Brian Hannan

Goodbye Charlie (1964) ***

Gender switch comedies were a rarity in Hollywood at this point though of course Billy Wilder had scored big with Some Like it Hot (1959) and I’m guessing the possibility of Tony Curtis repeating his drag act was an audience lure for this one. Alas, that wasn’t to be. This goes the other way. Or several other ways. A woman playing a man who is a woman. That would be catnip these days were it a transgender thing, but it ain’t.

Confused? So sex predator Charlie (a male) drowns while escaping enraged husband Sir Leopold (Walter Matthau) only to reappear, re-born or reincarnated (as the producers decide after googling it, sorry, after they look it up in a book) as a naked woman walking along the highway, rescued by the wealthy Bruce (Pat Boone) and delivered to the nearest house, Charlie’s own pad, now occupied by old buddy George (Tony Curtis).

There’s some light comedy as George tries to safely manhandle the unknown woman, clad only in Bruce’s coat (necessitating his later return of course) and gradually the surroundings seem over-familiar to the woman and then, shazam, George works out from what she knows about him that actually she must have returned as a man, also called Charlie (Debbie Reynolds).

A cosmic joke, in other words. The man who preyed upon women returning as a woman. See how he likes it to be on the receiving end of misogyny. But, mostly, he/she lolls around with legs spread like a man, gulps down whisky and is a dab hand at cards. But that’s not where the humor lies, apparently, because the movie moves on quickly from the woman acting the man and into the man-woman discovering all the female tricks of the trade, visiting a beauty parlor and the hairdresser. Charlie discovers it’s not the same fun slapping a woman’s backside – what a revelation – if you’re a woman.

But, basically, the female Charlie decides to become a female version of the male Charlie, the predator, ripping off friends, chasing the big money, trying to seduce Bruce. So, mostly, it’s one odd plot device after another.

But the sizzle is Debbie Reynolds, not so much the man-woman stuff, but turning into a mean Bette Davis character before your eyes, all hard-edge and shifty moves. There’s sexual tension as well, George initially resisting the woman he knows is or was a man, before finding the attraction too much, and the same going for Bruce. There’s a fair whack of sexual confusion, as the newborn Charlie still finds herself ogling women.

In those far more innocent times, it doesn’t know what it wants to say and lacks the narrative to say it. Audiences had terrific fun with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot, but that narrative ploy was bang on, and Lemmon enjoying dressing up as a woman and Curtis having to keep his male instincts at bay while ogling Marilyn Monroe was pure catnip.

Here, Curtis is mostly the foil for Debbie Reynolds and by the time it looks as though they might get it together she is way past behaving like a man and is most definitely a desirable woman so it’s kind of difficult to make this work romantically or humorously.

Perhaps the oddest element is that the signs were already there that it wouldn’t work that well. It started as a Broadway play written by George Axelrod (The Seven Year Itch, which was a Broadway smash) but it barely lasted a dozen weeks on stage. By that time, though, Twentieth Century Fox had splashed out $150,000 for the rights. Still, bigger sums have been buried in the annual accounts.

And I guess when Vincente Minelli (Two Weeks in Another Town, 1962) came on board with a pretty decent cast it seemed at least doable. Like many a lightweight comedy from the decade – Dear Brigitte (1965) for example – it’s keep afloat by a terrific performance by the principal star, in this case Debbie Reynolds (Divorce American Style, 1967). You might spot Ellen Burstyn (The Exorcist, 1973) in an early role.

Take away Debbie Reynolds and it would limp along.

Behind the Scenes: 1967, The Year The Oscars Went Sour

Setting aside diversity and inclusion issues and the invasion of streamers, the integrity of the Oscars have been under attack for a good few decades. Most observers put this down to the influence of the Weinsteins who began to use the awards as a major plank of their marketing, often spending more on that element of publicity than anything else.

The submission rules are simple: a movie has to play for one week in Los Angeles before the end of the year. That accounts for the rush of prestige-related product in the Xmas period. Occasionally, an entry would be rejected because it was shown outside the strict geographical confines of the city. But mostly movies appeared in this fashion to test the waters.

Even before the nominations were announced, critics and observers would be garlanding various pictures with high praise, anointing them certainties for recognition, which, in the era of social media, was often as good as, if not better than, actually gaining a nomination. And nowadays there’s even mileage if a favorite falls at the last hurdle, endless articles doing the rounds on movies that were “snubbed,” such manufactured outrage bringing extensive media coverage.

In Britain, where I grew up, I distinctly remember a flurry of distinguished movies being released in March/April, capitalizing on nominations and/or wins. In the U.S. the release pattern tended to be more fluid, studios holding back on wide release until nominations were in the bag.

The Weinsteins changed all that by aggressively targeting Oscar voters, helping build the Golden Globes as an indicative precursor to the bigger awards, and creating a marketing tsunami behind any of their movies that got a sniff of a nomination. Eyebrows were certainly raised at these tactics, but, Hollywood turned a blind eye mostly especially in years when box office gross could be achieved by appealing to the lowest common denominator and Oscar bait was viewed as an acceptable route for financially weaker studios or mini-majors.

Although there had always been a few winners that appeared to come out of left field – Marty (1955), the classic example – and the industry displaying a penchant for awarding a best actor/actress award to a neophyte – step forward Yul Brynner (The King and I, 1956) and Julie Andrews (Mary Poppins, 1964) – or to a veteran deemed worthy (John Wayne for True Grit, 1969), it was generally accepted that awards were always genuine and reflected the mood of the time.

There was no hint of overt machination, of tweaking the system, until observers started questioning just how musical Doctor Dolittle managed to leapfrog into the Best Film category in 1967 ahead of more obvious candidates like Cool Hand Luke and In Cold Blood not to mention Wait until Dark, Point Blank or Accident. Or even better-reviewed and better-performing musicals such as Camelot and Thoroughly Modern Millie.

And it might well have remained just an anomaly until investigative journalist Mark Harris dug out the truth for his book Scenes from a Revolution (2008) which, on focusing in the other, more worthy candidates for Best Picture – Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, In the Heat of the Night and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner – used that to frame his argument that Hollywood had finally come of age in terms of addressing racism, violence and sex and welcoming new talent.

Except that loading Doctor Dolittle into the equation blew a hole in his brilliant thesis, unless he was making a diversity pitch for talking animals. There had to be an explanation. It made no sense that Hollywood denizens who had voted for Bonnie and Clyde and The Graduate could be equally enamored of the musical. But, of course, that’s not the way nominations work. At this stage voters aren’t voting for all the pictures, they are voting for an individual favorite.

So, clearly, what had occurred was a major division. It could easily ascribed to a difference in taste. Those who voted for the other quartet clearly shared similar sensibilities. Those who opted for Doctor Dolittle were going against the grain. It was easily explainable as old-timers hitting out as much as older audiences did against a tide of sex and violence, rewarding a return to more innocent times. Or perhaps some kind of recognition that since the musical – The Sound of Music (1965), Mary Poppins – was deemed in some circles to have saved Hollywood then it was only fitting that a new musical should be honored in some fashion.

The truth was darker and left a bitter taste. Twentieth Century Fox, the studio which had put $31 million in production and marketing fees behind Doctor Dolittle and was heading into the same budget stratosphere for Star! (1968), wanted to use Oscar leverage to box office advantage, reviving a picture that was headed for the flop counter and reversing perceived critical disapproval.

In short, it put the screws on any employees who had a vote. There was the usual public campaign that in those days revolved around ads in the trades, but there was also a behind-the-scenes crusade, calling in favors and debts, putting the squeeze on anyone whose career had depended on or might in the near future depend on the studio. Harris argued that Fox had previously adopted this ploy, pointing to nominations for The Longest Day (1962), Cleopatra (1963) and The Sand Pebbles (1966) but, when compared to Doctor Dolittle, these seemed works of cinematic genius.

In the days before VHS, DVD and digital, the only way for voters to get a first or second look at a prospective candidate was for studios to line up showings in private screening rooms or to hire out a cinema for evening, though it would be pretty safe to assume that if your movie was of the blockbuster variety – as in The Longest Day, Cleopatra and The Sand Pebbles – most voters would have already seen it at least once.

To ease access to Doctor Dolittle, Twentieth Century Fox booked out its own theater, plusher than most movie houses, at its studio for 16 consecutive nights. It threw in free dinner and champagne and presumably there was a high-ranking executive, if not the overall boss, to gladhand his way around the post-screening dining tables to ensure the guests knew just how much the studio was counting on them to do the right thing.

While the ploy worked as a method of finding the movie a place at the nominations high table it didn’t appear to sprinkle magic box office dust on the movie. U.S. rentals only came to $3.5 million, less than 15 per cent of its cost. But, probably, in reality it did. Since there was a considerable gap between U.S. and foreign release, it was often foreign distributors who benefitted most from the Oscar aftermath. In this case, Doctor Dolittle’s foreign box office – $12.8 million – far exceeded domestic. It didn’t mean the movie turned a profit, far from it, but it certainly limited the damage.

The damage, in other ways, could not be measured. A studio had interferered with the sacrosanct. Instead of being lambasted, and this being Hollywood, what could you expect except that in future years other studios would take a similar route, resulting in the kind of questionable nomination still going on today, in fact even more pervasively as a result of an upsurge in pressure groups producing often unlikely candidates.

Mean Girls (2024) **** – Seen at the Cinema

Hollywood has clearly grown leery of the musical after the disastrous public reaction to Steven Spielberg’s much-touted remake of West Side Story (2021). Or of just marketing them. I turned up to see Wonka (2023) not realizing it was pretty much a full-blown musical, because the trailer made little reference to that fact. And the same holds true of Mean Girls. So it’s hardly surprising both received mixed reviews from audiences expecting more straightforward narratives.

Of course, the problem is that musicals in the past came with a substantial in-built audience. No movie was ever made until a musical had ended its Broadway run of four/seven/ten years and hit London’s West End and toured the world and sold millions of copies of the original cast recording so that when the movie finally appeared there was at least the prospect of a decent opening from fans of the stage show. They might gripe at what Hollywood did to their beloved show, but at least they came, and they came back, giving the movie the legendary “legs” if they thought the transformation was good.

I enjoyed Wonka primarily because of the narrative invention and Timothy Chamelet’s terrific performance but the singing and dancing left me cold, the only tune that struck any kind of chord was a leftover from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971). I didn’t come to Mean Girls with trepidation. I had no idea the original had turned into a beloved cult classic and therefore didn’t arrive armed with objections to the various changes.

I only came because there was nothing else. So I double-billed it with a second stab at The Beekeeper (2024) and emerged from the experience wondering why no social media guru had though fit to tag these pictures a la Barbieheimer – Meankeeper has a nice ring to it (can’t be Bee Girls because there already is Invasion of the Bee Girls) – because they made a zingy combination.

What struck me most about Mean Girls was the paradox between outward confidence and inner insecurity. The songs acted as soliloquies or confessions or inner turmoil and occasionally they were employed to help tell the story. As a musical, I thought it was flush with inventiveness, fresh, and contained a number of killer songs. I wasn’t acquainted with any of the cast but most appeared capable of carrying a tune.

But it was the dance numbers that really caught my attention. This was Hollywood throwback. Dancing ensembles appeared out of nowhere, doing incredibly daft routines, using whatever props came to hand, and it proved an insanely infectious success. The characters, of course, are cliches, alpha females and those caught in their thrall or rebelling against their power. It’s hardly original to note that the worst thing that can happen to an alpha female is to get a pimple or put on weight.

In another picture that would have been its downfall. Instead, the actors went overboard with the cliché, tore the face off it, and except for scrambling around at the end trying to find some moralizing conclusion that would satisfy wokeness, the approach worked a treat.

Shorn of the earworm numbers of a hugely successful musical, given I had no idea there would be any singing involved, equally I wasn’t waiting to see what they did with a favorite number, and, unlike Wonka, every time they set the tale to one side and embarked, generally all-out, on a tune, I sat back and lapped it up.

And unlike your standard musical, it was filled with neat twists and ripostes, the screenplay slammed full of zingers, and intelligent ones at that, for example, when the carefully-planned revenge plot backfires and social media goes wild to copy Regina’s (Renee Rapp) mascara-streaked face as the latest must-have look, or when the incapacitated Regina admits to liking her enemy Katie (Angourie Rice) only to admit that’s only probably on account of the medication. The “gossip is bad” notion, on the other hand, feels tacked-on although the close-your-eyes-and-raise-your-hand sequence that nails it is actually well done.

I’m not sure what was changed from the stage show and whether I should be irate or grateful for that, because I really don’t care.

On a footnote, this predilection for every aspiring star to have a crazy name is wearing thin. You can’t possibly remember all the odd combinations or inventions. Presumably, these are intended to attract attention, but when you get so many thrown at you all at once, the mind just freezes into disinterest.

The wife-and-husband team of Samatha Jayne and Arturo Perez Jr, in their debut feature, made a sparkling start to a big-screen career. Tina Fey wrote the sharp screenplay as she did the original 2004 movie, but I don’t know if she wrote the lyrics of Jeff Richmond’s excellent songs.

Go see. Build the Meankeeper legend.

Behind the Scenes: “The Pink Jungle” (1968) and the James Garner Conundrum

Like many an actor during the 1950s and 1960s – and it’s still going on – James Garner wanted to take greater control of his career. But he’d been doing that since he started out in the business, going on such an almighty tantrum with Warner Brothers, whose television arm had provided his big break via Maverick (1957-1962), that it resulted in a heavily-publicized spat that ended up in court. Garner objected to the kind of square-jawed roles in relatively lightweight movies (Up Periscope, 1959, Cash McCall, 1960) that his employers deemed most suitable to build his screen persona. He hankered after for more complex material.

Mirisch came to the rescue, hiring him for The Children’s Hour (1961), though only in a third-billed capacity, but thereafter offering him a three-picture deal, an action that appeared to provide him with professional sanctuary and when he received $150,000 for The Great Escape (1963) his actions seemed justified and he was “pegged as the natural successor to Clark Gable.”

But his notion of what might appeal to audiences, the kind of amiable almost knowing-wink characters, didn’t go down as well at the box office as he might have imagined. And when he was cast as the lead – though, critically, not guaranteed above-the-title status – in 70mm roadshow Grand Prix (1966) his presence was blamed for the movie not doing as well as expected. And it was soon apparent to all that he was far from a box office high-flyer. In fact, on the domestic market, his movies always made a loss.

Except for The Art of Love (1965), where you could equally argue Dick Van Dyke was the main attraction after the success of Mary Poppins, the movies in which he had been the star (excluding the likes of Move Over, Darling, 1963 and The Americanization of Emily, 1964 where he played second string to Doris Day and Julie Andrews, respectively) took in an average rental of $1.5 million, way below what they cost to make.

He was viewed as a perennial loser in the hard-nosed world of Hollywood that took earnings as its sole measure. Worse, Variety held up to scrutiny his choices, complaining he had “forsaken tough guy roles for indifferent comic assignments and two misjudged roles as a tormented amnesiac” (36 Hours, 1964, and Buddwing/Mister Buddwing, 1966)

Sensing which way the wind was blowing, Garner set up his own production company. He was in good company – Burt Lancaster, John Wayne, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra among that coterie. Cherokee Productions was intended to be the vehicle by which he would control his own career and prove, once again, that he was better at it than any studio. His final movie as a purely salaried performer was Hour of the Gun (1967) the last picture in his Mirisch deal, which paid him “not much.”

Cherokee announced two pictures to be made in spring and summer 1967, Doll from the Ed McBain thriller and Buffalo Soldiers based on the John Prebble book and with director Ralph Nelson already in tow. Neither saw the light of day.

Undeterred, he tried again. This time the slate was more ambitious and achievable as it transpired: comedy How Sweet It Is (1968) co-starring Debbie Reynolds for nascent production company National General, adventure The Jolly Pink Jungle (thankfully retitled The Pink Jungle, 1968), The Sheriff (which became Support Your Local Sheriff, 1969) for United Artists and Buffalo Soldiers (still unmade).

The reason for original title for the “Jungle” picture might have been to avoid confusion with a musical earlier in the decade by Leslie Stevens called The Pink Jungle. According to some sources, it was originally intended to pair Garner with Shirley MacLaine. I never found any mention of her in my research and it seems an unlikely teaming, much as you could see how well it could play, since the actress’s asking price was $750,000 and that would make her the star rather than Garner and I’m guessing the script would be rewritten to tilt in her direction.

Given Universal was intent on not going anywhere near a live jungle it sounded, budget-wise, well out of the MacLaine league and more appropriate for the likes of rising – and cheap – West German star Eva Renzi (Funeral in Berlin, 1966).

The most studio Universal was willing to spend was to enlarge its jungle backlot by seven acres to 20 acres. Renzi had been due to make her Hollywood debut with House of Cards (1968), another Universal picture, opposite George Peppard but when she fell pregnant was replaced by Inger Stevens. The Pink Jungle didn’t get a good rep from anyone, least of all the critics. Garner complained about Renzi, and, even though he was the prime mover behind the picture, said he only did it “for the money” while for her part Renzi ragged Oscar-winning director Delbert Mann.

Neither of the first two Cherokee offerings did much to pep up Garner’s marquee value. How Sweet It Is, budgeted at $3.2 million, only returned $2.7 million in rentals in the U.S. and finished a mediocre forty-third in the annual box office league. The Pink Jungle didn’t feature at all which meant it took in less than $1 million.

Garner redeemed himself with Support Your Local Sheriff, made for a miserly $1.6 million but a worldwide hit, his best-ever performer as star. But oddly enough, it didn’t do that much for Hollywood perception. MGM initially rejected him for his next movie Marlowe (1969), another flop. Cherokee’s next two features, Italian co-production A Man Called Sledge (1970) and Support Your Local Gunfighter didn’t deliver either.

So Garner went back to television. And Warner Brothers. The upshot was J.G. Nichols (1971-1972), another western. The WB deal included movies but only one was made – Skin Game, 1971 – and neither that nor They Only Kill Their Masters (1972) for MGM or Disney pair One Little Indian (1973) and The Castaway Cowboy (1974) made much of an impact at the box office. And it wasn’t until, ironically enough, The Rockford Files (1974-1980), produced by Cherokee for Universal, that Garner really re-established his position in the industry.

SOURCES: “James Garner Moves from Actor Towards Future Producer Status,” Variety, October 5, 1966, p5; “James Garner’s Own Plot: Performer to Producer,” Variety, November 1, 1967, p18; “Peak Production Year for Universal Studio,” Box Office, 1967, p5; “Rising Skepticism on Stars,” Variety, May 15, 1968, p1; “Big Rental Films of 1968,” Variety, January 8, 1969, p15; “Garner Weaver Set,” Variety, March 26, 1969, p7; “20-Acre Set Prepared for Jolly Pink Jungle,” Box Office, July 24, 1969, p9; “Garner Kennedy Re-Team in Co-Prod for UA,” Variety, June 10, 1970, p4; “WB-TV Dealt Stake in Garner Series for NBC,” Variety, August 5, 1970, p28.

The Pink Jungle (1968) ***

Near miss rather than the spectacular crash dive the poor box office returns suggested. Though it’s scarcely surfaced in five decades. Espionage adventure-cum-treasure hunt is slightly undone by knowing winks to the camera and it won’t take an eagle eye to spot that most of the action doesn’t take place in the jungle at all, although the title is explained in a clever twist at the end.

Shame the script goes AWOL and you might be left lamenting what might have been had it been a hit and the boost it could have given the careers of George Kennedy (Cool Hand Luke, 1967), playing ebulliently against type, and Eva Renzi (A Taste of Excitement, 1967) who proved to have lot more screen charisma than her ensuing roles suggested. Not to mention James Garner (Duel at Diablo, 1966), marquee value taking a hit after a string of flops.

However, if you can accept James Garner as a fashion photographer, and a gag that sees all three male principals decked in out varying shades of lipstick, and shut out the noise of Garner’s character offering commentary on what is about to happen, it’s a pleasant, non-demanding ride, with a believable central romance.

And I learned diamond arithmetic: five carats equals one gram, 28 grams is one ounce so you’re talking a phenomenal amount for a diamond weighing a few ounces never mind a 20lb haul which is where the endless MacGuffins lead. And if Ann-Margret can elect to shoot a fashion spread against the backdrop of motocross (C.C. and Company, 1970), choosing the South American jungle as the ideal spot for a lipstick advert is scarcely a stretch.

The long-winded tale begins with photographer Ben (James Garner) having his consignment of lipstick confiscated by police chief Ortega (Michael Ansara) who suspects they conceal hidden microfilm from the C.I.A. for rebel insurgents. When model Alison (Eva Renzi) arrives by helicopter that’s promptly stolen by South African illegal diamond dealer Ryderbeit (George Kennedy). The stranded couple repair to the nearest town, followed by the cops and by a pair of thugs, where Ryderbeit connects them to Englishman Capt Stopes (George Rose) who boasts a map leading to the lost diamond haul.

There’s no great reason for Ben to get involved, and the script offers nothing compelling, but let’s go for the ride, so suitably prepared (cigars and whisky essentials apparently) they set off with mules into the desert (yep, no jungle) where the model demonstrates her rodeo skills. There, they encounter Australian McClune (Nigel Green), the supposed deceased partner of Stopes, but he dupes them, leaving them stranded without water or mules, in the desert and heads off to find the loot himself. Of course, that does mean he has to come back the same way so the inevitable shootout, compounded by villains and cops, ensues.

Though determinedly sluggish in parts and the introduction of McClune adding little to the scenario, for the most part, although treading a thin line between cliches, it’s enjoyable enough. Ben is surprisingly handy with his fists, Alison has unusual depths and Ryderbeit is an engaging conman.

For a time there’s a bit of a tussle over Alison, as she’s clearly at times more attracted to the “masterful” adventurer Ryderbeit, a cool dude especially when he demonstrates his dance moves, than the cynical Ben. McClune takes a more predatory interest in Alison. But the growing romance between Ben and Alison is gentle stuff and almost required acting of the highest caliber given that the two actors hated each other according to the scuttlebutt.

Guilty of over-plotting and trying hard not to take the scenario seriously enough, even when it’s clear it won’t work unless that does occur, and that as a previous Garner episode proved, as in A Man Could Get Killed (1966), you can easily skirt around dense narrative and espionage malarkey without getting too bogged down. Over-populated, though, with characters and accents vary.

I’m used to Garner’s schtick by now, but Eva Renzi and George Kennedy were revelations, as was Nigel Green (Fraulein Doktor, 1969) also having a ball as a duplicitous character far removed from his usual ramrod-straight persona.

Oscar-winning director Delbert Mann (Mister Buddwing / Buddwing, 1966) does his best but he could have moved it on a bit for the pace seriously slackens at times. Charles Williams (Joy House, 1964) contributed the screenplay based on the novel by namesake Alan Williams.

Far more enjoyable than I expected and worth it for Renzi and Kennedy.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: James Garner in Cash McCall (1960), The Wheeler Dealers (1963), Move Over, Darling (1963), The Americanization of Emily (1964), 36 Hours (1965), The Art of Love (1965), A Man Could Get Killed (1966), Duel at Diablo (1966), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Grand Prix (1967), Hour of the Gun (1967), Marlowe (1969); Eva Renzi in Taste of Excitement (1969); George Kennedy in Lonely Are the Brave (1962); Charade (1963), In Harm’s Way (1965), Mirage (1965), Shenandoah (1965), The Sons of Katie Elder (1965), The Flight of the Phoenix (1965), Hurry Sundown (1967), Cool Hand Luke (1967), Bandolero! (1968), Guns of the Magnificent Seven (1969); Delbert Mann directed A Gathering of Eagles (1963), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Fitzwilly/Fitzwilly Strikes Back (1967).

C.C. and Company (1970) *

Just terrible. Not even the presence of Ann-Margret (The Swinger, 1966) can save this. Scarcely a single redeeming feature and nothing that might lend itself to shift it into the So Bad It’s Good category. In fact, you would probably put it in a lower class, the So Bad It’s Worse Than You Can Possibly Imagine strata. Little seen for over half a century, and small wonder.

And, boy, did Ann-Margret need a hit after a three-year self-imposed exile in Italy, where she earned big bucks for pictures that hardly got a sniff on the U.S. release circuit, putting an almighty dent in her marquee value. In theory, she should have returned home with a bang, as female lead in a Stanley Kramer production, R.P.M. (1970), the most prestigious picture she had ever been associated with, and easily the best director. But that, riding the counter-culture wave, was a big flop.

This was her second attempt at counter-culture. Motorbike sagas were bankable after the success of Easy Rider (1969) and even as B-pictures had attracted decent audiences for the likes of The Wild Angels (1967) and Run, Angel, Run (1969).

But this was saddled with a terrible star in Joe Namath, and a terrible script by Roger Smith (The First Time, 1969), Ann-Margret’s husband-manager, that puts the wild boys of the highways in a motocross competition, swapping their high-powered bikes for the much smaller Kawasaki engines used in that sport.

If you were American, Joe Namath was a god. If you were foreign, he was a nobody. One of the country’s greatest American football (not soccer!) players, he had made his movie debut in another flop, Norwood (1969). My guess is Ann-Margret was there to help out her husband, also the producer, and beef up the marquee.

But C.C. Ryder (Joe Namath) looks more like an overgrown schoolboy, hulking though he is, than a Hell’s Angel. For the lack of believability he invests in the role you would have done as well with pop star Fabian (Ten Little Indians, 1965).

Anyway, on with the barmy story. So, fashion director Ann (Ann-Margret) has the bright idea, as fashion directors did in those days, of setting up a shoot against the backdrop of a motocross event, kind of like Zabriskie Point (1970) but with bikes. On the way, her car breaks down. The two passing bikers who come to her rescue have something else in mind and she is only saved from rape by the intervention of Ryder.

He belongs to a biking troupe headed by Moon (William Smith), the misogynist’s misogynist, who slaps his women around and sends them out to prostitute themselves on the highways because unlike the enterprising chaps from Easy Rider he’s not got the brains to set up a drugs operation. Then he gets the inspired notion of picking up easy money by sending his guys to compete in the motocross competition because, surely, them being serious motorbike freaks they can beat the hell out of any professional motocross rider who does this for a living.

No doubt audiences will be rooting for the amateurs the way they do for the young kids in other movies that need to put on their own show to save an orphanage or the like.

Naturally, Ryder falls for Ann. Equally naturally, Moon doesn’t like that one bit. And so kidnaps Ann, ensuring Ryder comes to the rescue. Cue a showdown. No doubt we’ll see an almighty battle with chains and wrenches and surely there will be a flashing blade or two as this pair roll around in the dust.

Nope! Let’s just find a handy football stadium and race round the athletic dirt track. That’s bound to be more exciting. You would get more excitement watching goldfish in a bowl.

Theoretically, the combination of Namath and Ann-Margret should have reached the incendiary levels of football star Jim Brown’s sexual tussle with Raquel Welch in 100 Rifles (1969). Nope. Namath has all the screen charisma of a beetle and there’s nothing Ann-Margret can do to help that. You couldn’t have wasted her first nude scene on someone less deserving.

As you might expect, Ann-Margret does get to dance, but for some reason the camera is more focused on Namath who is lacking in the shake-your-booty department.

There is one decent scene and one interesting shot. Unfortunately, the only good scene is the opener, giving a false sense that this might be an interesting picture. It involves Namath “grazing” his way round a supermarket, making up a sandwich from easily available ingredients, even stealing a tissue from a box to wipe his lips. What a rascal, no wonder everyone would be terrified of such a biker. And in the climactic race one of the bikers hits a fence that collapses concertina style.

But that’s it, a 94-minute vanity project that killed off Namath’s movie career and nearly put the kibosh on Ann-Margret’s. You can’t really blame television director Seymour Robbie (Marco, 1973) for failing to improve the material or the stars.

Sometimes being a completist (in this case following Ann-Marget’s career) has its down side.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Ann-Margret in State Fair (1962), Viva Las Vegas (1964), Kitten with a Whip (1964), The Pleasure Seekers (1964), Bus Riley’s Back in Town (1965), Once a Thief (1965), The Cincinnati Kid (1965), Made in Paris (1966), The Swinger (1966), Stagecoach (1966), Appointment in Beirut/Rebus (1968), Criminal Affair/Criminal Symphony (1968).

Counterpoint (1968) ****

Absorbing duel of minds between two autocrats obsessed with their own glory and needs and dealing with dissension in the ranks. That it takes place during the Battle of the Bulge turns out to be less of a dramatic hindrance though you maybe have to suspend disbelief in the notion that any resistance fighters might take time out from trying to sabotage Germans to help rescue a bunch of whining, pampered non-combatants with no strategic value whatsoever.

Once you accept that the U.S.O. would deem a classical orchestra the best way to entertain the troops rather than Betty Grable or Bob Hope then you’re halfway there.

*Poster that misleadingly apes “The Great Escape” and “The Dirty Dozen”. Naturally, no woman would attempt such an escape without giving everyone a glimpse of cleavage.*

Anyway, the Germans launching an offensive in December 1944 by accident capture the classical orchestra led by world-famous conductor Lionel Evans (Charlton Heston). The Germans are under orders to take no prisoners so as not to divert vital troops during this last-stage effort to extend the war, so under the direction of Colonel Arndt (Anton Diffring) the musicians face a firing squad until General Schiller (Maximilian Schell) happens to pop his head out of his window and recognize his hero, Evans.

Death is temporarily averted while Schiller purrs over his captive. But Evans, still high on principle and arrogance, refuses to comply with Schiller’s request to play a concert for him during a delay in the battle as, the Germans, hit by fuel shortage, are unable to continue their campaign and therefore have time on their hands. There ensues the aforesaid duel of minds plus various demonstrations of disloyalty and ruthlessness.

The joy here is the dialog because there’s not much else going on, beyond a half-hearted attempt to escape, and the tension doesn’t rachet up until Evans realizes Schiller is only keeping them alive until the concert, after which they will be turned over to the trigger-happy Arndt, who lacking any subtlety, has already begun to dig a mass grave in full view of the trapped self-proclaimed neutrals.

*Teamed up in Britain with the long-lost “The Pink Jungle”, which, as it happens, I’m reviewing shortly.*

It’s almost a parade of bon mots as each of the leaders tries to top the other’s sentences, and not in merely a clever manner, but with full-blown fascinating argument, in part about the different outlooks of each country, but also about their contradictions, and it’s a rare movie that can hold your attention just through dialog unless it’s set in a courtroom. But, here, Evans isn’t so much arguing for the suspension of a death penalty, for example, but in a remote high-mindedness complaining that, well, there’s no other word for it, that it’s just “unfair” as if the Geneva Convention has a special clause regarding classical musicians.

Maybe it does, given these are Americans, though not in uniform, which might be a point in their favor. But any commander would be correct in assuming they could, through courageous action, perform an act of sabotage or at the very least, as I mentioned, tie up vital resources.

Matters are complicated because Arndt, less self-indulgent than his superior, goes behind Schiller’s back to rat him out to HQ in Berlin while nameless persons within the orchestra are clearly in cahoots with the Germans. And you can’t blame them either. Arndt believes Schiller’s actions could compromise the attack, the orchestra traitors that Evans’ defiance will get them all killed. Evans is quite happy to sacrifice former lover Annabelle (Kathryn Hays) to keep the German commander, who has taken a fancy to her, happy.

Matters are complicated by the presence in the orchestra ranks of two U.S. soldiers in uniform, who feel duty bound to find a way out, so there’s a bit of the kind of action you’d get in a heist movie where an audience listens to classical music while above them a cat burglar is divesting them of their jewels. Here, the two soldiers are clambering up the innards of a church to the roof to scope out the territory and then attempt escape using a home-made rope made up of scarves and nylons etc.

As it becomes obvious that there is no point in Evans playing for time, the tension and turmoil does increase as that unfilled mass grave beckons. Doesn’t play out the way you’d expect, a couple of neat twists keeping cliché at bay.

But, as I said, the primary interest is the verbal battle between two refined minds convinced they are the most important people on the planet. The only standout scenes not involving Evans concern Schiller’s “seduction” of Annabelle and the playing of the American national anthem by one of the soldiers, planted in the orchestra, who Arndt suspects, from his age (too young to be in such august company unless a musical prodigy), doesn’t fit in.

Charlton Heston (Number One, 1969) and Maximilian Schell (Topkapi, 1964) are both superb as flawed characters. There’s a rare movie appearance for Kathryn Hays (Ride Beyond Vengeance, 1966) and another chance to see Leslie Nielsen (Beau Geste, 1966) before he became comedy catnip.

But it’s the script by James Lee (Banning, 1967) and Joel Oliansky (The Todd Killings, 1971), that really delivers, although I’m guessing that the best lines came directly from the source novel, The General by Alan Sillitoe (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning). Directed by Ralph Nelson (Once a Thief, 1965).

Rare to get a movie that relies so much on script and actors on such top form.

Underrated gem.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Charlton Heston in Diamond Head (1962), 55 Days at Peking (1963), Major Dundee (1965), The War Lord (1965), Khartoum (1966), Planet of the Apes (1968), Number One (1969); Maximilian Schell in Judgement at Nuremberg (1961), Topkapi (1964), Fate is the Hunter (1964), Father Goose (1964), Return from the Ashes (1965), The Deadly Affair (1967), Krakatoa -East of Java (1968); Ralph Nelson directed Soldier in the Rain (1963), Once a Thief (1965), Duel at Diablo (1966) and Soldier Blue (1970).

The Light at the Edge of the World (1971) ***

Had me at pirates! Unfortunately, I feel suckered. These scumbags, even with a dandified Yul Brynner (The Double Man, 1967) at the helm, give the traditional swashbuckler a bad name. That said, it’s a decent Rambo-esque adventure, derived from a Jules Verne novel, that sees Kirk Douglas (A Lovely Way To Die, 1968) single-handedly take on the venomous pirate crew, with Samantha Eggar (The Collector, 1963) thrown in as lure.

Ex-gold-miner Denton (Kirk Douglas) runs the southernmost lighthouse off the perilous coast of Argentina leading to the dreaded Cape Horn passage, the only route round South America prior to the opening of the Panama Canal. Helping him out are veteran seaman Capt Mortiz (Fernando Rey), who constantly upbraids Denton for his lack of naval lore, and young lad Virgilio (Jean Claude Drouot) and his pet monkey. When a ship hoves into view and anchors off-shore, Mortiz and Virgilio head up the welcome party only to be ruthlessly – and gleefully – cut down as they climb on board.

Pirate chief Kongre (Yul Brynner) has come up with a neat scam. Switch off the whale-oil-fuelled lights in the lighthouse, wait for unsuspecting ships to be wrecked and pocket the proceeds. After being tormented and humiliated, Denton manages to escape and hide out in the caves, but only for as long as Kongre, bored with idleness, decides to hunt him down astride his white horse armed with a unicorn-like sword, the lighthouse keeper only avoiding capture by diving into the sea, where he is presumed drowned.

But when the first victim of Kongre’s scheme breaks asunder, Denton rescues Montefiore (Renato Salvatore) from the ensuing sadistic massacre. The only other person saved, at Kongre’s behest, is the beautiful Arabella (Samantha Eggar), for whom the captain goes through an almost courtly charade before, espying photographs in the lighthouse cottage, deciding that since his captive bears some resemblance to Denton’s former lover he could inflict further torment to Denton by parading the woman, hoping to use her as lure to bring his enemy out from his hiding place.

While Denton has escaped capture and is carrying out guerrilla warfare against the invaders he’s not particularly successful, given he lacks any decent weaponry, is heavily outnumbered and Kongre is pretty cunning. Denton’s innate decency sees him attempting to rescue the girl only, in a stunning twist, to be knocked back as he has little to offer except hiding out in caves and the captain has been treating her royally. Unfortunately for her, when his ruse fails, Kongre tosses her to the sharks in the shape of the lusty crew who proceed to commit mass rape. Meanwhile, Montefiore has been captured, strung up in the rigging and is being flayed alive, slices of skin torn from his body to the delight of his captors.

As it happens, the pirates, to reinforce defence of the island should they themselves come under attack from the British or Argentinian Navy, have brought their ship’s cannons ashore. As it happens, not only are they trained on the ship, but Denton, despite no experience at all, proves an ace artillery commander. As the ship burns and sinks, he turns his attention to Kongre, conveniently swanning around in the lighthouse rather than the cottage, and in a piece of savage irony sets fire to the building with whale oil.

Could do with shaving 20 minutes off the running time, and certainly have to suspend disbelief at other points, but otherwise it’s a pretty early edition of the Rambo-style revenge, the one-man army that can wipe out a superior force. Despite my desire for a decent swashbuckler, the pirates are probably more realistic than anything served up by Errol Flynn or Johnny Depp, and their cruelty seems consistent with their profession. The scenes with Denton being pursued relentlessly by the mounted Kongre are especially effective as is the rejection of Denton by the snooty girl.

Kevin Billington (Interlude, 1968) directed from a screenplay by wife Rachel and Tom Rowe (The Green Slime, 1968).

Long-lost film that deserves an audience.

A Lovely Way To Go / A Lovely Way To Die (1968) ****

Woefully neglected detective thriller with a sparkling script and sexy leading stars exuding screen charisma. Like the celebrated William Goldman-scripted opening to Paul Newman private eye picture Harper (1966), the credit sequence here is at least as innovative in that it appears to be little short of a trailer, a highlights reel showing the audience what lies in store.

Schuyler (Kirk Douglas) is a womanizing cop too handy with his fists, half his arrests making an unexpected detour to hospital. Rena (Sylva Koscina) is the bored young wife of an older millionaire whose idea of fun is to chuck an expensive scarf out of a speeding car forcing her husband to pull up and go back and fetch. When her husband is shot, suspicion falls on Rena, inclined to dress in revealing outfits for the media, and her playboy boyfriend.

At the behest of attorney Fredericks (Eli Wallach) sporting a rich Southern accent and a with knack for speaking in parables, Schuyler, having resigned from the force one step ahead of being fired, is sent in to provide security and find out whether her alibi stacks up. He soon finds out it doesn’t but by this time he has fallen under her spell. Witnesses disappear, intruders are dealt with, attempts are made on the detective’s life, and the twists come thick and fast. Rena is the arch femme fatale who is a past master in the twisting department – twisting every male within a 50-mile radius round her little finger.

Harper was a throwback to The Maltese Falcon/The Big Sleep but A Lovely Way To Die knocks that shamus tradition on the head. For a start, Schuyler is a high-living high-rolling character who doesn’t take prisoners. The second time we meet him he has dumped the girl he took to the races for someone he has met when picking up his winnings. Seducing gorgeous women and dumping them is second nature. This is Douglas as a glorious charmer, a part of his screen persona lost after a glut of more serious pictures like Seven Days in May (1964) and Cast a Giant Shadow (1966). Yugoslavian actress Koscina, often little more than eye candy for most of the decade, had vaulted into the higher echelons after a turn as Paul Newman’s squeeze in The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968).

An inherent part of the attraction of this picture is how deftly Rena keeps Schuyler at bay. Scriptwriter A. J. Russell (Stiletto, 1969) and director David Lowell Rich (Madame X, 1966) deliver the goods in maintaining the tension in their relationship. There is a wonderful scene where the expectant Schuyler follows her up the stairs of her fabulous mansion and three times he ignores the import of her unmistakable “Goodnight,” his uber-confidence taking him to her door – which she shuts in his face.

Sure, in some ways it is slick, but it is also taut and realistic, Schuyler does not win all his fights and he eats with the rest of the help at the mansion. And he does some terrific detection so it doesn’t fall short in that department. He is definitely helped by some choice lines – “police methods are sometimes difficult for an amateur to understand” he tells Rena after he brutally deals with an intruder.

Koscina is in her element as the sexy, wealthy suspect, and especially in her banter with Douglas – her main aim to disarm his cockiness. Eli Wallach (The Moon-Spinners, 1964) is also superb, given just enough ham to hang himself, but matching Douglas in arrogance and outgunning the D.A. with his courtroom gymnastics. A couple of the subsidiary characters are well-drawn, a housekeeper who plays the markets.

For some reason this sank like a stone on its initial outing, audiences perhaps being more attuned to the Bogart-style sleuth, but I found it highly enjoyable and this could be seen as a taster for anyone familiar with the antics of the star’s son Michael Douglas who found himself in similar territory in Basic Instinct (1992).

Complex tale high on intrigue and sex, well worth a watch.

REVIEWED PREVIOUSLY IN THE BLOG: Kirk Douglas in Strangers When We Meet (1960), Lonely Are the Brave (1962), Two Weeks in Another Town (1962), For Love or Money (1963), Seven Days in May (1964), In Harm’s Way (1965), The Heroes of Telemark (1965), Cast a Giant Shadow (1966), Is Paris Burning? (1966), The Way West (1967), The Brotherhood (1968), The Arrangement (1969); Sylva Koscina in Jessica (1962), Hot Enough for June (1963), Deadlier than the Male (1967), The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968); Eli Wallach in Seven Thieves (1960), The Misfits (1961), Act One (1963), The Moon-spinners (1964), Kisses for My President (1965), Lord Jim (1965), Genghis Khan (1965), How to Steal a Million (1966).

Eagles over London (1969) ***

Presumably intended to capitalize on/rip-off the same year’s big-budget roadshow The Battle of Britain manages to cram in a pack of action beginning with a tank ambush in Normandy, the Dunkirk evacuation, the Battle of Britain, rooftop shoot-outs, ending up with an audacious attack of RAF High Command by a team of German saboteurs. As notable for technical achievement, split screen – sometimes split diagonally or quartered – in the manner of The Boston Strangler (1968) and The Thomas Crown Affair (1968), shots through various tiny holes, scenes filmed overhead, and a dazzling swirling camera sequence that would normally presage intimacy but here means death.

Somehow manages to squeeze a surprising number of dramatic moments focusing on relationships, a brief nod to homosexuality, and emulating Fraulein Doktor (1969) in giving the Germans credit for astute and effective espionage. Obvious use of stock footage for the air fight sequences, but you wonder what else has been cobbled out of the vaults given the preponderance of scenes requiring massive numbers of extras. Throw in Hollywood veteran Van Johnson (Divorce American Style, 1967) and a particularly good Cockney sergeant (Renzo Palmer) and it hardly lets up.

So, Captain Stevens (Frederick Stafford) heads up a unit delaying the German blitzkrieg in France in 1940. The Germans, led by Donovan (Francisco Rabal), meanwhile, are in disguise, assuming the identities of dead British soldiers with the intention of infiltrating Britain and destroying its radar installations. Inadvertently, Stevens saves Donovan’s life, thus giving the German accepted entry into British high command. Equally inadvertently Stevens allows the German access to his girlfriend Meg (Evelyn Stewart) who needs a shoulder to cry on. Donovan has his own girlfriend, Sheila (Teresa Gimpera) on tap, an undercover agent working as a barmaid, well-trained at collecting loose talk and seduction.

Elements of giallo keep popping up as the Germans need to embark on a murderous rampage to continue to acquire new identities to keep ahead of the pursuing investigation, one strangulation taking place in a gay sauna. Every now and then we pop into RAF High Command where Air Vice Marshal Taylor (Van Johnson) is helping thwart the German aerial attacks and in the end, since more bodies are required, elects to go into battle himself.

The small screen allows laughable moments – model airplanes crashing into the sea, cardboard radar installations toppling – to pass almost unnoticed since most of the rest of the action is well rendered, the rooftop scene especially, and the other various shoot-outs where – shock to the system – the British are constantly outwitted and outgunned.

Mostly, you’ll note how stylish a concoction this is given the low budget. Excellent sex scene against the background of exploding bombs, the duping of our hero by the enemy, and one terrific scene where Sheila is deemed surplus to requirements, calmly accepting her fate on condition that it’s her lover who pulls the trigger.

This would have been solid support material in English-speaking countries but most likely a main feature in its Italian homeland. Might have even done better if distributors waited until Afred Hitchcock’s Topaz (1969) appeared since he recruited Frederick Stafford as his leading man. Stafford was always under-rated but he keeps this afloat, though the Germans have the more interesting roles, especially Francisco Rabal and Teresa Gimpel. Evelyn Stewart (The Whip and the Body, 1964) has a smaller part.

Not content with introducing far more style and, shall we say, flamboyance, than the material might suggest director Enzo G. Castellari (Any Gun Can Play, 1967) has the audacity to end by using Winston Churchill’s “the few” speech to halt the traffic so the British lovers can catch up with each other.

A classic example of what an interesting director can do with what in other hands would be more mundane material. Not quite sure why it took five screenwriters.

Surprisingly fun watch overloaded with style.

REVIEWED PREVIOUSLY IN THE BLOG: Frederick Stafford in Topaz (1969), Evelyn Stewart in The Whip and the Body (1964), Van Johnson in Divorce American Style (1967).