Drama – The Magnificent 60s

The Unfinished Task / I’ll Give My Life (1960) ***

For completists only. Fans of Anglie Dickinson have responded to reviews of Jessica (1962) and several others. This should round off your Angie Dickinson collection with the bonus that it’s a long-lost number. Almost unrecognizable as a brunette, Dickinson carries much of the emotional weight of this tale about an outsider rejecting a chosen career.

Hollywood pictures about creative outsiders such as artists and writers relied on charismatic actors – Kirk Douglas in Lust for Life (1956), Charlton Heston in The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965) – to bring the project to life. Similarly, you might think, in movies about another type of outsider, of the religious variety, having the likes of Gregory Peck (The Keys of the Kingdom, 1944) or Bing Crosby in Going My Way (1944) goes a long way to giving such ventures audience-appeal.

*This poster does not do the film justice. It’s nothing like as “heavenly” as that. Howco was an exhibition company that entered distribution in order to provide enough product for its cinemas.*

Here, Jim (John Bryant), the son of a successful construction tycoon, having completed a degree goes against the wishes of father John (Ray Collins) by becoming a minister instead. In due course he is sent overseas to a mission in New Guinea, and like Father Stu (2022) contracts a deadly disease. Jim is far from charismatic, just a plodding ordinary guy who has found “something more important than building skyscrapers.”

The story is instead told through the eyes of John, resentful of his son’s decision, and his girlfriend/fiancée/wife Alice (Angie Dickinson) who, expecting marriage to a wealthy engineer, instead has to set aside her own ambitions and go along with her husband’s wishes, this being post-WWII America, and independence hardly a prerequisite in a wife, never mind a woman.

But if this is a story of a conversion – as was the case in Father Stu – it’s about the conversion of the father and Alice and the bulk of the story hinges upon their reactions to the path taken by Jim rather than him taking center stage. So it’s cleverly done, and whether this is due to budgetary pressure, or creative decision, it proves the right choice. John is the kind of self-made man who would dominate any stage, forever making plans, spinning the world as he would like it to be. In Alice’s eyes we see nothing but her weighing up Jim’s choices, sometimes accompanied by shock, occasionally elation, but mostly resignation and infrequent resentment as she, too, is parted from family to follow her husband into an unknown in which she had considerably less faith.

Unlike Father Stu, conversion does not come easily. Jim is long dead, two-thirds of the way through the picture as it happens, before John comes to realize that his son’s demise should not be in vain and that he left behind “an unfinished task” for his father to complete, namely raising awareness of the power of missionaries to improve the lot of the miserable and poor in foreign parts. Bear in mind the era in which this was made, so there are some attitudes that will make you wince, but generally it is well done, not weighted down with platitudes and, in concentrating on the doubter, brings alive a difficult subject.

And although this was before questions were asked about the sexual corruption of priests and ministers, men who followed religion were still not as easily accommodated in the general community, seen as overly pious and, to the businessman, existing in a vacuum. The idea that the Church, of various kinds, had not done enough to ease global suffering, is continually raised and nobody here is giving themselves a pat on the back.

Alice is actually given more screen time than Jim, his father using her as a sounding board, and, while Jim is off in New Guinea, enjoying herself with the firm’s resident beau, Bob (Jon Sheppod), and finally taking on motherhood and coping with the premature death of her husband and still fighting to open the father’s eyes to the good being done.

Angie Dickinson (Jessica, 1962) gives a very good account of herself, especially as the narrative restricts her to the kind of wifely 1950s role rather than the frisky sexuality she exhibited in the 1960s. Her acting skill saved her from being lumbered with portentous dialogue since she could portray her feelings more easily with her eyes.

Ray Collins (famed for a running role in the Perry Mason series) is excellent as the father confused by his son’s decision, fighting him every inch of the way. John Bryant (The Bat, 1959), it has to be said, does not light up the screen, lacking the magnetism of a Peck or a Crosby but in some regard this kind of straight playing suits the film, since the character is not meant to be out of the ordinary.

William F. Claxton (Desire in the Dust, 1960) directed from a script by Herbert Moulton, better known as a producer of shorts. Although this film was released in 1960, it appears to have been made before that, some suggest as early as 1955. Given it was funded by the Lutheran Church, the script does not make heavy weather of the religious elements and John’s resistance to his son’s vocation reflected that of any father to a son embarking on as shaky a career as painting or writing.

You can catch this on YouTube, though it’s not a great print. And, yes, that is Angie Dickinson sitting demurely at a desk.

The Other Side of Midnight (1977) ****

I was settling in for what I thought was an evening of high-class trash when the unexpected occurred. This wasn’t a mushy World War Two romance but a tale of revenge on a par with that wreaked by the legendary Count of Monte Cristo or by the more recent The Housemaid (2026). Except for throwing a romantic spanner in the work, this has little to do with the Second World War and everything to do with how a Frenchwoman drags herself from the gutter by dint of personality and guile to reach, by way of movie stardom, the highest echelons of society and use her wealth and power to extract vengeance.

The two women, Noelle (Marie-France Pisier) and Catherine (Susan Sarandon) who end up competing for the affections of charming pilot Larry (John Beck) may well begin with innocence on their side but pretty soon they toughen up. Noelle is given a brutal lesson in reality, effectively trafficked by her father to a dressmaker, sex part of her apprenticeship. Fleeing to Paris, her suitcase stolen by a taxi driver, she is rescued by the self-deprecating Larry, an American pilot stationed in France with the Royal Canadian Air Force on the eve of World War Two. He’s got a nice line in repartee. After he is recalled to Britain, he promises to return, telling her to have a wedding dress ready. But he doesn’t appear, and she aborts his baby. After a stint as a fashion model, having honed her seductive skills, she shifts into the movies.

Meanwhile, resourceful Catherine had made herself indispensable in the business sense to her PR boss Bill (Clu Gulager), who (in a move that should be appreciated in view of contemporary power politics) gently rebuffs her advances. Her meet-cute with Larry is well-managed but as the romance shifts towards seduction we realize that he’s using the same lines on her as he did with Noelle.

As I mentioned, the actual war doesn’t enter the equation and by its end Noelle is a huge star, but keeping tabs on Larry and delighted to discover that he hasn’t managed to translate being a war hero into a decent income, his wife Catherine the major breadwinner. Once Noelle has stepped up in society by hooking Greek millionaire Constantine Demeris (Raf Vallone) she sets her sights on humiliating Larry, using her lover’s cash to ensure he loses every job he has, even though he manages that well enough on his own account, given to abrasiveness towards any employer.

Slowly, Noelle brings Larry, literally, to heel, arranging for him to be employed as the pilot on her personal plane, humiliating him at every turn – he has to carry her luggage, not speak unless spoken to, and is hauled before Constantine. What with her transformation from almost a street urchin to one of the wealthiest most glamorous women in the world it takes him a while to make the connection.

Of course, they fall for each other all over again. Wife Catherine being now an obstacle, he plans to get rid of her deep in ancient Greek caves. When that doesn’t work, she drowns trying to escape the pair in a storm.

However, suspicions lurk and the pair are brought to trial in a Greek court. Initially, it looks like they’ll get off scot-free but Noelle isn’t the only one obsessed with vengeance and they end up facing the firing squad. There can’t hardly have been a more downbeat ending to an epic picture (it clocks in at 165 minutes).

Male humiliation appears to be the theme. Larry’s meet-cute with Catherine spins on his humiliation and Noelle has no qualms about humiliating her rich husband in public. It’s not money that provides the leverage, it’s sex.

I’m assuming the title is a perverse twist on the Cinderella story. While Larry starts out Prince Charming, later on he’s revealed as an entitled brat.

You’ll maybe be wondering why I’ve selected this. Well, it was seeing John Beck in Blue (1968). I remembered that he’d become something of a leading man in the mid-1970s and could never work out why. He always seemed to be too stolid. But, in fact, he does great work here, humble, reticent, witty, and with a gentle touch in the seduction department.

In acting terms, of course Marie-France Pisier steals the show. A new name to American audiences she had a decent French track record, stretching from Trans-Europ Express (1966) to Cousin Cousine (1975). Not given to over-acting, except when making men feel good, it’s her quiet obsession that determines the movie.

Susan Saradon (The Rocky Horror Picture Show, 1975) makes good on her earlier promise, with a fine performance as a woman who grows in confidence but is still rattled by emotion. Clu Galager (McQ, 1974) and Raf Vallone (The Italian Job, 1969) provide interesting support.

While there’s lushness aplenty, it’s also lean in narrative terms, action speaking louder than words, almost as if silence and secrecy are a prerequisite of vengeance.

Directed with in parts considerable style by Charles Jarrott (Anne of the Thousand Days, 1969) from a script by Herman Raucher (Can Heironymus Merkin etc, 1969) and Daniel Taradash (Hawaii, 1966) based on the Sidney Sheldon bestseller.

This is the kind of movie on which critics and the public are sharply divided and it tends to be the former that gains the greater sway. Only eight critics saw fit to comment on Rotten Tomatoes and they ranked it an outright dud, with a rating of 25%. The public, on the other hand, have responded in droves, over 500 of them so far, and they take the opposite view in terms of rating – a more than healthy 73%. Go figure.

I’m in the general moviegoer camp and think it well worth a viewing.

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.

The Christophers (2026) ***

Britain has an unusually large quota of national treasures in the acting department. Manage to put the ageing Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, or Ian McKellen (Meryl Streep would be the only American contender and look at how she’s been re-born at the box office in The Devil Wears Prada 2)) in front of a camera and you’re pretty much guaranteed funding, media interest and at least an arthouse-style release. But given the dearth of interesting pictures – even though we are apparently in the midst of a mini-boom – such movies are just as likely to run up at your local multiplex and might even be given an advance screening – a “secret screening” was where I came upon this.

I’m a big fan of films about artists of all kinds, writers, musicians but especially the artists who paint – La Belle Noiseuse a big favorite as is Red (2018) – so I didn’t expect a picture where there’s no virtually no painting.

The beauty of this is its main drawback. Ian McKellen gets to talk – and talk and talk instead paint, and paint and paint. There’s hardly an actor alive who can hold the screen so well just by talking. And I suspect the Oscars will come calling. So it makes sense I would guess to just let him do that. It would be a two-hander except most of what Lori Butler (Michaela Coel) does is listen, her main task at the beginning to pick him up on lapses of modern etiquette, even though he’s gay he’s still not allowed to lounge around with his pyjama top open, reminded of the power dynamics of employment etc etc. But fair’s fair, when she does get to talk, she’s also allocated a lengthy monologue – and the only one that’s actually about the process of painting. The plot matters a lot less.

So, like Tar (2022), this has a lot to say about art and only latterly about how art infuses the emotions.

This would have been better if it had followed a simpler narrative instead of saddling the plot with Julian’s inane greedy children Barnaby (James Corden) and Sallie (Jessica Gunning) who have roped in penniless forger Lori to complete a set of famously unfinished portraits – “The Christophers”. But the sub-plot sets off too much improbability not to mention terrible acting.

It would have been better from the outset to set up what eventually takes place anyway, that somehow the presence of Lori inspires Julian to take up his brush again.

Most of Lori’s character, beyond being a poster person for woke sensibilities, is backstory. She was inspired to become an artist after seeing one of Julian’s most renowned works, “Boy Under a Cloud,” completed when he was only six. But then her confidence was destroyed when in some bizarre version of a television art talent contest her work is derided by Julian. Quite why she took to forgery is unclear and even less obvious is why she failed at that given she’s working shifts in a food truck.

There are some interesting nods to social media. Julian keeps the wolf from the door by despatching birthday greetings electronically and by delving into the internet finds out more about Lori than she wishes to reveal, including that she has excoriated his work. There’s not enough of the cut-and-thrust – think the play Art or even Sleuth (1972) – necessary to make this fly, although there are enough twists of a minor nature to keep it afloat.

But given that the wokeness has been a key element of the sorry it’s a shame it suddenly resorts to sentimentality including Lori giving Julian the kind of almighty hug that could have resulted in court proceedings had it been the other way. And even though the end has the kind of twist a film like this needs to survive, I wasn’t at all convinced that suddenly Lori had transformed herself into a multi-media artist given her work so far had been more straightforward.

Fans of Ian McKellen (The Critic, 2023) will revel in the latest in his series of louche characters, by virtue of age permitted to speak his mind without (as with the Meryl Streep character in The Devil Wears Prada 2) fear of censure. The frailties of old age are also to the fore. But given the lashings of dialog/monologue it’s worth noting that some of the best moments are devoid of wordplay, facial expression carrying hidden emotion.

For all that we learn about Lori, her part is remarkably underwritten. Michaela Coel (Mother Mary, 2026) is a rising star so best to cut her some slack. But Jessica Gunning (Baby Reindeer, 2024) and James Corden (California Schemin’, 2025) are truly awful, their characters little more than cut-outs.

Director Steven Soderbergh (Black Bag, 2025) is still in his I’m-cleverer-than-you phase and seems to want to deny his intelligent audience the intelligence to pick holes in the absurd plot. The over-wordy script is written by Ed Solomon (Bill and Ted Face the Music, 2020).

Despite my gripes I did enjoy this, primarily for Ian McKellen rather than anything else who proves why, like Meryl Streep across the pond, he is to be accorded the elevated status of national treasure.

Della (1964) ***

At this point in her career Joan Crawford was more of a holy terror than a femme fatale. So audiences came at her movies expecting the worst even when she was still dolled up to the nines, hair coiffed within an inch of its life, outfits immaculate or someone would pay the price. Oddly enough, unlike most actresses of her generation, she had embraced age. Her hair was a solid grey, not an ounce of original color. So, given her propensity to tweaking her screen persona, expectation might be that on initial appearance she could still be more femme than fatale, only to later trap an unsuspecting victim.

The convoluted opening to this one is explained by it being a pilot for a television series that was never aired so the producers just pitched it out onto the cinema screen. It’s surprising it wasn’t picked up by a television network because the theme was one – family conflict in big business – that later made television studios absolute fortunes (Dallas etc) and retains a hold on the small screen today, witness Succession.

*This autobiography left out the bits the media pounced upon in her daughter’s memoir Mommie Dearest published in 1978 and filmed in 1981 starring Faye Dunaway.*

Once the narrative settles down it’s a twist on Wild River (1960), the titular Della (Joan Crawford) appearing immoveable in the face on necessary community progress, and a hint of Mildred Pierce (1945) with an over-protective mother guarding daughter Jenny (Diane Baker) from potential suitor Barney Stafford (Paul Burke), an attorney. Jenny must be the only person in the annals of Hollywood who, shunning daylight, does not have a vampiric tendency.

Rich recluse Della owns most of the local town, but developers want to shake things up. In the past she had a fling with Barney’s father Hugh (Charles Bickford). At first she resists all moves by Barney who’s working for the developers but changes her tune when she notices how much Barney brings her daughter out of her shell. Eventually, we realize Jenny’s daylight intolerance is due to a rare skin condition.

The twin elements, the clash of big businesses and the nascent romance, would be enough fuel for this particular fire but given the movie did not originate as a feature film but as the first episode in a television series – to be called Royal Bay after the name of the town – it was duty bound to rope in a lot of other characters, ignite various personality clashes, and feed the audience on other issues that would resolved further down the line.

*Joan Crawford starred in “Rain” in 1932.*

So, quickly, we learn that, tough as she is, Della is exceptionally vulnerable when it comes to her daughter and tough as Barney would like to be his business snse goes haywire after touching base with Jenny. Della’s skirmishes with Barney are old-school, but the holy terror part is kept to a minimum, while if the femme fatale appears at all it’s only to hook Barney to care for her daughter.

Naturally, not much goes to plan. Della can’t control her daughter once romance enters her head, nor can she put the squeeze on Barney. But, for his part, the attorney thinks he’s smarter than he is and miscalculates just how right the mother is in protecting the daughter from herself. Once Jenny rebels, there’s tragic consequence.

Top Hollywood female stars hadn’t imposed themselves on television yet. Barbara Stanwyck’s sojourn as the matriarch in The Big Valley was still a year off and although Lucille Ball turned into a television entrepreneur of considerable note (producing a bunch of major series apart from I Love Lucy) she did not have the movie marquee stature of Crawford. How much Crawford would have featured in further episodes is unclear but a running battle between herself and Barney, who she was likely to blame for her daughter’s death, would be standard material for such soaps.

Joan Crawford (Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, 1962) is in her element, serving up a ruthless operator with a softer side. Paul Burke (Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting, 1969) lacks the screen persona to take her on while veteran Charles Bickford (A Big Hand for the Little Lady, 1966) doesn’t get to tangle with her often enough. Hitchcock protege Diane Baker (Mirage, 1965) continues to show promise.

Directed by Robert Gist (An American Dream / See You in Hell, Darling, 1966) does better with Crawford than the rest of the cast. Written by Richard Alan Simmons (Juggernaut, 1974).

It’s lean on the running time but Crawford is worth it.

The Stripper (1963) ***

Can’t shake off its stage origins though Joanne Woodward is riveting as the eternally optimistic but ultimately luckless showgirl of this tawdry tale. For a while it looks like it’s going be another examination of small town morals but those who want to break free of social constriction come from such different parts of the world that the two tales – teenage rite-of-passage and older woman trying to recapture her innocent youth – don’t mesh while the background for both is routine and stale.

Magician’s assistant Lila (Joanne Woodward) returns to her home town and meets up with old neighbour Helen Baird (Claire Trevor) and her pump jockey son Kenny (Richard Beymer). He reminds Lila of Helen’s dead husband on whom Lila had a teenage crush. Abandoned by lover/manager Ricky (Robert Webber), she finds a safe berth with Helen. Kenny, annoyed at principled girlfriend Miriam (Carol Lynley), soon, as you might expect, falls for Lila. For a time she enjoys the security of small town life.

But, as you would expect, Ricky returns. He beats her up and drags her off to become a stripper. Kenny gets to witness her more degrading employment. Lila manages to quit Ricky and sets off with another suitcase full of delusions.

Despite Lila’s effervescence lacks the emotional punch to make this more than a re-tread of a standard Hollywood trope. Lila’s an eternal wannabe, not deterred by crushed dreams, but failing to understand the limitation of her talent, her most treasured possession a few strips of film from a screen test, and undone by her taste in men. She calls Ricky “daddy” and he punishes her with his belt.

The most effective sequence is the one with leering men reaching forward with lighted cigarettes to burst the balloons that cover her modesty while she strips. That tells a different story to the one we’ve sat through, the degrading endgame, the price paid for falling in with the wrong man or for believing you can live on illusion.

There would have been no shortage of better role models when she grew up, but dreams of stardom derailed that. In some respects, Ricky is rebelling against the same upbringing, requiring excitement (and sex) rather than the life he has been brought up to respect. He’s over-mothered for sure, but lacks ambition and probably needs marriage to give him some direction.

But there’s too many cliché characters, beginning with mother and girlfriend and rough lover. There’s nothing new about Ricky and no depth and while Lila is happily shallow that doesn’t help the story.

As I said, Joanne Woodward (Big Hand for the Little Lady, 1966) more than holds the film together but that’s not really enough. Richard Beymer (West Side Story, 1961) doesn’t rise above juvenile lead. Clare Trevor (The Cape Town Affair, 1967) has little to do but Carol Lynley (Bunny Lake Is Missing, 1965) acts against type.

Solid directorial debut I guess you would call it from Franklin J. Schaffner (Planet of the Apes, 1968). Screenplay by Meade Roberts (Danger Route, 1967) from a play by William Inge (Bus Riley’s Back in Town, 1965).

Worth it for Woodward but not much else.

Whistle Down the Wind (1961) ****

Sheer coincidence that within the space of a week I’m watching three films that deal with the power of a child’s imagination. While The Magic Faraway Tree disappeared into the realms of fantasy and Eye Witness / Sudden Witness a lonely child’s fervid alternative realities, Whistle Down the Wind examines the ability of children to become involved in something that makes complete sense to them while keeping adults out of the picture.

And not just for the religious allegory is Whistle Down the Wind streets ahead. While the children in the other films are believable enough, this is much more down-to-earth. A farm here isn’t a refuge from the city and a place to indulge dreams, it’s muddy and cold and wet. Everyone trudges around in wellies. Adults drown kittens, are overly pious and view children as mostly a nuisance. The children wouldn’t dare be cheeky to those in authority.

And their belief in something that defies belief is both touching and understandable given the circumstances. They are convinced they have found a reborn Jesus (Alan Bates) in their barn. Perhaps it’s only a child, with all that innocence, who could actually be persuaded that, as stated in the Bible, Jesus will come again.

The characters are very well-drawn. Kathy Bostock (Hayley Mills), eldest of three siblings, motherless, is the leader, saving the drowning kittens, stealing to feed the man, and guiding her flock in taking care of him. Youngest child Charlie (Alan Barnes) is instinctively more cynical. Mr Bostock (Bernard Lee) has his hands full dealing with his kids and his snippy sister Dorothy (Elsie Wagstaff) resents having to act as housekeeper.

The religious allegory elements include of course finding Jesus in a barn (doubling for the stables at Bethlehem), bringing him gifts as if the kids were the Magi, feeding him bread and wine (a bottle of port stolen from a cupboard), treating him with adoration and denying him thrice (Judas Iscariot). Even when the first crack appears in the façade after Jesus has allowed a kitten left in his care to die, Kathy battles to keep the dream alive, pestering the local vicar to explain how Jesus could allow this and finding an answer that does the trick.

The enterprise collapses when a child is spotted secreting an extra piece of birthday cake for the man. By this time he has managed to secure a gun and we know he’s wanted for murder.

Even so, Kathy refuses to let go of her belief, promising to a younger child, saddened by the man’s capture, that Jesus will come again.

The allegorical aspects would have worked better at a time when fantasy was not all the rage. But the current diminution of Christian belief means that the ideas spelled out in the New Testament might well sound fantastical to a contemporary audience. Certainly, the idea of stumbling, by circumstance, onto a magical character forms part of the fantasy trope.

Understanding childhood from the remove of adulthood takes some doing. We are apt to forget how our younger minds worked. Children desperately want to believe in something else that lifts them from the gloom of the day-to-day. But, equally, they want to keep their childhood dreams secure from adult interference. No youngster really wants to entertain the cool dad who is “down with the kids.”

And the secret is something to savour. The local bully is disconcerted when a playground full of kids taunt him with “we know something that you don’t.” That fear of exclusion is highly potent.

Unlike The Magic Faraway Tree there is no complicit adult who will back up the fantasy. Here, the kids instinctively know adults will seek to destroy it, especially after the Sunday School teacher clearly can’t come to terms with the idea of Christ coming again any time soon and the vicar uses any interaction with children as an opportunity to blame them for something.

I was surprised this worked as well as it did. The viewer knows full well it’s only an accident of circumstance that there is a man in the barn and that the conjecture that he is Jesus Christ relies on his use of that word as a swear word (as it would be at the time). So we’re not being asked to believe in fairies or elves, as we are by now attuned to do after Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter etc. We are watching the reaction of the children to wondrous mystery.

By this point Hayley Mills was being turned into the standard vanilla child star by Walt Disney – Pollyanna had just confirmed that status – and I’m sure Disney was appalled that he had not secured her to an exclusive contract. Instead, every year she made a movie that, perhaps while capitalizing on the fame Disney was paying for, offered a more challenging role.

She’s not coiffed and clothed as in the Disney ventures, more an ordinary scruffy child, and she gives a superb performance. In some respects, given the acting intelligence exhibited, no one should have doubted she would make the crossover into the adult star of The Family Way (1966). The questioning Alan Barnes (The Victors, 1963) is a treat. Bernard Lee (The Secret Partner, 1961) is the pick of the adults. Alan Bates (The Running Man, 1963) has less to do than you might imagine.

Bryan Forbes (King Rat, 1965) made an auspicious directorial debut, not just wrangling the kids expertly but using the visual to complement the narrative, the bleak landscape a million miles away from the more commonly seen blooming English countryside. Written by the team of Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall (The Winston Affair, 1964) from the book by the star’s mother Mary Hayley Bell (Sky West and Crooked / Gypsy Girl, 1966).

Despite the unlikely premise, draws you in.

All Fall Down (1962) ***

Both an easy sell and a tough sell for today’s audience. Easy because, this early in the decade, we’ve got a succession of independent sexually liberated women for whom handsome hunks like Berry-Berry (Warren Beatty) are collectibles. Tough because our ostensible hero is a serial abuser, beating up women.

The tale is somewhat complicated by the narrative which, rather than putting Berry-Berry and Echo (Eva Marie Saint) together early on, gets more involved in the travails of Berry-Berry‘s innocent young brother Clinton (Brandon De Wilde), leading us to believe this is going to be more of a coming-of-age saga than a more mature romance, especially when the young lad is besotted by the 31-year-old Echo who appears to foolishly encourage him though he’s not much past the age of consent.

Or that it’s one of those stories when the adoring sibling realizes that big brother is not worthy of any adoration and far from looking as if he rules the world with his drinking and womanizing that he’s a pitifully small part of it.

Given the era, only a fraction of the sleazy world explored in the bestselling source novel by James Leo Herlihy (Midnight Cowboy, 1969) can find its way onto the screen. Still, in the first few scenes were are introduced to hookers, strippers and corrupt cops (who steal the cash Clinton planned to spend setting his brother up in the shrimp business).

Berry-Berry hasn’t a protective gene in his body, abandoning Clinton when a rich married woman beckons. It’s not just the unhappily married who alight on Berry-Berry but otherwise respectable schoolteachers. For a contemporary audience this might have been a more instructive avenue to go down, how such women, not all with money to burn, have the confidence to pick up men from a position of authority. Sure, Berry-Berry’s not one, ultimately, to remain at anyone’s beck-and-call but it’s interesting to see just who’s first to do the beckoning.

This is also the kind of picture that comes over more like a stage play and all the hidden secrets that entails – Echo’s previous boyfriend committed suicide. Clinton’s parents, however, let it all hang out, the father an alcoholic, the mother controlling.

By the time Berry-Berry and Echo manage to get it together, you can tell which way this is heading and even if Echo hadn’t died in a car accident, it’s doubtful given Berry-Berry’s personality whether he could have handled commitment.

Warren Beatty (Kaleidoscope, 1966) comes over like a latter-day James Dean, all quiff and male arrogance and winning smile, but there’s not an ounce of depth to his characterization albeit that he wants to have it all and can’t deal with entanglement and treats women as punchbags when he wants out of a relationship.

Eva Marie Saint (36 Hours, 1964) is better value, expectation already beaten out of her after having put up with the depressed boyfriend all this time and willing to embark on an affair with Berry-Berry because she hopes that eventually he will come to love her. Her ideal lover, it has to be said, looks like being the sweet-natured Clinton. But Saint leans into her feyness too often.

Much better value are Karl Malden (Billion Dollar Brain, 1967) and Angela Lansbury (The Manchurian Candidate, 1962) as the bickering parents. Malden has never looked as unkempt and he retains a marvelous innocence, inviting three bums to the house in the spirit of Xmas.

Too much rests on the shoulders of Brandon De Wilde (In Harm’s Way, 1965) and, in truth, the narrative could have excised him and still arrived at its destination and it seems somewhat preposterous to have him so involved in the final scenes.

The structure emulates F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby where much of what we see is through the prism of a secondary character who in the novel acts as narrator. They junked that aspect for any of the screen versions and they’d have been better off doing the same here.

John Frankenheimer (The Manchurian Candidate) directs from a William Inge (Splendor in the Grass, 1961) script.

A contemporary audience might find more interesting the parts that the film only covers in passing. “They ought to have highways stacked with guys like you,” is the come-on of one rather forward lady.

Zee & Co / X Y & Zee (1972) ****

I’ve seen Elizabeth Tayor glide along the floor, I’ve seen her stomp and stamp, I’ve seen her bellow and hiss, but, except at the outset of her career, I’ve never seen her indulge in anything vaguely athletic. So it’s a bold opening here to witness the actress playing table tennis with some venom, virtually dancing from one foot to the other, bouncing in triumph when she wins. Who the heck is this reincarnation?

The movie’s acquired a different dimension since original release, a pathos that emphasizes the actress’s vulnerability. In the 1960s she was considered the most beautiful woman in the world yet she married a man who had a wandering eye. She would accompany him to film sets so she could keep an eye on him and keep other women at a distance. Can you imagine the impact on her psychological make-up to know that she was not enough for handsome charismatic husband Richard Burton?

That’s much the same situation the childless Zee (Elizabeth Taylor) finds herself in, married to handsome wealthy architect Robert (Michael Caine) who acquires other women art the drop of a hat. He’s got three on the go here. When she arouses him, he still enjoys passionate sex with his wife, he has a thing going with his secretary and he home in on widowed mother-of-to Stella (Susannah York). He encourages the idea of an open marriage. Though it’s unclear how much she actually indulges, she’s capable of stimulating his jealousy through her imaginative tales of seduction.

While he’s sleek and slim, she’s showing the signs of wear, plastered in make-up and desperate to fit into dresses at least a size too small.

While this doesn’t enter the no-holds-barred marital hell of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, it’s mostly ugly. He’s a chauvinist pig, a bully, given to tantrums. While, verbally, she can give as good as him, she’s mostly kept dangling on a string, spending “his money” her only satisfaction, and although they live the good life of fancy house, parties and expensive restaurants, the only reason they are not divorced is it would be an inconvenience.

Clearly, his usual targets are “ladies of leisure” but Stella runs her own design business. Robert has the instincts of all predators, targeting the needy. However, Stella is different, appearing to offer the serenity missing from his life. Where he started looking for just another fling, he finds himself falling in love. It’s not entirely clear whether he intends to split form his wife or is merely setting up Stella in an apartment, but he buys and flat and they decorate it, though there’s no sign of her to boys living there.

Zee is accustomed to sabotaging his wanderings. She knows how to hit him where it hurts. She manages to trace him when he’s off enjoying a dirty weekend and fires him up by telling she’s crashed his beloved Rolls-Royce – whether she has or not is unclear, but it does the trick of spoiling his weekend.

And she’s got her own antenna, seeking out the weakness in the mistress whom she befriends well enough so that Stella confesses her dark secret. These days, that would take on a completely different complexion, and would be dealt with in a more sympathetic dramatic fashion. Stella was expelled for falling in love with a nun at her school, so clearly the victim of grooming. Zee exploits this, seducing the younger woman, ensuring Robert knows the secret, destroying his plans for a more idyllic future.

So on the one hand director Brian G. Hutton, moving away from his action comfort zone of Where Eagles Dare (1968) and Kelly’s Heroes (1970), has fashioned on of those crisp double-edged marital dramas where each partner strives for dominance but on the other has created a highly sympathetic portrait of men and women trying to offset their own frailties.

If you’ve only seen Michael Caine employ that steely-eyed mean street for a succession of tough good guys and villains as exemplified by The Italian Job (1969) and Get Carter (1971) you’re in for a treat. This is Caine’s fury in full force, though that is undercut by charm and vulnerability. But it’s Elizabeth Taylor (Butterfield 8, 1960) who has the more rounded character, seductive, mothering, calculating, equally vulnerable. Susannah York (The Killing of Sister George, 1969) has an equally challenging role, maintaining a calm and carefree exterior while seething underneath with desires she dare not admit.

In other hands, this could easily be handled in an exploitational manner, a love triangle, plenty sex with hints of domination, and lesbianism. But Hutton resists the temptation and it takes some time before we less in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf territory than something like The Housemaid where the downtrodden individual turns out to hold the ace.

Written by Edna O’Brien (Three into Two Won’t Go, 1969) from her own novel, the screenplay is stagey at times, but the force of the screen personalities involved makes that irrelevant.

I caught it on Talking Pictures TV and it’ll be repeated there soon.

Thoughtful, stylish, scabrous and intriguing.

The Drama (2026) * – Seen at the Cinema

Today’s stars – and that’s an ever-decreasing category – seem to want to get into the kind of edgy material that used to be the province of the arthouse. They might even cut their fees to get a beloved project off the ground. I couldn’t remotely begin to understand what was going through the minds of Zendaya (Challengers, 2024) and Robert Pattinson (Die My Love, 2025) to make them think this had any value whatsoever. It skirts the only important subject in the whole picture, trying to fashion a rom-com-gone-bad in order to come up with, after an inordinate amount of time, a happy ending.

The premise, probably understandable in these suspicious times is: what secret is your partner hiding? Could they be bigamists? Have they changed gender? Have they been in prison? Nope, it’s much worse than that.

Emma (Zendaya) confesses that as a 15-year-old she was so fascinated by guns that she intended to slaughter her schoolmates. She didn’t go through with it because on the appointed day someone else had stolen her potential thunder. So what you might expect is that we backtrack and dig into the reasons why. But apart from a superficial stab at what turns an ordinary girl into a serial murderer and the notion that thousands of people would fall into the same category if they could ever get up the courage to do so.

Instead, this information is set against a rom-com backdrop and is used as narrative ammunition to derail her upcoming wedding to soft-hearted museum curator Charlie (Robert Pattinson). Po-faced pals Rachel (Alana Haim) and Mike (Mamadou Athie) get into an almighty snit over this, never mind that they have been guilty of heinous acts themselves. Bear in mind that Emma never actually injured anyone. But this pair who (Mike) used their previous girlfriend as a human shield against a ferocious dog and (Rachel) locked a mentally handicapped child in a cupboard in a remote house in the wood and ran away and didn’t fess up when a search party was formed.

Nobody thinks to send Rachel for counselling to ensure that whatever issues drove her to murder have been resolved. Instead, all concerned get agitated, and start examining Emma’s past and current life to see if she is going to go off on one. She’s certainly tougher than her wuss of a boyfriend, no problem sacking the DJ on the eve of the wedding or removing Rachel from a project.

Just to make sure Emma gets some audience sympathy she’s deaf in one ear and Charlie, on the edge of a mental breakdown, makes an unwise move on Misha (Hailey Gates), a member of his staff, which permits her boyfriend to give Charlie, literally, a bloody nose at the actual wedding.

You would hardly believe after all this nonsense and out of the detritus of the calamitous wedding that writer-director Kristoffer Borgli (Dream Scenario, 2023) manages to fashion a happy ending. This is witless stuff. And Hollywood at its hypocritical worst. I couldn’t begin to count how many people Pattinson has killed in his various movies and Zendaya in Dune has begun to express her violent tendencies. What’s that except glorifying violence and yet they still turn up in movies pontificating against violence.

There’s not a single likeable character. Charlie does his floppy-haired best and, supposedly, has such charm that he can get away with reading the same literary book as Emma – that’s the lame meet-cute – only to admit he hasn’t read a single word. Liar, liar, pants on fire appears to be a line that’s never entered Emma’s vocabulary, no doubt because, at 28, she’s never been in love (that in itself would be worth a piece of psychological digging).

This is one of the laziest attempts to provide contemporary stars with the “edge” they appear to so desperately seek as they try to emulate the Hollywood legends who genuinely did tackle important issues.

A mess.