Drama – Page 10 – The Magnificent 60s

Alice in Wonderland (1966) **

Young bucks wanting to make a bigger splash are apt to rampage through sacred texts and treat unwary audiences to avant-garde notions. Thus, Jonathan Miller (Take a Girl Like You, 1970), in his debut, set aside all expectations and in fairness purists had decried Walt Disney’s 1951 telling of the Lewis Carroll classic. In truth audiences weren’t so in love with the Disney version either, an unusually low hitter for the company, and one that only really found its niche when reissued to catch a whiff of the stoned hippies who had drooled over 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).

This 1966 reimagining might have been buried in the vaults after its initial showing except that Jonathan Miller went on to become something of a British institution, renowned directed of opera and stage plays, writer and presenter of a number of highly-regarded television projects and a regular on the talk show circuit. That his career had begun in sensational fashion, one of the hands on the tiller of the satirical Beyond the Fringe stage show (a hit in the West End and Broadway) and television program, meant that when he decided to spread his wings into the movies, no expense was spared.

Big stars flocked. What other neophyte could attract stars of the caliber of Peter Sellers (The Pink Panther, 1964), John Gielgud (Khartoum, 1966), Michael Redgrave (Goodbye, Mr. Chips, 1969), Leo McKern (Bunny Lake Is Missing, 1965), Peter Cook (The Wrong Box, 1966) and playwright Alan Bennett (The Madness of King George, 1994)? All admittedly in small parts but that was the nature of the all-star enterprise.

And that would have been fine if they had all been employed to supply the voices. Or if audiences had the fun of trying to determine who was who when hidden under the ton of make-up required to turn them into White Rabbits or Mock Turtles or Caterpillars or Lobsters cutting a quadrille.

But Miller had determined that not only was the Disney version short of the mark but for too long readers had missed the entire point of the Lewis Carroll book. He decided the point of the story wasn’t humor at all, nor a succinct exploration of the pitfalls of language, but about a young girl adrift in a adult world of confusion. So that was bye-bye to the cuteness.

He even broke a cardinal role. Alice doesn’t fall down a rabbit hole. The whole thing is a dream.

*They’ve been adapting the book since the early days of cinema. This poster dates from 1915.*

So you need to listen carefully to find out, with the lack of make-up, which actor is playing which fantasy character. And this isn’t set in any fantasy world either, certainly far removed from the famous illustrations that accompanied the book. It takes place in Victorian times which, yes, reflects the era in which the book was written, but, no, seems an extremely odd decision to give what is still fantasy some kind of realism.

It’s as if the director didn’t really have the courage of his convictions. That said, if he was catering to the arthouse mob, it’s got that kind of cinematic sensibility, with voice-over and unusual compositions.

Just to help you out, let me tell you that Peter Sellers plays the King of Hearts, John Gielgud the Mock Turtle, Michael Redgrave the Caterpillar, Alan Bennett the Mouse, Finlay Currie the Dodo, Leo McKern the Duchess and Peter Cook the Mad Hatter. The part of Alice went to 13-year-old Anne-Marie Mallik who never made another movie.

While it retains enough of the original to be recognizably based on the book – with all the catchphrases, “off with their heads” etc – the locale is just totally at odds with the story. And while it’s a tonic to hear the mellifluous tones of John Gielgud uttering the author’s immortal words, it would have been better just to hear his voice.

My guess is this is only still available because Miller made such a name for himself. You can catch it on Talking Pictures.

Curiosity or mess, it’s hard to decide.

https://www.facebook.com/TalkingPicturesTV/videos/easter-on-tptv/654499693946106

The Killing of Sister George (1968) ***

Somewhere between camp classic, hilarious comedy and bitchiness-on-speed, loaded down with a May-December narrative, too much of the genuine soap opera element of the filming of a soap opera but lifted up by some very touching moments. This started life as a black comedy and its stage antecedents are only too obvious, many scenes running way too long for a movie, and in the unlikely hands of director Robert Aldrich – at this point best known for male actioner The Dirty Dozen (1967) rather than the equally bitchy Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962) – asks audiences to ingest a great deal more seriousness.

The sex scene was so shocking in its day that, in the reformed U.S. censorship system, earned one of the first mainstream X-certificates, thus torpedoing its box office potential as newspapers routinely refused to accept adverts for such. Yet while it is tender, and to some extent galvanized by the astonishment of older lesbian Mercy Croft (Coral Browne), a high-ranking television executive, at having such a young and adorable lover as Alice (Susannah York), it is sabotaged by Alice’s gurning.

Whereas Beryl Reid’s performance as aging soap opera actress June (aka Sister George) about to be cut adrift by the television production which has made her name is pretty much spot on as a drunken, insecure, needy, dominant, older lover. Susannah York (They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, 1969) just seems out of control as the bonkers dumb blonde. While same sex relationships between men had only just become legal in England, and the specter of blackmail, public scandal or imprisonment that had hung over many generations now removed, there had never been a correlative for women. Though a newspaper headline might well kill a career.

The best sequence in terms of the harmonious gay relationship comes in the gay club where women hold each other for a slow dance and it seems so normal and touching. Of course, relationships, straight or gay, don’t necessarily run smoothly, but the longstanding affair between June and Alice belongs to the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966) playbook. Alice may well be a gold-digger for all she does, but since the May-December aspect of male-female relationships was a standard Hollywood trope it seems fair enough to apply the same rationale to a single-sex partnership.

There’s some uncomfortable sadism when, as punishment for mild misdemeanor, Alice is forced to eat a cigar butt and told in no uncertain terms just how stupid she is. There had been a recent rash of on-set bitchiness, star tantrums and studio power struggles from pictures like The Carpetbaggers (1964), Harlow (1965), Inside Daisy Clover (1965), The Oscar (1966) and Aldrich’s own The Legend of Lylah Clare (1968), so none of production shenanigans bring anything new to the table.

However, when June lets rip, embarrassing management or forcing her fellow actors to laugh during a tragic scene, this is comedy gold. Her alcohol intake and arrogance aside, it seems a step too far for June to attempt to sexually assault two nuns in a taxi – this unseen sequence key to her downfall. You might be inclined to question how Alice came into the sexual orbit of June and Mercy in the first place, and wonder if the two older women are not guilty of what would be termed these days inappropriate behavior in taking advantage of clearly a vulnerable young woman.

Beryl Reid (The Assassination Bureau, 1969) walks a fine line between self-indulgence and character insight. I felt Susannah York’s over-acting got in the way. The tight-lipped Coral Brown (The Legend of Lylah Clare) was too close to the cliché for my liking.

Robert Aldrich just about gets away with it. Lukas Heller (The Dirty Dozen) adapted Frank Marcus’s play.

The Damned / Gotterdammerung / Twilight of the Gods (1969) **

Ponderous, gratuitous, offensive. Let’s start with the pedophile, spoiled grandson Martin (Helmut Berger) of industrialist patriarch Joachim (Albrecht Schonhals). We already guess he has this kind of predilection for young girls as that’s suggested during a game of hide-and-seek at the family mansion and by a scream in the night that is ignored. He keeps a mistress Olga (Florinda Balkan) and is drawn to the young girl in the apartment next door, bringing her the kind of expensive present that her impoverished mother believes she must have stolen. So we know what he’s all about. It’s discreetly enough stated without the inclusion of a scene which I doubt would pass the censor these days and should the young actress be still alive in these MeToo times might be considering legal action for being taken advantage of.

Although the storyline is similar to the director’s earlier The Leopard (1963) of the powerful – there a wealthy landowner, here an arms manufacturer – trying to hold onto their status in times of change (then the invasion of Sicily by forces wanting to unite Italy, now the rise to eminence of Hitler), there’s little of the cinematic flair of the latter. Long scenes are played out at dinner tables or in bedrooms. And most of that is machination, someone or other wanting to take over the family firm or be the power behind the throne.

You need some knowledge of German history to understand the significance of some events. Hitler, then the German Chancellor, burned down the Reichstag (the German Parliament) in 1933 in a ruthless bid for power. Hitler employed two factions, the predominantly working class brownshirts (the SA) and the mainly middle class blackshirts (the SS), the former a paramilitary organization committed to actions against Jews and backing his early bid for power. In 1934, in the Night of the Long Knives, the SS obliterated the SA.

The first section of the picture straddles these two events with a Succession-style drama. In reaction to the burning of the Reichstag, Joachim replaces Herbert (Umberto Orsini), his top executive and outspoken anti-Nazi, with boorish nephew Konstantin (Reinhard Koldehoff) who is a high-ranking member of the SA.

This doesn’t sit well with Friedrich (Dirk Bogarde), who expected preference. Urged on by lover Sophie (Ingrid Thulin), Joachim’s widowed daughter-in-law, and Aschenbach (Helmut Griem), Joachim’s nephew and an ambitious high-ranking SS official, Friedrich kills Joachim but pins the blame on Herbert who has to flee.

Konstantin is thwarted because although technically in charge it’s now Martin who owns the business and nudged by Sophie gives Friedrich the top management role. So Konstantin resorts to blackmail, having uncovered the pedophile. In steps Sophie who uses Aschenbach to thwart him again. Though there’s not much need because Konstantin is eliminated as one of the SA members executed in 1934 at some kind of gathering where the attendees all appear to have homosexual tendencies.

Aschenbach and Martin nurse grievances. Aschenbach feels Friedrich isn’t ostentatious enough in support of Hitler and Martin is furious that Sophie manipulated his difficulties with Konstantin to Friedrich’s benefit. So the SS man and the dissolute conspire. In the way of this kind of heightened melodrama it’s revealed that Friedrich killed Joachim. That doesn’t send Friedrich to trial, instead wins him a get-out-of-jail-free card by turning into a radical Nazi.

Martin, meanwhile, is also a member of the SS. He rapes Sophie, Friedrich loses his way and in one of those moments Francis Ford Coppola would appreciate Martin kills them on their marriage day.

There are a couple of oddities. It’s hard to believe a young girl – we’re talking a 7-8-year-old – would actually manage the mechanics of hanging herself. And when Friedrich is drawn into joining the slaughter of the SA members, there is over-emphasis on his perceived sensitivity when previously he had cold-bloodedly despatched Joachim.

So glorified soap opera with too much virtue signalling for its own good. Excepting Herbert and wife Elizabeth (Charlotte Rampling) and another grandson, who play minor roles, there’s not a single character to care for.

Despite the unusual backdrop, there’s nothing particularly unusual about the succession/inheritance scenario. The tough self-made millionaire or latest head of a wealthy family seeks to maintain power and guard against diminishing its status and lineage by ensuring the correct successor is groomed and that capital is not dissipated through unsuitable marriage or indulging weaker offspring. Thomas Mann, who fled the Nazis in the 1930s, covered this ground more successfully in his debut novel Buddenbrooks, although admittedly with less decadence.

Setting The Damned against the rise of the Nazis is an attempt to give it more artistic status than it merits because it’s really not much more than a standard study of ambition and ruthlessness.

Identity Unknown (1960) ***

The disaster picture in embryo. Well, the disaster picture without the actual disaster, but setting up the disaster narrative formula of who lives and who dies.

But before we go on to that, spot the deliberate mistake – in the poster I mean. At least I’ve realized it comes from an entirely different movie whereas imdb and Rotten Tomatoes clearly do not. But I’m using it as I guess for the same reason they did – due to the lack of a genuine poster for this picture.

*Just to confuse you further, this is a lobby card from the wrong picture,*
*the one from 1945 not the one being reviewed.*

Regarding the survival lottery, your card is somewhat marked, this being the innocent start of the 1960s and not a few decades later where screenplays adopted a more cynical – and shock-bait – approach to narrative. The minute you know that the lives of four children depend on the survival of various adults involved in a plane crash in the Swiss Alps then you can guess pretty much who will come out of the disaster scot-free.

But as would later be de rigeur for the disaster movie, the narrative concerns itself with a limited number of characters. There are only ten people on board the plane. We know from the outset only three have survived. So the question is – who?

But instead of following the survivors as they battle the crash and the snowbound mountains and fierce storms and freezing cold and whatnot, instead we focus on the back stories of the passengers and crew through John (Richard Wyler) and Jenny (Pauline Yates), seasoned and novice reporter, respectively, as they go through their door-stepping paces.

So, essentially, it’s an expanded portmanteau, ten stories, ten families’ lives in the balance.

Our cross-section of society includes a few who might benefit from someone not surviving – lawyer Jamieson (John Gabriel) hoping the main witness against his villainous client won’t be able to testify, adulterous wife Mrs Sylvester hoping her husband’s death will leave her free to marry lover Ray (John Carson). To counter those conniving characters, we have the heart-tugging tales of two child refugees from Poland awaiting the arrival of their adoptee mother Mrs Phillips, parent Ken (Vincent Ball) whose child will die if an eminent surgeon doesn’t return, and pilot’s wife Pam (Nyree Dawn Porter) in a maternity ward with a newborn baby.

Movie agent Charlie (Martin Wyldeck) takes advantage of unexpected publicity for his ageing client, praying survival will boost her fading career. But he’s cynical enough to already be imagining headlines: “Farewell Performance” if she dies, “Return Farewell Performance” if she lives.

The journalists are not as hard-bitten as they imagine. Sure, Ken does report fraudster Philbert (Peter Elliott) to the police, but he stops short of revealing the fact that her daughter is on the plane to a blind mother whose family are keeping the news from her. In theory, Jenny, is the more conscience-stricken of the journalists, but that’s only if you excuse the tape recorder hidden in her handbag.

By the time our motley crew head out to Switzerland to meet the rescuers coming down the mountain and find out if their loved ones have made it, some home truths have been spelled out. Mrs Sylvester discovers her lover only seduced her to win a job from her husband. “Think I’ve been hanging around here for the pleasure your company?” snarls Ray. “If your husband’s dead you’re no use to me.” Not one to take a put-down lying down, she chats up a smooth gangster in Switzerland. “I’ll ring you some time,” he says when they part. “You don’t know my number,” she wails.

By the time the journos and those waiting are assembled in the bar at the Swiss airport, you might have expected Hercule Poirot to waltz through the door and start interrogating them – generally the only reason for such an assembly.

By this point, John and Jenny have cosied up, at least she’s cooked him a meal, though that proves not a precursor to seduction. But the movie skips past the joy of the child-related survivors and ends on a couple of telling visuals: the welcome home cake for the daughter who won’t return and the tape unspooling from the recorder as Jenny decides being a hard-nosed journalist isn’t for her. While in some senses Mrs Sylvester gets her come-uppance, husband dead, lover fled, this is no morality tale – the villain gets off with murder.

As usual, with these trim British B-pictures, don’t expect much in the acting department, but the story is well told, sufficient and interesting variety of characters, especially when the narrative goes outside the point-of-view of the reporters and focuses on facial expression of those involved.

Pauline Yates (Darling, 1965) has more spark than Richard Wyler (The Ugly Ones, 1966) while Nyree Dawn Porter (BBC’s The Forsyte Saga, 1967) and Vincent Ball (Echo of Diana, 1963) flesh out minor roles. Valentine Dyall (The City of the Dead/ Horror Hotel, 1960) plays a grumpy newspaper editor.

Directed with occasional nifty touches by Frank Marshall (A Guy Called Caesar, 1962) from a screenplay by Brian Clemens (The Corrupt Ones / The Peking Medallion, 1967).

Another plum on Talking Pictures TV.

Goodbye Again / Aimez-vous Brahms (1961) ***

Something of a feminist icon with middle-aged single woman choosing her lovers. I should warn you that there’s a May-December trope, which was very common at this period, as older female stars, engaging on romance with younger males, catch up with the unchallenged notion that any ageing male star should be accorded a younger female partner regardless of the age difference.

Paula (Ingrid Bergman), a lady of independent means, is tiring of philandering lover Roger (Yves Montand). After five years, he still can’t keep his hands off any young girl – known as “Maisies” – who come within reach. Paula is pursued by a younger man Philip (Anthony Perkins) and eventually succumbs to his ardent wooing. They differ on whether their relationship has much of a future, she the more pragmatic of the two, as, I would guess, are the audience.

While he’s refreshing and energetic, the spoiled rich boy exhibits childish tendencies. There’s a clash between the independent woman and the older macho misogynist male who expects his lover to be at his beck and call, even when his disappearances are the result of assignations with other lovers.

A middle-aged woman was as much on the hook to an unfaithful lover as a married woman. While she doesn’t want to be married, she wants to enjoy the same sense of trust that marriage might bring. However, she’s not destroyed, as a married woman of the period might have been, by her partner’s infidelity. And precisely because they are not bound by legal obligation, she is perfectly within her rights to choose another lover.

Still, there is an intense melancholy that she cannot make Roger settle down with just the one woman – her – and that if their affair is to continue it must be on his unacceptable terms. Yet she is terrified of being alone and except for the appearance of Philip and her independence there is the sense that she might subdue tragic instinct and settle for the crumbs from Roger’s table.

Glorified soap opera, no doubt, but it survives on the playing of Ingrid Bergman (The Visit, 1964) who shares with Deborah Kerr the ability to show conflict and sadness in her eyes. She brings so much depth to her character you are apt to forget you are watching a soap opera. That she remains attracted to Roger beyond the realms of logic compounds her tragedy.

Anthony Perkins (Pretty Poison, 1968) is very charming, ridding himself in the main of the jumpiness that appeared to fit his screen persona. While Perkins and Bergman make an unlikely screen couple, they are a believable one.

Yves Montand (Let’s Make Love, 1961) doesn’t have to drift much outside his screen persona of male fantasy figure, the one who has all the dames at his feet.

This is one of those very well-made Hollywood movies, full of gloss, trimmed with an edginess that soon takes center stage. Made in the 1940s it would be a classic weepie. The ending will take you by surprise.

Directed by Oscar-nominated Anatole Litvak (The Night of the Generals, 1967) in determined old-fashioned style from a screenplay by Samuel A. Taylor (Topaz, 1969) based on the Francoise Sagan bestseller.

An old-fashioned treat.

The Prestige (2006) ****

Christopher Nolan (Oppenheimer, 2023) revels in sleight-of-hand, if only by mixing up time frames, but even he isn’t intellectually smart enough to overcome the deficiency that ensured this picture failed to emulate the commercial success of all his other movies. And it revolves not around what you do to dupe an audience. An audience wants to be duped and isn’t so concerned if how the duping is achieved is never revealed, which is, of course, core to the business of the stage magician. Part of the success of this picture is that Nolan gives away stage secrets, even, if you were playing close enough attention, giving away the main reveal of one of the two dueling stage magicians.

But one of these revelations cuts so close to the bone the audience loses its sympathy for both the main characters, Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman). By the time we understand just how ruthless this pair are to the extent of risking marriage/romantic attachment for the sake of either getting one over on the opponent or maintaining the central deceit of their act, we have already become too squeamish to care overmuch. And the twists which come with increasing regularity which are supposed to take our breath away are defused by the ticking time bomb.

And the miscalculation pivots on who you can kill in a movie. Henry Fonda cold-bloodedly slaughtering an innocent child in Once Upon a Time in the West (1969) set a new high/low for onscreen barbarity, but that was excused because it demonstrated just what a villain this character was. Since then a virtual industry has grown up over inventing more creative ways in which people can be killed.

One of the standard ploys of the stage magician is to make a canary in a cage disappear in front of your very eyes only for said canary, minus cage, to reappear moments later to thunderous applause. Turns out the cage is collapsible and it vanishes into a space hidden in a table. The canary? It is squashed to death in the cage. It’s a different canary that magically reappears.

So all through the picture canaries are squashed, sometimes we see the cages being emptied of dead canaries, and workrooms filled with canaries waiting to be squashed.

What happens after this somehow pales into insignificance. Here we have a business that requires murdering God knows how many canaries every night of the year. It doesn’t take much intelligence among the easily duped moviegoer to work out how many canaries both magicians have ruthlessly despatched.

So when they get around to killing each other’s loved ones, or shooting off each other’s fingers or ruining each other’s acts, your stomach has already been turned and although the darkest of dark narratives has long been a theme of the movies, this, and not fitting into the exploitation B-picture genre where it would more comfortable reside, sucks the sympathy out from under the director’s feet and all his later sleight-of-hand, as ingenious as it is, counts for very little.

There’s certainly tragedy here and of the kind that only Shakespeare could conjure. In order to safeguard the integrity of his act – the secrecy paramount to its success – loving husband Borden is forced to pretend to his loving wife Sarah (Rebecca Hall) that he has a mistress, resulting in distraught wife killing herself. Though discreetly done, scarcely glimpsed in the final sequence, Angier has embarked on the murderous spree essential to concealing the mechanics of his famous trick, The Transported Man.

That it works at all, and splendidly to a large extent, is down to Nolan’s traditional time-shift sleight-of-hand and installing in the middle of this brouhaha the wise Cutter (Michael Caine) whose tempered diction brings the movie unexpected gravitas. When he speaks you tend to believe. The minute the other pair open their mouths you are suspect.

Just for his calmness Michael Caine (Interstellar, 2014) steals the picture from Christian Bale (Ford v Ferrari / Le Mans ’66, 2019) and Hugh Jackman (Deadpool and Wolverine, 2024). Rebecca Hall (Godzilla v Kong: The New Empire, 2024)and Scarlett Johansson (Fly Me to the Moon, 2024) are at opposite ends of the feminine divide, the former unable to cope with deceit, the latter manipulating it to her own ends. The director and brother Jonathan adapted the Christopher Priest award-winning novel.

Setting aside the canaries and the difficulties of presenting all-consuming obsession, this remains an intriguing work, possibly the darkest area into which the director ever ventured.

The Ugly American (1963) ***

Terrific performance from Marlon Brando saves this prescient but preachy meditation on Vietnam. Harrison MacWhite (Marlon Brando) is the new ambassador, whose political credentials are questioned by many, parachuted into the fictional South-East Asia country of Sarkhan, knee-deep in civil war, Communist north versus westernized south. The battleground is the American construction of a “Freedom Road” north to China which dissenters fear will be a conduit for the military. MacWhite owes his appointment to his friendship with Deong (Eeji Okada), a charismatic leader.

On arrival, the ambassadorial car is engulfed in a riot, car rocked, windscreens smashed. MacWhite shakes up a complacent embassy and though articulate and scholarly believes he holds the solution to the tricky situation, not willing to accept that national self-determination does not necessarily mean complete hatred of the Americans. There is duplicity on both sides, rebels blaming U.S. truck drivers for deaths they caused, the Americans so used to getting their way they don’t stop to think if it is the right way.

Anxious not to be seen as a lapdog for Communism, MacWhite’s actions inflame the situation, while Deong falls victim to internal forces. Construction boss Homer Atkins (Pat Hingle) promotes the clever use of building hospitals along the road, thus encouraging locals to back it, but nobody falls for such honest skull-duggery masquerading as well-meaning intent.

Friends turning into enemies is a decent premise for any movie but this is over-burdened with debate that while interesting and providing a reflection of the times is basically a mixture of virtue-signalling and apportioning blame and, most heinous of failings, doesn’t really advance the story.

First-time director George Englund handles the action sequences well and captures the essence of a country about to explode against a background of growing tension and political machination. Use of Thailand as a location adds authenticity.

Based on a controversial novel by political scientist Eugene Burdick (who also wrote a more straightforward cold War thriller Fail Safe) and William Lederer, navy veteran and CIA officer, so it carried the stamp of authority in terms of putting forth the arguments for both sides. However, while the film bears only a “passing resemblance” to the book, according to co-author Burdick, he deemed it a superior achievement on the basis of its more dramatic treatment. Stewart Stern (Rachel, Rachel, 1969) was the screenwriter who received blame and praise in equal measure.

Marlon Brando (Burn! / Quiemada, 1969) exudes authority, broad shoulders packed into a suit, and brilliant captures the anguish of a man led into disaster by arrogance. Coming off back-to-back flops One-Eyed Jacks (1961) and Mutiny on the Bounty (1962), this was a considerable change of pace, the first of several excursions into political territory. Eeji Okada (Hiroshima, Mon Amour, 1958) proves a worthy opponent. Pat Hingle (Sol Madrid, 1968), Arthur Hill (Moment to Moment, 1965) and Jocelyn Brando (The Chase, 1966) provide sterling support.

The movie did not just predict what would happen if the U.S. lost the battle for hearts and minds but a similar situation confronting the U.S. Ambassador to Indonesia in 1965 whose appointment was unwelcome in that country.

Mayerling (1969) ****

Sumptuous historical romantic drama set in a fading European empire awash with political intrigue and incipient revolution. Archduke Rudolf (Omar Sharif), married heir to the throne and constantly at odds with rigid father Emperor Franz-Josef (James Mason), sympathizes so strongly with Hungarian dissidents that he threatens to tear apart the Austro-Hungarian Empire. However, when he falls in love with Maria (Catherine Deneuve) and wants to marry her instead that, too, threatens to throw the empire into disarray.

Although dissolute, a mistress (or two) on the side, and addicted to morphine, that is not the way Rudolf is introduced to the audience. Instead, he is one of a string of bloodied men arrested after a demonstration giving his name to an officer in a police station who, once he is recognized, orders all other prisoners be released. He is the poster boy for good royalty. The Hungarians, agitating for independence, want him to become their king.

Beautifully mounted with lavish sets and enough in the way of balls, ballet, processions, horse riding and sleighs to keep up a steady parade of visually interesting distractions, the films steadily builds up an undercurrent of tension, both between father and son and between rebels and ruler. The emperor is a political genius, not just spying on his son, but full of devious devices to hold together whatever threatens to break up the empire.

The romance develops slowly and with true historical perspective, the first kiss they share is not on the lips, Rudolf kisses both her cheeks, she kisses his palm. Yet, there is a real sense that, no matter his power, they can still both be trapped in roles they despise, separated at the whim of parents. Rudolf, as he understands true love for the first time, finds the self-belief to challenge political certainties.

The regal aspects are well done, arguments about the rule of monarchy come over as heated conversation rather than boring debate, the political realities unavoidable. Rudolf is desperate to avoid a future where someone has to die before he has a reason to live. Escape is not an option.

There is a wonderful bitchy atmosphere in the court, where ladies-in-waiting disparage each other behind their backs, one dress described as “wallpaper,” and are forever seeking advancement. Countess Larish (Genevieve Page) is a self-appointed procurer-in-chief for Rudolf, not caring what chaos she causes.

I should add, if you are as ignorant of your European history as myself, that Mayerling is a place not a person. I tell you this so that you don’t make my mistake of waiting for a Mayerling character to appear. The film pointedly avoids a history lesson but it could have spared a minute to explain that the events depicted take place just 20 years after the establishment of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the second largest land-mass in Europe, and among the top two or three nations. That would have helped clarify why Franz-Josef was in such a constant state, worried about forces that could break up the empire, and as concerned that his son, living such a debauched life, lacked the personal skills to hold it together after his father’s death.

It is ironic that Rudolf does prove his worth as a result of being briefly separated from Maria, taking the army to task for its incompetent officers and poor maintenance of everything from weaponry to horses.

To his credit director Terence Young (Dr No, 1962) does not rely on Omar Sharif’s soulful brown eyes and instead allows action to convey character and looks and touch the meaning of his love. This is probably Omar Sharif’s best role, one where he clearly made all the acting decisions rather than being over-directed by David Lean as in Doctor Zhivago (1965). Catherine Deneuve is equally impressive as a far-from-docile innocent, especially given the wide range of more sexually aware characters she has created for Repulsion (1965) and Belle de Jour (1967).

James Mason (Age of Consent, 1969) is superb as the conniving emperor, so rigid he will not approve a change of buttons for the army, so cunning that an apparent rapprochement with his son has unseen strings attached. Ava Gardner (55 Days at Peking, 1963) sweeps in briefly as an empress protective of her son and making the best of life in a gilded cage. Also impressive are Genevieve Page (Grand Prix, 1966) and James Robertson Justice (Doctor in Distress, 1963) as the high-living British heir nonetheless under the thumb of his mother Queen Victoria.

Terence Young also wrote the literate, often amusing. script, although Denis Cannan (A High Wind in Jamaica, 1965) and Joseph Kessel (Night of the Generals, 1967) are credited with additional dialog. While Francis Lai (The Golden Claws of the Cat Girl, 1968) wrote the score he relies heavily on classical music from Aram Khachaturian’s Spartacus.

If you come at this not expecting a David Lean style affair full of striking compositions, but an old-fashioned drama advancing at leisurely pace, you will not be disappointed.

Bonhoeffer (2024) ***

I had forgotten all I knew about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian who was hanged three weeks before the end of the war for his part in the failed assassination of Hitler. I hadn’t realized, either, that there was a virtual spate of biopics, three in the last two years and two more since the turn of the century. The name of writer-director Todd Komarnicki didn’t mean much to me either, except, to counter that obstacle, he pops up before the movie begins to remind us of his credentials, director of World War Two picture Resistance (2003), producer of Elf (2003) and writer of Sully (2017), the latter involving, he is at pains to point out, Hollywood royalty in the shape of director Clint Eastwood and star Tom Hanks.

While this is workmanlike rather than, until virtually the very last scene, inspiring, and, until the final credits, pivots on virtually a handful of his writings – from the millions of words he wrote, many that have become the kind of pithy sayings that people are apt to quote.

There’s a sense that this is for the converted and that there’s little need to remind an audience of what it should already know. While the narrative doesn’t meander, it does oscillate through various timeframes and for those unacquainted with the life it could have done with more attention to detail.

Except for one detail that resonates at the end, the childhood sequences could have been eliminated, though they reveal that his elder brother died in the First World War. Then we are pretty much pitched straight into Harlem where a colleague, Frank (David Jonsson), attending the same New York theological college, introduces him to Baptists who expound gospel music, sassy preacher Rev Powell Sr (Clarke Peters) and the devil’s music, jazz. Bonhoeffer (Jonas Dassler) gets sharp reminder of the pervasive racism when he tries to book a hotel room for his African American buddy and gets whacked in the face with a shotgun for his troubles. This makes him realize piety isn’t enough and that action is required to stand up for your principles.

He becomes one of the first to report on Hitler’s victimization of the Jews and a leader in the dissident movement at a time when the German church is supportive of the Fuhrer. He was a published author from 1930 and became a significant public figure. He promoted the ecumenical movement and spent two years as a pastor in London. He was jailed for his opposition to the Third Reich.

As I said, this is mostly a straightforward affair, and you might struggle to keep up with church politics and it’s a guarantee you won’t have any idea who the other clerics are, and none of them come alive enough for us to care about them.

The best scene, and key to his beliefs, comes at the end. The night before he is due to be hanged, a prison guard offers to help him escape. But Bonhoeffer, fearing repercussions for both of their families, turns him down. He holds an imitation of the Last Supper for the other inmates, including, much to the initial fury of the assembled prisoners, the guard. He dies not just with considerable dignity but welcoming death.

Jonas Dassler (Berlin Nobody, 2024) is stolid more than anything and it’s very much a one-note performance. Frankly, none of the acting will take your breath away. However, placed against the current political climate, this resonates more than the film possibly deserves. It’s a worthy biopic and a timely reminder that “not to act is to act.”

However, if the name Bonhoeffer has ever entered your consciousness and you want to know more this is as good an introduction as any (though in fairness I haven’t seen the other biopics and I suspect the one starring Klaus Maria Brandauer will carry more emotional heft).

This was surprisingly busy when I saw it at my local multiplex on Monday, so the name has not been forgotten.

The Last Showgirl (2025) **** – Seen at the Cinema

I’m assuming this fell foul of Oscar voters because it lacked a woke agenda. In fact, it’s distinctly anti-woke, the subject matter of women flaunting their bodies for dough, and a heroine who revels in it, going against the contemporary grain. And I know Demi Moore put on a more showy performance in The Substance (2024) but Pamela Anderson here demonstrates significantly more substance. Everything you’ve heard about her performance is true and you do wonder, far more than with Demi Moore, why some casting director didn’t alight on such talent which would have been ideal for a rom-com or drama as a put-upon character.

I’ve scarcely come across a more well-rounded character – and yes the script by Kate Gersten was an Oscar shut-out, too, but scripts are more than fancy-dancy lines or setting up woke agendas. There’s a just fabulous scene where ageing showgirl Shelly (Pamela Anderson) slams the door in the face of one of the young dancers coming to her for emotional support. Shelly is too wrapped up in other personal dilemmas at that point to cope. Up to now she’s been maternal to a pair of younger girls, Jodie (Kiernan Shipka) and Mary-Anne (Brenda Song), and happy to offer a shoulder to cry on.

But it’s two-way. The girls help her fix bits of her costume. Following the door-slamming episode, Jodie takes the hump and refuses to assist pre-show and Shelly come a bit unstuck.

But not only is Shelly a willing participant in male fantasy, she’s also poster girl for a female fantasy, that her body and somewhat limited talent will carry her through to old age (older age, she’s 57 now) and she can dwell on career highlights such as being feted by the media and corporations who ferried her across the world as some kind of brand ambassador.

Frankly, she’s not ready to face up to much – certainly not the end of her career, the show (Le Razzle Dazzle) is closing and her daughter Hannah (Billie Lourd) is not only challenging her perception that she was a good mother but derides her occupation.

The script is cleverly structured in a kind of Christmas Carol fashion. We’ve got before – Jodie and Mary-Anne the eager beavers with stars in their eyes. After is represented by the jaded older hard-drinking gambling addict Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), reduced to cocktail waitress (a rather grand term for what she does) in a casino with her cleavage on show as a possible repository for tips.

Shelly has more than enough shades of character. She’s daffy, hard-nosed when the situation requires, manipulative (also when required), selfish, unselfish, fulfilled, unfulfilled, friendly, lonely. Turns out there’s still room for the exploitative show as long as striptease can be performed in post-ironic fashion, throw in some slapstick and bizarre comedy, and there’s demand for the straightforward Vegas showgirl but they need a good bit more dancing training than Shelly can muster – brutally taken apart in that scene.

Thankfully, director Gia Coppola (The Seven Faces of Jane, 2022) doesn’t go down the sentimental route, nor is she out to curry pity. You’ll sympathize with Shelly for sure, but you’ll hold back because her problems are all of her own making and you know full well that she’ll find some solution, manipulative or not, to her immediate problems.

If you’re looking to expend a bit of sympathy your better bet is Annette. The scene where, presumably as part of her job, she has to climb on to a mini-stage in the casino and gyrate to a tune with nobody paying the blind bit of notice resonates. Sharp-tongued though she is, Annette has the self-awareness to know she will always be broke, unable to kick her gambling addiction, even if it means losing her home and sleeping in her car.

Hannah’s really the only cliché, there as a scripting prop to make Shelly reassess her life (interestingly enough Shelly finds little to fault), and make her face up to her tawdry career. Though in a scene which makes some emotional sense – acceptance of parental failings, I guess, or pride at paternal skill – that I didn’t believe the daughter applauds her mother’s dancing having previously lambasted it.

This is old-school, from the time when you could make a whole film just about a character coming to the end of their career and facing up (or not, as here) to decisions made. It could be a football coach or a teacher or a politician. Here, it just happens to be a showgirl.

This would in any case have been the best performance of Pamela Anderson’s career because, frankly, that bar was set decidedly low. Demi Moore, by comparison, could at least point to some critical acceptance for roles like Ghost (1990) and A Few Good Men (1992). I don’t buy into the idea that box office stars are hard-done-by in not being offered Oscar-bait roles because as we’ve seen only too often any star can buy their way into a good role – by that I mean cutting their salary to the bone or spending their own dough to bring a picture to fruition, it’s what the term “vanity project” was invented for.

Still, with what Pamela Anderson presents here, shorn not so much of make-up but the glossy sleekness of her previous screen persona, and presenting a more realistic characterization, you could see her fitting well into a series of more demanding roles.

Yes, for once, the reviews are correct. Well worth seeing.