Behind the Scenes – Page 6 – The Magnificent 60s

Behind the Scenes: “The Silencers” (1966)

Producer Irving Allen remains best known as the fella who turned down James Bond. While partnered with Cubby Broccoli in Warwick Films, he decided the Ian Fleming books were not big screen material. Their production shingle, based in Britain, had turned out movies like The Red Beret (1953) with Alan Ladd and Fire Down Below (1957) pairing Robert Mitchum and Rita Hayworth. Divorced from Broccoli, Allen headed down the big-budget historical adventure route but neither The Long Ships (1964) spearheaded by Richard Widmark and Sidney Poitier nor Omar Sharif as Genghis Khan (1965) hit the box office target.

Luckily, Allen had already made an investment in espionage, owning the rights to the hard-edged Matt Helm novels, knocked out at the rate of one or two a year since 1960 by Donald Hamilton whose most notable brush with Hollywood was selling the rights to his novel The Big Country (1958) filmed by William Wyler with a top-class cast. The Matt Helm series was praised by the top thriller critic of the era, Anthony Boucher, who noted that Hamilton brought “sordid truth” to the espionage genre and “the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett.”

Having optioned the books, Allen persuaded Columbia to buy the rights to eight, with the notion of setting up a direct rival to James Bond, that idea given an extra fillip when the Sean Connery series which had appeared on an annual basis skipped 1966. Initially, Allen planned to make films that followed the novel’s serious approach to espionage, intending to cast a marquee name like Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963) – who ironically proved major competition for the first offering through Hitchcock’s Torn Curtain (1966) – or conversely a relative unknown such as Mike Connors (Harlow, 1965).

To hook Dean Martin, Allen had to make him a partner, resulting in the actor making more dough out of a spy film than Sean Connery did from Bond. Martin was something of a Hollywood enigma. Audiences who flocked to the Rat Pack outings tended to disdain his stand-alone efforts such as Toys in the Attic (1963) and Kiss Me, Stupid (1964) and if he was a current household name that owed much more to his recording and television career.

But Allen shifted the emphasis away from straight adaptation to tongue-in-cheek, setting up the series initially as gentle parody rather than out-and-out spoof though as the movies progressed they fell more into the latter category.

Playing to Martin’s strengths of urbane charm and effortless style, as well as his reputation as a lothario, and accommodating his age (he was 48) by ensuring his character was brought out of retirement, and with comedy writer Herbert Baker brought in at Dean Martin’s behest to beef up Oscar Saul’s script, and by surrounding him with more heavyweight damsels than the Bonds, the series was good to go. Baker had written early Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis vehicles like Jumping Jacks (1952) and Scared Stiff (1953). The script drew upon two Hamilton novels, Death of a Citizen (the first in the series) and The Silencers (the fourth). The idea of Helm being married was dropped to allow him the same sexual license as James Bond.

Stella Stevens and Daliah Lavi were unusual choices for the leading ladies of a spy picture, their proven marquee appeal considerably in excess of that of Ursula Andress (Dr No, 1962), Honor Blackman (Goldfinger, 1964) and Claudine Auger (Thunderball, 1965), that trio of movies opening Hollywood doors for the actresses rather than as with Stevens and Lavi already being welcome attractions. Lavi had starred in The Demon (1963) and Lord Jim (1965) while Stella Stevens had been female lead in The Nutty Professor (1963) and Advance to the Rear (1964). The Slaygirls, however, a direct imitation of the Bond Girls, also owed something to Playboy’s Playmates.

Other cast members had some distinction, Victor Buono Oscar-nominated for Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962) and James Gregory acclaimed for his role in The Manchurian Candidate (1962). Both had worked previously with Martin, Gregory on The Sons of Katie Elder (1965) and Buono on 4 for Texas (1963) and Robin and the 7 Hoods (1964).

Martin also called upon President Lyndon B. Johnson’s personal shirtmaker Sy Devore, previously personal clothier to Martin and Lewis, to come up with his stylish attire.

Budgeted at just under $4 million, The Silencers began shooting on 12 July 1965, the 12-week schedule (ending 16 September) taking in locations like Carsbad Caverns, White Sands, El Paso and Juarez with the car chases filmed in Santa Fe and Phoenix, Arizona. Columbia’s backlot was deemed too small for interiors, and two of Desilu’s largest soundstages were joined together to make Big O’s underground HQ.

Director Phil Karlson (The Secret Ways, 1961) and the producer didn’t see eye-to-eye. Despite ostensibly aiming for a comedy, Allen wanted Karlson to adopt the style of the more serious The Ipcress File (1965) and shoot “through chandeliers, under tables.” It turned out that movie’s director Sidney J. Furie had relied on Karlson for most of his cinematic flourishes.

Like Sinatra, Martin preferred one take. “Dean was always great to work with,” recalled James Gregory, “because he never took himself seriously…Dean was always relaxed – if it doesn’t work do it over, but for heaven’s sake you oughta not need more than that one or two times to get it right.”

Despite the easy-going atmosphere, there were casualties. Buono was out of action for four days after slipping while climbing a wall, foot in an unseen cast for the rest of his time on the picture. Supporting actor Arthur O’Connell’s face was sliced open during an explosion. He completed the scene with the bandage covering the wound hidden under a turtleneck sweater. Stunt man Tom Hennessey lost three front teeth. There was a bill of several thousand dollars to cover an unexpected explosion on set, combustible dust igniting after one of the grenades went off on the Big O set.

Astonishingly the movie came in $500,000 under budget and $1 million was recouped from television sales. Columbia was so taken with the end result that prior to its release two sequels were announced.

The Slaygirls featured prominently in promotional activities in the U.S. with six sent overseas to hustle up interest. As well as a movie tie-in paperback and album, merchandising included toy guns from Crescent Toys and Louis Marx. Martin wasn’t available for the Chicago world premiere (he was shooting Texas Across the River, 1966) on 16 February 1966. The movie was gangbusters from the start, clocking up $7.35 million in U.S. rentals (the studio’s cut of the box office), enough for 85^th spot (by my exclusive count) on the list of the top earning films of the decade.

SOURCES: Brian Hannan, The Magnificent ‘60s, The 100 Most Popular Films of a Revolutionary Decade (McFarland, 2022); Bruce Scivally, Booze, Bullets and Broads, Behind the Scenes with Dean Martin’s Matt Helm Films of the 1960s (Henry Gray, 2013); William Schoell, Martini Man: The Life of Dean Martin (Cooper Square Press, 2003); Cinema Retro Movie Classics Issue No 9: Matt Helm’s Back in Town.

Behind the Scenes: Sunday Programming – A Reissue Phenomenon

I deserve a slap on the wrist. I wrote an enormous book (250,000 words including notes) on the history of movie reissues, revivals, encore premieres, call them what you will, and I didn’t know there was, at least in Britain, a constant source of reissue on a weekly basis, namely the “Sunday Cinema” program.

In Britain in the 1960s, movies ran from Monday to Saturday (Mon-Wed/Thu-Sat if a split week) not the current system of Friday to Thursday. So it made little sense to tag on a Sunday as the last day of a run unless the cinema was involved in roadshow presentation. On Sundays, cinemas, if they opened at all, tended to show older movies, revivals of horror pictures or ones with a sensationalist slant.

Sunday showings were a contentious issue anyway. According to the Sunday Entertainment Act of 1932, cinemas could only show movies on Sundays subject to certain conditions. The first of which was that cinema owners had to agree to give over a certain percentage of their takings to charity. And not even a charity of their choice, but one chosen by the local authority. Secondly, they could not, should they wish, show movies all day, or from the usual starting point of between 1pm and 2pm, in case that got in the way of children attending Sunday School. Though, theoretically, cinemas could open from 4pm, most cinemas restricted showings to one full program in the evening. Lastly, should enough of the local populace object to Sunday opening, that could put a stop to the process.

On the other hand, there was one advantage to Sunday opening. Operators paid a flat fee for movies, not a percentage of receipts as they did for the rest of the week. That made it a lot easier to work out costs and potential profits, i.e. whether it was worthwhile opening at all.

With the downturn in cinema attendances in part triggered by the availability of movies on television – in Britain there was a five-year restriction but few pictures except for Bond films and certain roadshows and big hits could resist the temptation of the extra cash that television could bring – cinemas were annoyed at still having to give money to charity and by the end of the decade the government nullified that condition.

There was a ready supply of older movies available on a non-percentage basis. Programs invariably comprised double bills, though often the complete program ran well under three hours.

I did a survey of suburban cinemas in my home town of Glasgow, Scotland, over three separate months – January, June and October – in 1969 and found that certain films were in constant circulation through the year.

Hammer’s The Gorgon (1964) starring Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing and Barbara Shelley was shown variously with thriller Recoil (1953), occult The Devil’s Hand (1961) and sci fi 20 Million Miles To Earth (1957). But The Devil’s Hand was also the support for several bookings of horror portmanteau Twice Told Tales (1963) with Vincent Price and Recoil I found supporting The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb (1964).

Blood beasts were on the rampage. You could choose from Roger Corman’s Night of the Bloodbeast (1958) supporting Cage of Doom (aka Terror from the Year 5000, 1958) or Revenge of the Bloodbeast plus peplum/horror mash-up Goliath and the Vampires (1961). Edgar Allan Poe was represented by The Raven (1963), The Masque of the Red Death (1964) and The Fall of the House of Usher (1960), all the main feature, all headlining Vincent Price. City of the Dead (1960) went out variously with Screaming Skull (1958) and Cage of Doom

Other popular items included Italian occult item Sexy Party (aka Death on the Fourposter, 1964) coupled with Search for Venus and British exploitationer Beat Girl (1961) doubled up with sci fi Unearthly Stranger (1965)

It wasn’t all horror and sci fi. Gangsters occasionally put in an appearance – The Bonnie Parker Story (1958) on a killing spree with Charles Bronson as Machine Gun Kelly (1958). Westerns were rare but there was room for James Stewart in The Far Country (1954) teamed with Louis L’Amour’s Taggart (1964) and Robert Wagner in White Feather (1955) paired with exploitationer The Young Sinners (aka High School Big Shot, 1959). Just as out of place were the ultra daring, but censor-permissible, Nudes of the World (1962), espionage picture Death Is a Woman (1966) and Alan Ladd in Hell Below Zero (1954).

But what horror or sci fi aficionado could resist Invasion of the Hell Creatures (aka Invasion of the Saucer Men, 1957) and She Demons of the Swamp (aka Attack of the Giant Leeches, 1959)? Or The Brain Machine (1955) coupled with Strangler of the Swamp (1945)? Or A Bucket of Blood (1959)/ The Evil Force (aka 4D Man, 1959)?

Despite her proven marquee pull Claudia Cardinale in French-made Swords of Blood (aka Cartouche, 1962) played second fiddle to, variously, Italian-made Perseus vs the Monster (aka Perseus the Invincible, 1963) and The Exterminators (aka Coplan FX 18, 1965).

You could catch up with – or enjoy again – such fare as The Brain Eaters (1958), The Day the World Ended (1955), The Amazing Colossal Man (1957), Deborah Kerr in The Innocents (1961), Joan Fontaine in The Witches (1966), Jack the Ripper (1959), The Sorcerers (1967) with Boris Karloff and Barbara Shelley as Cat Girl (1957).

Those were the days.

Shameless Double Plug: Go On, Pre-Order Now

As a result of writing this Blog, I’ve come to the attention of the venerated Los Angeles-based Vinegar Syndrome outfit, specialists in revamped special editions of longlost DVDs, mostly of the cult variety. So I was recently called upon to head into the recording studio and deliver an audio commentary on The Terrornauts (1967), an Amicus production that was funded, somewhat unusually, by Joseph E. Levine, producer of Zulu (1964) and about to become a gazillionaire with The Graduate (1967).

He had commissioned Amicus to bring him a sci-fi double bill, with They Came from Beyond Space (1967) intended as the main feature. This was the program that went out in the United States. But much of the reason for The Terrornauts’ entry into cult territory was that it went A.W.O.L elsewhere, the other picture in Britain going out as the support to a bigger Hollywood-style feature, and so The Terrornauts was effectively left on the shelf.

Where it would have remained except for one of those flukes of the business.

Following the lack of any sightings of The Terrornauts on British cinema screens, star Simon Oates’s career took a dive, and he ended up in a succession of guest appearances on television series.

But then, as luck would have it, one of the earliest television ecological thrillers Doomwatch (1972) put him back in the limelight and, cashing in on that success, The Terrornauts saw the light of day.

Or so the story of revival miracle went.

In fact, I discovered this wasn’t the case at all. The Terrornauts had appeared on movie screens the previous year as support to Flight of the Doves (1971). But that was a flop and pretty much the movie disappeared. And as is the way with movies that vanish for no apparent reason, a groundswell grew.

The result of which is this splendid 4K offering, with yours truly as a bonus feature.

I plugged my forthcoming book King of the Action Thriller, Films from the Mind of Alistair MacLean, due to be published later this year by McFarland, a month or so back. At the time I said it was available for pre-order. Turns out it wasn’t at the time. But it is now.

So what are you waiting for?

My Blogs on Alistair MacLean have proved among the most popular I’ve ever done, so there’s clearly a demand for more. In fact, it was once again, thanks to the Blog, and someone else reading it, that I embarked on the book in the first place.

I’d be remiss in all the flurry of shameless plugs not to mention my audio commentary for Henry Hathaway’s Dean Martin-Robert Mitchum mystery western Five Card Stud (1968) also from Vinegar Syndrome.

See below for ordering links.

https://vinegarsyndrome.com/

King of the Action Thriller

Behind the Scenes: “Negatives” (1968)

Hard to see what persuaded Hollywood major Paramount to invest in this obscure picture in the first place, although the studio wasn’t in the hole for the full amount, sharing the budget 50/50 with the British Government-financed National Film Finance Fund. Part of the explanation was that the studio had hitched its wagon to a slate of supposedly-cheaper European productions, investing in a record eight pictures. This would turn into a disaster, only If…(1968), more of a critical hit, and perhaps Monte Carlo or Bust (1969) emerging with any commercial kudos.

Oh! What a Lovely War (1969), Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), The Assassination Bureau (1969) and Where’s Jack? (1969) all bombed at the U.S. ticket wickets.

U.S. Producer Judd Bernard had finessed his profits from unexpected hit Point Blank (1967) into a series of risky arthouse-led movies including revisionist western Blue (1968), Fade In (1968) and Negatives. He was the latest in a long line of Yanks, following the likes of Cubby Broccoli and Elliott Kastner, who believed it was easier to make pictures in Britain than Hollywood.

His latest protégé Peter Medak had arrived in Britain after the Hungarian Uprising of 1956, finding work as a trainee with Associated British, moving through the stills, projection and camera departments before switching his interest to direction, working as a second unit director on The VIPs (1963), Funeral in Berlin (1966) and Fathom (1967). The screenplay had been written by Peter Everett based on his 1961 novel and Roger Lowry. Filming began in March 1968 with location work in London and studio work at Shepperton.

Shooting was uneventful. The drama only began when Paramount glimpsed the footage. The studio was already in the financial mire and would post stupendous losses the following year. Paramount refused to find the movie a release slot, as it also did with another NFFF project Two Gentlemen Sharing (1969).

Bernard did the unthinkable and bought out the Paramount share, selling it on to U.S. arthouse operation Walter Reade which had expanded, though its Continental arm, into distribution. Although rumor has it that Reade took advantage of the unexpected box office success of Women in Love, starring Glenda Jackson in an Oscar-winning role, that wasn’t true of the American release. Negatives received its world premiere in October 1968 New York, at the Festival arthouse, more than a year before Women in Love went into initial release.

Reade was particularly gung-ho about the prospects for Negatives, taking out a full-page ad in Variety. The company took the unprecedented step of organizing previews simultaneously in three New York cinemas. The nudity produced some publicity.

Rolling the movie out across the country included a “showcase” stint in New York. While reviews were largely unfavourable, the public, perhaps intrigued by the erotic elements, were not put off. Box office was positive in the main, a “bright” $14,500 opener in New York at the Festival – plus another $185,000 from two weeks on 18 theaters in the showcase release – a “perky” $6,000 in Chicago, “wham” $10,000 in Washington DC, “beefy” $3,000 in San Francisco, “big” $4,000 in Baltimore, “boffo” $3,500 in Denver and “strong” $6,000 in Philadelphia with only Minneapolis moviegoers rejecting it out of hand. (While these grosses are relatively small, bear in mind they come from smaller-capacity arthouses.)

In the UK, the distributors did wait until the box office and Oscar glow surrounding Women in Love provided a marquee shot in the arm. But there was no London West End run. The European premiere took place in the tiny Essoldo arthouse in London in April 1970.

Anyone who struggled to make sense of the picture wouldn’t have found many answers from Bernard. A journalist seeking an explanation of the title was told, “If you find out, let me know.” In more general terms, Bernard explained: “I wouldn’t describe it as kinky but I dare say a lot of people will see it that way. To me it’s just an entertainment, a fantasy in which people love to dress up. It’s an extension of childhood where one of the most popular games was dressing up. People are going into a very open period of behavior patterns, primarily due to a tremendous youthquake. A lot of people are delving into behavior patterns and what makes people do things and it’s not as abhorrent possibly as it was fifteen years ago. Censorship is becoming less rigid with the result you can explore better. People don’t care especially about nudity in films any more – that’s the publicity man’s or the press I think.

“If you go up and down Kings Road you see people with gear-type outfits and it think it’s not just a desire to be trendy and with-it but to escape. Everybody has a desire to have a masquerade from their everyday existence, people are looking to escape. A lot of people don’t want to see their next door neighbors, they want to see a fantasy

“You could be very pompous and say it’s about three negative people or that she’s a photographer. I don’t know, but it’s a good title.”

Bernard continued to invest in British films – next up Jerzy Skolimowski’s Deep End (1970). He reunited with Glenda Jackson for The Class of Miss MacMichael (1978). By then Jackson, now a double Oscar-winner, was well on the way to becoming a national treasure. Peter Medak signed up with Peter O’Toole for Figures in a Landscape, but that went elsewhere, with another director and star, leaving Medak and O’Toole to hook up for The Ruling Class. Peter McEnery spanned commercial (The Adventures of Brigadier Gerard, 1970) and arthouse (Entertaining Mr Sloane, 1970) but both flopped and his career never recovered. Nor did the venture in arthouse do much for Diane Cilento, best remembered for a bit part in cult picture The Wicker Man (1973).

Quite whether Bernard succeeded in his gamble in taking back his picture from Paramount is hard to establish, but at least he had the courage of his convictions.

SOURCES: “Negatives Explores Youthquake,” Kine Weekly, March 23, 1968, p19; “Par’s O’Seas Film Peaks with Eight,” Variety, April 10, 1968, p3; “Judd Bernard Repurchases Negatives,” Box Office, September 9, 1968, p10; “Bernard Negatives Shuffle: Par to Reads,” Variety, September 11, 1968, p25; Advert, Variety, September 25, 1968, p25; “Reade’s Triple Sneak,” Variety, October 9, 1968, p5. Box office figures from Variety “Picture Grosses” – October 23, November 6, November 13, December 4, December 11, December 18 (all 1968), March 5 and June 4 (both 1969).

Behind the Scenes: “Sinful Davey” (1969)

The first sign of a movie in trouble is the elongated gap between production and release. This picture took two years. Filmed in summer 1967, but not released till May 1969, this proved a disaster for all concerned, a colossal flop.

It should have been anything but. Director John Huston was Hollywood royalty, for over two decades a top-ranked director, hits like The Maltese Falcon (1941), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948), The Asphalt Jungle (1950), The African Queen (1952), Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison (1957), The Night of the Iguana (1964) and The Bible in the Beginning (1966) were interwoven with cult numbers like Beat the Devil (1953) and The Misfits (1960). Huston was a double Oscar-winner with 10 nominations besides (including one for acting, in The Cardinal, 1963)

Producer Walter Mirisch was no slouch himself, credits including The Magnificent Seven (1960), The Great Escape (1963), Hawaii (1966) and In the Heat of the Night (1967) which would win him the Oscar. The independent production outfit celebrated its tenth anniversary with its biggest-ever slate, five pictures going in front of the cameras. As well as the Huston venture, Mirisch lined up The Thomas Crown Affair (1968), Inspector Clouseau (1968), Peter Sellers in The Party (1968) and low-budget war picture Attack on the Iron Coast. So the prospect of a movie about a Scottish rebel flouting British authority, penned by James R. Webb, Oscar-winner for How the West Was Won (1962), seemed dandy.

That it was to be filmed on location fitted in with the director’s lifestyle. An Irish citizen, he had been resident there for several years after falling in love with the country following a visit in 1951. However, Huston was a ready-made exile, one of a flood of actors and directors taking advantage, much to the fury of the Hollywood guilds, of a U.S. Government tax loophole originally intended to spur employment in the Middle East oil industry. He’d been only too delighted to skip out of America to make The African Queen, Beat the Devil, Moulin Rouge (1952), Moby Dick (1956) and others. In fact, he was able to exploit another loophole, as in Ireland he paid no taxes at all.

Ireland was his bolthole and he was disinclined to leave. In an earlier Blog I’d recounted how Arthur Miller, writing the screenplay for The Misfits, had to fly to Ireland to work with Huston.

“When I make a picture,” averred Huston, “it’s because I believe the story is worth telling…with a tendency to choose stories whose point is the irony of man’s pursuit of an impossibly elusive goal.” The narrative here was of a thief who expected to follow in his father’s footsteps to the extent of ending up on the gallows. Huston perceived it as “a light-hearted romp…an altogether delightful affair.”

That it was not welcomed by the critics he put down to interference by producer Walter Mirisch who “ruined” it after the director had delivered his final cut. He accused the producer of “giving full sway to his creative impulses,” by tacking on a voice-over and turning the straightforward narrative into a story told in flashback by the simple expedient of switching a scene from the end to the beginning.

Mirisch, of course, had a different take. Huston’s cut was a massive disappointment for Mirisch. He had previous both with Huston and Webb, even when their work together had not proved successful at the box office. With Huston, as a producer for Allied Artists and Moulin, Mirisch had paired on Moulin Rouge and Moby Dick, even though escalating costs on the latter nearly bankrupted Moulin. Despite that experience, since then the producer had been chasing the director for over a decade. With Webb it was Kings of the Sun (1962), also a financial failure.

Webb proposed a “Scottish period romance about a lovable rascal” called The Sinful Adventures of Davey Haggart. Huston demanded the film, despite its Scottish setting, be shot in Ireland (a good chunk of Braveheart was filmed in Ireland). The movie benefitted from Eady money, a tax loophole courtesy of the British Government, and Mirisch pronounced himself “delighted to get a world-class director.”

Huston was in messianic form. He saw the movie as a promotional tool to help set up the Irish film industry. Although such films as The Blue Max (1966) had been filmed at Ardmore Studios, and Huston shot parts of The Bible and Casino Royale (1967) in the country there was no generic industry as such. With the help of the Irish Government, Huston argued “a market could be built for Irish films.” With 81 speaking roles for Irish actors, Huston felt the picture would put Ireland on the map

Mirisch flew to London to work with the director on preparation and casting. They had a major fall-out over casting Huston’s daughter Angelica (A Walk with Love and Death, 1969) as the female lead. Mirisch argued, “Her appearance was rather more Italian than Scottish and in stature she towered over John Hurt.” Huston agreed to do a test with Angelica and Hurt, which proved Mirisch’s point. “I’ve always regretted having put John into the position of having to tell his daughter she wasn’t going to get the role,” said Mirisch. John Hurt, aged 26, was hired on the basis of his stint in A Man for All Seasons (1966).

A Scottish village was built in Ireland. Mirisch appeared satisfied with progress although a John Barry score was rejected as too serious and replaced with “a lighter score” by Ken Thorne. However, previews were disastrous. Huston both refused to attend previews and to re-cut the film, despite United Artists, the distributor and prime funder of the Mirisch Bros operation, “insisting we must try and help the picture play better.” As far as Huston was concerned, “the picture was to his liking and he wasn’t going to be influenced by the preview audiences.” In fact, his opposition to a recut owed much to his experience on The Barbarian and the Geisha (1958), re-edited against his wishes.

So Mirisch took it upon himself to try and save the picture, supervising re-editing, and while previews “improved considerably” the Scottish accents “bothered the audience” and the finished item – either version – “wasn’t as entertaining as it needed to be” while he counted the casting of John Hurt a failure.

Marketeers worked overtime to come up with an outlandish premise for the British premiere – title now contracted to just Sinful Davey – asking guests to arrive in “sinful costumes.” Contestants vied for a £100 prize, the winner dressed in a black bikini “swathed in chain.” For some reason, the marketing department had managed a tie-up with Raleigh bicycles.

Having spent over $3 million on the movie, even Mirisch must have been staggered by the box office. The box office never recovered from an “unbelievably pathetic” $13,000 gross in its opening week at 16 New York cinemas. It only collected a total of $300,000 in U.S. rentals (what studios retain once cinemas have taken their cut) and another $200,000 abroad. So a loss of over $2.5 million.

SOURCES: John Huston, An Open Book (Columbus Books, 1988), p336-337; Walter Mirisch, I Thought We Were Making Movies, Not History (University of Wisconsin Press, 2008) p90, 278-281; “Mirisch Marks 10^th Anniversary with Record Line-Up,” Kine Weekly, March 18, 1967, p27; “Davey Invites That Sinful Urge,” Kine Weekly, May 17, 1969, p22; “Huston Blueprint for Irish Film Industry,” Kine Weekly, July 15, 1967, p14; “Picture Grosses,” Variety, June 11, 1969, p10; “Mirisch Second 20-Picture Deal,” United Artists Archive, Wisconsin Center for Film & Theater Research.

Behind the Scenes: Selling The Million-Dollar Marlon Brando – “The Fugitive Kind” (1960) Pressbook

Should have been a darned-easy sell. After all, Marlon Brando had made global headlines after becoming the first actor to be paid a million bucks for a movie, his fee for The Fugitive Kind outstripping by $250,000 the previous record jointly held by John Wayne and William Holden (see Note below) for The Horse Soldiers (1959). And there was no suggestion – as indeed there is not even now – that audiences held against the stars the wealth their talents accrued.

“The Most Explosive Star Combination of the Year” was how this was generally sold, on the back of the Oscars held by each of the principals, Brando, Italian Anna Magnani and Joanne Woodward and the Pulitzer Prize awarded to playwright Tennessee Williams, himself also a two-time Oscar nominee as well as his work providing Oscar wins and nominations by the bucket load for actors and directors.

“Something about the way he looked at a woman, something about the way he handled a guitar” were other notable taglines and marketeers tried to convince the public “the screen is struck by lightning.” And if that was not enough – “their fire…their fever…their desire” was expected to do the trick.

Publicists encouraged exhibitors to make full use of Brando’s accoutrements from the movie, namely his snakeskin jacket, Rolex and Kay Guitar, which in one scene he actually played. Suggestions included auctioning a guitar for charity and running a talent contest. Brando was a reasonably accomplished player, specializing in perennials like “Shenandoah” and “Streets of Laredo.”

How to make a snakeskin jacket was another angle. The Rolex watch his character wore presented opportunities for marketing tie-ups with jewellery stores. No marketing stone was left unturned to the extent of the Necchi sewing machine, seen in the movie, being offered as a prize in a national competition. Novo Greetings Cards were also seen in passing in Lady Torrance’s store and this company was backing the movie.

Unusually, Signet was using the movie tie-in approach to sell a play, the paperback comprising the source material Orpheus Descending, which included an eight-page spread of stills from the picture. Williams’ position as the most popular playwright of his generation – his only rival Arthur Miller had less success in Hollywood – brought potential access to libraries, book clubs and schools. Military bases around the world were targeted through marketing material emphasizing Joanne Woodward.

It would certainly have helped if the movie had been able to set a new fashion trend for the wearing of snakeskin jackets. Or revive a trend that had last occurred in the 1930s, “quite a craze” for shoes, bags, hats and belts. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said United Artists costume designer Frank Thompson, “if Brando wearing this jacket starts the whole thing again.”

Thompson had quite a task making two identical jackets – in case one was damaged during filming. First of all, he had to locate skins that were found in Mississippi. The choice came down to rattler or python. Opting for python, Thompson went through 200 skins before he found three that matched. “Looking for two snakeskins that match identically is like looking for two fingerprints that are exactly the same.”

The film was based on Battle of Angels, written by Williams in 1939, his first full-length work professionally staged (in Boston). He “never quit working on this one…it never went into the trunk, it always stayed on the work bench.” Rewriting about 75% of the play, it was reprised as Orpheus Descending on Broadway in 1957. Although Williams had Brando and Magnani (star of the film version of The Rose Tattoo, 1955) in mind for the stage play, it went ahead instead with Cliff Robertson and Maureen Stapleton. Williams had written The Rose Tattoo for Magnani but again it was Maureen Stapleton who won the role on stage.

Williams had outstanding success in writing roles that were in tune with Oscar sensibilities. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) won Oscars for Vivien Leigh, Kim Stanley and Karl Malden with Brando nominated. Anna Magnani won for The Rose Tattoo and Marisa Pavan was nominated. Other nominations included Carroll Baker and Mildred Dunnock for Baby Doll (1956), Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958), and Katharine Hepburn and Taylor for Suddenly, Last Summer (1959).

Despite its Mississippi location and except for external establishing shots, The Fugitive Kind was shot in the Bronx. Director Sidney Lumet was a notably New York kinda guy, having filmed his first three movies – Twelve Angry Men (1957), Stage Struck (1958) and That Kind of Woman (1959) – in the city.

He argued, “Hollywood’s great attractions have been the technicians and the shooting facilities, With care, men of comparable talent can be found in New York. As for facilities, a sound stage is a sound stage wherever it is. I concede that in California they’re larger and more elaborate, but the same results can be produced elsewhere. And the fabulous back-lots, which counted so heavily in the past, seem to be outmoded today by the sophisticated eye of the audience. You can’t shoot on studio streets and pretend any more. It has to be real.”

NOTE – William Holden pocketed around $3 million in the end as his percentage share of the gross –not the more contentious net – of Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) so he was the decade’s biggest winner until Richard Burton made more on a similar deal from Where Eagles Dare (1968).

Behind the Scenes: “Wild Rovers” (1971)

Director Blake Edwards shouldn’t have been anywhere near Wild Rovers in November 1970 when filming of the western kicked off in Arizona. He should have been making a musical – his second successive one following Darling Lili (1970).

Versatility had become something of a watchword for Edwards who had segued apparently effortlessly from the gentle romance of Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) to thriller Experiment in Terror/Grip of Fear (1962) to alcoholic drama Days of Wine and Roses (1962) to wild comedy The Pink Panther (1963) to slapstick The Great Race (1965) – in 70mm roadshow no less – to the satirical What Did You Do in the War, Daddy (1966). So Hollywood wasn’t enormously surprised when he decided it was time he tackled a musical, Darling Lili, especially when it starred “sure thing” Julie Andrews.

And before the figures for Darling Lili came in, and everyone thought they were onto a winner, small surprise that he was in the front line to direct She Loves Me, the movie adaptation of a 1963 Broadway musical that was the second musical reincarnation – the first being The Good Old Summertime (1949) with Judy Garland – of romantic comedy The Shop around the Corner (1940) starring James Stewart.

But in 1969 – before Darling Lili slumped at the box office – a takeover of MGM by Kirk Kerkorian was imminent and in anticipation of some drastic action studio executives canned its three biggest projects, Fred Zinnemann’s Man’s Fate, the $10m She Loves Me – also to star Julie Andrews (now Edwards’ wife) – and the $12m-$15m Tai Pan. Edwards sued for $4.6 million.

Edwards had other fish to fry – his company Cinema Video Communications had purchased the latest Harold Robbins’ novel The Betsy plus The Peacemaker, the first novel by war historian Cornelius Ryan (The Longest Day). Edwards had plans to film Svengali with Jack Lemmon and Julie Andrews and Kingsley Amis’s novel The Green Man with Richard Burton.

Despite having informed MGM that he would not accept any substitute for She Loves Me, he capitulated when the studio agreed to back his pet project, a buddy western with a serious theme, Wild Rovers. Paul Newman was initially sounded out with the younger character looking a good fit for Michael Witney, expected to be the breakout star of Darling Lili.

William Holden was picky about his projects. He complained that most scripts he received were “aimed at exploitation or titillation.” Though he had not had a hit since the start of the previous decade with The World of Suzie Wong (1960), his global investments had paid off and he was happier spending seven months of the year on his 1,260-acre ranch in Kenya. He was impressed enough with the Blake Edwards script for Wild Rovers and, possibly optimistic about its commercial prospects, to defer part of his salary against a percentage of the gross (he had made a fortune from his percentage on Bridge on the River Kwai). Apart from Wild Rovers, the only movie which had caught his attention was The Revengers co-starring Mary Ure (after it was delayed due to his illness, she pulled out).

Even so, MGM held Edwards on a tight rein financially. While trying to extricate itself from a sticky corner, it had no wish to find itself in the kind of lack of budgetary restraint that had afflicted Darling Lili. And to some extent, Edwards had to prove he was more fiscally responsible. The budget for the below-the-line cast was restricted to $1.5 million. There was considerable physical commitment to the project from the two stars, training for six weeks so the scene taming the wild horse could be completed without stunt men.

MGM had high hopes for the western, backing it with a substantial promotion campaign. In the trades there were three-page ads and a separate advert paying homage to the studio’s “writer cats.” The studio had weathered the Kerkorian storm and the massive write-offs at the end of the previous decade. The mood was buoyant. The first quarter of 1971, bolstered by an unexpectedly good showing by Ryan’s Daughter (1970). While not hitting the highs of Doctor Zhivago (1965) it had done much better than the industry predicted, especially after being savaged by critics. It looked as if MGM had turned a corner. In the first three months of 1971 the studio made $2.5 million profit and was confident that summer offerings Shaft, The Last Run and Wild Rovers would maintain the good run.

After the box office fallouts of recent years, it looked as though the entire industry was on the verge of bouncing back. Released by other studios around the same time as Wild Rovers were the likes of Klute, The Anderson Tapes, Summer of ’42, Willard, and Carnal Knowledge

The reviews weren’t promising. Variety tabbed it “uneven”, only one of the top five New York critics gave it a favorable review. An opportunity to gain some critical headway was spurned when the studio pulled the movie from the annual Atlanta Film Festival in favor of an appearance by the two stars on the Dick Cavett Show.

The version released ran 110 minutes. There was no critical outcry at the film being savagely edited by the studio – nobody cared sufficiently about the picture to be up in arms about it.

Worse, the marketing campaign was widely derided. The image of William Holden and Ryan O’Neal astride the same horse, the youngster grinning, leaning into the older man’s back, gave off, unintentionally, homo-erotic undertones. Audience dismissal of the advert only became clear to MGM at the end of the movie’s first six days at the first run Grauman’s Chinese in Los Angeles which registered less than $20,000 at the box office. Shocked at the low result, MGM “scrapped its entire pre-release and opening campaign” shifting the emphasis from the “man-to-man image” to “guns, horses and adventure” suggesting an old-fashioned shoot-em-‘up.

The new advertisement was accompanied by anonymous quotes, comparing Holden and O’Neal to Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy – though as Variety acidly noted, without identifying which was which – and describing the shootout as “so electrifying your impulse is…to run for cover.” Phantom quotes had been used before by Avco Embassy for De Sica’s war drama Sunflower (1970) starring Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. But while Hollywood was fond of editing reviews to find an often-misleading quote, studios generally drew the line at making them up.

The New York release in a trio of first run houses coincided with the showcase outing of Love Story (1970). That movie had played for months in first run and this was the first time it was generally available. Love Story, the hit of the decade so far, would open in 80 suburban cinemas on the same day in June, 1971, as Wild Rovers. In the era before “Barbieheimer”, there was still an expectation of cross-over, that the fans of a new star coming good like Ryan O’Neal would automatically seek out his latest picture. And it may have been that the advertising campaign was specifically designed to ensure his fans did not go to the western expecting another romantic drama.

They weren’t tempted at all. Love Story cleaned up – a gross of $1.25 million from 80 outlets and another $750,000 the following week. Compared to that, Wild Rovers scarcely got out of the gate – a “less than roaring” $20,600 from the three. At the 1,096-seat Astor it was on a par with the fourth week of Escape from the Planet of the Apes (1971) which had just completed its run there.

There was a little solace elsewhere. Its $15,000 in Baltimore was deemed “tall” and $12,500 in Boston “slick” but more reflective of the general interest was a “dim” $65,000 from eight theaters in Detroit, a “mild” $7,500 in Denver and “moderate” $8,500 in Minneapolis. By the end of the year it had amassed $1.8 million in rentals, languishing in 59^th place.

MGM took a different tack in Europe. It wasn’t unusual for movies released in 35mm in America to be shown in 70mm roadshow in Europe – The Dirty Dozen (1967), Where Eagles Dare (1968) and The Wild Bunch (1969) enjoyed up to a year in roadshow before fanning out into general release, getting two substantial bites of the commercial apple. The latter two had done better abroad than at home, in large part due to the roadshow release which turned a movie into an event rather than a routine outing. So MGM sent Wild Rovers out in roadshow. At 110 minutes, even puffed out with a 15-minute interval, it was a mighty slim offering for roadshow.

In London, half the critics came out against it, but only a quarter were favorable, the others having “no opinion.” The consensus was that it would “not survive the rough critical handling.” It opened on October 21, 1971, at the ABC2 in London’s West End. And lasted two weeks, whipped off the screen after generating an opening week of $6,200 and a sophomore of $4,100, replaced by The Last Run starring George C. Scott, another flop. MGM persevered with the roadshow. It played for five weeks at the Coliseum in my home town of Glasgow.

In the U.S. it shifted quickly to television, part of the CBS program, finishing a lowly 85^th for the year in the tabulations of the movies attracting the biggest television audiences.

SOURCES: “Metro’s Loves Me As A Substitute for Former Say It With Music,” Variety, August 6, 1969, p3; Army Archerd, “Hollywood Sound Track,” Variety, October 20, 1970, p6; Army Archerd, “Hollywood Cross Cuts,” Variety, August 5, 1970, p23; “Holden Pushes for Conservation,” Variety, August 12, 1970, p25; Army Archerd, “Hollywood Sound Track,” Variety, November 4, 1970, p20; “Hollywood Production Pulse,” Variety, November 18, 1970, p54; Advert, Box Office, March 28, 1971, p3-5; “Profitable Quarter for MGM,” Kine Weekly, April 24, 1971, p3; Advert, Variety, May 17, 1971, p23-25; Advert, Variety, May 19, 1971, p12; Review, Variety, June 23, 1971, p20; “Col Delivers Atlanta Festival,” Variety, June 23, 1971, p6; “New York Critics,” Variety, June 30, 1971, p7; “Metro Scraps Rovers Campaign,” Variety, June 30, 1971, p27; “London Critics,” Variety, November 17, 1971, p62; “Big Rental Films of 1971,” Variety, January 5, 1972, p9. Box office figures from Variety June 30-August 18, 1971, and November 10-17, 1971.

Behind the Scenes: “Toys in the Attic” (1963)

Producer Harold Mirisch purchased the rights to the 1960 Broadway hit play by Lilliam Hellman as a way of hooking William Wyler. He had originally signed up the director in the mid-1950s when his Paramount contract came to an end. This was before the Mirisch Brothers was an independent production entity and later responsible for films like The Apartment (1960), The Magnificent Seven (1960), West Side Story (1961) and The Great Escape (1963). At that point Mirisch worked for Allied, the upmarket offshoot of B-picture outfit Monogram. Allied backed Wyler’s Oscar-nominated western Friendly Persuasion (1956).

In 1960 Wyler was the most celebrated Hollywood director of the era, not just with three Oscars and ten nominations, but riding as high as anyone ever had after the monumental critical and commercial success of Ben-Hur (1959). He had his pick of the projects and had shown “great eagerness” to do Toys in the Attic. He was friends with the playwright Lillian Hellman and had filmed These Three (1936) from her stage play The Children’s Hour and The Little Foxes (1941) from her original screenplay.

But Wyler decided instead to opt for a remake of The Children’s Hour (1961), assuming that changes in public perceptions would permit him to bring to the fore the lesbian elements kept hidden in his previous adaptation, but, critically, it was a Mirisch production.

In his absence, the Mirisch Bros decided to stick with Toys in the Attic, possibly to bolster their attempt to be seen as a purveyor of serious pictures and hence a contender for Oscars, which would solidify their reputation, as would soon be the case. After consultations with distribution and funding partner, United Artists, “it was decided that…since we had considerable investment in (Toys in the Attic)… we should try and put together a film,” explained Walter Mirisch.

Next in line for directorial consideration was Richard Brooks who had acquired a reputation for adapting literary properties after The Brothers Karamazov (1958), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) and Elmer Gantry (1960). Initially, Brooks “had been so insistent and enthusiastic” about becoming involved. However, he, too, rejected the opportunity. He, too, after Oscar and commercial success, was riding high. “It was not because he did not wish to work with the Mirisches because he would be delighted to make a picture for them…but he felt it would be wrong for his career to do a film so similar in mood and background as the one he was working on, Sweet Bird of Youth (1962).”

In fact, it was probably more to do with his financial demands. He wanted $400,000 a picture, which was extremely high at the time, plus “a drawing account of $2,000 a week” (i.e. payment in advance of an actual production). While Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Elmer Gantry had been box office hits, they were nothing like Ben-Hur. And Brooks already had other pictures in mind. He had purchased a book called Goodbye My Son – never filmed – and was already revving up for Lord Jim (1965) funded by Columbia.

Walter Mirisch eventually settled on television director George Roy Hill (Thoroughly Modern Millie, 1967). This would have been his debut except preparations for the movie dragged on and in between Hill helmed Period of Adjustment (1962), an adaptation of another play, this time by Tennessee Williams. He would later direct Hawaii (1966) for Mirisch.

The play had been a significant hit, running for just over a year on Broadway at the Hudson Theater, and making $129,000 profit on a $125,000 investment, though it incurred a loss of $48,000 on a subsequent tour. Hellman did pretty well out of it too. She received ten per cent of the gross and twenty per cent of the profit – a total of around $36,000 – exceptionally good going for a playwright, especially when other monies would be forthcoming from movie rights and foreign and amateur runs. Director Arthur Penn’s share of gross and profit came to over $10,000 in addition to a $5,000 fee.

Turning a play or musical into a movie came with one inbuilt problem. It was inevitably subject to delay. No movie could go into production until the play had exhausted its theatrical (as in stage-play) possibilities. In this case, that meant 58 weeks in the original run and then another 20 weeks once it hit the road. Any contract with a significant movie player would have to include the possibility that in the meantime star or director would have lined up other projects while awaiting the green light on this one, and that in itself could cause further hold-ups.

Hill was in greater demand than Mirisch anticipated, juggling four separate projects – Period of Adjustment, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for MGM (never made), and the $2.5 million A Bullet for Charlemagne starring Sidney Poitier (not made) as well as Toys in the Attic.

Jason Robards, star of the play, was the obvious contender for the movie role. But he lacked box office cachet, so he was bypassed in favor of Dean Martin, “an attractive motion-picture figure.” However, in the time it took the movie version of the play to reach the public, Robards was potentially a screen star. He had bought himself out his stage contract after 37 weeks – paying $3,950 for the privilege – having been offered second billing on By Love Possessed (1961) opposite Lana Turner, and in Twentieth Century Fox’s ambitious mounting of Tender Is the Night (1962) opposite Jennifer Jones. While Robards would never become as big a star as Dean Martin, he was the superior actor, later adding two Oscars and one nomination to his name.

In addition to being much better known to cinema audiences than Robards, “we felt he (Martin) would bring humor to it” – Martin having originally made a splash as part of the Martin-Lewis comedy team of the 1950s – “as well as an audience that might expand the normal constituency of that type of film.” Trade magazine Box Office agreed with the decision, viewing Martin as a “good choice for the haunted show-off.”

The play’s other stars – Oscar nominee (and later winner) Maureen Stapleton (The Fugitive Kind, 1960) – and Irene Worth (Seven Seas to Calais, 1962) – were ignored in favor of Geraldine Page, who incidentally scored an Oscar nomination in Summer and Smoke, and Wendy Hiller (Sons and Lovers, 1960), who already had an Oscar. Shooting began on September 16, 1962. Hill tried to “inject more suspense, more action, more melodrama into the movie version,” without cheapening the material. He was convinced the hiring of Martin was inspired, and would prove a personal turning point, as he gives “the best dramatic job of his career.”

Titles didn’t matter so much on Broadway, plays sold on the name of the writer or the star. Mirisch feared Toys in the Attic would either mean nothing to a general audience ignorant of the picture’s origins or be considered so obscure as to serve to confuse them. So, they planned to rename it Fever Street or “some sensational substitute.” Hill was furious, pointing out the “violence of his feelings” to this title. He complained that “others will assume that it is an exploitation title…a cheap gimmick to get people into the theater (cinema) … automatically puts the picture in a low budget quickie picture category that might be appropriate for 42^nd St all-night houses or a second feature at Loews 86 St.”

Hill felt changing the title would demonstrate that Mirisch was “ashamed to have bought the play Toys in the Attic, have no faith in the picture, are resorting to panic tactics to get some money out.” And that Fever Street would have the opposite effect, and “keep people away in droves.” His impassioned plea worked, and the original title remained.

While backing down on the title, Mirisch veered towards the exploitative in the main poster which showed Dean Martin slugging Yvette Mimieux.

However, United Artists remained in two minds about the release policy. Despite the prestige of being chosen for the San Sebastian Festival, United Artists opted to open it in New York as part of a “showcase” run. That was a relativelynew distribution notion, a version of regional wide release. It would eventually be refined to allow several weeks in prestigious first run venues first, but inclusion in this release pattern meant first run was simultaneous with an opening in – in this case – another 20 New York neighbourhood cinemas. Had UA had more faith in the project, it might have benefitted from an opening just in first run. The $55,000 first week from two first run houses on Broadway was judged a “wow” result by Variety. First run in other major cities suggested a prestige title – “very stout” $15,000 in Boston, a “sock” $14,000 in Washington D.C., “neat” $14,000 in Buffalo, while it was “bright” in Kansas City ($8,000), Los Angeles ($10,000) and Chicago ($18,000).

Hill’s concerns about United Artists’ ability to sell the picture were mirrored in the result. “It did not turn out well,” concluded Walter Mirich, “It’s a grim story. It was not well reviewed and was not financially successful.” Part of the reason for its failure, he argued, was that it “probably appeared at the end of a cycle” of American Broadway adaptations of heavy Tennessee Williams dramas.

While the movie came in $70,000 below the $2.1 million budget, the savings were put down to the fact that it was filmed in black-and-white rather than color, as had been originally envisioned. The box office followed a common, but disturbing, trajectory, a big hit in the big cities, mostly ignored elsewhere. But it was not as bad as all that. Mirisch tallied the domestic box office as $1.7 million with another $900,000 from the overseas box office. By its estimation, once marketing costs were considered, it was facing a loss of $183,000. But that was before television revenue entered the equation and that should have at the very least, made up the difference. There were various pickings later on, too, picked up by CPI under the “Best of Broadway” label in 1981.

SOURCES: Walter Mirisch, I Thought we Were Making Movies, Not History (University of Wisconsin press, 2008) p157-159. Leon Goldberg, “Office Rushgram: Final Cost on Toys in the Attic, May 13, 1964, United Artists Files, Wisconsin Center for Film and Theater Research; “Mirisch Pictures Box Office Figures,” UA Files; Letter,” George Roy Hill to Walter Mirisch, March 15, 1963, UA Files; “Lillian Hellman Could Mop Up if Toys Clicks,” Variety, February 4, 1960, p103; “Toys Exit,” Variety, January 18, 1961, p72; “George Roy Hill To Direct Toys for Mirisch Co,” Box Office, January 22, 1962, pE8; “Hollywood Report,” Box Office, February 22, 1962, p16; “George Roy Hill Announces First Film on UA Deal,” Box Office, March 19, 1962, p16; “Bloomgarden Had Varied Fortune,” Variety, August 29, 1962, p49; “Toys in Attic Chosen for San Sebastian Festival,” Box Office, June 10, 1963, pE8; “Premiere Showcase,” Variety, July 31, 1963, p22. Box office figures from Variety issues dated August 7, August 14, August 21, September 4, September 11 and October 23.

Behind the Scenes: “The Psychopath” (1966)

Amicus was part of an unholy triumvirate – the others being Hammer and American International – serving up horror during the 1960s to a global audience. Less prolific than the others, Amicus, headed up by expatriate New Yorkers Milton Subotsky and Max Rosenberg, had an American distribution deal with Paramount.

However, the pair had been more successful, at least in Britain, on the sci fi front, Dr Who and the Daleks (1965), an adaptation of the highly successful BBC television series, had been a huge hit on the domestic front, with the sequel Daleks Invasion Earth 2150AD (1966) not too far behind. But both had landed like a damp squid in the U.S.

Nor had their previous incursion into the horror fields done much better. Dr Terror’s House of Horrors (1965) had only managed a release as a supporting feature in Britain. The same fate was accorded The Skull (1965), but only after sitting on the shelf for a year. So a great deal was riding on their third horror picture. The whopping success of Dr Who and the Daleks, at least in Britain, guaranteed them a stay of execution.

“I like making horror films,” said Subotsky, “or perhaps I should say films of imagination rather than reality. The second thing is I like silent pictures. I think you should be able to tell a story visually and not by talking. And in horror films you can have long stretches of action.”

The Psychopath – initially going before the cameras as Schizo – looked a promising venture. The biggest name attached was quite a catch, even if not one who would feature in the picture. Robert Bloch, courtesy of Pyscho (1960), filmed to enormous critical and commercial acclaim by Alfred Hitchcock, was the most famous name in horror. He had penned the story that became The Skull. In addition to buying the rights to his story, this time Amicus lined him up for screenwriting duties.

In front of the camera, Amicus gambled on Patrick Wymark, a big British television star courtesy of The Plane Makers (1963-1965) who was elevated to top billing after playing the second lead in The Skull. Direction was once again by Freddie Francis, who had won the Oscar for cinematography for Sons and Lovers (1960). Francis specialized in horror – helming The Brain (1962), Paranoiac (1963), Nightmare (1964) and The Evil of Frankenstein (1965) before becoming Amicus’s in-house director with Dr Terror’s House of Horrors (1965) – the first of the portmanteau features with which Amicus would later be associated – and The Skull.

He was credited with a distinct individual visual style – attracting the attention of Cahiers du Cinema and French critics – and was considered a safe pair of hands. However, that last element was tested here. Halfway through shooting it was obvious the movie was going to come up short in terms of running time. It was already intended to be a tight little feature, at a projected 80 minutes. It was apparent that without substantial changes the movie would come in ten minutes shy of the planned time. Even at 80 minutes, it would struggle to qualify for main feature status. At 70 minutes, it would have no chance.

The producers did not always see eye-to-eye. Although Milton Subotsky had been responsible for setting up the project, Rosenberg soon took over. Complained Subotsky, “I found Max could really be a bully when he wanted and he had nasty temper. I’ll admit I was never good at standing up for myself and he just walked all over me.”

However, when the movie hit the running time stumbling block, Rosenberg had to turn to his colleague for help. Subotsky had written Dr Terror’s House of Horrors, Dr Who and the Daleks and The Skull. Taking a utilitarian approach, Subotsky availed himself of whoever was on set or available.

The burden fell on Robert Crewdon who played the sculptor Victor. Subotsky added his murder scene which was shot in a scrapyard created on the back lot at Shepperton with a batch of old cars purchased for £300. Subotsky apparently also directed the scene since Freddie Francis was busy elsewhere.

However, the running time wasn’t the only problem. Once the picture was complete, it was fairly obvious who the killer was. So Subotsky took over the task of re-editing the movie as well. “Apart from wanting to be a writer, (Milton) wanted to be an editor,” explained Freddie Francis.

Subotsky rearranged the picture so that “every time Patrick Wymark opens his mouth, we cut away from him, and overlaid his dialog, and every time someone replied we overlaid their dialog. And we changed the whole last scene with post-synched dialog and that way we changed the murderer.”

Though reviews were generally positive – “atmospheric thriller” (Box Office), “top grade shocker” (Variety), the backers were not happy with the result, even the extended version. The extra 13 minutes of footage wasn’t sufficient to win a main release of the British ABC circuit – it went out as support and later was reissued with The Skull. In the U.S. it had a varied, though hardly wide, release. In some cities, Paramount sent it out as support to The Naked Prey. In first run in St Louis, Cincinnati, Boston and Portland, it was the main feature with supports including reissues of Nevada Smith (1966) and Lady in a Cage (1964) Box office was generally “tepid,” “mild” or “dull”. It supported A Study in Terror (1965) in Kansas City and Chamber of Horrors (1966) in Toronto. It didn’t make much money in either country, but did very well in Italy.

Robert Bloch wasn’t pleased either. “The idea is better than the film,” he complained. “It would have made a better one-hour teleplay than a feature.”

This was the third in Amicus’s four-picture deal with Paramount and after The Deadly Bees (1967), the Hollywood studio severed contact.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this company best known for its horror output is that for a considerable period it tried to shuck off that tag. To some extent, it became a horror specialist by default because other projects failed to get off the ground – for example in 1964 it was scheduled to make How I Won the War with Richard Lester for United Artists and Adventure Island based on an Arthur C Clarke tale for Universal – or because a switch into other genres failed to hit the box office mark.

After the dual flop of The Deadly Bees (1967) and Torture Garden (1967), the duo lined up spy thriller Danger Route (1969) and literary drama A Touch of Love/Thank You Very Much (1969) with Oscar winner Sandy Dennis. They should have been followed by adaptations of Ancient Pond by Courtney Brown – described as “a novel of passion and revenge in a war-ravaged city” – and sci fi satire The Richest Corpse in Showbusiness by Dan Morgan, both novels purchased in 1967. But neither was greenlit and eventually Amicus returned to what it did best – horror.

Behind the Scenes: “Deliverance” (1972)

You couldn’t make it like that now, so the ill-informed tale goes. Actors doing their own paddling in canoes, climbing a cliff. But anyone who has watched Leonard DiCaprio and Kate Winslet half-drowning in Titanic (1997) is well aware that it’s just not always possible to use a stand-in for key sequences. Or, for that matter, William Holden breaking in a horse in Wild Rovers (1971).

For a start, there actually were four stunt men on Deliverance, one who was star Jon Voigt’s stunt double. None were credited in the picture, not so unusual in those days, and anyone who knows anything about filming climbing scenes, not least the one where actors are actually crawling across a floor, or where there are, out of sight of cameras, safety facilities underneath, will know that the actors here, though it might get a tad tough, were not risking life and limb. Greater injuries were endured by the stars during the storm scenes of The Guns of Navarone (1961). That said, the movie does benefit from sufficient shots of the actors braving the waters and Ned Beatty nearly drowned and Burt Reynolds cracked his tailbone.

But, of course, danger in moviemaking is relative. There’s scarcely any equivalent to the numbers of deaths that occur in other professions, mining, for example, or industry, and I’m always suprised how easily the Hollywood PR machine is so easily accepted by the public when the peril mentioned is rarely actually perilous at all.

For the scene where the canoe broke, director John Boorman had found a more serene location on a river which was dammed, so he was able to close the sluice gates and lay a rail on the river bed. However, in the event, the sluice gates were opened too soon and the actors engulfed in an avalanche of water.

Should any of the actors show temerity, Boorman would leap into a canoe himself, and paddle downriver over and around various obstacles to show how easy it was.

Deliverance was an unexpected bestseller in 1970, the author an unlikely candidate to hit the commercial jackpot or even to pen such a tale. Ex-adman James Dickey was known for his poetry. Warner Bros bought the book pre-publication about “four decent fellows killing to survive” for $200,000 and more for Dickey to pen the screenplay without working out how it could be filmed. The studio was going through a major transition. In 1970 only three releases had cleared $1 million in rentals; in 1971 the number tripled and the studio was high on a release slate that included Death in Venice, A Clockwork Orange, Summer of ’42, Klute, The Devils, Dirty Harry and Billy Jack.

The studio alighted on John Boorman because he had made Hell in the Pacific (1968) starring Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune, that, while a certified flop, was made under arduous physical conditions in the western Pacific.

After the surprise success of Point Blank, British director Boorman had helmed two flops, Leo the Last (1970) being the other, so he was in the market for the kind of hard-nosed project with which he had made his name. Warner “felt I was the man to take it on,” explained Boorman.

At one point, Warner Brothers planned to team up Jack Nicholson (hot after Easy Rider, 1969, and Carnal Knowledge, 1971) and Marlon Brando, still largely in the pre-The Godfather wilderness. The studio tried to tempt Charlton Heston, who turned it down (“I probably won’t have time to do it”) but consoled himself that WB considered him “employable.” Donald Sutherland also gave it a pass. Dickey agitated for Sam Peckinpah to direct and Gene Hackman to star while Boorman was keen to work a third time with Lee Marvin. Theoretically, Robert Redford, Henry Fonda, George C. Scott and Warren Beatty were considered, but such big names would hardly be compatible with the lean budget.

The final budget was a mere $2 million, not sufficient to attract big name – or even to pay for a score. WB had reservations about a picture without any women in lead roles. Jon Voigt was not a proven marquee name, despite the success of Midnight Cowboy (1969). He only had a bit part in Catch 22 (1970) and his other films, Out of It (1969) and The Revolutionary (1970) had performed dismally while The All-American Boy was sitting on the WB shelf, only winning a release to cash in on Deliverance.

Despite a less than buoyant career, Voigt was reluctant to commit. He resisted making the movie till the last minute. Even after trying to convince himself about the film’s worth by reading out the entire screenplay to his girlfriend Marcheline Bertrand (Angelina Jolie’s mother), it took a telephone call from the director and Boorman demanding a decision before he counted to ten before Voigt signed up. Voigt viewed the film as about how men “lose part of their manhood by hiding, coddling themselves into thinking we’re safe.”

Burt Reynolds was treading water in action B-films like Skullduggery (1970), as the second male lead in bigger films like 100 Rifles (1969) and in television (Dan August, 1970-1971). In his favor, he had the lead in offbeat cop picture Fuzz (1972). But it looks like Voigt and Reynolds took casting to the wire. Both were announced for the film a few weeks before it began shooting on May 17, 1971.

Whether it boosted his career is open to question, but Burt Reynolds’ name achieve notoriety in April 1972, a few months before Deliverance opened, by becoming the first male centerspread in Cosmopolitan. Billy Redden, as the banjo player, was hired for his physical appearance, clever use of the camera disguising the fact that there was a genuine banjo player concealed behind him doing all the playing. Boorman used snatches of the banjo music instead of coughing up for a proper score. While the credits claimed the “Dueling Banjos” number had been devised by Eric Weissberg and Steve Mandel, Arthur Smith, writer of “Feudin’ Banjos” in 1955, took the studio to court and won a landmark copyright ruling. The tune had received a gold record for sales.

Setting aside any inherent danger in the water, the shore could just be as perilous. A script altercation between Dickey and Boorman ended with the director losing four teeth. Cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond got into a spat with his union and was slapped on the wrists for operating the camera too often. Filming of the rape scene was uncomfortable for all concerned, even observers. When Reynolds complained the director let the sequence last too long, Boorman countered that he let it run till he reckoned Reynolds, in his character, would intervene.

Despite WB including it in a promotion to its international partners in May 1971 Deliverance, filmed between May 17 – a week later than originally envisaged – and August 1971, sat on the shelf for nearly a year before being premiered at the Atlanta Film Festival in July 1972 with Playboy picking up the tab for flying Reynolds to the event.

These days it would be called a platform release. Deliverance opened in one small house in New York – the 558-seat Loews Tower East – at the end of July and except for Los Angeles didn’t go any wider until early October. Reviews were good, four faves out of five in New York. But it was the box office that caught the eye. An opening day record and an eye-popping $45,000 for the first week took the industry by surprise. It remained at Loews until December. Chicago led the applause in October with a “brawny” $49,000. Everywhere it was hot – “lusty” $26,000 in Washington DC, “socko” $21,000 in Philadelphia were typical examples of the public response.

In what these days would be called counter-programming it went into the New York showcases at Xmas – making off with a huge $589,000 from 46 the first week and $500,000 the second. WB had predicted it might hit $15 million in rentals. The studio was wrong. It scrambled up $21 million. The 1973 tally made it the second best at the box office that year.

SOURCES: Phil Hoad, “How We Made Deliverance,” The Guardian, May 29, 2017; Oliver Lyttleton, “5 Things You Might Not Know about Deliverance, Released 40 Years Ago,” IndieWire, July 30, 2012; Charlton Heston, The Actor’s Life (Penguin, 1980); “Bow and Arrow Party,” Variety, May 20, 1970, p30; “Dickey Ga-Bound,” Variety, January 21, 1971, p4; “Reps of 45 Flags,” Variety, April 14, 1971, p5; “Voigt in Deliverance,” Variety, May 12, 1971, p14; “Runaway Robert Altman,” Variety, December 15, 1971, p4; Advert, Variety, August 9, 1972, p23; “Big Rental Films of 1972,” Variety, Janaury 3, 1973, p7; “Big Rental Films of 1973,” Variety, January 9, 1974, p19. Box office figures from Variety October 11, 1972.