Crime/Thriller – Page 19 – The Magnificent 60s

The Brotherhood (1968) ****

Minimal violence and no sex was the wrong recipe for this Mafia picture – as proven at the box office – but this is an absorbing, underrated drama nonetheless.

It bears a surprising number of parallels to The Godfather (1972). Pure coincidence, extraordinary though that may appear, because The Brotherhood premiered in December 1968 while the Mario Puzo novel was printed in March 1969 (and delivered to the printers long before), so no opportunity at all for plagiarism.

The two films could be opposite sides of the same coin. For a start, both begin with a wedding. Vince Ginetta (Alex Cord), brother of Mafia kingpin Frank (Kirk Douglas), is marrying Emma (Susan Strasberg), daughter of another Mafia chief Dominick (Luther Adler). Like Michael (Al Pacino) in The Godfather, Vince is just out of the army, well-educated and primed for a life outside the business. And like Michael is called upon to commit an act of supreme violence. There’s even a hint of Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) in the relationship between the brothers, Frank having brought up the much younger Vince after his father’s premature death.

And just as Don Corleone (Marlon Brando) refuses to join the other Mafia families in a new business venture (in that case, drugs) so Frank bows out of an incredibly high risk (but amazingly prescient) scheme to invest in electronic firms involved in military work for the government, a deal that not only promises huge profits but a potential hold over the powers-that-be.

Frank’s wife Ida (Irene Papas) is like Don Corleone’s wife, not wanting to know anything about the business, but both Emma and Frank’s daughter Carmela (Connie Scott) are thematic cousins to Kay Adams (Diane Keaton) as initial implicit trust is wiped away. When Frank dances with Carmela at the wedding, that is reflected in Don Corleone dancing with his daughter at her wedding. Like The Godfather our first sight of the other Mafia chieftains – including Jim Hagen (Murray Hamilton) and Don Peppino (Eduardo Cianelli) – is at the feast where they are viewed with suspicion by Frank’s clan. And the scene where Frank uses a banana to tease his nephew will remind you of Don Corleone spooking his grandson with an orange.

However, the twist, if you like, is that, unlike Michael, Vince is desperate to join the Family and is instrumental in developing legitimate enterprises, which is echoed by Michael Corleone’s strategic shift to Las Vegas. In some respects, Frank is more like Sonny (James Caan), happy to take personal command of murders which the other Mafia chiefs now scrupulously delegate to “mechanics” in Los Angeles. He is more old-school whereas the others have assumed the personas of respectable businessmen.

And then it becomes a question of loyalty. Which side the ambitious Vinnie will take is crucial to the story. Frank is under pressure on all sides, from the other Mafia leaders, a government investigation, Vinnie, and the need to exact revenge on the man who caused his father’s death.

There is authentic detail here as well – religious procession in Sicily, Frank playing boccia (the Italian version of the French boules) with his old pals, family dinner, canary stuffed in the mouth of a stool pigeon, but it is less spaghetti-drenched than The Godfather. Screenwriter Lewis John Carlino (The Fox, 1967), also listed as technical adviser, claimed to be drawing on his intimate knowledge of organized crime.

There are only three moments of violence – four if you count a shocking moment of someone spitting on a corpse at a wake – a pair of straightforward murders that bookend the film, plus a scene of Godfather-style brutality in which a man slowly strangles himself to death after being hogtied. Everyone is happily married, Ida very old-school to the extent of removing her husband’s clothes (and shoes) when he returns home drunk, Vince in a good relationship.

Kirk Douglas (Cast a Giant Shadow, 1966) is excellent in a difficult role that presents a fully rounded character, playful with his daughter, loyal to his wife, holding his own against the other mob bosses, enjoying the company of the old-timers who resemble his father, and the changing nature of his relationship with brother Vince. Alex Cord, whose work I initially dismissed (Stiletto, 1969), I have come to more fully appreciate, especially here, where he makes the transition from adoring brother to threat. It is a masterpiece of restraint.

The supporting cast is terrific, a rare Hollywood sojourn for Irene Papas (The Guns of Navarone, 1961), Luther Adler (Cast a Giant Shadow, 1966) as one of the hoodlums exasperated by Frank’s recalcitrance, Murray Hamilton (The Graduate, 1967) but, except at the start, Susan Strasberg (The Trip, 1967) is underused.

While director Martin Ritt (Hombre, 1967) is at times guilty of melodrama, his rendering of family life is much more nuanced than Coppola’s. There are very tender moments between Frank and his wife and Frank and his daughter, as well as moments where Ida plays a more maternal role.

For nearly half a century, The Brotherhood has lain in the shadow of The Godfather simply because they both deal with the Mafia. But this is an excellent movie in its own right.

The Groundstar Conspiracy (1972) ****

Gripping thriller that set up the template for the decade’s later conspiracy mini-genre exemplified by The Conversation (1974), The Parallax View (1974) and Three Days of the Condor (1975). Under-rated compared to that trio, and considerably less cinematically self-conscious, it nods in the direction of The Manchurian Candidate (1962), The Mind Benders (1963) and Seconds (1966) while clearly influencing Memento (2000), The Bourne Identity (2002) and Inception (2010).

Touches on themes of surveillance, brainwashing, amnesia, invasion of privacy and government control, and for good measure may even have invented water boarding. Brilliantly structured with superb twists right to the end and peppered with red herrings. Audiences these days will be more easily misled than back in the day by references to an alien. Innovative and extensive aerial footage, and like Figures in a Landscape (1970) helicopters play a major part in pursuit.

A series of explosions at a secret government facility kills six men. One other, Welles (Michael Sarrazin), badly disfigured, escapes, potentially with vital secrets. Security chief Tuxan (George Peppard) leads the investigation. From the off the case is shrouded in mystery, not least because Tuxan refuses government high-ups access to the site and the ongoing probe, instead relying on government PR man Carl (Cliff Potts) as a conduit.

Of course, if Welles was innocent he’d hand himself in rather than running away to the house of Nicole (Christine Belford). Naturally, although she calls an ambulance, she is deemed guilty, too, for providing just too handy a hideout. Under extreme interrogation, Welles, claiming complete amnesia, refuses to talk.

Without the benefit of a trial Welles is shipped out to a maximum-security unit but the transportation is driven off the road and he escapes, returning to Nicole. Passion ensues, but even she, conceivably from the audience perspective a government plant, fails to elicit much information from him beyond that he speaks Greek and had some unnamed life-changing experience in that country, possibly involving water.

Turns out Welles is bait. Tuxan has arranged the escape. Nicole’s house is bugged – for sight and sound and nobody has the decency to cringe when watching the couple make love. Tuxan reckons that at some point Welles’ co-conspirators will surface. But when they do, they are a good bit smarter than Tuxan anticipates. The plot thickens when, even to them, Welles sticks to his story of being an amnesiac.

And the plot continues to twist and turn right to the very end which contains a just fantastic twist, two actually. Audiences these days more accustomed to the clever climax might guess the twist, but I really doubt it.

By this stage both George Peppard (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967) and Michael Sarrazin (The Sweet Ride, 1968) were finding a perch at the top of the Hollywood tree hard to hold onto, the fact that the movie, not notably highly budgeted, featured two supposed top stars proof of that. But it wouldn’t work unless Welles was played by an actor whose screen persona would make an audience both question his innocence and guilt. Sarrazin wouldn’t be the first actor to play on audience expectation to portray a bad guy.

In fact, both are excellent. Sarrazin is able to drop the fey aspect of his character and the narrative helps enormously, puzzlement and confusion an ingenious assist, to depict him as a person of more depth. The disfiguring of a handsome movie idol shifts audience expectation from the off.

I’ve become a bigger fan of George Peppard than I ever imagined after watching a series of quite different portrayals that tossed around his screen persona from The Third Day (1965) through The Blue Max (1966) and the unsettling mystery trilogy of P.J / New Face in Hell (1967), House of Cards (1968) and Pendulum (1968).

Directed with considerable assurance and occasional elan by Lamont Johnson (A Covenant with Death, 1967), this avoids the cinematic indulgence of The Conversation (1974), The Parallax View (1974) and like Three Days of the Condor (1975) sticks more to narrative. Water, more normally associated with tranquility, takes on a disturbing quality. Sometime writer-director Douglas Heyes (Beau Geste, 1966) discarded half that hyphenate to turn in a slick screenplay based on the bestseller by Leslie P. Davies.

Minor gem.

Day of the Nightmare (1965) ***

As you can imagine back in the day audiences struggled with accepting cross-dressing never mind transgender instinct – both deemed psychological aberrations – so it was understandable that the only treatment of the subject appeared in the sexploitation genre where budgets were so low a flop incurred no great financial loss. But even so, perhaps astonishingly so, despite a tendency towards violence, and what would amount to raw shocks, there was some implicit understanding of the need to shed one gender in order to take on the other.

More sympathetic in treatment than Homicidal (1961) but still from a narrative perspective taking the noir route, although, in reality, you could view the action as metaphor, hard-case chrysalis evolution.

Housewife Barbara (Beverly Bain) is being stalked by a blonde in a checked jacket and dark glasses, only saved from being slashed to pieces by unexpected appearance of a neighbour. Husband Jonathan (Cliff Fields), an illustrator, is often away to Los Angeles on business so she’s lonely and the marriage is under strain.

Meanwhile, Det Sgt Harmon (John Ireland) is investigating a potential murder. The tenant in the flat below heard a scuffle in the apartment above. But when the police arrive the only victim is a dog and, as we all know, it wasn’t a crime to kill a dog in the U.S. But someone else witnessed a trunk being dragged down the stairs from the apartment.

The trunk ends up in Barbara’s garage. Once the police start stitching clues together, the finger points at Jonathan. The dog was killed in his apartment (where he lives while working in L.A., home being too distant to commute) but his alibi stands up, and in the absence of a corpse it’s still no crime to kill a dog. But when Barbara opens the trunk with a screwdriver she doesn’t find a corpse, just drawings of a woman. Given that it’s Jonathan’s business to draw women she sees that as no big deal.

Jonathan’s father Dr Crane (John Hart), a psychiatrist, blames himself for his son’s marital problems, as it was his adultery that caused his own marriage break-up. Meanwhile, Barbara continues to be stalked, the killer getting a good deal closer. The cops feel Barbara is hiding something and if she is she doesn’t know what.

While she’s kept in suspense, the audience isn’t. Jonathan pulls on stockings and female apparel and kills his father. Once Barbara discovers her husband conversing with himself as both genders the game is soon up, but not before another terrifying chase.

Noir seems as good a genre as any for exploring the sexual psyche. That the misunderstood feel obliged to kill off anyone who knows them by their birth, rather than their desired, gender fits in with the notion often essential to noir of a criminal getting rid of traces of evidence. Given the era and the lack of gender exploration it would have been unfeasible to present a more sensible approach to the issue.

At the time I am guessing this was dismissed as sheer sexploitation. But, now, it appears to have considerably more depth. The afflicted repressed male with no way of expressing his female side coalesces with a movie maker with no way of tackling the subject in realistic fashion and so turns to the cliché of the person trying to start a new life by killing off all remnants of the old one. Although sold as a serial killer thriller, it’s nothing of the sort, Jonathan not on some sort of murderous spree as a result of repression.

As a bonus, there’s John Ireland (The Fall of the Roman Empire, 1964) and some humorous banter between the cops plus former B-picture star Elena Verdugo (How Sweet It Is, 1968), in her first movie in nearly a decade, as a boss.

Directed with some sensivity by John A. Bushelman (The Broken Land, 1962) from a screenplay by Leonard Goldstein in his only movie.

It’s definitely flawed, sexploitation is rarely anything else, but this falls on the right side of interesting. Viewed in a contemporary light, the sexploitation tag falls away, and it’s revealed as a more compassionate attempt to deal with what was then a taboo subject.

Ukryta Siec /Hidden Web (2023) *** – Seen at the Cinema

What appears a routine conspiracy thriller fleshed out with contemporary hooks about body shaming, victim shaming and the dark web suddenly explodes in the third act as consequence gets personal. If you’re of an arthouse bent you’ll equate Polish cinema with Andrzej Wadja (Man of Marble, 1977), Roman Polanski (Knife in the Water, 1962), Jerzy Kawalerowicz (Pharaoh, 1966) Krysztof Kieslowski (Three Colours Trilogy, 1993-1994) or Pawel Pawlikowski (Ida, 2013) and you’ve probably turned a blind eye to the boom in commercial Polish cinema of recent years, mostly concentrating on corrupt cops, gangsters, the Mafia, and strong-minded women.

Luckily, my local multiplex, which lacks arthouse inclination, has been running the biggest hits from Poland on a regular basis. The latest arrival lacks the bombast and outlandish narrative of previous entries and while following a standard investigative narrative eventually twists into a more personal reflection on crime.

Journalist Julita (Magdalena Kolesnik) investigating the suicide of well-known television presenter Gustaw (Mariusz Czajka) finds evidence of a murder plot. After publishing her story, she becomes an even bigger story when her sex video is made public. Her outraged editor demands she apologise for embarrassing the news website. When she refuses, she is fired. Widowed father Henryk (Andrzej Sweeryn) – wife committed suicide way back – disowns her, older sister Magda (Wiktoria Gordecka) chucks her out of her flat.

The journalist ploughs on, but hunting down her own hacker puts her back on target to uncover a man who could conceivably possess the computing skills – that once upon a time could have only existed in the fictional James Bond/Fast and Furious universe but now with the driverless car upon us less a figment of the imagination – to force the television presenter’s vehicle over a bridge. She’s more determined than resourceful, tempting a security guard out of his office by setting off a smoke alarm, escaping from another security guard by ramming his hands with a car door.

She is assisted by Chinese chef Emil (Piotr Trojan), a part-time computer whiz, whose Army background makes him a suspect. Eventually, with more digging and a good deal of luck, she finds the hacker. Instead of turning him in, she agrees to give him a stay of execution.

For why? He has evidence Gustaw was part of a child sex abuse ring of which the hacker was an early victim. He wants to employ more computer wizardry vigilante style to knock off another member of the abuse ring. He promises to stop after that, leaving it to Julita to make a decision on whether to go to the police.

I’m going to have to issue a spoiler otherwise this will just seem too routine a thriller. This is where it gets emotionally harrowing and spins completely on its axis, away from standard investigative journalism and into another realm entirely. The twist is that the hacker’s next victim, murdered by tampering with a dialysis machine, is her father. He was another legendary television figure. Now her mother’s suicide makes sense as does her sister’s reluctance to let her son anywhere near her grandfather.

Now what? Not enough to be the already humiliated daughter of a sex offender, but to realize the hidden role this has played in her family, and to decide whether further exposure would be in anybody’s interest.

Despite a car chase and being hounded, this doesn’t quite get to the boil in terms of conspiracy thriller as though director Piotr Adamski (Eastern, 2019) knew that the final act would blow everything that went before out of the water. But given this is the director’s sophomore outing and he didn’t want to go the all-out violence-ridden crime route, it’s tense enough and with some interesting news-room background, sniping colleagues, an editor pumping breast-milk at her desk, electronic scorecard ranking journos by the minute. Surprised, to be honest, some of the images that the censor passed.

But Magdalena Kolesnik (Sweat, 2020) plays this just right. Too self-reliant to be out of her box with fear, too independent to let her emotions get the better of her, meaning that when the big reveal hits she can dive into all that repressed emotion.

If you’ve not dipped into modern commercial Polish cinema, this is as good a place to start as any. If you’re already a fan, you’ll know what to expect, and come up somewhat shaken at how this pans out.

Worth a look.

The Equalizer 3 (2023) **** – Seen at the Cinema (three times)

Stylish, triumphant, conclusion to a vigilante series that stands comparison with John Wick as the best of the new century. Oddly enough, the pair share some motifs, not least a mountainous stairway to a medieval church. And there are nods to The Godfather, killings against the backdrop of a religious procession and fruit spilling onto a corpse, a dagger pinning a hand to a table. And you might find shades of Apocalypse Now in the brooding remorseful figure of Robert McCall (Denzel Washington) convalescing in a remote fishing village in southern Italy. And it’s fully contemporary with a nod to the power of the mobile phone in depicting live events.

For an actioner it’s chockful of mystery. To begin with, you think we’re at the end, the aftermath of some gun battle, but, in fact, it’s just the start. Quite why McCall has ended up in a Mafia fiefdom in Sicily is held back till the end as is explanation regarding helping young C.I.A. agent Emma (Dakota Fanning) track down Mafia drug dealers, both narrative hooks adding to the subtlety and nuance that filters through this reflective actioner. Sure, there’s brutality, when is there not with McCall around, but there’s also reality, marvellously evocative scenes of village life, the vigilante sipping his trademark tea in a café, buying fresh-caught fish, joining exuberant locals celebrating a famous win at soccer.

Assisted by local physician Enzo (Remo Arisio) and local cop Gio (Eugenio Mastandrea) in recovering from a life-threatening bullet-wound, it’s all McCall can do to hobble down the steps with the aid of a walking stick. No Rocky-style reinvention dynamics here, no weight-training or running regime, no taking to the target range. When McCall struggles up a flight of steps your heart is in your mouth.

Meanwhile, a story unfolds of a power grab, legitimate and illegitimate, by Mafia chief Vincent (Andrea Scarduzio). But when the gangster’s younger brother Marco (Andrea Dodero) pushes his weight around once too often in McCall’s presence the rumbling volcano starts to erupt. But in temperate fashion to begin with, McCall relying on being able to locate a particular nerve (a physical one) enough to send the young thug scarpering.

Worth noting that the movie avoids two obvious traps. Agent Emma isn’t fighting a gender war, she’s no feminist battling for approval from male counterparts; in fact, if anything, she’s accorded full praise for her work and makes sure that she never acknowledges McCall’s input to her superiors, which seems even more realistic.

You might expect by now that widower McCall would be ripe for romance but though waitress Aminah (Gaia Scodellaro) takes a shine to him that goes little further than a pleasant walk along the beach sampling local delicacies. So you might also expect that, sticking to the core, this would be just a lean rip-off sequel. Instead, it’s rich in composition and detail. Many scenes play out in what appears to be atmospheric black-and-white. While not in the operatic league of John Wick 4, it’s a joy to watch.

Plenty bang for your buck but an interesting storyline that meshes drugs, terrorism and the Mafia. Deceptively subtle performance from Denzel Washington (The Magnificent Seven, 2016). He could have coasted home with his brooding persona. Instead, he walks like a man half-dead, reacts as if bewildered to still be alive, and finds he is no longer an outsider. Dakota Fanning (Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, 2019) plays down her role, there are no dramatic fireworks, she’s a confident individual, not giving an inch in her quiet duel with McCall, but no histrionics either.

Long-lasting director-actor teamings generally bring richer rewards as the partnership grows. This is the fifth film for Washington and Antoine Fuqua, beginning with Training Day (2001) and incorporating The Magnificent Seven and the two previous Equalizer outings. It has the feel of a famous partnership along the lines of John Wayne-John Ford, James Stewart-Anthony Mann and Gregory Peck-Henry King.

Nod to Richard Wenk, third time in the writer’s chair, for the screenplay and espcially to Marcelo Zarvos (Emancipation, 2022) for a score that combines haunting theme tune and screeching guitar for the action.

I was so taken with this I’ve already seen it three times. Might well head back a fourth time next week for more nuance – and more bang.

The Frightened City (1961) ***

Sean Connery in an early role as a gangster is not the only reason for watching this brisk British thriller about a London protection racket. Primarily told from the point-of-view of the bad guys, this explores how a ruthless Mr Big builds up a criminal empire. Waldo (Herbert Lom), a bent accountant, brings together the six major gangs involved in extorting money from pubs and stores into a democratically-run syndicate. He then moves on to demanding bigger sums from bigger enterprises such as construction businesses. However, when the gangsters fall out they go to war.

This film is way ahead of the game in presenting gangsters as displaying any intelligence. Generally, they were depicted as brutes who ruled by force. But criminality at the top level demanded as much organization as in a legitimate business. Personalities had to be harnessed to work together rather than shoot each other on sight. Such skills had to exist in order for gangsters to operate on any scale. This picture examines how this was done.

The cops led by Det Insp Sayers (John Gregson) are almost a sub-plot and the story would have adequately run its course without their involvement. Sayers sails close to the wind in hoping to “tilt the scale of justice in our direction for a change.” Paddy (Sean Connery) doesn’t appear until about 20 minutes as a karate-expert cat-burglar turned enforcer. Paddy’s involvement with the syndicate ends when his code of honor is breached and he turns on his employers. His code is not so sacrosanct that it prevents him cheating on girlfriend Sadie (Olive McFarland). But he does display the virility to fill James Bond’s shoes.

There’s far more violence that would be expected in a British crime picture of the era. Night clubs, shops and pubs are wrecked and there’s plenty of fisticuffs and when the gangsters go head-to-head they upgrade to grenades. There’s a bit more plot than the running time can deal with so director (and producer and co-writer, along with Leigh Vance of Crossplot, 1969, fame) John Lemont occasionally resorts to cliché devices like newspaper headlines. Canadian Lemont – most famous for writing the first serial on ITV, Sixpenny Corner – was an auteur of the old-fashioned (and unheralded) kind, and previously writer-director of The Shakedown (1960).

Top billing was a step up for Herbert Lom (Gambit, 1966) and he made the most of it, delivering a suave villain among the thugs. John Gregson (Night of the Generals, 1967) Table, 1959) was a solid British star and ideal cop material (he was later British television’s Gideon). Yvonne Romaine, as Connery’s new squeeze, a nightclub singer exploited by Lom more for her looks than her voice, was known to audiences after Curse of the Werewolf (1961). This was a sophomore outing for Scottish television actress Olive McFarland (So Evil So Young, 1961). Unusually, for a British picture at this time, the theme tune written by Norrie Paramour was covered by The Shadows and turned into a hit.

At this point in his career, Connery had already had two bites of the cherry without much success – romancing Lana Turner in Another Time, Another Place (1958) and Disney’s Darby O’Gill and the Little People (1959). He would make another three films before his breakthrough with Dr No (1962) but the Pressbook showed signs that he was headed for the heights. Co-star Yvonne Romaine (and her distinctive body measurements) were accorded three separate stories in the Pressbook, compared to one each for Lom and Alfred Marks, at that point better known as a comedian. While no articles about Connery were featured, when it came to the advertising campaign Connery (and Romaine) outshone their co-stars.

Producers were contractually bound in relation to the size of credits that appeared on any advertising. But there were no such regulations regarding the visuals of an advert. Although top-billed, Lom is not shown on any of the adverts. Given greatest prominence was Yvonne Romaine. There were thirteen different ads and she appeared in them all. Although Connery was third-billed and she was two rungs below in the credit stakes, he was the junior partner when it came to the artwork. While, Connery appeared in eleven in only one did he overshadow Romaine and in another they were visually-speaking accorded roughly the same status. But otherwise, she hogged the adverts.

The Pressbook was small by American standards, consisting of six A3 pages, the bulk of which was given over to adverts. But what it lacked in pages it made up for in taglines – of which there were six main types.

The picture was not seen much in the United States, sent out in first run as the lower half of a double bill in only a handful of big cities, so there’s a fair chance it’s completely unknown except to Connery completists. It later appeared on the reissue circuit when Connery was a bigger name.

Worth a look as an example of the British crime movie trying to break out of the confines of the genre, and even more so as an early example of the Connery screen charisma.

The Killers (1964) ****

Angie Dickinson (Jessica, 1962) is the standout as the cold-blooded double-crossing femme fatale in this slick tale of a double heist. Sure, Lee Marvin (The Professionals, 1966) attracted the bulk of the critical attention as the no-nonsense hitman and John Cassavetes (Machine Gun McCain, 1969) attempts to steal the show as the dupe, but Dickinson walks away with it. Although he makes a vicious entrance, Marvin really only tops and tails the movie.

Violence wasn’t the marketable commodity it proved later in the decade, and this was initially made with television in mind, so it’s surprising how stunning the brutality remains today. In the opening sequence, set in a home for the blind, hitmen Charlie (Lee Marvin) and Lee (Clu Gulager) knock around a sightless receptionist before moving on to shooting at point-blank range their victim, ex-racing driver Johnny North (John Cassavettes). But when they get to thinking why they were paid way over the odds to shoot North, they discover he was involved in a million-dollar heist and before you can say flashback we tumble into the story of how gangster’s moll Sheila (Angie Dickinson) lured him into participating in the robbery organized by boyfriend Jack (Ronald Reagan).

There’s nothing particularly complicated about Jack’s plan – hijacking a mail truck on a remote road – but the movie takes its sweet time getting there, focusing on Johnny’s racetrack antics and on Sheila nudging Johnny into the illegal kind of pole position. She’s pretty convincing as the all het-up lover to the extent of persuading Johnny to double-cross Jack but her convictions only run one way – to whatever best suits herself.

Eventually, it appears as if the million bucks has disappeared into thin air. Jack presents himself as an honest businessman, but Sheila only holds to the party line for as long as it takes the hitmen to dangle her from a fourth-storey window. But gangsters are rarely as amenable or as dumb as the schmucks they snooker, so Jack is more than able to take care of himself and his property (counting the loot and Sheila in that category).

There might be twists a-plenty but the main narrative thrust is which way will Sheila spin? Was she ever even in love with Johnny? Or having snared Johnny and then managed to convince him to double-cross Jack did she plan to run off with the money herself? Or was she going to double-cross him all along once his usefulness was over?

And even if her heart is in the right place, then that’s plain tragic, stuck with the lout, unable to break free, perhaps playing all the alpha males off against each other her only hope of maintaining her fine lifestyle while not ending up another casualty.

A surprising chunk of time is spent on the racecourse, not just building up the romance and endorsing Johnny’s driving skills, and as well as the tension of a specific race – and the possibility that too much loving could fatally damage the driver’s track ambitions – you are kept in some kind of narrative limbo as you keep wondering when the heck the killers are going to re-enter the equation.

Don (here credited as Donald) Siegel (Coogan’s Bluff, 1968) directs with considerable aplomb, especially as this carries a television-movie-sized budget and that he hadn’t had a stab at a decent picture since making his initial mark with Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956). From the iconic opening shot of a pair of dark sunglasses to the sad greed-soaked finale, Siegel’s brilliant use of sound and movement plays in stark contrast to moments of stillness and silence. Throw in aerial tracking sequences, realistic race scenes, and one bold shot of a handgun being pointed at the audience (a similar shot in his Dirty Harry, 1971, ruffled more feathers and generated more critical note).

But the director’s cleverest ploy is to introduce the hitman, then dive elsewhere, leaving audiences begging for more. So it’s just as well that Angie Dickinson delivers in spades. You need to believe she could be as conniving as she is seductive for the entire tale to work. She is the linchpin far more than Lee Marvin.

And that’s to take nothing away from his performance, a far cry from the over-the-top villains of The Commancheros (1961) and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), setting up the template for the later quiet-spoken thug of Point Blank (1967).

As highly watchable as this is, it wasn’t a career breakout for any concerned. Lee Marvin was just a supporting actor on Ship of Fools (1965) and far from first choice for Cat Ballou (1965), the movie that did make his name. Don Siegel wasn’t offered another movie for four years. Angie Dickinson tumbled down the credits, reduced to second female lead in The Art of Love (1965) and working in television or in movies as a supporting actor until the low-budget The Last Challenge/Pistolero of Red River (1967).

Ronald Reagan bowed out of the movies after this. Clu Gulager, who had a running role in The Virginian (1963-1968) only made three movies in the next seven years.

Gene Coon (Journey to Shiloh, 1968) adapted the short story by Ernest Hemingway which when previously filmed in 1946 marked the debut of Burt Lancaster with the sultry Ava Gardner as the femme fatale.

Striking, tense, and a must for fans of Dickinson, Marvin and Siegel.

Five Golden Dragons (1967) ***

Producer Harry Alan Towers, himself something of a legend, had put together a quite superb cast – rising Eurostar Klaus Kinski (A Bullet for the General, 1967), Hollywood veterans Robert Cummings (Dial M for Murder, 1954), George Raft (Scarface, 1932), Dan Duryea (Black Bart, 1948) and Brian Donlevy (The Great McGinty, 1940) plus British horrormeister Christopher Lee and Rupert Davies (television’s Maigret). Throw in Margaret Lee (Secret Agent, Super Dragon, 1966) and Austrians Maria Perschy (Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill, 1966) and Maria Rohm (Venus in Furs, 1969).

And all in aid of an enjoyable thriller set in Hong Kong that dances between genuine danger and spoof. I mean, what can you make of a chase involving rickshaws? Or a race over bobbing houseboats parked in a harbor? There’s a Shakespeare-quoting cop Sanders (Rupert Davies) whose sidekick Inspector Chiao (Tom Chiao) often out-quotes him. And there’s British-born Margaret Lee, a cult figure in Italian circles, belting out the title song and just for the hell of it Japanese actress Yukari Ito in a cameo as a nightclub singer.

A newly arrived businessman is chucked off the top of a building by an associate of gangster Gert (Klaus Kinski) but not before leaving a note that falls into the hands of the police. The note says, “Five Golden Dragons” and is addressed to playboy Bob (Robert Cummings) for no particular reason. No matter. A MacGuffin is still a MacGuffin, and probably best if left unexplained.

Bob is soon involved anyway after falling for two beautiful sisters, Ingrid (Maria Rohm) and Margret (Maria Perschy). Turns out Margret knows more about Bob than he would like, and knows too much for her own good, namely that the titular dragons are the heads of an evil syndicate, specializing in gold trafficking, meeting for the first time in Hong Kong in order to organize the handover of their empire to the Mafia for a cool $50 million

In a nod at the spy genre, there are secret chambers opened by secret levers. There are double-crosses, chases, confrontations, not to mention a a trope of sunglasses being whipped off, voluntarily I might add. Apart from breaks here and there for a song or two, director Jeremy Summers (Ferry Across the Mersey, 1964) keeps the whole enterprise zipping along, even if he is stuck with Cummings.

In truth, Cummings (Stagecoach, 1966) is a bit of a liability, acting-wise. While the rest of the cast takes the film seriously, he acts as if he’s a Bob Hope throwback, cracking wisecracks when confronted with danger or beautiful women, or, in fact, most of the time, which would be fine if he wasn’t a couple of decades too old (he was 57) to carry off the part of a playboy and if the jokes were funny.

Towers (under the pseudonym Peter Welbeck responsible for the screenplay, loosely based on an Edgar Wallace story) was a maverick but prolific British producer who would graduate to the likes of Call of the Wild (1972) with Charlton Heston but at this point was churning out exotic thrillers (The Face of Fu Manchu, 1965) and mysteries (Ten Little Indians, 1965) and had a good eye for what made a movie tick. This one ticks along quite nicely never mind the bonus of a sinister George Raft and the likes of Margaret Lee and Maria Rohm (Towers’ wife).

Cult contender that doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Red (2008) ****

Not that Red. Not that Brian Cox. In fact, this slow-burn low-key character-driven revenge drama preceded both the Bruce Willis-Morgan Freeman-Helen Mirren-Brian Cox actioner and the elevation of Cox to small-screen megastar via Succession. And, of course, it was made long before everyone was selling their soul to streamers. So, it’s odd just what a perfect fit it makes for watching on television.

Don’t expect the loud-mouthed arrogant bully of Succession or the sometime scene-stealing that went with being an under-employed supporting actor for most of Cox’s career and think back to the quiet intensity of Manhunter (1986) and you get a pretty good idea of how this is pitched.

Widower Avery (Brian Cox) is enjoying a quiet spot of fishing accompanied by his dog Red when his idyll is interrupted by shotgun-toting tearaway Danny (Noel Fisher), his brother Pete (Shiloh Fernandez) and buddy Harold (Kyle Gallner). On finding the old man doesn’t have enough cash on him to fund a decent meal, Danny shoots the dog.

Now, legally, there’s not much you can do Stateside when someone murders a dog, bearing in mind this is in the days before John Wick found an illegal solution to the problem. Pinning a $100 fine or a few days jail time is as much as Avery could reasonably expect. But in Smalltown USA when the culprit’s father is well-connected unreasonable businessman McCormick (Tom Sizemore), legal recourse or even journalistic exposure is going to be hard to come by. An apology, any sign of remorse, might swing it as far as Avery is concerned but not only is McCormick disinclined to believe his son is guilty of such a misdemeanor, he’s likely to come out fighting.

Although an ex-soldier, and despite possessing a neat little armory of his own, Avery isn’t Rambo-inclined. But he can’t let the random death alone, especially because the dog was a gift – again John Wick-style – from his wife before her unexpected death. And even this would probably not trigger much more than a severe grinding of the teeth or hitting the bottle except McCormick ramps up the stakes, driving Avery off the road and burning down his business. Even then, Avery would probably settle for a smattering of justice, not a fire-fight.

If McCormick or the kid had any idea just how diligent Avery is – he does his own detective work and proves an expert in hand-to-hand combat – he might have backed off but then that would have meant acknowledging parental responsibility and a son going awry. What’s so interesting about this picture beyond that it avoids the slam-bang approach, is the subtlety. Avery knows all about wayward children and that tragedy from his own life is seeded into the narrative without taking it over.

Similarly, it doesn’t dive down the rabbit-hole of a crusading journalist. When small-time reporter Carrie (Kim Dickens) does come into the scene, she’s not promising Pulitzer Prize glory, recognizes that McCormick will have more pull than her with her bosses, and for the most part she’s the necessary ear for the reclusive Avery to unload his pain.

Social media might well have done the narrative trick. Imagine local horror at seeing a well-to-do businessman tarred-and-feathered across social media, the do-gooders would be up in arms. But that’s not an option here. And although Carrie is more hard-bitten than Avery would like, she’s not hard-bitten enough to exploit his previous tragedy as a way of getting her story on the front pages of every newspaper in the country, even if it was only for the irony of the situation.

Nor, despite them sharing a companionable drink, and Carrie clearly liking the old buffer, is there any suggestion of budding romance, or if there is, that’s also hovering on the periphery. One glance at John Wick and you note the dramatic traps skipped over. Only one false step – the trite ending.

So, instead of full-tilt boogie action, we have a thoughtful drama presenting the various deeper shades of Brian Cox that generally remained hidden for the bulk of his career.

When it turned up in the “new release” section of Amazon Prime, I mistakenly imagined this was a new movie cashing in on Cox’s late-career newfound fame and imagined it was another project churned out in Streamerland. I tuned in with expectations of Cox cashing in on said fame, but was surprised to find a finely-wrought drama rather than a crime thriller.

Kim Dickens (Gone Girl, 2014) follows Cox’s low-key approach but Tom Sizemore (Breakout, 2023) can’t resist over-acting. Noel Fisher, in case you wondered, found fame in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014 iteration).

Two directors were involved so I’m assuming Lucky McKee (The Woman, 2011), who was fired, wasn’t so much responsible for the dark-lit look as Trygve Allister Deisen, in his only movie so far. Jack Ketchum (The Woman ) and Stephen Susco (The Grudge, 2004) worked out the screenplay.

Fascinating performance by Brian Cox in an story that takes the interesting rather than easy route.

The Money Trap (1965) ****

Film noir morality play. Highly under-rated, especially unfair since all four principals put in excellent performances, plus a nifty screenplay, and generally erratic director Burt Kennedy on very solid cinematic ground, even if he has a predilection for showing legs, and not just of the female variety.

Film noir is at its best when the plot is simple, usually good guy inveigled into taking a wrong turn through avarice, revenge or a femme fatale. This takes an unusual route. Idealistic cop Joe (Glenn Ford) worries beautiful wealthy spendthrift wife Lisa (Elke Sommer) will abandon him for a richer guy since her allowance has dried up.

Assuming she is already making her play, Joe has a one-night stand with old flame Rosalie (Rita Hayworth), a lush married to a murdered burglar. His partner Pete (Ricardo Montalban), envious of his buddy’s wealth, blackmails him into robbing the safe of Mafia doctor Van Tilden (Joseph Cotten) who, in self-defence, killed the burglar. Meanwhile, as contrast, the pair are investigating the murder of a sex worker trying to earn extra money to shore up her husband’s miserable income.

While it’s got all the requisite of film noir, atmospheric use of light given it’s shot in black-and-white, that unusual footage of legs, and feet, especially when Rosalie is followed by Tilden’s thug Matthews (Tom Reese), cunning villain, the unexpected twist, neither of the femmes it transpires is much of a fatale, greater backbone than you might expect.

But mostly, it focuses on decision and consequence. Will Joe accept he could lose his wife, will Lisa make the jump into a lower standard of living in order to hold onto her husband, or will Joe distrust that his wife can change and find a way to bring the loot he thinks will keep her satisfied? Lack of trust all round proves their undoing.

There’s the usual, silent, heist, though quite where Joe and Pete acquired their safecracking skills is never discussed. It is the perfect robbery, a dodgy doctor unlikely to call in the cops, especially as they might get suspicious as to just why he is such a common burglary target. Except it’s not. For what’s in the safe is too hot for any cop and Van Tilden, more streetwise than the police, is always one step ahead. Instead of it being the greedy Lisa who could ruin their otherwise stable and loving marriage, it’s Joe.

There are a handful of clever twists, not least that Joe’s dalliance with Rosalie signs her death warrant, but I won’t give those away. It’s too tightly told to spoil it. That’s part of the beauty here, it’s a neat 90 minutes, short and to the point, temptation and consequence.

If ever there was an actor under-rated during this decade it’s Glenn Ford (Rage, 1966). He was hardly ever cast in a big-budget picture except as part of an “all-star cast”, and mostly, given the extravagances elsewhere, in A-pictures whose budgets in reality turned them into B-pictures, and he ended the decade in a rut of westerns, all as under-rated as him. But he brought a tremendous intensity to every role, equally believable as romantic hero and potential heel, and in action, as here, he moves with lethal speed. He had a unusual gift as an actor – you always knew he was thinking. And was very likely to be saying one thing and thinking or meaning another.

Here he acts his socks off. You wonder just what has he got to live in such a fancy house with a rich gorgeous damsel and it doesn’t take long to find out his attraction to him, that right stuff that would rarely come an heiress’s way, more likely to trundle her way through endless marriages and affairs seeking a stability that wealth does not bring.

Elke Sommer (They Came To Rob Las Vegas, 1968) is a revelation, mostly because the script builds her a proper character, loving wife temporarily distracted by potential loss of wealth, but knowing enough about her husband to recognise she’s be better off with him than without him.

Rita Hayworth (The Happy Thieves, 1961) makes the most of her last meaningful role, not lit to shimmering glory by a black-and-white camera, but while shown at her blowsy physical worst redeemed by mental strength. Ricardo Montalban (Cheyenne Autumn, 1964) , usually relegated to a supporting role, provides not only the narrative impetus, but his character twists and turns throughout. Joseph Cotten (Petulia, 1968) has cold blood running through his veins.

This is early-promise Burt Kennedy (Dirty Dingus Magee, 1970) and with a tight script by Walter Bernstein (Fail Safe, 1964) delivers a surprisingly effective very late period film noir.

Terrific acting, by twisty plot held in check by realistic consequence.