Crime/Thriller – Page 2 – The Magnificent 60s

10 Rillington Place (1971) ****

We tend to view Anthony Hopkins as the bold game-changer when he switched from respectable upmarket leading man to Hannibal the Erudite Cannibal in The Silence of the Lambs, paving the way for a plethora of other stars to throw off the shackles of their screen personas. But, in fact, it was another Englishman, Richard Attenborough, equally well-known for exuding principle (and raffish charm when playing a con man in Only When I Larf, 1968), who broke that particular mold.

At the time, the impetus for the picture was the miscarriage of justice which saw innocent Timothy Evans hanged for the crimes of serial killer John Christie, a name that belongs in the British murderer premier league along with the likes of Dr Crippen and Jack the Ripper. The Ludovic Kennedy book on which the film was based was by now a decade old, but it had taken that long for the British censor to clear the subject for filming and to find a star who was not already a well-known screen villain and prevent the film tipping over into sensationalism.

So although Timothy Evans (John Hurt) is the unwitting dupe, the focus is more on the cunning of the killer Christie (Richard Attenborough) who manipulates the class system. Nobody would contemplate the notion of a well-spoken upright middle-class war hero being capable of the lurid killings. And the idea of repeat victims in a Britain still rejoicing in its notions of “fair play” was equally abhorrent.

So while we don’t quite get to the nub of why Christie was so obsessed with murder, he remains a fascinating character rather than a demonic villain. And this is grubby, not tourist, post-War London where poverty is endemic and workshy ill-educated rogues are apt to be taken advantage of and easily caught.

That Christie evaded suspicion, never mind capture, for so long – his crime spree began during the London Blitz of the Second World War – was a credit to his presentation of himself as much as police disinterest or ineptitude and public disbelief at the scale of the killings. That Christie remained free for so long was because Evans was such an idiot, caught out in countless lies and eventually confessing to the crimes. You can see the connection between Christie and Hannibal Lecter (in his control of fellow prisoners) in the hold they have over the less well-educated and easily-led.

Christie, literally, got away with murder simply because, to police eyes, Evans was a more obvious villain. The narrative obscures the worst part of his tendencies, implied necrophilia and sex with unconscious women. In another life he might well have been presented as the down-on- his-luck old codger who only required a break to right himself.

The wonder of Attenborough’s performance is that he doesn’t exude menace. Even as he’s trapping victims he comes over as trustworthy. His creepiness only grows on the audience once they are invited to see the part of him that his victims do not.

It’s a testament to Attenborough’s conviction in the part that you never notice how much he loathes the character. He only took on the role as part of a campaign to prevent the return of capital punishment. Critics clearly disapproved and their plaudits were reserved for John Hurt (Sinful Davey, 1969) in the more showy role. These days, thanks to Hannibal Lecter, audiences are more inclined to be more considerate towards actors playing irredeemable characters.

Director Richard Fleischer had been here twice before with Compulsion (1959) and The Boston Strangler (1968) and to his credit that he approached it in a low-key fashion eschewing the verbal gymnastics of Orson Welles of the former and the false nose of Tony Curtis and split screen of the latter. John Hurt is excellent and Judy Geeson (Three into Two Won’t Go, 1969) has a small part.

Most films about serial killers at this point in sub-genre’s history tended to follow an investigation or a courtroom drama – Psycho (1960) while initially focusing on victim and thence the killer quickly turned into an investigation. But this is primarily concerned with the actions of the murderer, who unravels as the movie proceeds, and is brought to justice when the general finger of suspicion, rather than the result of a detailed investigation, points to him.

Richard Attenborough created the template for the outwardly-respectable killer. Interestingly, Attenborough had previously played the more typical killer, the immediately loathsome gang-leader Pinkie in Brighton Rock (1948). Written by Clive Exton (Isadora, 1968).

Well worth it to soak up the creepiness that gently begins to subsume the character.

Legends (2026) **** – Seen on Netflix

It’s astonishing that Netflix with the gazillions at their disposal can be guaranteed to generate surprise at their ability to turn out two more-than-halfway-decent series in a week. As you might expect, given this genre is their trump card, it’s another true crime venture. And in the exceptionally capable hands of Scottish writer Neil Forsyth (The Gold, 20234) it’s a cracker.

Not so unusually it’s set in the underworld arena of the British drugs trade. But, very unusually, despite the gazillions of minutes devoted to this part of the sordid genre, it takes us somewhere new. Back in time, to the 1990s. Miles away from the usual world-weary cops and instead into Customs and Excise. Miles away, too, from South East Asian, Eastern European or South American gangs, heading for the unfamiliar domain of the Turkish-dominated section of London.

You can tell when Netflix sticks out a new release under the radar. It only comes with one poster instead of several poster images. So I’m making do with the book on which it is based. Don’t ask me if the Guy named as the author is the same Guy as in the series because the television Guy comes absent a surname.

Recruitment consultants would dearly love to be able to emulate the approach of maverick customs boss Don (Steve Coogan) in selecting an undercover team to infiltrate a heroin operation. Anyone who so much as asks any questions at all is deemed surplus to requirements.

By undercover standards, the team is minute. Don in charge, gruff Guy (Tom Burke) is sent into London, Kate (Hayley Squires) and Bailey (Aml Ameen) to Liverpool with Erin (Jasmine Blackborrow) manning the desk, chasing up intel (in a pre-internet world) and keeping the woke quotient down.

Don’s boss Blake (Douglas Hodge) pops up every now and then to placate the Home Secretary (Alex Jennings) who is jumpy at allocating so much dough to a mission he’s kept in the dark about. Half the time of course the undercover agents are living on their wits, hoping they can remember every aspect of their fake lives – one mistake and on something as inconsequential as football minutiae and someone will torch your wife and child.

We don’t quite know what scars Don bears from his previous undercover outings, but while their weight condemns him to a solitary life, they come in useful when detecting whether his new charges are going to implode. Excitement and the whiff of danger seem to over-ride the prospect of personal cost.

Not surprisingly, victims come into focus. But exactly which victim does take you by surprise, especially in the face of their reaction. We watch a squaddie become hooked on heroin and when he dies the anguish on his father’s face, even half-hidden behind his spectacles, is very moving. The kicker is the dad is a heroin-dealer.

There’s various Succession tropes, as an Irish duo try to muscle in on the territory of Liverpool gangland boss Carter (Tom Hughes) and underling Zeki (Joshua Samuels) making an unwise move against the Turkish drugs leader.

In among this is a bunch of the playing of hunches and dogged detective work, the hidden clue, the unexpected missing link – you’ve acquired the code to get into a drugs stronghold, not realizing you required a different one to get out. Anytime Don is hampered by bureaucracy he takes the nuclear option and some idiot gets his ear chewed out by Blake.

What makes it work most of all is that the bulk of these characters are new to us. Their motivations remain obscure, the backgrounds rarely in focus, but when they are they can shift in the opposite direction.

The acting is first class. I never rated Steve Coogan (Saipan, 2025) before but I do now. Plummy voice is erased, tendency to overact gone and in its place a tortured human being with a mind that races along like a zipwire. Tom Burke (Black Bag, 2025) combines Steve McQueen charm with Lee Marvin menace. Douglas Hodge (We Live in Time, 2024) has taken on the Trevor Howard mantle of the character most likely to explode in fury.

But most of the plaudits should go to showrunner Neil Forsyth.

Keep it up, Netflix.

Jungle Street / Jungle Street Girls (1961) ***

More social document than thriller. Two elements make it stand out. Critics pointed to the likes of kitchen sink drama Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960) as exemplifying the British working class. Equally, when looking for a picture that identified the British criminal, critics and academics were more likely to point to Robbery (1967) and Get Carter (1971) where the villains demonstrated considerable intelligence, leadership and acumen.

Let’s get the social aspects out the way first. Petty thief Terry Collins (David McCallum) still lives with his parents. He argues with his father, is mollycoddled by his mother. There’s a fry-up for breakfast. The kitchen doubles as the dining area. Excitement is limited to winning the Pools (a football-based version of the current Lottery) and going to the cinema. His father (Thomas Collins) has worked all his life shifting sacks of potatoes (presumably in a market). But he’s not disillusioned with life. He’s brought up his family and can still spend time down in the pub.

Terry is a delusional gangster. But only a part-time one, making his living working in a garage, having chucked in his factory job. He thinks he can make a big score and run off to Europe to live the high life. He’s in love with stripper Sue (Jill Ireland) who doesn’t respond to his romancing. She’s taken to stripping because her lover Johnny (Kenneth Cope) is serving a one-year stretch for a jewel robbery.

People always seem to be laughing at Terry and he reacts violently. But he’s not the rough-tough dominant male he aspires to be. Three times he gets whacked about the face, twice by criminal colleagues, once by Sue.

Inadvertently, he’s killed an old man while robbing him. So the police are on his tail. Johnny’s been released from prison, reclaiming Sue, and wants to know what happened to his share of the loot from the jewel heist in which Terry was his partner. To compensate, Terry offers to set up a robbery of the safe at the strip club whose routines he has studied.

Once the safe has been opened, he clatters Johnny over the head, and scarpers with the cash, makes for Sue, and is astonished when she refuses to accompany him. Eventually, the police catch up and another deluded petty criminal bites the dust.

Initially, of course, the audience sides with our young lad, understands his need to escape the boredom of ordinary life that awaits. But, gradually, he provides little to root for.

Given the regular sequences of girls stripping, the running time is even leaner than usual. The heist has some considerable moments of tension especially when the watchman, bound hand and foot, inches along the floor to the alarm button, and then when Terry appears trapped before jumping out a window.

There’s nothing glamorous about the strip club either, Sue having to constantly ward off the unwelcome advances of owner Jacko (John Chandos) and every other customer who thinks a stripper is morally lax. Even though she’s kept herself for Johnny, he doesn’t believe her. Some girls know how to play the system, a new stripper not giving in to Jacko until he’s spelled out the financial benefits.

The seediness of the lower depths is depicted well and it’s not hard to see how young men and young women are easily snookered into this kind of existence when the alternative is so mind-numbingly boring.

David McCallum (Sol Madrid/The Heroin Gang, 1968) and real-life wife Jill Ireland (Cold Sweat, 1970) are both convincing, exuding surprising emotional depth. Kenneth Cope (Randall and Hopkirk Deceased/My Partner the Ghost, TV series 1969-1970) is on hand to show the young ingenue what it means to be a proper tough guy.

Charles Saunders (Danger on My Side, 1962) directs from a script by Alexander Dore (The Wind of Change, 1961) and Guido Coen (Baby Love, 1969).

More interesting as a character study than as a thriller.

Should I Marry A Murderer? (2026) **** – Seen on Netflix

A great title for the most compelling true crime television tale since Staircase (2004). And for much the same reason. The main character is tricky. We are accustomed to fictional characters being economical, flexible or downright evasive when dealing with the truth and it seems that trend has spread out to non-fiction.

The odd thing is that this should be a straightforward, if tense, narrative. And it only turns into something else entirely thanks to the central character.

The story beings in 2017 when charity cyclist Tony Parsons goes missing. For some reason – in the dead of night – he’s been traversing the remote twisting narrow roads near the Bridge of Orchy in the Scottish Highlands. Despite a massive manhunt he’s never found.

Fast forward to 2020 and forensic pathologist Dr Caroline Muirhead. She’s in that neck of the woods seeking romance having met on Tinder farm worker and hunter Sandy McKellar, who lives on the private Auch Estate with twin Robert. When not skinning deer they enjoy a party lifestyle. It’s a speedy courtship. After a few months she’s engaged and in the way of many a fiancé wonders if her potential partner harbors any secrets. She’s thinking an ex-wife, maybe a couple of kids squirreled away.

She’s not expecting him to fess up to having mown down Parsons while drunk and then burying the body. Later adding, the victim was still alive, if only briefly, after being knocked down. Fear of drink driving charges clearly were behind the burying.

So now we should be into the straightforward, thrilling, part. How does our heroine impart this information to the cops? Will they even believe her? She’s no idea where the body is buried. Bear in mind, too, she’s still in love with Sandy and can’t get her head round the fact that her handsome kind six-foot Highlander could be guilty of such a deed.

So then we get to the clever bit. She gets him to indicate roughly where the body might be buried – the twins used a digger so a fair amount of earth would have been shifted – and then, inspired, she finds way to roughly mark the spot with an empty drinks can.

But then we get entangled as she gets caught up in her emotions. Instead of running a mile from a callous murderer, she continues to live with him. Sandy is pulled in for questioning but without a body the case is going nowhere. The car that knocked him down is also long gone. The police carry out a lot of spadework and there’s elements of excitement when the cops prowl around the twins’ cottage armed to the teeth like they are breaking into a terrorist stronghold.

Caroline’s parents and the cops can’t work why she hasn’t run a mile. Sandy has no idea who’s fingered him so naturally he welcomes the solace she offers. She can’t explain to camera – and it’s mostly her talking to camera – why she can’t give him up. She’s just come out of an abusive relationship but no idea the previous boyfriend was in Sandy’s league.

Whether it’s fear of Sandy finding out or fear of losing him, she begins to unravel, so much so that she jeopardizes the eventual trial when, as the star witness for the prosecution, she fails to turn up on the opening day. She’s clearly such a liability that the prosecution cut and run, dropping the murder charge in favor of a lesser charge, still a prison sentence but a lot less severe.

And still we never find out what was in her mind. It’s enigma to the nth scale. Certainly, she vulnerable. But despite solving the case and bringing the killers to justice, she’s never hailed as the heroine because the rest of her behavior remains so baffling.

Naturally, this plays like a thriller, with plenty twists along the way, so it’s an easy watch in that regard. But it’s a very difficult watch in another sense, in that plainly someone is taking advantage of a vulnerable woman who wants to tell the story her way and perhaps, as she sees it, clear her name.

Just like Staircase or the recent Michael, you wonder what else might come out if the film-makers were more rigorous in pursuit and not so hogtied to the central character.

She mixes up so much making the right decisions with taking the wrong ones that you half expect there’s going to be a terrible tragic ending.

Certainly riveting stuff and what Netflix does best.

The Parallax View (1974) ****

The shocking ending ensures the need to re-evaluate everything you have seen. The middle film in Alan J. Pakula’s paranoia trilogy – after Klute (1971) with All the President’s Men (1976) to come – is a dark (in more ways than one) reflection in essence on the John F. Kennedy assassination. The superbly stylish, on occasion over-stylised, cinematography carries an undercurrent of fear.

Ambitious reporter Joe (Warren Beatty) investigates the notion that too many witnesses, including ex-girlfriend Lee (Paula Prentiss), to a senatorial assassination have been dying. Joe’s boss Bill (Hume Cronyn), while turning up acceptable reasons for each death, reluctantly backs him. Other witnesses such as Tucker (William Daniels) have run for cover. But, as Joe soon discovers, nobody can hide forever.

Joe’s initial foray leads him to a small-time small-town Sheriff Wicker (Kelly Thorsden) with an unexpectedly large bank balance and murderous intent. Finding a link to a mysterious company the Parallax Corporation, Joe takes a written psychometric test to become a potential recruit for a company that is seeking, apparently, to find the hidden talents of under-achievers. After preventing one attempt on the life of another senator (Charles Carroll), Joe realises Parallax will stop at nothing.

Effectively, it’s a straightforward private eye number, Joe moving from character to character, building up a case. But the way Pakula frames the film, peppered with unusual scenes, turns it into an exercise in tension. One of Joe’s contacts works in a lab that is trying to train chimpanzees to play video ping-pong. Another scene takes place, disconcertedly, on a miniature train. At times we can hear every word delivered, even with the camera far away from the speakers, other times we hear nothing. Ominous music appears sparingly. Every step Joe takes in solving the mystery pushes him further into a corporate heart of darkness.

*Beatty in the bar he’s about to wreck after ordering a drink of milk.*

Joe believes Parallax are recruiting assassins but in point of fact their aim is considerably more devious. And here I don’t see how I can avoid a SPOILER ALERT. Parallax already have their assassins on board. What they are looking for are dupes, a patsy to take the blame once the killing has been done.

So when you look back from the ending what you find is that the cocky reporter is in fact exactly the kind of under-achiever the Parallax web attracts. There’s no proof of Joe’s editorial pedigree. Bill can point to any number of stories where Joe got hold of the wrong end of the stick. And the audience can see for themselves that he’s not exactly a super-brain. Sure, he can easily, with the help of a psychiatrist, pass the psychometric test, but how is he going to fare when he is linked up to some kind of machine that measures his response to visual imagery?

And you have to wonder what kind of idiot gets on a plane he suspects has a bomb on board instead of staying off the aircraft and making a phone call. Or how he managed, after surviving an explosion at sea, to swim several miles to shore and land on a beach without drawing attention to himself so that he can masquerade as a dead man.

There’s also a curious section where Joe triggers a fist fight that ends in a John Ford-style saloon-wrecking. After killing the suspicious sheriff and hijacking his car, Joe then, in true French Connection style, sparks a car chase, managing to evade his pursuers by (natch) jumping onto the back of a passing truck.

But for all these flaws, there is something hypnotic about the picture. A camera that moves with snail-like precision from extreme long shot to medium shot or close-up, a reining in of flamboyance in favor of discipline, and shadow given its biggest outing since the film noir golden era. Pakula was trying to make an obvious point about the shady authorities that exercise behind-the-scenes power. The government is either powerless or complicit, various hearings into assassinations discovering zilch. Paranoia is no less prevalent now, of course, but what makes the biggest impact is journalistic entitlement, the reporter who can change things because he is willing to go down those dark streets like an avenging angel, not realizing he is always going to one step behind.

Warren Beatty (Kaleidoscope, 1966) has lost all the acting tics, the mumbling and stuttering he used to inflict on a weaker director, and instead delivers a great performance. Which is just as well because it’s a one-man show. Paula Prentiss (Man’s Favorite Sport, 1964) barely appears before she’s bumped off. William Daniels (Two for the Road, 1967) eschews his normal harassed husband for a well-judged turn.

David Giler (Aliens, 1986) and Lorenzo Semple Jr. (Three Days of the Condor, 1975) fashioned the screenplay form the novel by Loren Singer. Also worth a mention is the eerie score by Michael Small (Klute, 1971) who for a time was the go-to composer for paranoia pictures.

Murder in Eden (1961) ***

Had there been the budget to spare for more stylish cinematography and a director more inclined to tip the wink to the audience, this would have been recognized as a late addition to film noir. As it is, thanks to keeping the viewer largely in the dark, there’s an almighty twist at the end that aficionados of the unexpected climax would relish.

Although aficionados of another kind might have been happy to sit through a less-well-worked thriller for the sake of watching a “bubble car” in all its glory. In some eyes, the three-wheeler Italian-made Isetta should take center stage. Or you might consider an early appearance by Irish actor Ray McAnally (My Left Foot, 1990) an extra bonus.

An investigation revolving round art forgery might seem initially less than an interesting starting point. But when the expert who pointed out the forgery is bumped off and Inspector Sharkey (Ray McAnally) is called in, the investigation seems to take second place to his budding romance with French journalist Genevieve (Catherine Feller) especially after a meet-cute where she, literally, falls into his arms.

Suspicion falls upon gallery owner Arnold Woolf (Mark Singleton), art dealer Bill Robson (Jack Aranson) and paintings restorer Michael Lucas (Norman Rodway). A fellow called Frenchman Jack (Noel Sheridan) might also have made it onto the suspect short list except he is murdered.

Sharkey isn’t much of an ace detective and the investigation plods along except to throw out the occasional red herring. Director Max Varnel (A Question of Suspense, 1961) spends most of the picture keeping his powder dry. Much of what we learn seems incidental.

So what if Arnold’s glamorous wife Vicky (Yvonne Buckingham) is having a fling with Lucas? So what if Genevieve seems a shade too industrious for a journalist working for a newspaper whose trademark is soft features about the rich, famous and glamorous? So what if this looks like a plan to stitch up and bankrupt Arnold? And what are we to make of what might these days be called a “panic room,” a secret part of a house hidden behind a two-way mirror?

When the denouement comes it looks like Varnel has sold us short, kept us out of the loop about what’s been going on behind the scenes when Genevieve is revealed not just as a femme fatale but a dupe herself. The last five minutes is a story all by itself, of betrayal, lust and revenge.

It’s one of these films where at the end you look back and think it was much better than you imagined and the director has been too slick for you.

Especially as there’s been a certain innocence about the proceedings. Although the background, as we eventually discover, is decidedly murky, this appears to take place in a world where upright cops don’t just jump into bed with seductive Frenchwomen but have to go about wooing her the old-fashioned way.

Ray McAnally, who in his later screen persona, was a much tougher character, comes over as a juvenile lead, a rising star in an era that was full of them. The gravitas that was later a significant part of his onscreen presence is nowhere in evidence and in stringing him along Catherine Feller (Waltz of the Toreadors, 1962) is not permitted to be as seductive as she is later revealed to be while the role of Yvonne Buckingham (The Christine Keeler Story, 1963) appears to have been edited down so as to not give the game away.

The bubble car looks like it’s been included as product placement. You enter it from the front, literally peeling back the entire front of the car, engine in the rear a la Volkswagen, and it can whiz into the tightest of parking spaces, never mind race along main road.

Written by John Haggarty (The Killer Likes Candy, 1968) and, in his sole screenplay, E.L. Burdon. Won’t take up much more than an hour of your time.

Another welcome contribution from the Renown B-picture crime portfolio which has found a home on Talking Pictures TV.

Eye Witness / Sudden Terror (1970) ***

Absolute cracking chase thriller spoiled by the central conceit and an overdose of whimsy. The standout chase is two cars, hemmed in by low walls, battering the hell out of each other at 50mph. We’ve also got motorbikes rattling down flights of stairs and a race through the catacombs.

There’s nothing new about a witness not being believed especially if he’s fingering a cop – check out a better version of this minus any of the thrilling chase sequences in Witness (1985). But when the witness, a child called Ziggy (Mark Lester), has an overactive imagination to the point of being considered a congenital liar and a grandfather (Lionel Jeffries) who encourages such playing about with the truth, it becomes a tougher watch, mostly because the bulk of the film is about the child squealing about not being believed whereas the deadly assassin he’s witnessed is scary enough – and a cop in a country where authority is not questioned – to make the whole picture fly with this complication.

Sometimes a picture can just unintentionally come off the rails when railroaded into such a corner. Ziggy persuades his equally young pal Ann-Marie (Maxine Kalli) to go to the cops on his behalf and when in consequence she’s brutally murdered it feels like we’ve entered another movie entirely.

There’s an odd cop, Inspector Galleria (Jeremy Kemp), in charge of the investigation. A notorious bully, he constantly upbraids his underlings for not being as clever as himself, even though it takes forever for him to string the clues together. The inspector adds nothing to the story.

Ziggy has caught sight of assassin Paul Grazzini (Peter Vaughan) and the assassin has caught sight of him. Probably even if Ziggy hadn’t been a lying little toad, nobody would have believed him anyway given Paul and his complicit brother Victor (Peter Bowles) are both cops, especially as the Grazzinis are determined to eliminate him and anyone else who gets in their path – or even helps them, a confederate ends up being chucked over a cliff.

It’s quite hard for the picture to accommodate a burgeoning romance between Ziggy’s big sister Pippa (Susan George) and passing tourist Tom (Tony Bloomer), except for her ability to scream on cue and clip Ziggy around the ear. Quite why ex-soldier grandpa has to be such an oddball is unclear except that this is one of those movies where subsidiary characters are required to earn their keep by exhibiting unusual characteristics. His military experience comes in handy, though, when it comes to fending off the bad guys with Molotov cocktails.

We soon realize why Tom, who’s done nothing much except upset stern housekeeper Madame Robiac (Betty Marsden), has been included in the plot – because he can drive like a maniac.

I wouldn’t say Mark Lester (Run Wild, Run Free, 1969) is out of his depth but the narrative is a bonkers version of the boy who cried wolf and given he’s spending so much of time crying wolf or running away, his character is never anchored.

Susan George certainly shines. She locked horns again with Peter Vaughan in the distinctly more venomous Straw Dogs (1971), a role that could not be more distant from the juvenile lead essayed here. Lionel Jeffries (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, 1968) has been playing this role forever. I certainly wouldn’t want to cross Peter Vaughan on a dark night nor his sidekick Peter Bowles (Charge of the Light Brigade, 1968).

Director John Hough (Twins of Evil, 1971), in his debut, is determined to make his mark visually with shots taken at odd angles or through spectacles etc but all that artistic effort is wasted given the adrenalin of the car chase, which must rank somewhere close to Bullitt (1968) and The Italian Job (1969). Written by Oscar-winning Ronald Harwood (A High Wind in Jamaica, 1965) from the book by John Harris.

I kept on thinking how well this would have worked if it hadn’t centered on a small boy. Apologies for being so picky but when you can create such a heart-pumping car chase as this surely it needs something stronger to fill in the gaps.

Deja Vu (2006) ****

Trying to get this made today the elevator pitch would be Enemy of the State Meets Interstellar. Of course, this was made nearly a decade prior to the Christopher Nolan space opera but whoever made the pitch was so successful that Twentieth Century Fox shelled out a record $5 million for the screenplay.

Fans of surveillance and, conversely, those who fear that the state is poking its nose too closely into everything, might view this as a window into the contemporary world while conspiracy theorists wouldn’t find it hard to convince themselves that in some Roswell-like breakthrough the authorities actually had created a device that could look into the past.

Admittedly, this is a limited peek, restricted to just over four days ago, but it’s enough to get ATF agent Doug Carlin (Denzel Washington), investigating the death of his work partner, interested.

There’s another link to Interstellar and various other high-concept sci fi pictures in that the science fiction is a little fuzzy around the edges but basically once our hero skips back in time it’s for the same reason as the Nolan, the wormhole idea, and demonstrated in exactly the same simplistic way as in Interstellar. And there’s certainly an uncomfortable moment as licentiousness takes hold as the surveillance cameras catch a woman in an intimate moment – some of the male watchers are engrossed, all the females repulsed.

Anyways, the men in black are chasing down a terrorist who blew up a ferry. Thanks to Doug’s particular investigative skills, he’s invited to join the surveillance team. Doug has turned up the corpse of Claire (Paula Patton) but deduced that although her body was found near the scene of the crime she was killed beforehand, finger for some reason severed, by the terrorist. And it’s true Doug does have exceptional deduction skills that somehow whoever has put together the surveillance outfit, known as Snow White, has forgotten to recruit anything like an ace detective who can make connections rather than just watch.

A hop, skip and jump puts Claire in the eye of the surveillance team who, theoretically using a mountain of previous surveillance footage spawned from a million satellites, go back in time to link her to the terrorist. But if you hire a top detective you need to be wary of what he finds out about you. And it doesn’t take long for our man to work out that the shady guys can actually go back in time.

And, equally, a plotline beckons. Why not send a man back in time to stop the terrorist? But the men in black don’t appear to have taken that on board and it’s up to Doug, in a maverick move, to use the equipment to go back.

Oddly, that’s not because he wants to save hundreds of ferry boat passengers from being obliterated but because he wants to save Claire. Prior to this, except for Doug gazing fondly at images of Claire in a non-licentious manner, there’s been no emotion to speak of except the usual temper tantrums of people under pressure. But clearly there’s something personal going on between Doug and the woman, though what that may be is never teased out. It makes for some interesting twists when they do meet and seem to click.

Once he’s in the past the movie clicks into top gear and the narrative rattles through twist after stunning twist. And the final one – I’ll leave you to work that one out – works as a meet-cute.

This was the third collaboration out of five between Washington and action guru Tony Scott (The Taking of Pelham 123, 2009) and we know by now what the director brings to the table and his whizz-bang style certainly suits this concoction. But Washington continues to surprise. You think you’ve seen all his grins and chuckles and bursts of laughter, but they’re not always to do with humor, and here the grin is either an indication of resignation or determination, which shows just what an armory of expressions he has.

Paula Patton teamed up with Washington again in 2 Guns (2013) and you’ll find her in last year’s Finding Faith. She’s got the grit for the action stuff and the emotion required to make it all mean something.

A heck of a support cast led by a mature Val Kilmer (Top Gun: Maverick, 2022) and backed up by Jim Cavaziel (The Passion of Christ, 2004). Adam Goldberg (The Exorcism, 2024), Bruce Greenwood (The Fabulous Four, 2024) and Elle Fanning (Predator: Badlands, 2025).

The lucky guys collecting all that for dough for their screenplay were Bill Marsilii (Gunpoint, 2021) and Terry Rossio (Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl, 2023).

Cracking ride with an emotional kick.

Apex (2026) ** – Seen on Netflix

Deliverance meets The Silence of the Lambs and that wouldn’t be an altogether bad elevator pitch except for constant interruptions from the Australian Tourist Board flogging adventure holidays. Takes forever to get going – and it’s only 95 minutes to begin with – and after a tight ten minutes somewhere around the one-hour work when it works up a bit of speed it then takes such a loopy turn that any narrative buoyancy gained suddenly evaporates.

Alternatively, it might work as Oscar-bait. You know, those kind of movies where the star goes through such physical trauma that the Academy voters seemed obliged to provide peer reward. And someone was given a drone for Xmas and every time you think the sensible approach is a close-up the camera goes flying back into the sky as if trying to set a record for the longest longshot.

What’s the story? Well you might ask. Bereft mountaineer Sasha (Charlize Theron), recovering from the death of boyfriend tommy (Eric Bana) on a Norwegian peak, heads for the Australian outback for a trip down the rapids. For whatever reason, she’s chosen a spot where dozens of people have gone missing – an event that appears to have received no media coverage whatsoever. For a moment you think we’re going to full-tilt-boogie into the Deliverance backwoods when in very mild fashion she beats back the overtures of a couple of rough Aussies. For about 20 minutes it’s nothing but travelog, Sasha racing through rapids, camping, walking.

Then she meets another Aussie, Ben (Taron Egerton), who seems straight out of Jeremiah Johnson, living off the land, finding some kind of liquid in trees, that kind of fella. However, he’s got the Deliverance bug and soon produces an archery device, this time a crossbow, and before long she’s on the run, pursued through even more scenic areas – of the adventure kind, but still distinctly tourist. Any time there’s any chance of tension, in comes Mr Drone to spoil things by pulling the camera back.

Eventually, as you might have guessed, she does get captured and is dragged into a hidden cave where Ben has hung up all his previous victims, tenderizing them before eating them with his perfectly sharpened teeth. There’s some nonsense about ritual that’s meant to add some meaning. Eventually, she escapes. Cue more scenic tourist stuff though you might just be wondering actually how long can people hold their breath underwater.

Eventually, she gets the upper hand. And then the plot goes loopy. She is handcuffed and tied to him by a long piece of rope. But he has a broken leg that in the heat is going to get infected as a bunch of flies starting dipping into the tasty morsels of bloodied flesh. So she does the obvious. She starts tugging on the rope – obviously he’d be hopping about in agony and toppling over every minutes – and drags him into the water and drowns him.

Nope, we’re barely past the hour mark, so a lot of time still to fill. She’s got a better idea. Why don’t we climb out of the canyon? She being the mountaineer would lead the way and she’d promise not to let him go halfway up. Apex predator that he is, he thinks, yes, why don’t I trust my enemy and put my life in her hands, the one I’ve been torturing and trying to kill all this while? But guess what? He’s the sucker. She drops him off the cliff.

This is advertised as running for 95 minutes but actually it’s closer to 88-89 minutes. It could have taken a swerve into proper horror what with all the cadavers strung up and Ben displaying his sharp teeth or if someone had applied a bit if elbow grease it could have turned into a decent thriller. Instead, it’s not much of anything.

Actually, this might have worked better in the cinema where the action sequences would have had more impact. But there’s just no tension.

Charlize Theron (Fast X, 2023) had six stunt doubles so she didn’t get as physical as I thought. Taron Egerton’s (Rocketman, 2019) teeth are presumably fake, too.

Directed by Baltasar Kormakur (Everest, 2015). Written by Jeremy Robbins (The Purge series, 2018-2019).

Netflix’s previous DTS (direct-to-streaming) offering Thrash at least had the compensation of accepting it was pure trash and making the most of it. This looks like someone thought there was something serious going on here.

Honestly, there isn’t.

The List of Adrian Messenger (1963) ***

The gimmick of stars in disguise isn’t enough to spark this routine whodunit and the extended sequences of fox-hunting might deter the contemporary viewer but oddly enough something else of considerable interest is going on and enough to keep you hooked.

Given it’s an actor’s screen persona that tempts you to their movies, how are you going to respond when that’s gone AWOL? Actually, you get a more intriguing performance. Covered in slabs of make-up Kirk Douglas makes out like a latter-day Alec Guinness or Peter Sellers, essaying a number of quite different characters. So the jutting chin, the fierce eyes and the aggressive tone are all gone and in its place he shows he can act. His vicar is especially appealing.

But the same holds true of George C. Scott even though he’s not in disguise. Director John Huston, much as he did with his trio of star names in The Misfits (1961), gets Scott to tone down his screen idiosyncrasies. So the growl is tempered, the flaring eyebrows in cold storage for much of the time, and his jutting chin and aggression set to one side as he depicts a different character to his usual.

The Academy usually hands out Oscars to people who over-act or have some affliction to overcome, and they seem to wilfully ignore it when actors show how well they can act outside their comfort zone.

The story is the usual combination of clever deduction, red herrings and set pieces. Former spy Anthony Gethryn (George C. Scott) is hired by the titular character (John Merivale) to find out if a bunch of people on his list are still alive. Messenger himself is soon bumped off in a plane explosion but not before he leaves a garbled clue with sole survivor of the sabotage Raoul Le Borg (Jacques Roux). Gethryn soon discovers everyone on the list is dead. This may have something to do with the Second World War or it may be that the killer wants to cover up something now before potential scandal can ruin a promising future.

Meanwhile, the killer keeps bumping people off. And just to keep Gethryn from getting distracted by possible romance by Lady Bruttenholm (Dana Wynter) Le Borg pounces on her.

By this point the director was pursuing his dreams of becoming landed gentry with a stately home in Ireland and very keen on all the trimmings including fox-hunting which probably accounts for the length of time accorded the sport.

Kirk Douglas, who’s company produced the picture, thought – either to fire up public interest or to help along a fairly straightforward tale – he would ask a few of his movie star buddies to bury themselves in make-up and play bit parts. Whether audiences spent all their time when they should have been concentrating on Gethryn’s detection on carrying out their own sleuthing trying to detect which of the supporting characters might actually be Tony Curtis, Frank Sinatra, Robert Mitchum or Burt Lancaster is anybody’s guess. It does have to be pointed out that some of the make-up is unconvincing, some faces looking as though they’ve come out of a box.

Despite all this, I enjoyed seeing George C. Scott (Patton, 1970) and Kirk Douglas (Cast a Giant Shadow, 1966) playing decidedly against type and showing how easy it is to act if you’re not always having to adopt a screen persona.

John Huston looks as if he’s having a ball. Written by Anthony Veiller (Night of the Iguana, 1964) and Alec Coppel (Vertigo, 1958) from the book by Philip MacDonald.

A watchable curiosity.