I am a published author of books about film - over a dozen to my name, the latest being "When Women Ruled Hollywood." As the title of the blog suggests, this is a site devoted to movies of the 1960s but since I go to the movies twice a week - an old-fashioned double-bill of my own choosing - I might occasionally slip in a review of a contemporary picture.
Hammer had struck gold revisiting ancient civilization in One Million Years B.C. (1966) and with its adaptation of Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out (1967). The Lost Continent was another Wheatley number (source novel Uncharted Seas) mixing dangerous voyage, hints of the legendary Atlantis, and monsters. While the first half could have been marketed as The Wages of FearAt Sea the second half would come under the heading “The Greatest Oddball Film Ever Made.”
It boasts one of the most intriguing setting-the-scene openings not just of a Hammer picture but of any film – a camera pans along a steamship on whose deck are: people dressed in furs, others in modern clothing and – Conquistadors. Attention is focused on a coffin. How and why they got there is told in flashback. A first half of taut drama, mutiny, sharks, a ferocious octopus, and lost-at-sea a thousand miles from land segues into sci-fi with carnivorous weeds, monsters, and a weird, weird world.
It’s hard to know what’s worse, Captain Lansen (Eric Porter) with a cargo of toxic chemicals made combustible when touched by water or the equally combustible passengers all with murky pasts, so determined to escape their previous lives that they refuse to turn back in the face of a hurricane. Heading the Dodgy Half-Dozen is dictator’s mistress Eva (Hildegarde Knef) with two million dollars in stolen securities and bonds. Dr Webster (Nigel Stock), a back-street abortionist, is at odds with daughter Unity (Suzanna Leigh), who has cornered the market in backless dresses. Harry (Tony Beckley) (The Penthouse, 1967) plays a conman while Ricaldi (Ben Carruthers) is trying to recover the pilfered bonds.
But the arrival of cleavage queen Sarah (Dana Gillespie) as an escapee from the weird world signals a shift to Planet Oddball. The only way to navigate the weeds trapping the ship is with a primitive version of snowshoes with balloons attached to the shoulders. Soon they are trapped in the past, not as prehistoric as One Million Years BC (1966), just a few centuries back to the Spanish Conquistador era. The film steals the idea from the Raquel Welch picture of giant creatures locked in battle but without going to the necessity of hiring Ray Harryhausen.
You couldn’t legislate for the movie’s logic and you shouldn’t even try, just go with the weird flow. It’s on safe enough territory until like The Hangover (20090 it has to explain the bizarre opening sequence. If ever a film has bitten off more than the special effects can chew, it’s this, but it’s still fun watching it try.
The casting relied heavily on actors best known from television or rising stars. Eric Porter was straight from BBC television mini-series mega-hit The Forsyte Saga (1967). Nigel Stock essayed Dr Watson in the BBC Sherlock Holmes series (1964-1968). Falling into the emerging-star category were: Tony Beckley (The Penthouse, 1967), Suzanna Leigh (The Pleasure Girls, 1965) Neil McCallum (Catacombs / The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die, 1965), and Dana Gillespie (Secrets of a Windmill Girl, 1966). Hildegarde Knef (Mozambique, 1964) was just about the most experienced.
In this kind of picture, without being sexist about it, if a woman is required to do more than just scream, it often indicates she has the better part. And so it is here. Leigh and Knef hog the dramatic highlights while Gillespie, courtesy of her outfit and footwear, can’t help but steal the show.
On board ship, director Michael Carreras, fresh from Prehistoric Women (1967), does well, the characters are all solidly presented with decent back stories, but once he enters weird world budget deficiencies sabotage the picture. Even so, it’s worth a look just to see what you’re missing. If you’re looking for a genuine freak show, this ticks the boxes.
Admission: box office analysts like myself rarely get the full picture. Global figures have been available on a regular basis only since the 1990s and commentators these days are only too keen to inform us just how much revenue a movie has to take in before it can break even. Pictures like the latest Fast and Furious, Indiana Jones and Mission Impossible have little chance of turning a profit, it seems, unless they can pile up in excess of $400 million gross.
Back in the day it was a good deal more complicated. Studios were reluctant to reveal just how profitable or unprofitable movies were. But anyone with an inkling of the correlation between cost and rentals could tell that a $17 million movie like Doctor Dolittle (1967) was going to have a hell of a time turning a profit on U.S. rentals of $6.2 million. But throw in overseas rentals of $10.3 million and its position appeared considerably rosier, especially with television revenue still to come.
“The Bible” gets the full promotional treatment in the U.K.
But rentals minus budget did not provide the full picture. Budget reflected negative cost, the amount it took to make a picture. It didn’t take into account all those elements required to ready it for release – advertising, marketing, Pressbook / Campaign Manual, prints, publicity tour, premiere, distribution, studio overhead and interest on the loan necessary to fund the picture. There was a general rule of thumb – to turn a profit you needed to make twice as much in rentals as the movie cost to make.
But that was really only guesswork, an easily-understood equation conjured up to satisfy over-inquisitive journalists. Since the bulk of the journalists in the 1960s covering the business side of Hollywood were American, very often they deemed a movie a success or failure based on domestic receipts and had little understanding or interest in foreign revenues and how they might influence the outcome. In part this was down to distribution patterns. It might take a couple of years to measure a movie’s overall performance once it had completed its entire foreign tour. And that was too long to wait to make the snap decisions journalists favoured.
In any case, there was little prospect of studios in the 1960s opening their books to anyone other than head office to properly divine a movie’s success.
But it turns out there was an internal measure, at least at Twentieth Century Fox. That studio related global rentals to what it termed “estimated rentals required to break even.” That, in turn, provided a guide to the additional costs incurred by movies once filming had been completed but advertising and prints and so on were still to be paid for.
Taking the decade’s best example, The Sound of Music (1965). Initial cost was set at $8.02 million but once everything else had been taken into account the studio needed to generate total rentals of $29.5 million to break even. That was much higher than the 2-to-1 income-to-budget ratio, and more akin to nearly 4-to-1. Luckily, with a global rentals tally approaching $121.5 million there was more than enough in the kitty to meet those costs.
By comparison, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines the same year had a negative cost of $6.5 million. Fox estimated it needed to rake in $17.8 million – a ratio of 3-to-1 – to break even. Again, fortunately, global rentals hit $29.9 million so happy faces all round. Valley of the Dolls (1967), budgeted at $4.69 million, required $9.7 million – just over the supposedly classic 2-to-1 cost-to-profit ratio – and again, by chance, there was another $13 million in rentals to make this venture highly lucrative.
But there was nothing left over from either The Bible (1966) or The Sand Pebbles (1966). Global rentals for the former were $25.3 million and the latter $20.6 million, so you might assume such big hitters had a good chance of turning a profit. Originally budgeted at $15 million, The Bible incurred additional costs of $11.9 million and The Sand Pebbles, costing $12.11 million, was assessed as having an overall cost of $21.2 million. The outcome was that both were deemed financial failures, the former losing nearly $1.6 million, the latter $600,000. But on a cost-to-profit ratio, both came in at under the expected 2-to-1 calculation.
Improved overseas revenue was not necessarily the antidote to a flop. Dr Dolittle (1967) theoretically nearly broke even when foreign brought in $10.1 million in addition to domestic’s $6.2 million. On paper the movie cost $17 million. But additional costs of $14 million scuppered any chance of redemption. Although overseas improved on domestic for Audrey Hepburn’s How to Steal a Million (1966) once all the ancillary costs were added in it still lost $1.55 million and Two for the Road $1.7 million.
And what of stinkers like Justine (1969) and Staircase (1969)? You might imagine in light of their woeful box office performances in the U.S. that the studio saved money by cutting back on advertising and prints. However, in addition to the former being budgeted at $7.87 million and the latter at $6.37 million, they were still loaded down with additional expenditure, another $4.9 million for Justine and $4.23 million for Staircase, in both instances way below the 2-to-1 cost-to-ratio format. Justine was written off to the tune of $10 million and Staircase to $8.5 million.
After all the post-production extras were calculated and global rentals taken into account, Marlon Brando-starrer Morituri (1965) lost $6.4 million, James Stewart in The Flight of the Phoenix (1966) $6 million, Omar Sharif as Che! (1969) $5.3 million, Michael Caine-starrers The Magus (1969) $4.5 million and Deadfall (1968) $2.8 million, The Chairman / The Most Dangerous Man in the World (1969) $4.3 million, Hard Contract (1969) $4 million, and Doris Day-starrers Caprice (1967) $2.7 million and Do Not Disturb (1965) $2 million,
Relatively low cost was no protection against loss. A High Wind in Jamaica (1965) lost $3.7 million, The Visit (1964) $3.5 million, The Flim Flam Man / One Born Every Minute $2.8 million, The Reward (1965) $2.7 million, The Touchables (1969) $2.7 million, Fate Is the Hunter (1964) $2.6 million, Joanna (1969) $1.9 million and Hammer trio The Lost Continent (1968) $900,000, The Viking Queen (1967) $800,000 and The Vengeance of She (1968) $700,000
Even unexpected hit The Blue Max (1966) barely made it into the black. With $16.85 million in global rentals on a budget of $5 million you would have thought there was plenty of fat even with extra post-production costs. Instead, saddled with $9.2 million of additional cost – still below the 2-to-1 projection, it only earned a profit of $2.65 million. The Boston Strangler (1968) cost $4.1 million but with $4.5 million of post-production charges eked out a profit of $2.5 million.
Some pictures were surprisingly profitable. After all costs were met, Zorba the Greek (1965) cleared $6.4 million; Our Man Flint (1966) $5.25 million and In Like Flint (1967) $2.2 million; One Million Years B.C. (1966) $2.17; Dustin Hoffman-Mia Farrow oddball romance John and Mary (1969) $1.8 million; and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969) $1.2 million;
Despite poor overseas takings Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) registered a profit of just over $1 million; The Nanny (1965) $800,000; Bedazzled (1967) $725,000; Batman (1966) $700,000; the remake of Stagecoach (1966) with Ann-Margret and Alex Cord $650,000; the low-budget British-made Guns at Batasi (1964) $480,000; and Hammer double bills Dracula: Prince of Darkness / Plague of the Zombies (1966) $800,000 and Rasputin: The Mad Monk / The Reptile (1966) $400,00.
On the profit front from a global perspective Frank Sinatra proved not as safe a pair of hands – The Detective (1968) registered $1.4 million profit and Von Ryan’s Express (1965) $1.3 million but Tony Rome (1967) and its sequel Lady in Cement (1969) ended up in the red, losses of $600,000 and $300,000, respectively. It was also touch-and-go for Raquel Welch. As mentioned above One Million Years B.C. brought in $2.17 million and Bedazzled $725,000, respectively. But Bandolero (1968) lost $1.4 million and 100 Rifles $1.3 million with Fantastic Voyage (1966) and Fathom (1967) both down half a million each.
From 1964 to 1969, author Stephen M. Silverman records that Fox releases generated $714 million in global rentals and still, after additional costs, made a $13 million loss. In the Appendix to his book in the section devoted to these figures, Silverman came across a handwritten assessment of the studio’s year-to-year operation. That breaks down the movies into three categories – losers, just above breakeven and adequate profit. Of the 106 movies distributed over those six years, 76 were deemed outright losers, seven just topped breakeven and 23 made adequate or good profits.
Note: my two sources shown below, while presumably accessing the same figures, used them in different ways. Solomon employed only domestic rentals while Silverman took a global rental approach so it was down to me to subtract domestic from global to unravel foreign rentals and subtract global from initial budget to arrive at the post-production costs.. Any mistakes, of course, are mine.
SOURCES: Stephen M. Silverman, The Fox That Got Away, The Last Days of the Zanuck Dynasty at Twentieth Century Fox (Lyle Stuart Inc, 1988) pp323-328; Aubrey Solomon, Twentieth Century Fox, A Corporate and Financial History (The Scarecrow Press, 2002) pp 228-231, 252-256.
Assessing foreign potential was a dicey business. A decent run abroad could save a picture or at least ease the bottom line. But global box office statistics were not as easily generated or understood as now. As in the U.S., television had sapped the cinema-going habit in other countries, variations in exchange rates could cripple revenue expectation, and most countries imposed some limitation on the importation of Hollywood films.
It would have been a very bold industry analyst who predicted exactly how any film – even a big U.S. hit like The Sound of Music (1965) – would perform on foreign screens. In the previous article, I was able to assess the results for 107 movies, but the sources for overseas revenues are more limited and figures, using the Aubrey Solomon digest, are only available for 49 of those
The good news, I would guess, is that 14 pictures released by Twentieth Century Fox improved on their U.S. rentals. One (The Sweet Ride, 1968) did exactly the same business abroad as at home. On the gloomier side, 34 movies did worse. For movies that had already turned a profit on home territory, any extra revenue from overseas would be viewed as icing on the cake. But for movies that had struggled or been outright flops on U.S. release, foreign distribution offered an opportunity to correct the financial imbalance.
And anyone trying to forecast the outcomes would have very little chance of getting any correct. How can you come to terms with a business where Doctor Dolittle (1967) one of the biggest flops of the decade on home soil turned into one of the biggest hits of the decade in foreign cinemas. Or that one of the biggest U.S. hits of the decade, Valley of the Dolls (1967), managed to generate a fraction of the rentals received at home. In terms of failing to match up to expectation you could only categorize its overseas performance as a flop.
No surprises for guessing that the studio’s biggest hit overseas was The Sound of Music. What did take the industry’s breath away was that the move came nowhere near matching its U.S. results. The $37.6 million in rentals was less than a third of the amount taken at home. Valley of the Dolls, a juggernaut at home with $20 million, brought in a paltry $2.92 overseas. Other domestic big hitters to come nowhere near emulating their domestic results were: Planet of the Apes (1968), $5.8 million overseas, $15 million at home; The Sand Pebbles (1966), $7.1 million overseas, $13.5 million at home; The Bible (1966), $8.35 million overseas, $15 million at home; and The Boston Strangler (1968), $3.12 million overseas, $8 million at home.
Against all expectations given the size of its failure in the U.S., just $6.2 million in rentals on a budget of $17 million, Doctor Dolittle knocked up $10.1 million abroad. World War One picture The Blue Max (1966) also astonished, $8.5 million overseas (where it often qualified as a roadshow) compared to $8.4 million at home.
By comparison another roadshow, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines (1965), improved on its U.S. figures, producing $15.9 million overseas against $14 million at home. Audrey Hepburn was a bigger star overseas than in the U.S. which went some way to correcting the disappointing rentals incurred Stateside by How to Steal a Million (1966) and Two for the Road (1967). The former took $6.05 million on foreign screens compared to $4.4 million at home and the latter $4.3 million compared to $3 million at home.
Other films for whom foreign was better than domestic included: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969) – $3.65 million vs $3 million; The Chairman / The Most Dangerous Man in the World (1969) – $2.92 million vs $2.5 million; Caprice (1967) – $2.58 million vs $2 million (conversely for Do Not Disturb, 1965, it was $1.27 million vs $4 million); The Flim Flam Man / One Born Every Minute (1967) – $2.32 million vs $1.2 million; Batman (1966) – $2.1 million vs $1.8 million; and The Magus (1968) – $1.45 million vs $1 million.
While not beating their American scores, a number of films achieved quite decent results abroad. For Our Man Flint (1966) foreign attracted rentals of $5.7 million vs $7.2 million in the U.S; In Like Flint (1967) $4.12 million vs $5 million; and The Undefeated (1969) – $4.27 million vs $4.5 million.
Some of the biggest flops on the U.S. domestic scene had no chance of redemption abroad. Possibly their Stateside performances put off distributors in foreign countries. Despite Richard Burton and Rex Harrison, Staircase (1969) earned only $360,000 abroad. George Cukor’s Justine (1969) managed only $570,000. James Stewart comedy Dear Brigitte picked up only $720,000. Tony Curtis-Debbie Reynolds romantic comedy Goodbye Charlie (1964) ended with $800,000. Shirley MacLaine comedy John Goldfarb, Please Come Home was limited to $880,000. Robert Aldrich’s Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte starring Bette Davis and Olivia De Havilland was a complete misfire – $4 million rentals at home, less than $1 million abroad.
Just as at home, Frank Sinatra was a relatively safe bet. Von Ryan’s Express (1965) brought in a further $6.27 million abroad to add to the $7.7 million coughed up in rentals by U.S. cinemas. The Detective (1968) added another $3.77 million from foreign ticket wickets compared to $6.5 million at home. Tony Rome (1967) brought in another $2.25 million to add to the existing $4 million.
Raquel Welch had more admirers abroad than at home. Foreign results for controversial western 100 Rifles (1969) nearly match domestic income, $3.4 million vs $3.5 million. Fathom (1967) out-earned domestic, $2.27 million overseas against $1 million at home. Bandolero (1968) pulled in $3.3 million vs $5.5 million. Fantastic Voyage (1966) slammed home another $3.38 million on top of $5.5 million at home. Bedazzled (1967), which only cost Fox $770,000, brought in $1.32 million abroad and $1.5 million at home.
Note: my two sources shown below, while presumably using the same figures, used them in different ways. Solomon employed only domestic rentals (and excluded I would guess pictures for which Fox acted more as the distributor than the maker) while Silverman took a global rental approach so it was down to me to subtract domestic from global to unravel foreign rentals. Any mistakes, of course, are mine.
SOURCES: Stephen M. Silverman, The Fox That Got Away, The Last Days of the Zanuck Dynasty at Twentieth Century Fox (Lyle Stuart Inc, 1988) pp323-328; Aubrey Solomon, Twentieth Century Fox, A Corporate and Financial History (The Scarecrow Press, 2002) pp 228-231, 252-256.
While I was aware that Hollywood had faced financial catastrophe at the beginning and end of the 1960s, I wasn’t so familiar with just how hard it proved for the studios to actually make a buck. If hadn’t been for the bounty of The Sound of Music (1965) and to a lesser extent Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), a studio as big as Twentieth Century Fox would have posted an overall loss for the decade.
Sure, audiences were in decline and production stultified but there was a fair chance those obstacles could have been overcome through the combination of roadshow, the reinvigoration of the dormant spy genre via James Bond and his imitators, the onset of more liberal material – i.e. sex and violence – thanks to changes to the Production Code and the decade-end “youthquake.”
From 1960-1969, according to the Aubrey Solomon digest of releases, which was my main source for this article, Twentieth Century Fox invested $434 million in 107 movies at an average cost of $4 million. Overall rentals – the amount returned to studios once cinemas had taken their cut of the gross – amounted to $478 million. A total profit of $44 million for the decade was probably, given the various crises, not a bad return. But once you removed The Sound of Music’s $83 million rentals bonanza from the equation, the result was less convincing.
Break-even might have appeared a good result given the doomsayers predicting complete collapse but it says a lot for the vagaries of the business that only 42 pictures – about 40 per cent of the movies greenlit – generated a profit. You will be familiar with the big loss-makers of course: Cleopatra (1963) $16 million in the red on initial U.S. release (though most of that clawed back from overseas rentals, reissue and television sale), calamitous musical Doctor Dolittle (1967 – only $6 million in domestic rentals) and Star! (1968 – only $4 million).
You might wonder what possessed the studio to invest $7.87 million in George Cukor’s Justine (1969). When original director Joseph Strick threw in the towel you might have imagined the studio would do the same given the stars – Dirk Bogarde, Anouk Aimee and Michael York – were hardly standout box office figures. Loss on the U.S. rentals was $5.67 million. Staircase (1969) at least had a stellar cast – Richard Burton fresh from worldwide hit Where Eagles Dare (1968) and Rex Harrison whose Oscar-winning success in My Fair Lady (1964) appeared to grant him box office immunity. But U.S. audiences only returned $1.85 million in rentals from a budget of $6.37 million.
Iconic fashion accessories sported by Audrey Hepburn couldn’t save “Two for the Road”
Another star-laden vehicle – the Paris-set caper picture How To Steal a Million (1966) teaming Audrey Hepburn (My Fair Lady) and Peter O’Toole (Becket, 1964) – came unstuck, losing $2.08 million on a budget of $6.48 million. Hepburn was at fault again the following year, losing, oddly enough, exactly the same amount for Two for the Road with Albert Finney (Tom Jones, 1963) directed by Stanley Donen (Charade, 1963) out of a budget of $5.48 million.
Other casualties were: William Holden in The Lion (1962, $3 million loss), biopic Tender Is the Night (1962 – $2.65 million), George C. Scott as The Flim-Flam Man / One Born Every Minute (1967, also $2.65 million), Nine Hours to Rama (1963, $2.61 million), Doris Day spy comedy Caprice (1966, $2.59 million), Gregory Peck in Cold War thriller The Chairman / The Most DangerousMan in the World (1969, $2.41 million), James Stewart in desert drama The Flight of the Phoenix (1965 – $2.33 million) and James Coburn and Lee Remick in Hard Contract (1969 – $2.32 million).
Even John Wayne stiffed. Civil War western The Undefeated (1969), on a budget of $7.1 million only brought in $4.5 million in rentals. Charlton Heston/Rex Harrison roadshow The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965), on a similar budget, lost more – $3.17 million. Michael Caine/Anthony Quinn drama The Magus (1968) barely brought in $1 million from a $3.77 million budget.
Unexpected winners included Valley of the Dolls (1967 – $15.31 million profit), Planet of the Apes (1968 – $9.2 million), Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines (1965 – $7.5 million), The Boston Strangler (1968 – $3.9 million), Our Man Flint (1966 – $3.87 million) – though only $1.2 million in the black for sequel In Like Flint (1967) – and The Blue Max (1966 – $3.4 million).
Frank Sinatra proved a safe bet. The Detective (1968) turned a profit at the U.S. ticket wickets of just over £2 million and Von Ryan’s Express (1965) just under that figure although Tony Rome (1967) registered a small loss. Raquel Welch just about squeaked home – $1 million profit for Bandolero (1968), $380,000 profit for Fantastic Voyage (1966) balanced out by $420,000 loss for 100 Rifles (1969).
Of course, there was always the possibility that foreign revenues would save the day. And although occasionally the likes of United Artists’ The Magnificent Seven (1960) on initial release had earned considerably more in the overseas market than in the U.S., that was, unfortunately, rarely the case. There was no guarantee that certain genres – comedies, musicals – would travel. Hollywood studios generally received a smaller percentage from movies released abroad while facing increases in distribution costs.
Overseas business was viewed as icing on the cake rather than an essential element of the box office. There was also the problem that foreign cinema owners could check out U.S. box office figures in advance – unlike now there was no instant global release system – and should a movie falter on its U.S. debut would assume they were going to be renting a flop, therefore reduce marketing back-up and renegotiate terms.
SOURCE: Aubrey Solomon, Twentieth Century Fox, A Corporate and Financial History (The Scarecrow Press, 2002) pp 228-231, 252-256.
Strangely neglected in part I guess because the violence is countered by humanity. Despite the visceral images it lacks the narrative drive of a World War Two picture like The Dirty Dozen (1967), Cross of Iron (1977), Saving Private Ryan (1998) or Inglorious Bastards (2009). But the violence removes it from arthouse consideration when, in fact, the unusual combination and the cinematic techniques involved suggest it is ripe for reassessment.
There’s nothing particularly different about the storyline. Bunch of U.S. grunts land on a Philippine island occupied by the Japanese. The rookies are caught between caring commander Capt MacDonald (Cornel Wilde) and the uncaring tough Sgt Honeywell (Rip Torn). Some live, some die.
What was unusual for the time was the intensity of war. You can just imagine Steven Spielberg watching this to see how to out-do its 30-minute opening sequence when he came to film the D-Day section of his film. Where Spielberg placed more emphasis on sound and had the budget for more gruesome special effects, nonetheless director Cornel Wilde serves up the most brutal conflict of the decade.
From the outset, however, Wilde gets inside the head of the terrified soldiers. Some are just so scared they collapse on the sand and are unable to move. Told to fix bayonets, Cliff (Patrick Wolfe) is traumatised at the fear of being bayoneted himself. But, intriguingly, most of what we learn about the soldiers comes not from dialogue but internal monologue, as their minds are bombarded with memories of better times, wives, girlfriends and children left behind.
There’s also the stupidity of the inexperienced. The hapless Cliff shoots a Jap without realizing he had just been captured by Sgt Honeywell who had been sent on a mission to secure an enemy soldier for Capt MacDonald, with the aid of a Japanese-speaking soldier, to interrogate.
The captured soldier’s arms have been broken by Honeywell, not simply to incapacitate him, but out of brutal intent. The sergeant has no struck with MacDonald’s humanity, it’s kill or be killed, “It’s him or you, baby,” is his mantra.
But for director Wilde, the enemy is not faceless. And he spends far more time than any other even-handed director of the era in ensuring the Japanese are seen as first and foremost as human beings with the same feelings as the Americans, staring at photos of their beloved, or accorded brief flashbacks where they are shown laughing with their children, loving their wives, one caught in such a reverie being humiliated by a furious commanding officer.
What in a more ordinary war picture would be deemed a piece of flagrant sentimentality, wounded rival soldiers sharing water and cigarettes, here takes on another dimension, as each recognizes in the other their common humanity.
Nor are the women window dressing. Cliff desperate to lose his virginity before going off to war has to contend with a frightened girlfriend. MacDonald recalling an intimate moment with wife Julie (Jean Wallace) remembers mostly her fear that she will be left a widow.
And the director is not above irony. The Japanese, initiating a clever rearguard maneuver to catch the Americans off-guard, are slaughtered on the same beach as had originally been taken by the landing troops.
In some respects, the director’s vision is compromised by critical reaction. Less of the violence, concentrating more on the thoughts and memories of the soldiers on both sides, and it would have been hailed as visionary. But the violence was viewed in many quarters as driven by commercial imperative, this being the year when screen violence (the spaghetti westerns, The Dirty Dozen, Bonnie and Clyde) ignited controversial debate.
Because of that, Wilde’s many stylistic innovations went unnoticed. He makes superb use of stills, flashbacks detailed in a series of photographic montages rather than moving images. And there’s a technique I’ve never seen before where the director focuses on a face only for it to dissolve within the frame, rather than the whole frame dissolve as would be the norm to indicate transition. And life goes on even as soldiers rampage, every now and then insects are shown in close-up going about their ordinary business regardless of the conflagration all around, their worlds too tiny to be overly disturbed.
In his directorial capacity Wilde (Sword of Lancelot / Lancelot and Guinevere, 1963) indicates intention with the theme song. Rather than the stirring music to which we are usually accustomed, this is a lament (sung, incidentally by his wife, Jean Wallace).
As well as acting and directing, Wilde had a hand in the screenplay along with previous collaborators Clint Johnson and Don Peters who both worked on Wilde’s earlier The Naked Prey (1965)
As much as we are struck by the intensity of the performances by the thoughtful and often glum Wilde, the rapacious Rip Torn (Sol Madrid, 1968) and the bewildered Patrick Wolfe (his only movie appearance and, incidentally, son to Jean Wallace from her first marriage to Franchot Tone), this is a director’s picture and easily stands comparison with the quartet of classics mentioned above.
The title, while indicative of slaughter, had in reality a much more prosaic meaning. The U.S. Army had the habit of assigning colors to differentiate between certain sections of beaches scheduled for invasion. This could as easily have been entitled Beach Blue or Beach Yellow but you have to concede Beach Red has a certain ring to it.
Decent hokum sees Vikings ally with Moors to seek a mythical giant bell made of gold, “the mother of voices.” There are stunning set-pieces: a majestic long ship coming into port, superior battles, the Mare of Steel, the discovery of the bell itself, while a clever ruse triggers the climactic fight. There’s even a “Spartacus” moment – when the Vikings declare themselves willing to die should their leader be executed.
Rolfe (Richard Widmark) is the wily Viking, second cousin to a con man, demonstrating his physical prowess although he does appear to spend an inordinate amount of time swept up ashore after shipwreck. Moorish king Aly Mansuh (Sidney Poitier) is his rival for the legendary bell. The diminutive Orm (Russ Tamblyn), Rolfe’s sidekick, appears to be in a constant athletic duel with the Viking.
Although handy with a sword, both are equally adept at employing seduction, Aly Mansuh making eyes at Viking princess Beba Loncar (in her Hollywood debut) while Rolfe targets Poitier’s neglected wife Rosanna Schiafffino (Two Weeks in Another Town, 1962). The story is occasionally put on hold to permit the Viking horde to pursue their two favorite pastimes – sex and violence – and they make the most of the opportunity to frolic with a harem.
One of the marks of the better historical films is the intelligence of the battle scenes. Here, faced with Muslim cavalry, the Vikings steal a trick from The 300 Spartans by lying down to let the horses pass then rising up to slaughter their riders. But there is also an unusual piece of intelligent thinking. Realising, as the battle wears on, that they are substantially outnumbered and have their backs to the sea, Widmark takes the sensible option of surrendering.
Richard Widmark (The Secret Ways, 1961) makes the most of an expansive role. Instead of seething with discontent or intent on harm as seemed to be his lot in most pictures, he heads for swashbuckler central, with a side helping of Valentino, gaily leaping from high windows and engaging in swordfights. Sidney Poitier (Duel at Diablo, 1966), laden down with pomp and circumstance rather than immersed in poverty as would he his norm, is less comfortable as the Islamic ruler. (Widmark and Poitier re-teamed in The Bedford Incident, 1965, also reviewed in the blog.)
The puckish Tamblyn (The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm, 1962) almost steals the show. Both Loncar and Schiaffino have decent parts.
Director Jack Cardiff, Oscar-nominated for Sons and Lovers (1960), brings to bear his experience of working on The Vikings (1958) for which he was cinematographer. He is clearly at home with the action and equally there is some fine composition. However, the story in places is over-complicated, and he fails to rein in the mugging of one of the industry’s great muggers Oscar Homolka (Joy in the Morning, 1965) and there is a complete disregard for accent discipline. Edward Judd (The Day the Earth Caught Fire, 1961), Scotsman Gordon Jackson (The Great Escape, 1963) and Colin Blakely (The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, 1970) have supporting roles.
Berkely Mather (Dr No, 1962), Beverly Cross (Jason and the Argonauts, 1963) and, in his sole movie credit, Frans G Bengtsson, collaborated on the screenplay.
Good fun and great to see Widmark and Poitier turning their screen personas upside down.
Gripping thriller that set up the template for the decade’s later conspiracy mini-genre exemplified by The Conversation (1974), The Parallax View (1974) and Three Days of the Condor (1975). Under-rated compared to that trio, and considerably less cinematically self-conscious, it nods in the direction of The Manchurian Candidate (1962), The Mind Benders (1963) and Seconds (1966) while clearly influencing Memento (2000), The Bourne Identity (2002) and Inception (2010).
Touches on themes of surveillance, brainwashing, amnesia, invasion of privacy and government control, and for good measure may even have invented water boarding. Brilliantly structured with superb twists right to the end and peppered with red herrings. Audiences these days will be more easily misled than back in the day by references to an alien. Innovative and extensive aerial footage, and like Figures in a Landscape (1970) helicopters play a major part in pursuit.
A series of explosions at a secret government facility kills six men. One other, Welles (Michael Sarrazin), badly disfigured, escapes, potentially with vital secrets. Security chief Tuxan (George Peppard) leads the investigation. From the off the case is shrouded in mystery, not least because Tuxan refuses government high-ups access to the site and the ongoing probe, instead relying on government PR man Carl (Cliff Potts) as a conduit.
Of course, if Welles was innocent he’d hand himself in rather than running away to the house of Nicole (Christine Belford). Naturally, although she calls an ambulance, she is deemed guilty, too, for providing just too handy a hideout. Under extreme interrogation, Welles, claiming complete amnesia, refuses to talk.
Without the benefit of a trial Welles is shipped out to a maximum-security unit but the transportation is driven off the road and he escapes, returning to Nicole. Passion ensues, but even she, conceivably from the audience perspective a government plant, fails to elicit much information from him beyond that he speaks Greek and had some unnamed life-changing experience in that country, possibly involving water.
Turns out Welles is bait. Tuxan has arranged the escape. Nicole’s house is bugged – for sight and sound and nobody has the decency to cringe when watching the couple make love. Tuxan reckons that at some point Welles’ co-conspirators will surface. But when they do, they are a good bit smarter than Tuxan anticipates. The plot thickens when, even to them, Welles sticks to his story of being an amnesiac.
And the plot continues to twist and turn right to the very end which contains a just fantastic twist, two actually. Audiences these days more accustomed to the clever climax might guess the twist, but I really doubt it.
By this stage both George Peppard (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967) and Michael Sarrazin (The Sweet Ride, 1968) were finding a perch at the top of the Hollywood tree hard to hold onto, the fact that the movie, not notably highly budgeted, featured two supposed top stars proof of that. But it wouldn’t work unless Welles was played by an actor whose screen persona would make an audience both question his innocence and guilt. Sarrazin wouldn’t be the first actor to play on audience expectation to portray a bad guy.
In fact, both are excellent. Sarrazin is able to drop the fey aspect of his character and the narrative helps enormously, puzzlement and confusion an ingenious assist, to depict him as a person of more depth. The disfiguring of a handsome movie idol shifts audience expectation from the off.
I’ve become a bigger fan of George Peppard than I ever imagined after watching a series of quite different portrayals that tossed around his screen persona from The Third Day (1965) through The Blue Max (1966) and the unsettling mystery trilogy of P.J / New Face in Hell (1967), House of Cards (1968) and Pendulum (1968).
Directed with considerable assurance and occasional elan by Lamont Johnson (A Covenant with Death, 1967), this avoids the cinematic indulgence of The Conversation (1974), The Parallax View (1974) and like Three Days of the Condor (1975) sticks more to narrative. Water, more normally associated with tranquility, takes on a disturbing quality. Sometime writer-director Douglas Heyes (Beau Geste, 1966) discarded half that hyphenate to turn in a slick screenplay based on the bestseller by Leslie P. Davies.
More than two decades after Greta Garbo abandoned acting she was the Queen of London’s West End in one of the most astonishing comebacks in Hollywood history.
Although her Hollywood career was relatively short-lived, lasting only 15 years and ending voluntarily in 1941, and at one point the highest-paid actor (male or female) in Hollywood, the London experience made her a big star all over again in the 1960s – and later in the 1970s – when reissues of her most famous films filled holes in a global release system starved of product.
“Masterpiece Reprint” was cleaver ad-speak for getting round exhibitor phobia regarding the words “reissue” or “revival.”And it also suggested a new print since reissues were infamous for re-using long over-used old prints.
She’d first made an impact in the revival business in the U.S. reissue boom of 1948 in a double bill of San Francisco (1936) and Ninotchka (1939), a program so successful that shortly afterwards both were reissued again separately. The box office draw of pictures like these was such that some cinemas, for example, the State in Lubbock, Texas, re-launched themselves as “first run reissue” houses, the beginnings of the boom in repertory theaters.
But it wasn’t all gravy. Distribution didn’t just rely on old prints. Ninotchka, for example, not only had new prints but a new advertising campaign, campaign manual and accessories. However, apart from the first flush of revival, Ninotchka stumbled at the box office, too ambitious a level of release, quickly withdrawn after costing the studio $150,000.
The impetus for the 1960s Garbo Revival came from abroad. In the U.S., Garbo films had by this point been viewed as arthouse fare, running, as in the 1950s, on a repertory basis, rented out for a flat fee, cinemas cramming in as many as a dozen films over one week. While they were available to anyone who wanted them, they came without attendant publicity. Given, they had all been screened on U.S. television they were considered a poor bet for a more commercial revival campaign.
But British television companies, of which there were only two – BBC and ITV – were more niggardly in buying Hollywood pictures so the major studios simply refuse to sell pictures, such as those starring Garbo, at what they saw as, compared to U.S. networks, cut-price rates.
Even so, it was an act of incredible boldness for the Empire cinema in London’s West End, one of the top two theaters (the other being the Odeon Leicester Square) in Britain for movie launches, outside of roadshows, to decide to take a gamble on reviving her movies following audience response to a brief showing at the Royalty. It was the first time a major commercial house in such a heavily-competitive environment had devoted any time to what was in effect a retrospective, setting aside two months for a succession of Garbo pictures.
Two-Faced Woman (1941) – Garbo’s last picture – shored up $14,000 – equivalent to $140,000 now – in its first week. Queen Christina (1937) made a debut of $9,000 and Camille (1936) $11,000. In all, over this opening stint and a further season later on, the Empire screened eleven pictures – the others being Grand Hotel (1932), Anna Christie (1930), Mata Hari (1931), Ninotchka, AnnaKarenina (1935), Marie Walewska (aka Conquest, 1937), As You Desire Me (1932) and The Painted Veil (1934)
And there was more to come. The Empire was the release showcase for the entire ABC circuit, so anything screening there would be rolled out in the country’s biggest chain. Since ABC was decidedly not in the arthouse business, sending the movies out into the general mainstream seemed an even bigger risk. But such fears proved unfounded.
Garbo pictures were distributed throughout the country, and not just on the ABC circuit. In Glasgow, for example, the La Scala (owned by Caledonian Associated Cinemas) first-run house – rather than the city’s denoted arthouse the Cosmo – launched a three-week season comprising Ninochka, Queen Christina and Camille, two of the three going out as single bills.
Meanwhile, in the U.S. Garbo movies were being unfurled via the MGM Perpetual Product Plan, whereby classics (rented on a percentage basis) were screened for one day a week for a period of eight-to-ten weeks with audiences able to book a discounted ticket for the entire season. Abroad, there was more opportunity. Like Britain, countries like France revered the star and the movies were continually revived in Europe during the 1960s at commercial venues.
But by the end of the decade, the book should have been closed on Garbo. Because, in 1969, MGM, with the exception of perennials like Gone with the Wind (1939) and Doctor Zhivago (1965), pulled out of the reissue business. The studio withdrew from release its core library of around 100 vintage pictures because the operation was now losing money. Flat fee rentals of $100 (as opposed to the earlier percentage deals) for a three-day engagement failed to cover the costs of prints, distribution and advertising. The novelty of the one-day-a-week scheme had worn off.
MGM intended to try out the old “creating demand” tactic by keeping its oldies out of circulation for at least four years. But the studio was in severe financial straits at the start of the new decade and not in a position to resist an offer in 1970 from Erwin Lesser of Entertainment Events who proposed taking out a two-year lease on 65 pictures that had “made film buffs out of two generations.” Lesser drew up a package of 26 “Movie Incomparables.” Garbo was the main attraction. Included in the list were As You Desire Me, not seen for 30 years. Lesser returned to rentals based on percentages rather than a flat fee.
While Lesser made the movies available as single features and double bills and as support to new features, the main thrust of his marketing campaign was the “Garbo Festival,” an idea stolen from television which had taken to rewrapping old pictures as week-long events as a means of enticing viewers.
Although the Museum of Modern Arts in New York agreed to run a Garbo retrospective, that hardly produced the kind of box office juice that was required to kickstart a major revival. So Lesser bided his time, and in the end accepted a nine-day “filler engagement” in March 1971 for the 565-seat Murray Hill arthouse in New York. A “rousing” first week delivered $15,000 – $113,000 in today’s money – while the remaining two days hit a colossal $7,800.
Garbo was back – and in some style. Two months later the Garbo package returned to Murray Hill for a socko one-week $11,000 followed by a move-over to the 533-seat Paramount. And then it was game on.
One of the major elements of the Festival was its flexibility. It became an umbrella term. Exhibitors could decide whether to create a program out of single showings or double bills that could run for consecutive weeks or for an on-off event of single weeks interspersed over a longer period with other features.
In Chicago the double bill of Grand Hotel / Anna Christie romped home at the 505-seat Cinema with $8,500 in the first week and $7,500 – an amazingly low drop-off at the box office considering 40%-50% tumbles in the second week are the norm today – followed by Mata Hari / Ninotchka also on $7,500. In the same city Camille / Anna Karenina racked up $4,800 at the 598-seat Carnegie.
In Philadelphia a four-film package hoisted $19,000 running simultaneously at the 500-seat World and the 855-seat Bryn Mawr. The second week take dropped by just $1,500. Two more packages running each for a week brought in a total of $15,000. In Pittsburgh and Detroit the seasons also ran for three weeks.
But showings were not restricted to arthouses. In Cleveland the package played the 1,500-seat Beachcliff, in Dayton the 1,000-seat Cinema East and in Kansas City the 1,291-seat Midland.
Garbo’s name was kept alive all through the 1970s as revivals, either in one-week festivals, or shorter bookings, continued to bring in revenue across the USA and around the world, proving the continued box office potency of one of the industry’s greatest stars.
We’re still a few years away from the centenary of her Hollywood debut in MGM’s Torrent in 1926 so expect major reassessment then. Whether she breaks out of the arthouse confines and fuels new demand in the multiplexes might not be such a long shot. Release patterns for revivals have markedly changed, many now being promoted as “one-day-only” events (miss out at your own peril) rather than running over a week or longer. A major publicity campaign and the assistance of social media could change public perception of a star whose films embraced both the silent era and Hollywood’s Golden Age and who was never short of publicity.
In my opinion it’s always worth watching a Garbo film for one technical reason – the difference between male and female close-ups. Watch a Garbo picture and a close-up could last for minutes, the end of Queen Christina for example, as her eyes move through a variety of emotions. Male close-ups by comparison are over in a flash. With few exceptions the soul of a male actor is rarely revealed in close-up and even rarer is for expression to so dramatically change.
SOURCES: Brian Hannan, Coming Back to a Theater Near You, A History of Hollywood Reissues 1914-2014 (McFarland, 2016) pp 33, 55, 56, 58, 75, 128, 130, 133, 212, 223-225, 232 “Test Garbo Retrospective at Royalty in London,” Variety, June 23, 1963, p11; “Garbo Pic Sets London Record,” Variety, August 15, 1963, p2; “Click of Metro’s Garbo Pix in London’s Empire Cues More Runs,” Variety, August 21, 1963, p19; “British Provinces May Get Metro Garbo Films,” Variety, August 28, 1963, p23; “Metro Classic (Garbo, Marx Bros, Tuners) Withdrawn from Market,” Variety, August 27, 1969, p3; “MGM Leases 65 Pictures for Re-Releasing,” Variety, August 10, 1970, p3; “Picture Grosses,” Variety 1971 – March 31, April 7, May 11, May 25, June 9, June 23, June 30, August 18, November 22, December 8.
Highly enjoyable and surprisingly good. Could be viewed as a companion piece to Two Weeks in Another Town (1962), swapping movies for Broadway. I have to confess I had only seen the writing team of George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart in the context of movies – Frank Capra’s Oscar-winning You Can’t Take It With You (1938) and The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942). I hadn’t realized these had begun as plays and the movie tells the story of the beginning of their partnership when Kaufman was an established playwright and Hart a neophyte.
Perhaps because this was the only directing gig for Dore Schary, better known as a screenwriter (Boys Town, 1939), producer and head honcho at MGM, there’s none of the melodrama of Two Weeks in Another Town. In fact, except for an occasional appearance by Kaufman’s exasperated wife, there’s hardly a woman in sight and certainly no complicated nuptials or even romance. It’s basically a two-hander, the relationship between the two writers and their struggle to turn the play Once in a Lifetime (1930) into a hit.
It’s helped along by what must be most subdued and subtle performances in the careers of either George Hamilton (Two Weeks in Another Town) or Jason Robards (Once Upon a Time in the West, 1969). This is easily Hamilton at his finest and it is one of Robards’ better performances. Rather than gung-ho turns, all sturm and drang, emotions out of control, the two actors inhabit their characters. Once only is Hamilton let off the leash, in an unfair tirade against buddie Joe (Jack Klugman) and is far more effective in a scene where he doesn’t say a word, and Schary has employed a film noir technique of leaving a face, apart from the eyes, in darkness, as he comes to terms with the realization he has a hit on his hands.
The story simple enough. In 1929, cigar-maker father out of work, family struggling to cope with the onset of the Great Depression, Hart is a struggling playwright, first five serious works rejected. But turning to a comedy about Hollywood, he strikes gold. Or at least some gold dust. Because a play on paper is scarcely the finished work. Teamed up with a recalcitrant, grumpy, introspective, monosyllabic Kaufman, Hart finds out the hard way just what it takes to turn prospect into success.
Mostly, it’s rewrites. And more rewrites. What’s wrong with the initial play is everything bar the idea. What’s wrong after that is everything they haven’t been able to fix. Gets to the stage where Kaufman – remember, the more experienced one – is ready to quit.
So once Kaufman appears, it’s mostly two guys in a room or backstage trying to sort out a myriad of problems. There’s some nice interaction. Kaufman never eats, so Hart is constantly famished. Kaufman hates Hart’s cigar smoke. Eventually, they come to an agreement, constant food in exchange for extinguishing the cigars (a pipe deemed an acceptable substitute).
There’s a cast of interesting characters, famous producer (Eli Wallach) and Hart’s support network, talented unsung writers and actors (including Archie Leach before he went Hollywood and became Cary Grant, his attraction to females a constant refrain), and a scene-stealing George Segal (The Quiller Memorandum, 1966). At a party we briefly meet the Alqonquin Round Table set, all insufferable and barely a bon mot between them.
Movies about the stage invariably involve an actor so this makes a refreshing change. And most films about writers concern the literary artist rather than the more overtly commercial variety. But I’m guessing the level of endeavour is much the same.
But it’s the lack of grandstanding that makes this work. Rather than lading down characters with tons of dramatic dialogue much of the piece is carried by small bits of business, the fastidious Hart snipping loose threads from a shirt, pressing his trousers under his mattress, the equally finicky Kaufman constantly washing his hands and the scourge of sentimentality. Sure, it’s showtime, so there’s a measure of bitchiness, a marvellous scene where Kaufman imagines a producer’s positivity is intended to put him off.
Unexpectedly excellent acting lifts this. Not easy to find, Ebay would be the best place.
As you can imagine back in the day audiences struggled with accepting cross-dressing never mind transgender instinct – both deemed psychological aberrations – so it was understandable that the only treatment of the subject appeared in the sexploitation genre where budgets were so low a flop incurred no great financial loss. But even so, perhaps astonishingly so, despite a tendency towards violence, and what would amount to raw shocks, there was some implicit understanding of the need to shed one gender in order to take on the other.
More sympathetic in treatment than Homicidal (1961) but still from a narrative perspective taking the noir route, although, in reality, you could view the action as metaphor, hard-case chrysalis evolution.
Housewife Barbara (Beverly Bain) is being stalked by a blonde in a checked jacket and dark glasses, only saved from being slashed to pieces by unexpected appearance of a neighbour. Husband Jonathan (Cliff Fields), an illustrator, is often away to Los Angeles on business so she’s lonely and the marriage is under strain.
Meanwhile, Det Sgt Harmon (John Ireland) is investigating a potential murder. The tenant in the flat below heard a scuffle in the apartment above. But when the police arrive the only victim is a dog and, as we all know, it wasn’t a crime to kill a dog in the U.S. But someone else witnessed a trunk being dragged down the stairs from the apartment.
The trunk ends up in Barbara’s garage. Once the police start stitching clues together, the finger points at Jonathan. The dog was killed in his apartment (where he lives while working in L.A., home being too distant to commute) but his alibi stands up, and in the absence of a corpse it’s still no crime to kill a dog. But when Barbara opens the trunk with a screwdriver she doesn’t find a corpse, just drawings of a woman. Given that it’s Jonathan’s business to draw women she sees that as no big deal.
Jonathan’s father Dr Crane (John Hart), a psychiatrist, blames himself for his son’s marital problems, as it was his adultery that caused his own marriage break-up. Meanwhile, Barbara continues to be stalked, the killer getting a good deal closer. The cops feel Barbara is hiding something and if she is she doesn’t know what.
While she’s kept in suspense, the audience isn’t. Jonathan pulls on stockings and female apparel and kills his father. Once Barbara discovers her husband conversing with himself as both genders the game is soon up, but not before another terrifying chase.
Noir seems as good a genre as any for exploring the sexual psyche. That the misunderstood feel obliged to kill off anyone who knows them by their birth, rather than their desired, gender fits in with the notion often essential to noir of a criminal getting rid of traces of evidence. Given the era and the lack of gender exploration it would have been unfeasible to present a more sensible approach to the issue.
At the time I am guessing this was dismissed as sheer sexploitation. But, now, it appears to have considerably more depth. The afflicted repressed male with no way of expressing his female side coalesces with a movie maker with no way of tackling the subject in realistic fashion and so turns to the cliché of the person trying to start a new life by killing off all remnants of the old one. Although sold as a serial killer thriller, it’s nothing of the sort, Jonathan not on some sort of murderous spree as a result of repression.
As a bonus, there’s John Ireland (The Fall of the Roman Empire, 1964) and some humorous banter between the cops plus former B-picture star Elena Verdugo (How Sweet It Is, 1968), in her first movie in nearly a decade, as a boss.
Directed with some sensivity by John A. Bushelman (The Broken Land, 1962) from a screenplay by Leonard Goldstein in his only movie.
It’s definitely flawed, sexploitation is rarely anything else, but this falls on the right side of interesting. Viewed in a contemporary light, the sexploitation tag falls away, and it’s revealed as a more compassionate attempt to deal with what was then a taboo subject.
The Magnificent 60s 