifying the cost at which this picture was made. A typical run-of-the-mill action picture of this nature used to be a sound commodity if made within this price range. Our experience with, for instance, The File of the Golden Goose (Yul Brynner, 1969) and Young Billy Young (Robert Mitchum, 1969) made it clear that the global audience for this kind of picture had shrunk considerably and that a substantial loss appeared inevitable.”

Furthermore, the studio, commenting on the poor performance of Cannon for Cordoba (George Peppard, 1970), noted that “in 1970 there was a marked change in global acceptance of western and adventure films. The results of films of other companies – for instance Mackenna’s Gold (Columbia, 1969), Murphy’s War (Paramount, 1971), The Last Valley (ABC Pictures, 1971) – as well as our own Play Dirty (1968) and Bridge at Remagen (1969), indicated the need for a substantial downward revision in assessing proper budget costs for pictures in this category, even with the so-called big name action stars.”

All had boasted top marquee names – Gregory Peck, Omar Sharif, Michael Caine, Peter O’Toole and George Segal.

Others in this vein expected to suffer in the same way included The Hawaiians (1970) headlined by Charlton Heston, Doc (1971) starring Stacy Keach and Faye Dunaway and Burt Lancaster pair Valdez Is Coming (1971) and Lawman (1971) – though in fact the last-named was saved from box office ignominy by foreign receipts.

The studio concluded: “Pictures with this kind of star are still a commodity but at half the cost.”

Another category, exemplified by the British-made second Bulldog Drummond outing, Some Girls Do (1969) starring Richard Johnson, was equally affected. “When this picture was programmed,” noted the studio, “many low budget action adventure thrillers had enjoyed a certain global audience – enough to warrant making pictures of this type at this cost. By the end of 1970, this market had dwindled sharply. Whether it is a surfeit of TV programs of a similar nature or a greater selectivity generally – based probably on increasing alternatives for leisure time activity – the fact is that for this type of picture it has to be made at less than half the cost or not at all.”

Included in this category were films like Crossplot (1969) starring Roger Moore, and I Start Counting (1970) featuring Jenny Agutter. However, the latter was considered as much of an artistic failure, attracting the following comment: “An attempt to do a high quality suspense thriller turned out to be an unimaginative second feature of no importance in any market.”

Hang ‘Em High (1968) ****

Clint Eastwood didn’t waste much time capitalizing on the unexpected success of the Dollars Trilogy. But the first was not released in the United States till 1967 and despite the success of the series across Europe was generally dismissed as a fluke, until American audiences suggested otherwise. The following year Eastwood appeared in three pictures, Hang ‘Em High, Coogan’s Bluff and Where Eagles Dare, which solidified his screen persona as portraying more with a twitch or a raised eyebrow than digging deep into the dialog.

Contrary to my expectations, Hang ‘Em High doesn’t quite fall into the trademark revenge mode of later westerns. It’s somewhat episodic, Jed (Clint Eastwood) often sent off on a tangent by Judge Fenton (Pat Hingle), allowing the lynch mob who failed to hang him in the first place a second chance at completing the job.

*Following the success of the James Bond double bills,*
*United Artists spun out its Clint Eastwood portfolio at every opportunity.*

And while the presence of the second-billed Inger Stevens (Firecreek, 1968) suggests heady romance that doesn’t kick in until the third act and it’s more tentative than anything and its purpose is more, in narrative terms, to provide Jed with a correlative with which to compare his own obsession, bringing to justice the nine men who attempted to kill him.

Just to confuse things, the middle section isn’t about revenge or romance, but about justice. Specifically, it’s about showing that justice will be done, that in the unruly West, with insufficient enforcers of law and order, that crimes will not go unpunished, a gallows on constant display to make the point.

Surprisingly, it’s Jed who argues that some of this justice is just too summarily executed. He tries in vain to prevent the execution of two young rustlers who fell in with one of his potential assassins, Miller (Bruce Dern), but who refuse to take advantage of the situation when Miller overpowers Jed while he’s bringing the trio in to face the judge. Admittedly, they don’t go to his aid either, but the fact they resist piling in allows Jed to escape. However, rustling is a hanging offence, so they cannot escape the noose, certainly not in Fenton’s town.

There’s a switch in the mentality of Jed. Before he’s co-opted by Fenton to return to his former profession of lawman, Jed is of the school of thought that decides to take the law into his own hands. Even wearing a badge, you are allowed to shoot a man stone dead if he’s trying to escape, even if such action is severely hampered by him already being badly wounded, as lawman Bliss (Ben Johnson) demonstrates. But Bliss isn’t as callous as he sounds. He’s a contradiction, too, racing to the aid of Jed dangling in a noose in a tree, freeing him so he can face justice, even if that will most likely result in hanging.

So Jed upholds the law, preventing other citizens from taking the law into their own hands, Miller a target of the family of the owners he slaughtered before making off with their cattle.

We only see shop owner Rachel (Inger Stevens) fleetingly for most of the picture. She appears any time a new wagon load of criminals is jailed, scanning their faces for who knows what, though likely we’ve guessed it’ll be to find the killer of a loved one. Not only has her husband been killed by two strangers but while his corpse is lying on the ground beside her she’s raped. And although she eventually responds to Jed’s gentle moves, she still can’t let go of her “ghosts.”

Jed is put through the wringer. Not only an inch from death following the initial hanging but ambushed again by the same gang and nearly dying of pneumonia after being caught in a storm, the latter incidents permitting the kind of nursing that often fuels romance.

There’s an ironic ending. Captain Wilson (Ed Begley), leader of the gang, hangs himself rather than be shot by Jed.

The score by Dominic Frontiere (Number One, 1969) lurches. We go from heavy-handed villain-on-the-loose music to eminently hummable echoes of Ennio Morricone.

Clint Eastwood reinforces his marquee appeal, Inger Stevens delivers another of her wounded creatures, and Pat Hingle (The Gauntlet, 1977) is an effective foil. Bruce Dern (Castle Keep, 1969) does his best to steal every scene without realizing that over-playing never works in a movie featuring the master of under-playing.

Host of cameos include veterans Ben Johnson (The Undefeated, 1969), Charles McGraw (Pendulum, 1969) and L.Q. Jones (Major Dundee, 1965) plus two who had not lived up to their initial promise in Dennis Hopper (though he would revive his career the following year with Easy Rider) and James MacArthur (Battle of the Bulge, 1965).

Journeyman director Ted Post made a big enough impact for Eastwood to work with him again on Magnum Force (1973). Written by Leonard Freeman (Claudelle Inglish, 1961) and Mel Goldberg (Murder Inc., 1960).

More than satisfactory Hollywood debut for Eastwood and worth checking out to see that even at this early stage he had nailed down his screen persona.

Tarzan Goes to India (1962) ***

Helluva fillip for reissue and credibility purposes to be able to point to the picture being helmed by the director – John Guillermin – of The Towering Inferno (1974), not to mention King Kong (1976) and The Blue Max (1966) – which suggested top-notch skills if not the budget to match. Guillermin, who also had a share in the screenplay, does a pretty good job of tailoring the picture to highlight issues that in others of the series are treated in more comedic fashion and making tremendous use of the location, far more than subsequent directors do with South American scenery. Elephants go mano a mano, Tarzan has a tussle with a leopard, but for sheer realism there’s little to beat a tiny mongoose putting a cobra in its place.

But what could be more timely for today’s audiences than presenting Tarzan (Jock Mahoney) as an eco-warrior. He is brought in to rescue a herd of 300 wild elephants being drowned when a much-needed hydroelectric dam is opened. Dam engineers Bryce (Leo Gordon) and O’Hara (Mark Dana), who show no compunction about the high death rate among the native laborers, are even less concerned about the fate of the elephants especially as have very tight deadline – the onset of the monsoon season – to meet. Princess Kamara (Simi Garewal), daughter of an old friend from Tarzan’s Africa days, is trying to get villagers out of the way as well. She’s not helped by Bryce’s top engineer Raj (Jagdish Raj) who sides with Bryce.

The main problem is that elephants can’t climb hills and are led by Bala, a rogue of the species, whom Tarzan determines he’ll have to eliminate. He’s helped by a small boy Jai who rides his own elephant Gajendra. Jai’s not there for comedic purpose and Tarzan helps him grow up, their bond facilitated by Tarzan saving the ivory-tusked beast from Bryce in white hunter mode.

Baits abound. Tarzan is chained to a tree by Bryce to entice a leopard. The boy is used, again by Bryce, as lure to draw Tarzan out into the open at the climax. Raj changes sides on seeing how cheaply Bryce treats life, but there’s no time for him to get lovey-dovey with the princess. Which is just as well because Tarzan’s got a lot on his plate. His plan to put an arrow through Bala’s brain goes awry, triggering the Gajandra-Bala duel, which is very well done.

Although set in India, this feels more like the real thing than the sojourns in South America. We never see Tarzan in a suit but I don’t think anyone thought to compare his entrance, emerging from a river clad only in loin-cloth, with the other more famous screen entrance of the year, that of Ursula Andress in Dr No. Tarzan does plenty of swimming, even employing the breathing through a reed trick, and swings through the trees, and runs a lot barefoot, and gets to ride on the back of an elephant. The absence of his usual animal sidekicks is no hindrance. His scenes with the young boy are touching rather than sentimental or clumsily jokey. The kid’s pretty smart, which helps.

Kamara’s there merely to help along the subplot rather than for romantic purposes. Given the lean running time (86 minutes) that kind of palaver would only get in the way. This was shot entirely on location, and it shows, no awkward switches to studio set-ups, glorious scenery all the way.

Best of all John Guillermin, who also helmed Tarzan’s Greatest Adventure (1959), knows how to construct a scene, and how to get the best out of actors whose acting skills would not be considered their main attributes. So it looks good whichever way you cut it.

Former stunt man and athlete Jock Mahoney makes the switch from Tarzan nemesis (Tarzan the Magnificent, 1960) to Tarzan with ease. Less muscle-bound than his predecessors, he brings a more mature tone to proceedings, exuding thoughtfulness more than being gung-ho.

One of the better Tarzans of the decade.

The Third Alibi (1961) ***

Sometimes there’s nothing more satisfying than a well-plotted narrative that doesn’t overstay its welcome and comes with a sting – or two – in the tail. And in the B-picture world we can accommodate all sorts of venal characters and even hope – or at least wonder if – they will get away with their nefarious plans.

We might have sympathy for stage composer Norman (Laurence Payne) stuck in a soulless marriage with Helen (Patricia Dainton). Small wonder he seeks spice through an affair with divorced sister-in-law Peggy (Jane Griffiths). After all, being a creative is hard work and we want him to enjoy showbiz success.

But that’s until driving home at night he knocks down an old man and races off without stopping. Luckily, the old fella’s not dead, otherwise it would have been in the papers. But then he’s bounced into asking his wife for a divorce since Peggy has announced she’s pregnant. But Helen isn’t agreeable, not least because of her dislike for her sister. And Helen’s very ill, a heart condition, but for reasons best known to herself, won’t confide this to her husband.

So Norman is left with no alternative but to bump her off. He comes up with a very clever plan that will allow him to pretend not be at home when he kills his wife there and also dreams up one of these clever alibis for Peggy, who’s integral to his plan, by getting her to make a nuisance of herself at the cinema, so everyone recalls her both arriving and departing, allowing her to slip out of the theater for the period of time she needs to assist Norman.

But Helen overhears the conspiracy. And when Norman goes home to shoot his wife, using an unlicensed therefore untraceable pistol provided by Peggy (war heirloom) instead of his own licensed traceable gun, he discovers the house is empty.

*Jazz singer Cleo Laine makes a cameo appearance, as, too, does Dudley Moore*.

When he returns to his lover, he finds her dead, shot through the head. As he rushes out, the police arrive. He’s only a suspect for a short time as his various alibis hold up. Helen appears to be standing by him. But then the police find his gun in the bushes outside the dead woman’s house.

When Helen confesses to the police that her husband has demanded a divorce, that puts her in the firing line. Except she’s got a perfect alibi. She stole the idea from the conspirators, making her visit to the cinema easily remembered by the staff both at the start of the movie and the end. It’s pretty much an unbreakable alibi unless any other witness can finger her.

Norman protests his innocence of course. And the irony is we know he’s innocent, but our sympathies are now with the killer, Helen, which twists around our preconceptions.

After all, not only is she the injured party in the romantic stakes, but she’s very ill, so needs all the audience sympathy she can get. So the audience, against its better judgement, is batting for her.

But, suddenly, twist number one, they don’t have to. Because the strain is all too much, and she has a heart attack and drops dead. And, surely, it won’t be long before Norman can find a way out of his predicament. And he believes he has the very thing.

There’s a nosy old neighbor who takes too close an interest in visitors to the house. So he must have seen Norman arrive there at the very time his lover was shot. The neighbor is brought in.

He’s a poor old soul. And blind. The result of being knocked over by a car a few weeks before.

What a cracking ending to a cracking tale. I always wonder why these kind of stories don’t get resurrected for some sort of portmanteau series, in the manner of Tales of the Unexpected. Although there’s little fat on them, a bit of judicious trimming would make them ideal for a one-hour television slot and this one, in particular, is little more than a three-hander, so wouldn’t cost much.

Each of the main characters is well drawn, each allowed a moment to stretch their emotional muscles. Solid, if not spectacular, acting from Laurence Payne (Crosstrap, 1962), Patricia Dainton (The House in Marsh Road, 1960), and Jane Griffiths (The Double, 1963), and impressive turn from John Arnatt (A Challenge for Robin Hood, 1967) as a doughty cop.

Written by Maurice J. Wilson (The House in Marsh Road) and director Montgomery Tully (The House in Marsh Road) from a play by Pip and Jane Baker. Tully is in fine form at the helm, wasting no time in driving this towards ironic conclusion.

I’ve been clocking up a few from the Tully portfolio in the last month or so. Astonished to find he directed another seven pictures this decade, so I might, in due course, complete the collection.

Enjoyable.

The Swinger (1966) ***

As chosen by my readers, this is the most popular movie on the Blog, so I thought I’d check back and see how it stood up. Having seen it before, of course, I knew what to expect. And despite the star’s acting abilities being better showcased in items like Once a Thief (1965) and Stagecoach (1966) I still found this effortlessly put together to deliver a movie that presented what studio and possibly the star felt was the best version (in terms of instant audience appeal) of herself. Think fun, fun, fun, if lightweight, lightweight, lightweight.

Pure confection. There was a sub-genre of romantic comedy pictures that spun on a simple plot device to throw together actors with terrific screen charisma. Doris Day, Rock Hudson and Cary Grant did little more than meet a potential new partner, fall out with them and then resolve their differences. The importance of actors of this caliber was the difference between a high class piece of froth and mere entertainment. This falls into the latter category, neither Ann-Margret nor Anthony Franciosa reaching the high standards of the likes of That Touch of Mink or Pillow Talk.

That said, this was clearly custom-made for Ann-Margret and her growing fan-base. Despite displaying unexpectedly serious acting chops in Once a Thief (1965) this plays more obviously to her strengths. She gets to sing, dance and generally throw herself around. The face, hair, smile and body combine in a sensational package.

Kelly Olsson (Ann-Margret) plays a budding writer so naïve that she tries to sell her stories to Girl-Lure, a Playboy-type magazine, owned by high-class Brit Sir Hubert Charles (Robert Coote) and run by Ric Colby (Anthony Franciosa). When her work is rejected, Olsson writes an imitation sex-novel, The Swinger, purportedly based on her own life. Sir Hubert buys the idea and Ric sets up a series of accompanying photo-shoots using Kelly as the model until he discovers her book is pure fiction.

The setting is an excuse to show an avalanche of young women in bikinis. The slight story is justification enough for Ann-Margret to strut her stuff as a singer and dancer. Since her stage show depended more on energy than singing, this effectively showcases her act.

So two-dimensional are the principals, you are not going to mistake any of these characters for actual characters. The film lacks such depth you would not be surprised if the likes of Elvis Presley or Cliff Richard popped up. The comedy is very lite, an initial attempt at satire soon dropped, the few bursts of slapstick seeming to catch the stars unawares.

But that’s not to say it’s not enjoyable, Ann-Margret is a gloriously old-fashioned sex symbol and certainly knows how to shake her booty. The standout (for lack of a better word) scene revolves around body painting. She even gets the chance to ride a motorcycle, one of her trademarks. Anthony Franciosa (Go Naked in the World, 1961) has little to do except smile. Yvonne Romain (The Frightened City, 1961) has a thankless role as Ric’s girlfriend.

Director George Sidney teams up with Ann-Margret for the third time after Bye Bye Birdie (1963) and Viva Las Vegas (1964). This was his penultimate outing in a 20-year Hollywood career whose highlights included Anchors Aweigh (1945), The Three Musketeers (1948), Annie Get Your Gun (1950), Showboat (1951) and Pal Joey (1957). So he certainly had the musical pedigree to ensure the songs had some pizzazz but clearly less impact on the script which was reputedly scrambled together at short notice by Lawrence Roman (McQ, 1974) to fulfil a studio commitment to the star.

Children of the Damned (1964) ***

I wasn’t aware that celebrated sci fi author John Wyndham had written a sequel to his iconic novel The Midwich Cuckoos, filmed as Village of the Damned (1960). And it turned out he didn’t (he did make an attempt but abandoned it after a few chapters). So he had nothing to do with the sequel. But the original had proved such a hit MGM couldn’t resist going for second helpings.

And there was nothing the writer could do about it, it being standard procedure that when you sold your novel to Hollywood the studio retained all the rights and could commission a remake, sequel, turn it into a television series, without consulting you.

The only drawback for a potential sequel was that main adult character Professor Zellaby (George Sander) and all the kids had died in the original, though the final image of eyes flying out of the burning house might have suggested the children had actually survived. And, as we know these days, just when your main character dies it doesn’t prevent him miraculously returning to life should box office dictate.

So screenwriter John Briley (Oscar-winner for Gandhi, 1982) was handed the sequel. And what we get is a lot of atmosphere, a chunk of running around in empty London streets (the result not of mass evacuation but filming in early morning when roads are clear), a very slinky turn from Alan Badel (Bitter Harvest, 1963) showing what he can do when hero not villain, and a twist on the previous problem – how to vanquish the kids – which is whether to weaponize them. Mostly, we are reminded of how better telekinesis was dealt with in the original picture and how poorly this compares to the likes of Brian De Palma’s later Carrie (1976) and even his The Fury (1978).

Apart from the title, there’s barely a nod to the previous incarnation, except that discerning the children’s paternity proves impossible. An United Nations project has tracked down six kids with incredible intellects. Like Professor Zellaby, British psychologist Dr Tom Llewellyn (Ian Hendry) and geneticist Dr David Neville (Alan Badel) want to study the kids while the more shadowy figure of Colin Webster (Alfred Burke) appears to have more sinister purpose in mind.

In any case none of the three achieve their goals because the kids escape and take refuge in an abandoned church, defending themselves against the authorities and the military by their brain controlling abilities and by the devising of a sonic weapon. Immediately under their thumb is the aunt, Susan (Barbara Ferris), of the young boy Paul (Clive Powell) who initially excited the interest of the British scientists.

Opinion varies as to whether the children are a genetic freak of nature, aliens or an advanced human race. The authorities can’t decide whether they are a threat or a wonder and decide to eliminate them, then change their mind, while the children decide to fight back then change their minds. The ending is quite a surprise.

Although the kids still have the fearful eyes, they are generally a lot less effective a scare than when the small gang of them stood side by side in the previous picture and stared at adults until they did the childrens’ bidding or killed themselves. There’s way too much discussion among adults. In the previous picture, those kinds of conversations had more emotional impact, since it was the villagers who were left distraught. Here, you couldn’t care less about the adults.

Interestingly enough, the standout isn’t any of the kids at all, but Alan Badel, who comes over as the libidinous sort, but very charming, and views any woman as fair game, but it’s fascinating to see how his usual screen persona here makes him a hero whereas in most other films exhibiting much the same characteristics he comes across as shifty, mean or downright villainous.

Ian Hendry (The Hill, 1965) was a rising British star but isn’t given much to get his teeth into. Barbara Ferris (Interlude, 1968) has a vital role.

Directed by television veteran Anton M. Leader (The Cockeyed Cowboys of Calico County, 1970) who makes his screen debut.

Not a patch on the original.

Village of the Damned (1960) ****

Superb chiller that, unusually, takes time to develop several strands over a longer time frame than is normal for a genre where the immediate takes preference. Opens a new dimension of terror, too, with the brain control sub-genre that would spill over into brainwashing. You could also, if you were of a mind, point to the genuine growing social power of the young as emphasized later in the decade with movies about hippies. It might not be too much of a stretch to point to the “Youthquake” at the end of the 1960s when pandering to a youthful audience nearly destroyed Hollywood.

Terrific opening sequence of everyone in the small village of Midwich dropping to the ground, the immobilized driver of a bus crashing off the road, the driver of a tractor hitting a tree, taps left running, telephone calls cut off, all manner of accidents ensue. You think everyone’s dead, as do the military, called in to investigate. They cordon off the area, employ canaries and then humans to discover how far the danger spreads. But when a soldier who is dragged out unconscious from the forbidden zone wakes up, they soon realize the population is merely unconscious.

Childless couple Professor Gordon Zellaby (George Sanders) and younger wife Anthea (Barbara Shelley) are among those affected, apparently suffering no side effects for having been knocked out for around four hours. A couple of months later Anthea is delighted to report she’s pregnant. She’s not alone. But for many of the villagers what would be a cause for celebration causes untold grief. One husband returns home after a year away to find his wife is pregnant. In the days when pre-marital sex was frowned-upon, virgins, similarly affected, are shamed.

The pregnancies don’t run to the normal period either, and fully-grown children are born within a few months. What’s more, they all look as if they have inherited the same genes. Their blonde hair and striking eyes suggest they share the same father. Soon it transpires they can not only read minds but control them, causing at least two people to commit suicide.

Turns out this is a global problem, several other communities afflicted with the same condition, the Russians so concerned at the prospect that they bomb one village to oblivion, other cultures simply murdering the children. Here, being English, where fair play still rules regardless of potential threat, the children are taken under the wing of Professor Zellaby, though the military, having sealed off the area, wait in the wings, itching to wipe out the troublemakers.

Quickly, it becomes a duel for power, the children will do anything to protect their species, Professor Zellaby at first wanting just to study the kids and understand them but soon recognizing the threat.

In between bouts of action, most of which is discreetly handled, none of the deliberately shocking scenes that might have emanated from an exploitationer, the authorities have plenty of time to ponder their existence. A leap in genetic mutation, or extraterrestrial origins, are among the options considered.

Eventually the villagers react like terrified Transylvanians confronting Dracula and attempt to set fire to the building where the children are housed but reckon without the brain control that can be exerted. In the end Professor Zellaby comes up with a self-destructive solution.

This is formidable stuff, all the more so, because in the days when most monsters grew fangs or claws or developed huge bodies and were otherwise physically frightening, the worst these kids get up to is to have a striking glow in their eyes, a startling contrast to their blonde hair, calm demeanor and neat uniform clothing.

Tremendously well done and it helps to have cast mainstream actors like George Sanders (Warning Shot, 1967) and Barbara Shelley (only later did she become a Scream Queen) and others who don’t carry the tinge of the horror genre.

Very well paced by German director Wolf Rilla (The World Ten Times Over, 1963) who resists the temptation to overplay his hand, achieving much more by leaving it to your imagination. Stirling Silliphant (The Slender Thread, 1965), George Barclay (Devil Doll, 1964) and the director adapted the groundbreaking novel The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham. Horror maestro John Carpenter remade this in 1995, which only wnent to show how more successful the restraint of the original was.

Top notch.

The French Connection 2 (1975) ***

Back to Marseilles four decades on from Borsalino (1970) and a preposterous plot that virtually sinks this fictional sequel to the factual original. For a start, French drugs kingpin Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey) has a very distinctive face, and it could hardly been beyond a cop, accustomed to issuing identikits, to provide the French police and Interpol for that matter with a mugshot, thus eliminating the contention that New York cop Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) is the only one who can identify him.

Throw in the fact that, unlike other U.S. exports like Jason Bourne who is fluent in several languages, Doyle is instantly at a disadvantage because, blow me down, the ordinary French citizen doesn’t speak English, ensuring that the cop comes across as one of these witless foreigners who thinks shouting louder in English makes him any more intelligible. And his sole method of detection is to simply wander the streets of a city with a population of 1.3 million hoping to catch sight of his quarry.

Doyle, being a natural rule-buster, soon causes the death of a local cop to add to the five people he’s killed (including two cops) in his home country. The bull-in-a-china-shop is so ham-fisted that it’s embarrassing rather than comedic. And the get-out-of-jail-free card is just as preposterous. Turns out Popeye is bait – this was a trope of 1960s low-budget crime or espionage movies though usually a woman was either the willing or unknowing lure – sent to Marseilles by his own bosses, in the hope that his presence will lure Charnier out of hiding, when, in fact, the Frenchman hides in very plain sight, on his very fancy yacht or dining in very fancy restaurants.

You’d have thought it would be an incredibly simple matter to feed the Charnier’s face into the police system and come up with a match which would then just involve either breaking down doors or taking the more discreet approach of catching him in the act.

What saves this, and only just, is Gene Hackman’s performance, not as the aforementioned bull, but as a junkie going cold turkey. And that in itself is reduced to only a handful of outstanding scenes, when his opposite number Barthelemy (Bernard Fresson) has to listen to his meanderings about baseball and his childhood. The action finale, the equivalent of a dam burst, where the two cops are flooded in a dry dock is good too. But, devoid of the racing automobiles, the climax drags, as Doyle sets up a later action trope of the endless footslog (which Liam Neeson probably thought he had trademarked). This doesn’t even involve any leaping or running across rooftops just a canter along busy streets, down alleys and then along the marina hoping to catch Charnier before he escapes by yacht.

It’s slim on atmosphere, too. Where the original had a down’n’dirty lived-in feel, this comes over as a tourist version of Marseilles if a tourist fancied a stroll down some mean streets. There’s a really dumb scene where Popeye, hoping to scare out the crooks in the hotel where he was imprisoned, sets fire to the place. But he goes upstairs with a jerrycan of petrol, rather than starting at the top and working is way down, no guarantee that when he reaches the roof there’s going to be any avenue of escape left open to him.

Sure, a sequel was always going to be in the works after the success of the original. But why not concentrate on the obvious follow-up, how a cache of heroin with a street value of $32 million seized by Popeye and Co managed to vanish from a police property office.

Director John Frankenheimer (The Gypsy Moths, 1969, also featuring Hackman) hadn’t had a hit in a decade. This didn’t match the original at the box office. Written by Alexander Jacobs (Point Blank, 1967) and Robert Dillon (Bikini Beach, 1964) and Laurie Dillon, their only screen work.

Disappointing.