Crime/Thriller – The Magnificent 60s

Fury at Smuggler’s Bay (1961) ***

Surprising to find so much moral complexity when it seemed we would be restricted to discussing the difference between good bad smugglers and bad bad smugglers and good good bad guys and bad bad guys. Given the limited running time (it clocks in at 82 minutes) we’ve also just got about enough time to take in hypocrisy.

Compromise, too, for that matter. Squire’s son Christopher (John Fraser) is inclined to warn girlfriend smuggler’s daughter Louise (Michele Mercier) that his father Squire Trevenyan (Peter Cushing) is setting soldiers on the local smugglers. The local highwayman known as The Captain (William Franklyn) is considered something of a decent fellow because once he’s robbed travellers going along the road one way he’ll make sure they’re not robbed on their return.

Trevenyan finds the most convenient way to prevent his son marrying beneath himself is to imprison Louise’s father Francois (George Coulouris) on the grounds of receiving stolen goods – his sentence is deportation to Australia. He’s helped by his son having to run off to London after killing one of the smugglers in self-defense, the father assuming anyone witness to the struggle will side with the smuggler.

Aware that maybe the plot’s getting a bit too cute for anyone’s liking, director John Gilling makes the most of the thunderous seas, boats getting battered to bits in the storm, waves hammering the wheelhouse, men swept overboard from vessels losing their way because rudimentary lighthouses have been shattered by predatory smugglers (known as “wreckers”). Stunning Cornwall scenery also helps though beaches being littered with heavy-duty rocks rather than glistening sand tends to inhibit action sequences.

The wreckers are the bad bad smugglers, the ordinary locals, dealing with a bit of rum and tobacco to avoid the exciseman or helping themselves to loot from legitimate shipwrecks, are the good bad smugglers.

You can always depend on a good bad highwayman to defend an innocent girl against a bad bad smuggler. As you might expect the Squire is deliberately ineffectual since he’s being blackmailed by Black John (Bernard Lee), leader of the wreckers, because Christopher is the result of an indiscretion. So it’s left to the son to race back from London and set things to rights.

Although there’s a bit of fenceplay – there is one good duel between Christopher and The Captain – it’s not really a swashbuckler, a knife or pistol or musket the more likely weapon of choice, and since the director’s enamored of the silhouette against the darkening sky quite often what takes place is obscured.

Which helps the final section of the plot, as Christopher puts abroad that he’s dead while secretly signing up with Black John. This could have fitted into the Renown portfolio given the number of twists. Traps backfire. Ruses fail. Falling for the tale that his son is dead, Trevenyan puts the boy in mortal danger by sending troops to the beaches. Various rivals have to team up for the good of the cause.

By the time it turns into high adventure most of the moral complexities have been resolved.

The only problem is it’s the bad guys who steal the picture. While Peter Cushing (The Skull, 1965) continues his evolution as an actor of considerable scope, John Fraser (Tamahine, 1963) is a cardboard cut-out of a hero. But Bernard Lee, before assuming the mantle of M in the James Bond series, cuts loose as the bad bad guy while William Franklyn (The Big Day, 1960) does a dastardly good job of creating a charming good bad guy. For a bonus there’s rising French star Michele Mercier (You Can’t Win ‘Em All/Dubious Patriots, 1970).

Written and directed, with some panache, by John Gilling (The Pirates of Blood River, 1962).

Entertaining matinee fare with a soupcon of complexity.

Fame Is The Name of the Game (1966) ***

Glossy entry into the investigation business, no down’n’dirty private eyes this time round, racking up alimony, office the saloon of a bar, little in the way of fashionable attire, best friends with the bottle. Okay, so Jeff Dillon (Anthony Franciosa) is a newshound not a private dick – same difference.

Main problem is that the three main characters seem to be in different movies. Jeff, all teeth, comes over like he’d rather be down on the beach surfing, his unwanted assistant Peggy (Susan Saint James) like she’s auditioning for Nancy Drew, and artist Leona (Jill St John) like she’s in the femme fatale business.

*Small-screen effort in the U.S., released on the big screen in the rest of the world,*
*a fairly common move at the time.*

And it takes forever for our intrepid newshound to work out that the dead girl Ellen found in an upmarket hotel room has been murdered rather than committing suicide. Any time the plot looks like slowing down up pops an interesting character. Gangster Ben Welcome’s (Jack Klugman) secretary (Myrna Ross) turns out to have a neat side hustle as a bodyguard, stiletto heels at the ready to pin a man to the ground.

Ex-baseball star Dizzy (Jay C. Flippen) is a massive fan of passive smoking, the only way, given his health condition, that he can get any smoke into his lungs. Telephone operator Pat (Nanette Fubray) uses her smiles for wiles while sticking it to the man. A beggar doesn’t bother to check if a corpse might be still alive before trying to steal his boots.

While the dialog isn’t exactly full of zingers, it does have some zip and repartee. For too long, though, the plot ambles along rather than anything else.

The dead woman had been married to loser Eddie (Robert Duvall) and befriended Dizzy before ending up as the mistress of billionaire Cruikshank (Lee Bowman). But once the dots begin to be joined, it takes on a seamier tone, sexual coercion, blackmail, murder.

There’s a terrific twist at the end which makes up for a lot of the aimlessness.

A shame this came out the same year as Harper/The Moving Target which reinvigorated the genre and had as its leading man a sex symbol who didn’t act – as Franciosa does here – as if he was a sex symbol. Anthony Franciosa (Fathom, 1967) is the main problem. He’s too full of himself, constantly flashing his teeth as if that’s a get-out-of-jail-free card, and lacks the edge the role requires.

Both Jill St John (Tony Rome, 1967) and Susan Saint James (New Face in Hell, 1967) fall into the rising star category, though the former is easily the more accomplished. Interesting supporting cast in Jack Klugman (The Graduate, 1967), Jack Weston (The Thomas Crown Affair, 1968), Robert Duvall (The Godfather, 1972) and Jay C. Flippen (Hellfighters, 1968).

Ably spun by director Stuart Rosenberg (Cool Hand Luke, 1967) from a screenplay by Ranald MacDougall (Dark of the Sun/The Mercenaries, 1968).

This had an unusual genesis in that it was one of the first made-for-tv movies. Universal promoted the 90-minute feature as a world premiere and it turned into an unusual series with three different stars – the others were Gene Barry (Marco 7, 1967) and Robert Stack (Borderlines/ The Caretakers, 1963) – taking turns headlining an episode.

While classier fare than you might have expected from television during the 1960s, it came up short when compared to similar ideas played out on the big screen. Where it did end up in the cinema, it was as a supporting feature.

You can catch it on YouTube. The streamer even chucks in about 20 ads for free.

Mutiny (2026) **** – Seen at the Cinema

Hooray! The Stath is back. After the turgid Shelter (2026) and the disappointing A Working Man (2025), and while this doesn’t reach the heights of The Beekeeper (2024), it’s a more than serviceable action thriller that will keep his fans – such as moi – happy. Though you’d need Alistair MacLean, “the king of the action thriller” (though I say so myself – see my latest book), to pump some novelty into a seagoing action piece.

This does have one other novelty for a Statham thriller in that it hands him a female buddy, a companion in arms I hasten to add rather than a lame love interest. I’m guessing that should this turn into a global hit, a sequel will be on the cards, where he is called into to help said lady who will transition into a damsel in distress, especially given she’s a single mom, a category which seems irresistible to screenwriters.

But, basically, Statham does what he does best, which is to crack heads, strangle, stab and shoot bad guys, solve a mystery and right whatever wrongs have been committed. On the strict confines of a cargo ship, there aren’t so many places to hide, not that our Jason is the hiding sort, so it’s a barrage of non-stop action as either the bad guys come after him or he goes after the bad guys. There’s some novelty too in the killing. As well as the standard weapons, our hero makes use of a ship’s hook and a handy harpoon, not to mention a Rolex watch.

I have to warn you the title is a bit of misnomer, but it serves its purpose, which is to warn of an armed uprising on board a ship.

Cole Reed (Jason Statham) ain’t a marine. He’s bodyguard to billionaire shipping magnate Tibu Campallo (Ramon Tikaram) who has just retired when he’s killed in Bangkok in an ambush organized by Jaran Daniles (Simon Kluth) for reasons that are unclear except that Tibu is on the point of selling his business. Naturally, corruption being what it is these days, Cole is figured for the murder.

A clue leads him to sneak aboard the Artemis, one of Campallo’s gigantic vessels. He hides out in a lifeboat, the modern kind that offers easy concealment not an antique of Titanic vintage. Also, on board, reluctantly, and at very short notice is replacement Third Mate Angie Ellis (Annabelle Wallis).

Cole’s investigations lead him to a hidden cargo of trafficked people. Angie finds the same but when she reports back to Captain Marko Madsen (Roland Moller) she quickly realizes he’s in on the game. So she skedaddles and eventually teams up with Cole, though they are at various times separated so that Cole can do what he does best which is to escape from impossible situations while it’s left to Angie to manage a wound and incapacitate various crew members on the bridge, from which she can send out a distress signal.

The signal is picked up by a passing U.S. naval vessel commanded by Capt Adam Spencer (Adrian Lester). You think the Yanks are going to get there and rescue Cole and the people, but there’s a twist, the trafficked people are due to be offloaded mid-ocean to another gang. So although Cole has already thinned out the competition, the new arrivals bulk it back up.

It’s preposterous to expect anything new in the action thriller game, even Die Hard (1988) simply played a new angle but was hardly more than a twist on various westerns and anything else where people needed rescued. So as long as the plot doesn’t drift into the maudlin like Shelter, and as long as the action races along, that’s about all you need, as well as an actor who’s a believable action hero.

Plus a director who knows his stuff. Jean-Francois Richet is of that ilk, having directed, most recently, Plane (2023) which follows a similar narrative, as well as superb pictures about criminals, The Emperor of Paris (2018) and especially the two Mesrine (2008) movies. He sticks to the knitting and that’s all you need. There’s a couple of twists to the tale, but that’s standard in today’s thrillers. Annabelle Wallis (Mercy, 2026) kicks ass with the best of them.

Written by Lindsay Michel. In his debut, and J.P. Davis (Plane).

Statham back on form which bodes well for The Beekeeper 2 out in the New Year.

American Gangster (2007) *****

I’ve seen this more times than The Godfather (1972) and The Godfather Part II (1974) put together, so, for me, yeah, this is the greatest gangster picture of all time. There’s always a snobbery involved in talking about your all-time favorite picture. In discussions, I often find that the movie people consider the best is rarely the one they watch the most. While I adore both Godfather pictures on an academic level, they now seem a haul, especially with the running time, overtly grandiose.

American Gangster, on the other hand, is fleet of foot. The dual storylines – Black gangster Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) rising to the top, incorruptible cop Ritchie Roberts (Russell Crowe) heading a team targeting New York’s drug kingpins – neatly intersect until nearly the end.

Director Ridley Scott has thrown off the shackles of sci fi and history – the demands of the grandiose and the visually cinematic and (in the sci fi) the problems of finding a new way to tell the Alien tale when the audience is waiting for the gore. Here he concentrates on narrative that, seemingly at every turn, exposes character. The story is a fascinating one at that. Nobody in law enforcement or at the higher echelons of Government went after Frank Lucas because nobody thought a Black gangster could build an empire to which even the Mafia kowtowed.

Oddly enough, the violence is muted. Scott does away with the need for repeated violence by an opening shot that sets the scene, Lucas setting fire to a snitch. This is more of a story about big business, that entrepreneurial spirit by which America sets so much store. And it’s a story about family. Lucas recruits all his brothers for the enterprise. Roberts is an outcast in the family of cops because he refuses to be corrupted.

But Roberts is no saint. He is accused by wife Laurie (Carla Gugino) of being scrupulously honest on that front only so he can be dishonest in the rest of his life, with his promiscuity and neglect of his son. When Lucas has the entire extended family round the table to celebrate Xmas (or Thanksgiving – there’s turkey involved, that’s all I know) in a mansion, Roberts is reduced to a tuna sandwich in his cramped apartment.

This is a time when gangsters were celebrities, safe in the knowledge that they were untouchable as long as they paid off the cops. Lucas shuns excess, determines not to draw attention to himself, which is why he remains hidden for so long, and it’s only when, to satisfy his wife, he wears an outrageous fur outfit that he comes to the attention of Roberts.

As the tale zips along, in the background we witness the drugs industry at work, the packaging, the distribution, the clashes between rivals, the deaths of junkies (including a cop), and Vietnam, where corrupt soldiers have made possible Lucas’s clever scheme to buy drugs at the source, cutting out the middle man and ensuring the purity of the product.

But Lucas is a corporate hero. He believes in the brand. A brand, he says, is a guarantee of quality, its dissipation the cause of a dispute with mobster Nicky Barnes (Cuba Gooding Jr.). In the corporate drugs world, the Mafia might think it has drawn Lucas into its tentacles, but it’s the other way round.

This all climaxes in the most dangerous manner – cinematically speaking – possible. John Ford owns the doorway, has done since The Searchers (1956). Christopher Nolan has also taken a tilt at that particular cinematic crown in The Odyssey (2026) when the gates of Troy open to reveal the gigantic figure of Agamemnon in black shining armor. Here, the doors opening are those of a church. Lucas steps out to see the street deserted except for the waiting Roberts.

There are other standout scenes in a movie that careers along so fast it scarcely needs them – Roberts dressing a corpse up to look alive to escape a mob, the shock of the cops when Roberts hands in rather than shares out a million bucks, Lucas burning the fur coat in rage, any time corrupt Detective Trupo (Josh Brolin) appears the scene is a standout, Roberts begging corrupt cops for his money back, Lucas interrupting his breakfast to execute a rival in the street, even the meet-cute with Lucas’s future wife Eva (Lymari Nadel) “can you let go of my hand?”

Lucas dresses immaculately but conservatively, Roberts is in jeans but Tupo, in black leather coat, exudes power. There’s very little moralizing, although various people complain about the loss of an accepted order. The drug dealers go down but there’s no mention of imprisonment for the hordes of soldiers and airmen who took money to feed drugs to their own soldiers or ship them to America.

The cast is absolutely terrific, Denzel Washington (The Equalizer 3, 2023) a commanding, cunning, figure, Russell Crowe (Gladiator, 1999) with his shuffling walk, Chiwetel Ejiofor (Backrooms, 2026) and Josh Brolin (Weapons, 2025) as the most arrogant of the corrupt cops. Supporting roles are filled by the likes of John Hawkes (Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, 2017) , Carla Gugino (Watchmen, 2009), Cuba Gooding Jr. (Jerry Maguire, 1996), Armand Assante (Blowtorch, 2016), Idris Elba (Heads of State, 2025) and Ruby Dee (A Thousand Words, 2012). Written by Steve Zaillian (The Irishman, 2019) based on an article by Mark Jacobson.

There’s one other stunning element that needs mentioning – the music by Marc Streitenfeld (Prometheus, 2012). This must be the most self-effacing score ever to grace a gangster picture.

If this has been made today, the trailers would be acclaiming the Oscar achievements of the actors – the tally comes to three winners and three nominees. Next year, when this is due a 20^th anni reissue maybe that will be the promotional tag.

I might well be tempted to watch it again tonight.

The Driver (1978) ***

Blasphemy I know but I went to see this back in the day not because of director Walter Hill, certainly not for star Ryan O’Neal, but for the wonderfully edgy Bruce Dern (Smile, 1975). You never knew what Dern would do next. Even his hairstyles tended to be offkey. Without having the choleric demeanor of, say, Trevor Howard, he was never far short of exploding. Although he had a couple of top-billed roles, his position as an out-and-out leading man never took off and he was relegated to second male lead. But having him in your cast could transform a picture, especially if you let him off the lead.

My guess is that Walter Hill was aiming for the monosyllabic essence of a Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen or Charles Bronson in casting the main role. But no matter how often Ryan O’Neal screws up his eyes or issues dialog through a sullen mouth he lacks the edginess his existential character requires, like those French guys Alain Delon or Jean-Paul Belmondo who were kings of edginess.

Instead, we’re stuck with O’Neal, and I don’t entirely blame the actor, he’s not always sappy, look at his work in The Thief Who Came to Dinner (1973). But the director does him no favors by failing to provide him not only with a background but any sense of a contemporary life – no partner, no kids – apart from a fondness for country music. Whatever he’s salting away his hefty earnings as a getaway driver for we never find out. So, unfortunately, bearing in mind O’Neal’s screen presence limitations, what we’re left with is a cipher.

All we know about the unnamed driver (Ryan O’Neal) is that he doesn’t like guns – and that proves to be a bit of a clever red herring. The unnamed detective (Bruce Dern) is much better value. Theoretically, he’s the good guy but back in the day cops had carte blanche to play the bad guy and this one decides to trap the driver by setting up his own bank robbery, planning to enrol the driver.

Into this mix comes “the player” (Isabelle Adjani – an actress who has a definite Gallic edge), a poker player, a kept woman, who happens to catch sight of the driver during a robbery at a small-time casino and then demands payment for not picking him out of a line-up. There is a smattering of burgeoning romance but you wouldn’t trust her not just to be after you for your wallet.

I’ve not mentioned the car chases, of which there are several. I’ve not mentioned them because they are all the same and except for ripping off a Lee Marvin scene from Point Blank (1967) lack the edginess and invention of the famous predecessors Bullitt (1968), The French Connection (1971), Fear Is the Key (1972) and any James Bond picture you care to mention. All the chases take place on the flat and maybe duke into the occasional alley but mostly stick to the main roads where tires can screech and let off sparks. And that’s it really. Once in a while someone has to duck to avoid bullets, but after the first chase, it’s basically repetition. Okay for the petrol-heads but a tad boring for the rest of us.

So back to the clever dick cop. Even by the standards of the rogue cop, the plot point seems imminently ridiculous. The detective is hiring a gang of robbers known to like using their guns to scare off any innocent bystanders. So what are the chances of that going wrong and some poor bank customer or employee being knocked off. Explain that to your employers, Mr. Detective. Trying to catch a getaway guy is not going to wash as the excuse.

Plus, of course, your clever plan relies on being able to get back the stolen dough. In those days, of course, you didn’t have to worry about the PTSD of anyone caught up in a violent robbery or think of compensating a bank for damage to property and some such and since this is Hollywood where all dreams come true, even one as barmy that that hatched by Walter Hill (he’s the screenwriter, too), you can just carry on regardless.

The best part of the picture is the non-vehicle getaway. The driver has to use a fence to get rid of the hot cash and is willing to trade it in at a substantial loss. This involves left luggage, keys, double crossing, the detective chasing down two sets of cash, the player, and a final stand-off.

Talking Pictures TV which has a habit of finding gold in old pictures out of circulation for a long time has this to view for free. I had wanted to check it out to correct my earlier estimation and for the pleasure of seeing Bruce Dern in one of his best roles. But I didn’t end up altering my opinion.

Bruce Dern steals the show. It’s worth comparing what little Isabelle Adjani (The Story of Adele H, 1975) does to what little Ryan O’Neal does. She wins hands down.

Walter Hill would go onto to win a certain regard among critics. But the only pictures of his I like undeservedly are Streets of Fire (1984) with another monosyllabic main character and 48 Hrs (1982) but the latter mainly because Eddie Murphy knocks spots off the monosyllabic sour Nick Nolte.

Worth a watch for all the wrong reasons. Not Walter Hill or car chases, but Bruce Dern and Isabelle Adjani.

By the way, Bruce Dern is a guest at this year’s Edinburgh Film Festival so we might get a showing of Silent Running (1972) or Smile (1975).

Crossplot (1969) ***

Roger Moore – in his first movie in seven years – almost auditioning for James Bond with his lothario instinct, light touch for dialog, a nice side-line in double takes, and enough action to show that even in his early 40s he was still nimble enough. Not in the Charade (1963) or Arabesque (1966) league and over-reliant on the Swinging Sixties and other “Tourist Britain” clichés and a plot that takes far too long to get going, it takes all the actor’s charm to make it watchable.

After one of his staff Warren (Dudley Sutton) switches the photo of a model in his portfolio, ad-man Gary (Roger Moore) finds himself on the trail of Marla (Claudia Lange), a sometime fugitive hiding out on a houseboat. Meet-cute is prompted when she pushes him into the Thames. On leaving he is knocked out and framed on a dope charge and once he manages to get her into the photographic studio Warren attempts to throw her off the roof, the would-be killer himself eliminated by his boss Ruddock (Francis Matthews) who in a marvelous piece of quick-thinking throws his gun to Gary who instinctively catches it, further implicating himself.

After going all round the houses (including a stately home), evading pursuit via an antique car race and a wedding, Gary finally gets to the bottom of why Marla is in such danger – she overheard a conversation between her aunt Joe (Martha Hyer) and Ruddock. Only problem is – she can’t remember it. And it takes even more time for Gary to figure it out, (not realizing, how could he, that the clue is in the title, in fact two clues in a crossword puzzle). You can imagine how it goes from then.

*This poster takes the easy route by trying to sell the picture on the back of “The Saint.”*

On the plus side is mostly Roger Moore. “I come from a long line of hippopotamuses,” isn’t the sort of line you can deliver without some skill. But Moore’s performance lifts what is for the most part a shaggy dog story, and he’s game enough to do all the running and fighting required, even the heavy lifting (of his eyebrows), to keep the story moving. It’s far from as funny as it thinks and not as funny as it needs to be, but there are still some good stabs at humor, a pistol held to Gary’s head discovered to be a toy gun, Gary turning the tables in a shower on Marla, telling the bride that her groom is a bigamist, and a running joke about the Marla being perennially hungry.

The politics barely touches on the conspiracy aspects that Hollywood would have pounced upon and made a better fist of, although the idea that Britain could be undermined by civil strife was not far off the mark for the times. It needed some smarter thinking, though, for that element to work.

*A much better attempt at selling a thriller with scenes from the film,*
*including the toy pistol pointed at Roger Moore’s head.*

The rest of the cast are game enough. Claudie Lang (The Gatling Gun, 1968) is no Sophia Loren or Audrey Hepburn but nobody is pretending she is and she just about gets away with the dumb model approach. Martha Hyer (The Chase, 1966) delivers a glamorous villain and the suave Francis Matthews (Rasputin: The Mad Monk, 1966) her ideal match.

There’s quite a supporting cast: Veronica Carlsen (Dracula Has Risen from the Grave, 1968), Gabrielle Drake (Suburban Wives, 1972), Dave Prowse (Star Wars, 1977), Bernard Lee (You Only Live Twice, 1967), Alexis Tanner (The Ernie Game, 1967), Ursula Howells (BBC’s The Forsyte Saga, 1967) and Dudley Sutton (Rotten to the Core, 1965).

If Alvin Rakoff (The Comedy Man, 1964) is in charge of the material he doesn’t have enough material to work with. He does enough to keep it on course but would have benefitted from a a tighter screenplay from Leigh Vance (The Frightened City, 1961). Both had done better in the past, but it is easy to be seduced by the romantic thriller format, almost a mini-genre in itself, assuming it is easier to pull off than it looks. The likes of Alfred Hitchcock (North by Northwest, 1959) and Stanley Donen (Charade) made it look easy but they had the advantage of big stars in Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn who possessed the ability to make the lightest confection work.

The Island (1980) ***

By common consent one of Michael Caine’s worst films – on a par with The Swarm (1978), The Hand (1981), Jaws, The Revenge (1987), and, for sheer embarrassment, Blame It On Rio (1984) – so naturally I had steered clear of it for four decades. But in the grip of reassessment fever and given how big a fan I am of pirate films, I wondered if I might come to a different conclusion after another vewing.

This was being touted as another blockbuster from the author of Jaws (1975) and The Deep (1977) so it’s entirely possible the actor was not necessarily its biggest drawing card.

The odd thing is that – terrible though it is – it has some aspects very much in its favor. And if it had the courage of its convictions would have taken The Wicker Man route and not permitted journalist Blair Maynard (Michael Caine) to escape from the titular island where he is being held captive by a primitive tribe of pirates. Once he had fulfilled his purpose, which was to impregnate a female pirate, he could as easily have had his throat cut.

There is also some power reversal. He’s raped by said female, Beth (Angela Punch McGregor), and she keeps him chained by the neck, dragging him along behind her like a pet. And there’s an exploration of the gun-love fantasy, expressed by Blair’s 12-year-old son Justin (Jeffrey Frank), given the chance to wield a pistol like his hero Dirty Harry, enjoy the feeling of pulling the trigger, and in an extreme version of early teenage revolt, embracing the opportunity to put one over on his father.

And you might also go for the islanders, untouched and therefore uncorrupted by civilization, who still negotiate the seas in small sailing craft, and, except for their murderous instincts, could easily come across as innocents, living the same life – the “good life” in the eyes of many these days – as they would have done 300 years ago.

What counts against the movie is, for a start, the set-up. Had Blair been just on a sailing trip with his son and been captured by pirates that would have been fine. Instead, he’s a journalist managing to convince his editor to send him to investigate that hoary old chestnut, the Bermuda Triangle.

While the pirates are a gift to anthropological studies, sometimes they speak in perfect English, sometimes they speak pidgin English, sometimes they’re speaking in some form of Olde English complete with naff ritual and rules. Although they’re desperate to find a way of prolonging their species – which is where Blair comes in – they tend to kill any other males or females who could help them achieve this aim.

And although they steal plenty of modern supplies in the way of food and clothing from the ships they pirate, they still wear scraps and live off scraps.

When Blair attempts his first escape the presence of a giant jellyfish cuts that short. But, miraculously, the next two times he’s in the water, no jellyfish. Not much of this is discreet, but there is one relationship that gets by with looks. A young island boy, jealous of the attention given to Justin by Nau (David Warner), the pirate chief, appears to be helping Blair escape in a tiny craft until, far out at sea, the journalist notices that the boat has been sabotaged and is sinking fast. Even so, it’s a bit complicated. I couldn’t work out the young fellow’s motives. Getting rid of Blair wouldn’t get rid of his rival for the chief’s affections.

The ending is a complete mess. Luckily, we’ve been informed that Blair fought in the Korean War so when he finds a deck-mounted machine gun on the U.S. Coastguard vessel the pirates have just taken over, he can open fire like Rambo and slaughter near enough the entire contingent of his enemies. The only survivors are his son and Nau, so we can have one last hand-to-hand skirmish, and the boy and father can enjoy a sentimental reunion.

So, yes, this is a hidden civilization, a lost tribe, that might be treasured for living the simple life, but Blair, despite being a journalist, is hardly salivating at the prospect of his scoop. Too much time is spent on trying to establish the pirates’ way of life via their rituals and oddities.

But this was certainly a bold move on Caine’s part, to take on a role that was akin to Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes (1968), to be treated as not just an inferior but only useful for his semen. The reversal of the power balance between himself and Beth, who, as in Planet of the Apes, begins to care for her captive, would certainly chime with the contemporary audience.

There’s very little that’s noble about the savages, all are unkempt and few have a full set of teeth.

But Caine does put in a good acting shift. Angela Punch McGregor (The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, 1978) is the pick of the rest. David Warner (Morgan!/Morgan, A Suitable Case for Treatment, 1966) excels in this kind of oddball part. Jeffrey Frank didn’t make another movie.

Disappointing choice, though, for director Michael Ritchie, who had built up a solid reputation through Downhill Racer (1969), Prime Cut (1972), The Candidate (1972) and Smile (1975). Written by Peter Benchley.

To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed to find so much to admire in what I had expected to be an ideal candidate for the So Bad It’s Good category.

The Blood of Fu Manchu / Kiss & Kill (1968) **

Three stories in one, except only one tale remotely holds our interest. So what compelled producer Harry Alan Towers and director Jess Franco to sideline the titular character and devote more time to a young explorer Carl Janseon (Gotz George) and bandit Sancho Lopez (Ricardo Palacios). You could probably guess that the physical involvement of Fu Manchu (Christopher Lee) would be in any case limited once you grasped the crux of the narrative which saw ten girls sent out into the big wide world to kill his ten most hated enemies. You’ll probably be surprised to learn that he had only ten major enemies, but since one of them is his old nemesis Nayland Smith (Richard Greene), then you can be sure that that aspect is going to suck up a good deal of what time remains after the subplots concerning the explorer and the bandit.

Which is a shame because neither explorer not bandit employ the kid of evil little grey cells that would allow them to come up with a plot that any of the James Bond villains would be proud of in their bids for global domination. Fu Manchu has located an ancient poison which is transmitted by women in the form of a kiss. It originates in certain snakes and although the women are “kissed” by the snakes, they are apparently impervious to its venom, so the first gender-specific poison in history.

And that’s about it. As usual Towers has rounded up a bevy of young beauties, no doubt sold on the idea that he’s going to turn them into the next big female star, as carriers of the deadly poison. Not all are so keen on the idea, but since he’s got them chained by the neck in a Brazilian cave that passes for his stronghold and with his daughter Lin Tang (Tsai Chin) to threaten them with torture, it’s not surprising they are complicit.

In any case the female assassins are one-trick ponies. The minute they accomplish their deed, they are bumped off. Smith is the first victim (apart from a prisoner selected to demonstrate the efficacy of the poison) but he doesn’t die immediately. Instead he is struck blind, although he is aware he hasn’t got long to live unless an antidote can be found.

Naturally, that puts him on the track of Fu Manchu and, of course, into sudden danger. The Fu Manchu-Nayland Smith had proved a decent cinematic tug-of-war for three previous episodes beginning with The Face of Fu Manchu (1965), so it was somewhat surprising that tension was diminished by spending so much time playing up explorer and bandit, especially as the latter is determined to play out all the cliches, including laughing like a hyena.

There is some occasional visual humor such as when the bandits go on the rampage and the crew emerge from bandits bearing such prizes as a bishop’s mitre and when a governor, having imprisoned Jansen, suggests they while away their time with a game of chess.

It’s odd that part of the disappointment for certain viewers in this opus is the lack of trademark Jess Franco sleaze. There’s barely any nudity and although the girls are kept in prison (until released to wreak havoc) there’s none of the tawdriness of WIP epics such as his 99 Women (1969) which is replete with brutality and sex.

Despite the cultural appropriation, Christopher Lee (The Devil Rides Out, 1968) is, as ever, solid as Fu Manchu, speaking in clipped tones and towering over everyone else, though his main role appears to be to deliver exposition, explain the foul plot and its consequences and so on. It’s left up to Tsai Chin (You Only Live Twice, 1967) to carry the sadism.

Richard Greene (Sword of Sherwood Forest, 1960) does his best in a role of declining returns. You might spot among the cast Towers’ wife Maria Rohm (Five Golden Dragons, 1967) and Shirley Eaton (The Girl from Rio, 1969).

Of the women expecting a major career break, Loni von Friedl had scores of parts including Doppelganger/Journey to the Far Side of the Sun (1969). But Frances Khan only enjoyed three more roles and or Isaura de Olivera this was the beginning and end of her movie career.

Written as usual by Peter Welbeck (Five Golden Dragons) – aka Harry Alan Towers – and Franco based on the novels of Sax Rohmer.

Promising idea ruined.

Blood and Black Lace (1964) ****

Director Mario Bava channels his inner Douglas Sirk in a rich color palette for this early version of giallo. About as surprisingly rich is the camerawork, which, for a low-budget picture is exceptionally accomplished, tracking, drifting, bobbing between characters. This early in the 1960s, nudity was not so prevalent but setting a movie in a fashion house – ensuring the beauty quotient is remarkably high – provided sufficient opportunity for ladies to be seen (within a work context naturally) in a certain amount of undress and you can be sure the killer leaves them half-naked. And it’s not the usual giallo sex maniac at work either but, despite the volume of murders, a killer driven by a desire to conceal shame.

Blackmail, theft, abortion, cocaine addiction, pregnancy, impotence and illicit affairs are among the secrets the protagonists wish to keep hidden, all risking exposure by a diary kept by the first victim Isabella (Francesco Ungaro). So rather than a whodunit, it’s a whydunit. The killer is particularly creepy, face concealed behind white gauze like an Egyptian mummy. As the Italian title explains, six women are intended for the chop, so that kind of rules out a great deal of tension as you spend your time counting. Are we nearly there yet? And as we run out of obvious potential victims, who the heck is there left to kill? Of course, by that time, we are into twist territory and that element is certainly neatly done.

The main candidates for the murderer are: Franco (Dante DiPaolo), Riccardo (Franco Ressel), Cesare (Luciano Piggozi). Massimo (Cameron Mitchell) and Marco (Massimo Righi). These are the official ones, rounded up by Inspector Silvestri (Thomas Reiner). But that still leaves housekeeper Clarice (Harriet Medin) in her black leather coat. And a fashion house being a festering wound of jealousy, sex, status and privilege you wouldn’t discount any of the models either nor an owner Cristiana (Eva Bartok) who is such a slave-driver she denies her seamstresses time to mourn.

Emotions would be running high in this establishment never mind with a killer on the loose. Relationships are so fraught that even when this is the worst possible time to be alone in a house, certain of the models refuse to offer sanctuary to others and one, Tao-Li (Claude Dantes), just plans to head for the hills (Paris, in other words) and abandon the others. Add to that a high degree of stupidity. When Greta (Lea Lander) discovers the disfigured corpse of Nicole (Arianna Gorini) in the trunk of her car, rather than calling the police, she drags the body into the house and hides it under the stairs while her butler is about to serve tea. Except it’s not out of folly, it’s because Greta, like all the women here, wishes to protect a male, passion reigning supreme to the extent that the thought of losing a lover even if he is a murderer is too much to bear.

The inspector’s task would be made easy if the killer had a distinctive modus operandi. Death occurs through strangulation, suffocation, drowning (though with cut wrists to make it look like suicide), falling from a great height and Nicole’s face thrust into a stove. If victims take a long time to die, it’s not from the killer’s sadism but his/her incompetence. Virtually none are speedily dispatched, murder not as easy as you might imagine, an idea that Hitchcock purloined in Torn Curtain (1966)

For most of the time the way the camera moves you would wouldn’t think you were watching a film about a serial killer (in those days as rare in reality as in fiction) but a dense emotional tale as spun by the likes of Luchino Visconti (The Leopard, 1963) amidst a backdrop of wealth and beauty. Setting aside the murders, there is a feast of intrigue, and a rich seam of characters, though the central theme seems to be (not surprising for the era) that money and beauty are not as fulfilling as love, something that women will commit various crimes (though stopping short of murder) to achieve.

I would imagine it was just such intricate camerawork that put audiences off the picture on initial release, a big flop in Italy and, if screened anywhere else (as in Britain) the lower part of a double bill. Not quite as intense as Bava’s previous The Whip and the Body (1963) nor so stylistically driven as Danger : Diabolik (1968) and some way short of horror masterpieces like Black Sabbath (1963), this is still an interesting watch, something of a template for future giallo and from a pure directorial perspective glorious to watch.

The number of characters featured and the time spent on the various deaths limit the opportunities for any one star to dominate but Hungarian Eva Bartok (Operation Amsterdam, 1960) leads the line on the female side while American transplant Cameron Mitchell (Minnesota Clay, 1964) and Dante DiPaulo (Sweet Charity, 1969) vie for male acting honors. The screenplay was a joint effort by Marcello Fondato, Giuseppe Barilla and Bava.

YouTube has this for free though be warned it comes with ads and for the sumptuous photography alone you may want in any case to splash out.

The Honey Pot (1967) ***

Shave 20-30 minutes from this and you would have had a taut thriller. You could start with the number of clever dicks who happen to notice that what’s going on bears a close resemblance to a play Volpone by Shakespeare contemporary Ben Johnson, even down to the anglicizing of the names of those fictional characters. And prune the number of detectives, three is two too many especially when there’s an actual genuine detective in the mix. And the shock ending is just…well…mince.

Otherwise, quite fun in a way. Wealthy Cecil Fox (Rex Harrison) hires sometime actor, sometime factotum, law graduate Marty McFly – oops William McFly – to help him pull off an elaborate joke, “people-baiting”, a modern version of “bear-beating” apparently. Fox pretends to be dying in order to bring three former lovers, all he presumes desperate to be named in his will, to his bedside in a grand palazzo in Venice. Upfront reason, some kind of revenge. Hidden reason, something darker obviously.

The trio are Texan Mrs Sheridan (Susan Hayward), movie star Merle (Edie Adams) and Princess Dominique (Capucine). Sheridan is accompanied by a nurse Sarah (Maggie Smith), the “voice of morality.” They all certainly seem to have a sense of humor. Two presenting Fox with gifts of clocks, the princess with an hour-glass filled with gold dust instead of sand, presumably with the notion that he can watch his life ticking away. Needless to say, this is like an reality TV show, Fox not having named an heir in his will, so they are all battling to be the heir, and as he points out, even the rich will succumb because there is no such thing as “enough money.”

Things do not go according to plan when Sheridan unexpectedly dies. Enter Inspector Rizzo (Adolfo Celi). Sarah suspects McFly because he used her as an alibi but disappeared for a time when she (for unexplained reasons) fell asleep in a posh restaurant (and nobody tried to wake her). Turning detective herself, she comes up with “proof positive.” Turns out the two remaining suspects had conspired to also give themselves an alibi, easily demolished by the kindly inspector. McFly, too, has been doing some digging.

But then comes another twist and everything you thought you knew flies out the window. Cue more investigation, more alibis and finally an Agatha Christie pay-off when the two amateur detectives and the real one confront everyone in the drawing room. By which time the twists are coming thick and fast.

Best thing about this is the playing. Although decidedly stagey, very little in the way of visual audacity, that works to the movie’s benefit, and not a bad choice to rely so heavily on the acting given the cast. With the exception of Edie Adams, Capucine and Celi, all were Oscar anointed. Two winners – Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady (1964) and Susan Hayward for I Want to Live (1958) – and between them another five nominations – and two future winners in Cliff Robertson for Charly (1968) and Maggie Smith for The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969). The others were not out of their depth, Edie Adams (Made in Paris, 1966) clocking up Emmy nominations. Adolfo Celi (In Search of Gregory, 1969) a deuce of nominations from the Cannes Film Festival while even Capucine (The 7^th Dawn, 1964) had been nominated for a Golden Globe.

So director Joseph L. Mankiewicz (Cleopatra, 1964) makes the right decision to let his actors get on with. Rex Harrison is at his suave best, but with a malevolent undercurrent, and has most of the best – and zestiest – lines. Robertson, usually the hero, is sly and duplicitous. Susan Hayward was in her comfort zone, forthright and taking no prisoners, Capucine at her cold and haughty best. Smith and Celi were the revelations, the former losing the trademark drawl and the nurse’s mousiness as to some extent she exerts control, and Celi departing from the bombast and delivering a lower-keyed performance.

Doing double duty, Mankiewicz worked up the script from three sources: the original Volpone, the play Mr Fox of Venice by Frederick Knott (Dial M for Murder) and a novel The Evil of the Day by Thomas Sterling. Next time the director went to the stage for inspiration he chose a better source for a mystery – Sleuth (1972).