Spy – Page 2 – The Magnificent 60s

The Ambushers (1967) ***

Don’t get too hung up on the supposed rampant sexism in this third iteration the Matt Helm series. These women – bikini-clad or not – are weaponized to the hilt rather than our hero Matt Helm (Dean Martin) who has to make do with a gun disguised as a camera. In fact, he makes pretty good use of the gadget created for the females – the one that melts metal, designed to get rid of the clasp on men’s belts, forcing their trousers to fall down, which, as any student of farce knows, is the easiest way to disable the male.

There’s also a weapon triggered from a bra and a sedative concealed inside lipstick so that males seduced into intimacy will soon be snookered. And it’s also a woman, secret agent Sheila (Janice Rule), who’s impervious to the electromagnetic waves which kill off the opposite gender. Of course, to be fair, it’s not Matt Helm we see sinuously dancing around a playboy mansion in Acapulco the way the women do, although for Francesca (Senta Berger) that appears a clever method of entering the enemy’s lair. Who’s going to question another sexy dancing queen? And the bad guy has one of those devices that make the zips on female attire unzip. (James Bond purloined that one.) But it’s Matt who has the ideal rescue weapon, the levitation gun.

If you’re looking for a more male-oriented theme, how about beer? At various points Matt Helm is literally swimming in the stuff. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised had the plot concerned beer manufacturer Ortega (Albert Salmi) planning world domination through poisoning the global supply of beer or arming his beer gals with bullet-spraying bras. Even though this is largely a spoof, more so than the first in the series, it’s not that much of a spoof and Ortega has more serious intent. Using lasers, he’s hijacked the U.S. Government’s secret flying saucer and plans to sell it to the highest bidder.

Sheila, the pilot, also hijacked, has gone off piste after her experience, and is thrown together with Matt Helm as husband-and-wife, a role they previously played on another mission, to hunt down the villain and recover the missing spaceship. Francesca is also after same, and happy to seduce, trick or sedate Matt in order to achieve that end. Despite believing (from the previous encounter) that she is still Matt’s wife, Stella, despite an instant blow-up tent being laid on, takes a while to understand her duties include getting hot’n’heavy even if she’s less comfortable in the bikini department. Eventually, Matt and Sheila team up with Francesca. Turns out she works for supervillain Big O but is first to find the flying saucer.

More than the earlier entries in the series, this one relies on a series of unlikely events. The switcheroos when the lights in the train go out. But the firing squad sequence is hilarious. The in-jokes about Dean Martin’s recording rivals continue, but the bevy of bikini girls disappear from view pretty much after the opening section.

Janice Rule (Alvarez Kelly, 1966) is generally seen as a class above the previous female leads in the series but that would only be if you ignored Ann-Margret’s performance in Once a Thief (1965), the Stella Stevens of Rage (1966), the Senta Berger of The Quiller Memorandum (1966) and especially the stunning playing of Daliah Lavi in The Demon (1964). Dean Martin was on the cusp of much finer work in Rough Night in Jericho (1967) and Firecreek (1968) so this might just have been a warm-up.

Directed by Henry Levin (Genghis Khan) from a screenplay by Herbert Baker based on the Donald Hamilton novel.

Doesn’t take it itself seriously, which is just as well.

Beyond the Curtain (1960) ***

Richard Greene had been a childhood idol as that dashing hero Robin Hood in long-running British television series (The Adventures of Robin Hood, 1955-1960) and movie Sword of Sherwood Forest (1960) so I was rather at a loss to discover that his career appeared to stumble thereafter. Only one movie in seven years and then a short stint as the hero in The Blood of Fu Manchu (1968) and The Castle of Fu Manchu (1969). What I hadn’t realized given his eternal youthful demeanor was that he was already approaching 40 when he first donned the tights for Robin Hood and that he was coming to the end of a reasonable stint as a leading man in both Hollywood and domestically.

So I shouldn’t really have been surprised that he turned up in this Cold War B-picture. Precisely because he was the star the movie didn’t make the inroads it should have done, given the subject matter and the sensitive playing of Hungarian female lead Eva Bartok (Blood and Black Lace, 1964) whose career was equally foundering after a promising start as Burt Lancaster’s squeeze in The Crimson Pirate (1951).

Audiences were probably baffled by the technicality on which the story pivots. As the Cold War begins – the titular Curtain is The Iron Curtain – air space was as important a national border as land and venturing into foreign air space was construed as deliberate provocation.

East German stewardess Karin (Eva Bartok), a refugee in Britain from her home country, is arrested when her airplane touches down in East Germany after losing its way in a storm. Pilot fiancé Capt Jim Kyle (Richard Greene), who is let go by the Soviet-influenced authorities, returns to East Germany to try to rescue her.

This resonates more than it did at the time when the Berlin Wall was not yet in existence and the Cold War consisted more of saber-rattling than anything as perilous as the Cuban Missile Crisis. And there’s a definite Kafkaesque tone. Karin is treated as a traitor for attempting to flee her native land and is equally used as bait by her captors to attempt to draw out of hiding her dissident brother Pieter (George Mikell). Outside of Kyle, there’s a sense of romantic revenge, old friend Hans (Marius Goring) now leading the forces hoping to entrap her brother.

There’s plenty of the usual escape ploys, and the atmosphere has noir-antecedents with lighting that exploits shadow and night. And while the thriller aspects work well enough, especially the exciting climax in a tunnel, they carry less impact than the emotions. Karin is terrified of not just being held against her will and interrogated by the fierce secret police, but the prospect of repatriation – or more likely imprisonment – in a country she now despises and had managed to escape is proof that you can’t go home again.

If you remember the scene in Doctor Zhivago (1965) of Omar Sharif after the war returning to his palatial apartment and finding it filled up with other occupants and his family relegated to a very small space, this is its precedent. Karin’s family home is ruled by a sinister landlady-cum-busybody-cum-informant and her suicidal mother (Lucie Mannheim) lives in the attic and suffers delusions. The despair of living in a totalitarian regime comes across very well.

While reminiscent of elements of The Third Man (1949) and thoroughly overtaken in the espionage genre by the likes of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965) and The Quiller Memorandum (1966), this makes it mark by concentrating on entrapment and lack of freedom.

Richard Greene is in his element as the dashing hero, but he’s outshone by Eva Bartok who has much more to lose.

Final feature of British stalwart Compton Bennett (King Solomon’s Mines, 1950) who injects occasional style into proceedings. Written by the director and John Cresswell (Spare the Rod, 1961) from the bestseller by Charles F Blair and A.J. Wallis.

More thought-provoking than you might expect.

Black Bag (2025) *** – Seen at the Cinema

Explain to me how this cost anything like the reported $50 million. Unless the cost of a nightclub scene has gone through the roof. Or someone has slapped an almighty tariff on shooting in Zurich. Or such middling box office attractions as Cate Blanchett and Michael Fassbender, against the laws of marquee valuation, are pulling down salaries in the region of $10 million apiece.

Because this is nothing but a glorified chamber piece, most scenes shot indoors or in secluded locations. There’s no car chase, one minor explosion (drone-triggered), not even a pursuit on foot. Some clever marketing oik has dressed up what’s no more than a BBC TV film as an expensive espionage picture in the hope of hooking a larger audience.

It’s short, little more than 90 minutes, so that’s on the plus side. But the plot’s full of holes, you’re scarcely going to swallow Fassbender and Blanchett, faces welded to stiff upper lip, as a hot middle-aged couple, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see Hercule Poirot or more likely Miss Marple lurch into view for the grand finale with all the potential culprits being set to rights around a dinner table.

Fassbender is so impassive at the best of times his character hardly needs to be expanded to include some OCD, and the most expressive he becomes is, wait for it, hand shaking when he pours a glass of water. The theme, wait for it, is that people who lie for a living are not to be trusted in their domestic lives. And just to polish the virtue-signalling credentials there’s still running amok in MI5/MI6/Black Ops/CIA some rogue top dog who thinks he can stop the unnamed war – presumably Ukraine – by causing a nuclear power plant meltdown in Russia.

And when Pierce Brosnan steals the show in a small supporting role you know your movie’s in trouble.

That said, there’s enough going on to keep you entertained. Top British agent George (Michael Fassbender) begins to suspect – or does he really – that his wife, also a top British agent, Kathryn (Cate Blanchett), is up to no good. So he begins to investigate. Mirror is piled upon mirror, complicated by the occasional murder, so that we are soon knee-deep in the kind of narrative where you don’t know who trust – but, equally, unfortunately, don’t much care because none of the characters is remotely attractive.

At least one them, Freddie (Tom Burke), would have been considered a security risk. So often does he stray he would be catnip for any passing honeytrap. But you might also have asked questions about his current squeeze, analyst Clarissa (Marisa Abela), paranoid as a posse of schizophrenics, who knows exactly how to pass a polygraph test (clenching the anal sphincter one of the tricks in case you’re interested), and as likely as not to ram a carving knife into unfaithful boyfriend Freddie’s hand at the dinner table. Naturally, it doesn’t do much harm, because Freddie is back at work next day with bandaged hand and not investigated by cops over a knife wound that could hardly be covered by the old slipping the shower routing.

Then we’ve got straitlaced psychiatrist Dr Zoe Vaughan (Naomie Harris) with a penchant for erotic fiction, sex in the office (including breaking the cardinal rule of her profession, sex with a patient), and stringing along two men at once, both of whom, Freddie and Col James Stokes (Rege-Jean Page), are engaged in other affairs.

George soon realizes he’s being played as a patsy, and that his investigation has compromised another operation, and facilitated the handover of a top secret document to the Russians.

In the current dearth of movies for the over-40s, make that over-30s not yet suffocating in superheroes and multiverses, this is what passes for entertainment aimed at an adult audience. And it is short, as I said, but this is exactly the kind of low-budget movie with a decent cast that traditionally ends up on a streamer.

For once, director Steven Soderbergh (Magic Mike’s Last Dance, 2023), whose career is littered with self-indulgence, sticks to the knitting, and it’s a more than passable espionage thriller, but the kind that would be more at home on the small screen. Written by David Koepp (Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, 2023).

Neither Fassbender (Next Goal Wins, 2023) nor Blanchett (Tar, 2022) do the most basic task required of a marquee name, which is to set the screen alight, and all the rest, excepting the much-in-demand Pierce Brosnan (Black Adam, 2022) – seven pictures in the last two years – merely trundle along in their wake, saddled with scenes where they express alarm at their deepest secrets being revealed like they have drifted in to some shopworn melodrama.

For all the actual investigation that takes place you could have set this in the kind of remote spot favored by Agatha Christie and played it out in traditional Poirot/Marple fashion.

Interesting but ultimately disappointing.

And the big question remains – where did the $50 million go? And, did it exist in the first place?

Sebastian (1968) ***

Decoding the emotional life of mathematics professor Sebastian (Dirk Bogarde) lies at the heart of a spy thriller mainlining on loyalty and trust. The presence of a flotilla of potential Bond girls has opened this picture up to charges of being a spoof, but I saw the mini-skirted incredibly-bright lasses as being a reversal of the standard secretarial pool. And a supposed representation of the “swinging sixties” would hold true if shot in the environs of Carnaby St rather than the bulk of locations being arid high-rise buildings.

In roundabout fashion, intrigued after literally bumping into him in Oxford, Rebecca (Susannah York) is recruited into an espionage decoding department staffed entirely by gorgeous (but brainy) women. Among the older employees is chain-smoking left-winger Elsa (Lili Palmer) whom security chief General Phillips (Nigel Davenport) suspects of passing on secrets. When romance ensues with SY, Sebastian dumps dumb pop singer girlfriend Carol (Janet Munro) who is already having an affair and spying on Sebastian.

Although there is no actual beat-the-clock codes to be unraveled, tensions remains surprisingly high as in best Turing manner, breakthroughs are slow. There’s an undercurrent of electronic surveillance, eavesdropping on recruits, bugs planted in the houses of even the apparently most trusted personnel, seeds of distrust easily sowed, codes shifting from numbers to sounds. The occasional nod to the contemporary, a disco, pop songs, Rebecca doing a fashion shoot in the middle of traffic, is background rather than center stage

Sebastian, though worshipped by is female staff, is “more whimsical than predatory.” Nonetheless, introspective and often morose, unable to deal with emotions, it falls to Rebecca to take on the task of sorting him out which naturally leads to complications.

Most reviewers at the time complained it was a victory of style over substance, but somehow they managed to overlook the essential questions about trust the picture asked. That said, it does follow an odd structure, the third act dependent on directorial sleight-of-hand.

Dirk Bogarde (Hot Enough for June/ Agent 8 ¾, 1964) is always highly watchable and Susannah York (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) catches the eye with an impulsive, slightly kooky character who turns out to be down-to-earth. Nigel Davenport (Play Dirty, 1969) brings his usual cynical malevolence to the party but with the twist of not knowing whose side he is really on. John Gielgud (Becket, 1964) is a delight. There’s a brief appearance by a pipe-smoking Donald Sutherland (The Dirty Dozen, 1967). Miss World Ann Sidney is one of “Sebastian Girls”

David Greene’s (The Shuttered Room, 1967) direction is mostly competent but the opening aerial tracking shots set the precedence for occasional bursts of style. Jerry Fielding supplied the score. Written by Leo Marks (Peeping Tom, 1960) and Gerard Vaughan-Hughes (The Duellists, 1977).

Some Girls Do (1969) ****

Enjoyed this sequel to Deadlier Than the Male (1967) far more than I expected because it sits in its own little world at some point removed from the espionage shenanigans that dominated the decade. Hugh (nee Bulldog) Drummond (Richard Johnson) is neither secret agent nor involved in espionage high jinks, instead employed in the more down-to-earth domain of insurance investigator, albeit where millions are at stake. Although his overall adversary is male, the smooth-talking Carl Petersen (James Villiers), adopting a series of disguises for most of this picture, the real threat comes from a pair of villainesses in the shape of Helga (Daliah Lavi) and Pandora (Beba Loncar). If anything, this pair are a shade more sadistic than Irma and Penelope from the previous outing.

The sequel doubles up – or doubles down – on the female villainy quotient, Petersen having created a race of lethal female robots who spend their time dispatching scientists working on the world’s first supersonic airliner. Global domination is only partly Petersen’s aim since he also stands to gain £8 million ($134 million today) if the plane doesn’t launch on schedule. Livening up proceedings are Flicky (Sydne Rome), a somewhat kooky Drummond fan who has her own agenda, Peregrine “Butch” Carruthers (Ronnie Stevens), a mild-mannered embassy official assigned bodyguard duties, and chef-cum-informant Miss Mary (Robert Morley).

Villiers has found a way of turning an ultrasound device intended originally to aid cheating in a boat race into something far more dangerous. But, of course, for Helga seduction is the main weapon in her armory, and Drummond’s first sighting of her – a superb cinematic moment – is sitting on the branch of a tree wielding a shotgun. Equally inviting are the squadron of gun-toting mini-skirted lasses guarding Petersen’s rocky fortress.

The movie switches between Helga, Pandora and the robots raining down destruction and Drummond trying to prevent it. Dispensing with the boardroom activities that held up the action in Deadlier than the Male, this is a faster-moving adventure, with Drummond occasionally outwitted by Helga and calling on his own repertoire of tricks. Dialog is often sharp with Drummond imparting swift repartee.

The action – on land, sea and air – is a vast improvement on the original. The pick is a motorboat duel, followed closely by Drummond in a glider coming up against a venomous aeroplane and saddled with a defective parachute. And there are the requisite fisticuffs. Various malfunctioning robots supply snippets of humour.

Richard Johnson (A Twist of Sand, 1968) truly found his metier in this character and it was a shame this proved to be the last of the series. Although Daliah Lavi never found a dramatic role to equal her turns in The Demon (1963) and The Whip and the Body (1963) and had graced many an indifferent spy picture as well as The Silencers (1966), she is given better opportunity here to show off her talent. Beba Loncar (Cover Girl, 1968) is her make-up obsessed bitchy buddy. Sydne Rome (What?, 1972) makes an alluring debut. James Villiers (The Touchables, 1968) is the only weak link, lacking the inherent menace of predecessor Nigel Green.

There’s a great supporting cast. Apart from Robert Morley (Genghis Khan, 1965) look out for Maurice Denham (Danger Route, 1967), Adrienne Posta (To Sir, with Love, 1967) and in her first movie in over a decade Florence Desmond (Three Came Home, 1950). The robotic contingent includes Yutte Stensgaard (Lust for a Vampire, 1971), Virginia North (Deadlier Than the Male), Marga Roche (Man in a Suitcase, 1968), Shakira Caine (wife of Sir Michael), Joanna Lumley (television series Absolutely Fabulous), Maria Aitken also making her debut, twins Dora and Doris Graham and Olga Linden (The Love Factor, 1969). Peer closely and you might spot Coronation Street veteran Johnny Briggs.

The whole package is put together with some style by British veteran Ralph Thomas (Deadlier than the Male). Screenplay by David Osborn and wife Liz Charles-Williams (Deadlier than the Male) is based on the book by “Sapper”.

The Silencers (1966) ****

An absolute delight. Have to confess though I had been pretty sniffy about even deigning to watch what I always had been led to believe was an ill-judged spoof of the Bond phenomenon especially with a middle-aged Dean Martin with scarcely a muscle to crease his stylish attire.

Full of witty repartee, and even a whole jukebox of snippets from the Dean Martin repertoire (plus an aural joke at the expense of Frank Sinatra) and a daft take on the Bond gadget paraphernalia. The spoofometer doesn’t go anywhere near 10 and the whole enterprise not only works but damn near sizzles. No wonder it led to another three.

Called out of retirement – hence cleverly swatting away any jibes about his age – Matt Helm (Dean Martin) resists becoming re-involved in the espionage malarkey until his life is saved by former colleague Tina (Daliah Lavi) as he falls for the seductive technique of an enemy agent. Back in harness with ICE (Intelligence and Counter Espionage), Helm is called upon a thwart a dastardly scheme by the Big O organization headed by Tung-Tze (Victor Buono) to stage a nuclear explosion.

Some malarkey about a secret computer brings into Helm’s sphere the klutzy Gail (Stella Stevens) whom he initially treats with suspicion. Gail and Tina end up as rivals for Helm’s afections.

But you could have invented any number of stories and they would still have worked because it’s the rest of narrative that makes the whole thing zing. We could start with the massive effort that goes into ensuring that the private parts of naked men (and women) are concealed by a wide variety of objects, a kind of bait-and-switch that paid homage to the James Bond legend while casually taking it apart. Since Helm now operates legitimately as a fashion photographer it makes sense that his most deadly gadget is a camera that fires miniature knives.

And knowing how much delight villains take in despatching secret service agents in the most gleeful fashion, wouldn’t it make sense to kill said agent with his own gun? Who could resist such a notion? Until it, literally, backfires and the bad guy is shot by a gun that shoots a reversible bullet – two bullets if you’re so dumb you can’t believe that’s what’s happening and you shoot yourself twice.

And what about the laser? Another famed Bond device. Why not have that go haywire?

But there’s also a playful Heath Robinson aspect to those gadgets whose purpose is pure labor-saving. Helm can automate his circular bed so he doesn’t have to get out of it to answer the phone and to save him walking a few steps into the bath the bed is programmed to jerk upwards and tip him in.

“Treasure hunt,” remarks Helm, slyly, as he spies a string of discarded female clothing. But making love to a strange woman feels rude so Helm is impelled to complain they haven’t been introduced. “You’re Matt Helm,” says the stranger. “Good enough,” replies Helm.

And that’s before we come to the joy of Gail, who has been taking lessons from Mrs Malaprop, and, despite lurching into Helm at every opportunity, giving him the mistaken impression that she’s keen to get to know him better, Gail actually is wary. So wary that in a thunderstorm she tries to escape their cosy nest of a car (equipped with separate sleeping arrangements, don’t you know) only to end up slipping and sliding through the mud.

While Daliah Lavi (The Demon, 1963) isn’t exactly called upon to act her socks off, she at least is afforded a believable character, but she can’t hold candle to Stella Stevens (Rage, 1966) when the blonde one decides to go full-tilt boogie into comedy slapstick. Sure, Stevens relies overly on other occasions on a pop-eyed look, but the thunderstorm sequence reveals a deft, and willing, knack for physical comedy.

Dean Martin (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967) struck a solid seam with his interpretation of Helm, slick enough to get away with Bond-style lothario, laid-back enough for no one to take it seriously.

Nancy Kovack (Tarzan and the Valley of Gold, 1967), Cyd Charisse (Maroc 7, 1967) and Beverley Adams (Hammerhead, 1968) up the glamor quotient.

Director Phil Karlson (The Secret Ways, 1961) and screenwriter Oscar Saul (Major Dundee, 1965), adapting the Donald Hamilton bestseller, provide the basic template but Dean Martin makes it work.

Great fun.

Shadow of Fear (1963) **

The Eady system at its worst. I’ve been singing the praises of quite a few of these British crime B-movies, made to take advantage of the Eady Levy cashback system and a Governmental dictat that cinemas had to show a certain proportion of British-made features. Generally, they were intended to fill the supporting feature slot, providing cinemas with a double feature. In the course of writing this Blog, I’ve uncovered a few minor gems, brisk, well-directed thrillers, good acting not necessarily essential.

The best this has to show for it is the ruthlessness of British spy chiefs in using an innocent couple as bait for foreign spies. Otherwise, beyond the initial twist, it’s too desultory for words, with too much time – even in a 60-minute feature – spent on too little.

American oilman Bill Martin (Paul Maxwell), flying back to London from Baghdad, agrees to carry a coded message for Jack Carter (Antony Wager), a casual British acquaintance. On landing at Heathrow Bill discovers Jack has been murdered. He’s accosted by a couple of cops, taken to a seedy hotel to wait for a fellow called Oliver, accepting all this oddness because he assumes he’s delivering a message for British Intelligence. After handing over the message he makes the mistake of telling Oliver that not only did he read the message, although failing to decode its content, but, having a photographic memory, had committed it to his brain.

Cue imprisonment. He escapes only because someone attempts to kill him and in turning the tide finds a way out. He flees to girlfriend Barbara (Clare Owen) and she whizzes him in a nifty sports car to her Uncle John (Colin Tapley) who knows somebody who knows somebody and it soon emerges that the fellow called Oliver was actually a fellow called Sharp (John Arnatt), a spy of unknown affiliation.

Assuming the bad guys would still want to eliminate our hero, the real Oliver (Reginald Marsh) reckons this is too good an opportunity to miss – the end justifying the means and all that rather than the more traditional British notion of fair play – and gets Bill and Barbara to agree to act as bait to trap the spies.

This doesn’t go as neatly as the good guys might expect and the baddies make further attempts on the couple’s lives and finally manage to kidnap them and take them out to sea with the intention of dropping them overboard. Luckily, the Brits are able to call in the Coastguard – armed for the occasion – to intercept and it all ends happily.

There’s not enough of anything to keep this moving – scarcely a red herring – and there’s about a dozen characters who flit in and out, various thugs, a top thug called Warner (Alan Tilvern), a femme fatale Ruth (Anita West) who is given no chance to exert her femme fatale wiles, and sundry MI5 and FBI characters and various others along the way. From the amount of time spent focusing on the belly dancer (Mia Karam) in the Baghdad hotel, you might have expected that she would have a role to play because she had more screen time than Ruth.

Nobody went on to greater things. Canadian Paul Maxwell (Man in the Middle / The Winston Affair, 1964) specialized in playing Americans in British films and television, even had a running part in soap opera Coronation Street and if you look closely you’ll see him pop up in A Bridge Too Far (1977).

Director Ernest Morris (Echo of Diana, 1963) can’t do much with the script by Ronald Liles (Night of the Big Heat, 1967) and Jim O’Connolly (Smokescreen, 1964) based on a tale by T.F. Fetherby.

Dull whichever way you cut it.

Echo of Diana (1962) ***

Minor British B-picture gem, though more for the exquisite narrative and tsunami of twists than the acting. And while not being one of those devious arthouse farragoes spins the starting point as the climax. Also, very prescient, heavily reliant of the espionage tradecraft that would later become de rigeur.

On the day she learns of her husband’s death in a plane crash in Turkey, Joan (Betty McDowall) finds an intriguing reference to the dead man in the “Personal Column” of The Times newspaper signed by “Diana.” Suspecting a mistress or skulduggery, her friend Pam (Clare Owen), a former fashion editor, investigates and triggers trouble. Joan’s flat is burgled, they are accosted by dubious police, the dead man’s effects are foreign to Joan, the receptionist at a newspaper makes a mysterious phone call.

Fairly quickly, Joan and Pam fall in the purlieu of British espionage chief Col Justin (Geoffrey Toone) who puts them in touch with suave journalist Bill (Vincent Ball), an old colleague of the husband, whose apartment has also been tossed, and who has taken a shine to Pam. The women are somewhat surprised when a murder is hushed up but that’s the least of the espionage malarkey. Mysterious contacts, equally odd points of contact, disguises (though mostly this runs to a blonde wig), code names, double agents, phone tapping and mail drops leave the women somewhat befuddled but they play along and with that British bluffness, not quite aware they are acting as decoys to draw out a crew of foreign spies headed by a rough fella called Harris (Basil Beale).

Halfway through it seems her husband might not be dead after all, but, according to the Turkish ambassador, Joan might need to head off to Turkey or thereabouts and certainly other interested parties want her out of the country.

And it being British, and nobody wanting to take the whole thing seriously, especially since the James Bond boom had not begun in earnest, the drama is offset by some pointed comedy: the proprietor of an accommodation address business has a side hustle in porn mags, one of the contacts is annoyingly punctilious, one promising lead turns out to be a very grumpy old man, another lead results in a race horse called Diana in a grubby betting shop where they are rooked by another old guy.

But it’s lavished with twists: double-crossers double-crossed, misleading clues, bad guys far cleverer than good guys, the wrong person in the right car, kidnap, unexpected occurrence. Pretty contemporary, too, with much of the action driven by telephone calls. But something of an ironic climax, the notice in the newspaper having legitimate espionage purpose.

The action is so pell-mell, Joan and Pam scarcely have time to draw breath, never mind give vent to heavy emotion, the best we are afforded is a moment when Joan doesn’t know “whether she’s wife or widow.” But that’s just as well. We are in B-movie land with a B-movie class of actors, probably recognizable to audiences then as the kind of actors who never managed a step up.

Vincent Ball did best, a long-running role in BBC TV series Compact (1962-1965), male lead in skin flick Not Tonight, Darling (1971) and decades of bit parts. You might have caught Betty McDowell in First Men in the Moon (1964) or The Omen (1976). Clare Owen was female lead in Shadow of Fear (1963) and had a part in ITV soap Crossroads (1965-1972).

Directed by Ernest Morris (Shadow of Fear) from a script by Reginald Hearne (Serena, 1962). You’d say a better script than a movie, and with better casting might have taken off, but, still, very satisfying supporting feature for the times.

Otley (1969) **

Misguided attempt to play the innocent-caught-up-in-espionage card. And minus the angst on which he had built his screen persona, Tom Courtenay (A Dandy in Aspic, 1968) fails to elicit the spark that would turn himself into a leading man – excepting one other film, this was his last top-billed picture. And anyone hooked by the billing expecting to see a lot of female lead Romy Scheider (The Cardinal, 1963) would equally be in for a surprise.

And that’s a shame because Courtenay can act, not in the Oscar-bait sense, but just in his physical gestures and reactions to whatever else is going on in a scene. Scheider, too, especially in the scene where she more or less laughs in Courtenay’s face when he points a gun at her and in her knowing looks.

But Otley (Tom Courtenay) is such an unappealing character, the movie is on a sticky wicket from the off. Petty thief, largely homeless because of it, his propensity for slipping into his pocket anything that looks valuable in the homes of anyone stupid enough to give him a bed for the night, giving the movie its only sensible piece of narrative drive. Because the rest of the story is a farrago, a series of unconnected episodes dreamed up for their supposed humor, which wants to be pointed and sly but ends up heavy-handed and dreary.

And there’s one of those narrative sleights-of-hand where Otley wakes up on an airport runaway (security impervious to his presence, of course) having misplaced two days of his life. That’s just one of competing narratives – the other being that he’s wanted for the murder of the chap, Lambert (Edward Hardwicke), who was stupid enough to give him a bed for the night. Count in the espionage and there’s a trio of useless narrative hinges that get in each other’s way and largely introduce us to a succession of odd characters.

Pick of these is Johnston (Leonard Rossiter), an assassin who has more lucrative side hustles as a tour coach operator, double-crosser and blackmailer. The only other believable character is the landlady who’s had enough of Otley’s thieving, but only (unbelievable element lurching into view) after she’s bedded him.

The movie just lurches from one scene to another, a car chase that ends up on a golf course, (“Are they members?” cries one outraged lady), a houseboat, various low-life dives and chunks of tourist tat thrown in, a bustling street market, Carnaby St etc. I can’t begin to tell you what the espionage element is because that’s so far-fetched and ridiculous you won’t believe me.

This is the kind of low-budget picture that sets scenes, for no particular reason except they’re part of tourist London, in the Underground, but a completely empty Underground, not another person in sight, and not late at night either which would be a saving grace, though clearly it was filmed either late at night or early in the morning when the Underground was closed to ordinary passengers (thus saving on the budget).

Two examples of how heavy-handed the humor is: on a farm having been doused in water by Johnston, Otley remarks that he’s now deep in the proverbial only for the camera to cut to his foot sinking into a cowpat. At the airport, a couple of staff get lovey-dovey behind a counter, the male sneaking a grope, and we cut to a sign “ground handling”. Ouch and urgh!

If you manage to keep going the only reward is to see a handful of familiar names popping up: Alan Badel (Arabesque, 1966), James Villiers (Some Girls Do, 1969), Fiona Lewis (Where’s Jack?, 1969) and British sitcom legends James Bolam (The Likely Lads and sequel) and Leonard Rossiter (The Fall and Rise of Reginal Perrin, 1976-1979).

And where’s Romy Scheider in all this? Looking decidedly classy, but clearly wondering how the hell she got mixed up in it.

Screenwriter Dick Clement (Hannibal Brooks, 1969) made his movie debut on this clunker. He co-wrote the picture with regular writing chum Ian La Fresnais from the novel by Martin Waddell.

What happens when a genre cycle – in this case the espionage boom – gets out of control.

The Limbo Line (1968) ***

Should have been a classic. The bleakest espionage tale of the decade ends up, unfortunately, in the wrong hands. Betrayal – personal and professional – underlines a sturdy enough narrative of defection, kidnap and rescue, infected with a spread of interesting characters far from the genre cliché.

We open with blonde Russian femme fatale Ludmilla (Moira Redmond), as sleek as they come, killing off her lover once she discovers his true intent. She works for the “Limbo Line,” an organization headed by Oleg (Vladek Sheybal) which whisks Russian defectors back to their home country. In romantic fashion, she inveigles herself into the lives of those who may be, for personal gain, about to take a wrong turn in the service of their country.

Richard Manston (Craig Stevens), meanwhile, is an operative of an undetermined secret unit, getting cosy with Russian ballerina Irina (Kate O’Mara), a defector, in the hope that she will become the next target for Oleg and thus lead him to his quarry. Responding to his amorous advances, she has no concept of this ulterior motives.

But he’s not the only one in the two-timing racket. Oleg lives high on the hog, a lifestyle financed by holding back remuneration due his operatives, who not only want better paid for the risks they are taking, but draw the line at murder. Ludmilla, meanwhile, uses intimacy with Oleg as a way of keeping tabs on him for her superiors.

Everyone, however, is operating under a new code of restraint. Arms limitation talks between the Superpowers currently taking place mean that neither side wants to be publicly seen to be working in the shadows. Hence, the no-holds-barred methods of both Manston and Oleg are frowned upon. Manston and Ludmilla have more in common than one would normally find in the spy movies of the period, the end justifying the means taking precedence over any personal interest in a lover.

The dangerous romantic elements would have been better dealt with in the hands of a more accomplished director. As it is, Samuel Gallu (Theatre of Death, 1967) has his hands full keeping track of a fast-moving tale as Irina is whisked by boat, bus and petrol tanker to Germany, hidden in such confined spaces the more cautious operatives fear she will die.

Nor, despite his fists, is Manston as good as you would expect from a heroic spy, battered to bits by his opposite number, himself imprisoned in the tanker, becoming a pawn to be sold to the highest bidder.

It’s in the tanker that Irina realizes her lover is deceitful, only using her as bait. Similarly, Oleg doesn’t realize he is every bit as dispensable to the ruthless Ludmilla who wishes to avoid public exposure and is only interesting in taking Irina back to Russia where she will be “re-educated.” Chivers (Norman Bird) looks like the nicer sidekick for Manston, the type to demonstrate fair play, except when he has to drown a suspect in a bath. He has the best line in the film, an ironic one at the climax.

The action, while overly complicated, is well done, none of the over-orchestrated fistfights taking place in odd locations. Chivers has a knack of turning up in the nick of time, but he’s the cleverer of the two.

An actress of greater skill than Kate O’Mara (Corruption, 1968) would have brought greater depth to the betrayed lover, but she does well enough to stay alert during the helter-skelter action. Craig Stevens (Gunn, 1967) was never going to be the right fit for a character required to show considerable remorse at his own actions.

The hard core of political reality, the constant betrayal of both innocent and guilty, the shifting sands of romance sit only on the surface and a better director would have brought them more into the foreground, eliciting better performances for deception incurred in the line of duty at the expense of the personal life.

It’s never a good sign when the bad guys are the more interesting characters and while you might expect Vladek Sheybal (Puppet on a Chain, 1970) to steal the show, he is usurped by Moira Redmond (Nightmare, 1964). A bigger budget would have also offered better reward, but even so Gallu comes up with more interesting camera angles than you might expect. Based on the bestseller by Victor Canning (Masquerade, 1965), he was helped in the screenwriting department by television writer Donald James.

You watch this thinking what might have been.