1960s film – Page 8 – The Magnificent 60s

Nobody Runs Forever (1968) / The High Commissioner ****

Character-driven intelligent thriller ripe for re-evaluation. And not just because it stands out from the decade’s genre limitations, neither hero threatened by mysterious forces in the vein of Charade (1963) or Mirage (1965) nor, although espionage elements are involved, fitting into the ubiquitous spy category. Instead, it loads mystery upon mystery and leaves you guessing right to the end.

And a deluge of mystery would not work – even with the London high-life gloss of cocktail parties, casinos and the Royal Box at Wimbledon – were it not for the believable characters. Rough Aussie Outback cop Scobie Malone (Rod Taylor) is despatched to London at the behest of New South Wales prime minister (Leo McKern) to bring home Australian High Commissioner Sir James Quentin (Christopher Plummer) to face a charge of murder.

*Probably a better title than either “Nobody Runs Forever”*
*or “The High Commissioner.”*

Unlike most cop pictures, Malone is not sent to investigate a case, he is merely muscle. While he may have his doubts about the evidence against Quentin, suspected of murdering his first wife, he resists all attempts to re-open the case. Arriving in the middle of a peace conference hosted by the principled Quentin, he agrees to investigate security leaks from Australia House and along the way turns into an impromptu bodyguard when Quentin’s life is endangered. But Quentin’s wife Sheila (Lilli Palmer) and secretary Lisa (Camilla Sparv) are not taken in by the deception and so Malone himself forms part of the mystery.

With a preference for cold beer to expensive champagne, you might expect Malone to be a bull in a china shop. Instead, dressed for the part by the solicitous Quentin, Malone fits easily into high society, taking time out from his duties for a dalliance with the elegant Madame Chalon (Daliah Lavi). The background is not the gloss but the passion the Quentins still feel for each other, she willing to do anything (literally) to save her husband, he losing the thread of an important speech when worried about his wife.

While there is no shortage of suspects for all nefarious activities, red herrings abound and cleverly you are left to make up your own mind, rather than fingers being ostentatiously pointed. There is some delicious comedy between Malone and Quentin’s uptight butler (Clive Revill), enough punch-ups, chases and clever tricks to keep the movie more than ticking along but at its core are the relationships. Malone’s growing respect for Quentin does not overrule duty, Lisa’s evident love for Quentin cannot be taken the obvious further step, Sheila’s overwhelming need to safeguard her husband sends her into duplicitous action.

The politics are surprisingly contemporary, attempts to alleviate hunger and prevent war, and while there was much demonstration during the decade in favor of world peace, this is the only picture I can think of where a politician’s main aim is not self-aggrandisement, greed or corruption. There are some twists on audience expectation – the dinner-jacketed Malone in the casino does not strike a James Bond pose and start to play, he is seduced rather than seducer, and remains a working man throughout.

Rod Taylor (Dark of the Sun, 1968) and Christopher Plummer (Fall of the Roman Empire, 1964) are terrific sparring partners, red-blooded male versus ice-cool character, their jousts verbal rather than physical. The rugged Taylor turns on the charm when necessary, a throwback to his character in Fate Is the Hunter (1964). Thoughts of his wife soften Plummer’s instinctive icy edge. Lilli Palmer (The Counterfeit Traitor) is superb as yet another vulnerable woman, on the surface in total control, but underneath quivering with the fear of loss. Two graduates of the Matt Helm school are given meatier roles, Daliah Lavi (The Silencers, 1966), as seductress-in-chief is a far cry from her stunning roles in The Demon (1963) and The Whip and the Body (1963) – and it still feels a shame to me that she was so ill-served in the way of roles by Hollywood. Camilla Sparv (Murderers Row, 1966) has a more low-key role.

Clive Revill (The Double Man, 1967) has another scene-stealing part and look out for Calvin Lockhart (Dark of the Sun), Burt Kwouk (The Shoes of the Fisherman, 1968) and, shorn of his blond locks, an unrecognizable Derren Nesbit (The Naked Runner, 1967) and in his final role Hollywood legend Franchot Tone (Mutiny on the Bounty, 1935).

Ralph Thomas (Deadlier than the Male, 1967) directs with minimum fuss, always focused on character, although there is a sly plug for Deadlier than the Male in terms of a cinema poster. (Speaking of posters, I couldn’t help notice this interesting advert at an airport for a VC10 promoted as “10derness.”) Wilfred Greatorex (The Battle of Britain, 1969) made his screenplay debut, adapting the bestseller by Jon (The Sundowners) Cleary. This may not be quite a true four-star picture but it is a grade above three-star.

CATCH-UP: Rod Taylor films reviewed in the blog so far are Seven Seas to Calais (1962), Fate Is the Hunter (1964), The Liquidator (1965), The Glass Bottom Boat (1966), Hotel (1967) and Dark of the Sun (1968).

Law of the Lawless (1964) ***

I’m rescuing another low-budget western from critical oblivion. While this can’t boast existentialism to boost its credentials or claim to belong to the cult fraternity and, technically, doesn’t belong to the revisionist sub-genre which was beginning to gather pace, and while you won’t go to this for visual style or striking composition, there is more than enough going on for it to be worthy of reassessment.

For a start it majors on remorse. You might come across a western hero who bitterly regrets the woman cast aside or the family abandoned (though more likely such actions will sit lightly), but you’ll virtually never find anyone who regrets using the gun, whether for righteous reasons or not. But here you’ve got the two main characters, one on the side of the law and the other of a criminal disposition, who both show remorse for their actions. And had the director been more disposed to the visual he would have made a great deal more of the scene where the black-garbed widows arrive in town, victims of both gunslingers who killed their husbands and of the judges who pronounced the death sentence on their gunslinging husbands.

And there’s considerable pause to imagine what happens to such widows. Unless they can find a benefactor, perhaps an older unmarried rancher or a widower, they are going to end up working in saloons and selling their bodies. On top of that we have a cracker of a courtroom drama where the exceptionally clever lawyer can twist the facts to suit his client.

This could also have been another kind of western altogether, the one where the hero is constantly beset by a variety of enemies, and the narrative therefore one of tension. But Judge Clem Rogers (Dale Robertson) has four separate outfits baying for his blood and still director William F. Claxton manages to also fit in all these ideas about remorse, the law, widows, conniving lawyers, the entitled of that era, and failed romance.

Rogers is in town for the trial of former friend Pete (John Agar), son of Tom (Barton McClane) the biggest rancher around, for killing someone in cold blood. Tom, a piece of work, has various plans to tilt the odds in his favor, first planning to blackmail Rogers over being caught in a honeytrap with Pete’s fiancée Ellie Irish (Yvonne DeCarlo) and whichever way the trial goes he has hired gunslinger Joe Rile (Bruce Cabot) at a fee of $10,000 to kill the judge. Rile and Clem have history, the gunslinger killed the judge’s father. And it’s Tom who hits on the scheme of embarrassing the judge by flooding the town with widows, many of whom are widows thanks to Rogers.

And there are four other dudes, three brothers and an outsider, also intent on killing Rogers. While Sheriff Ed Tanner (Wiliam Bendix) isn’t inept he lacks the force of personality to keep the bad guys in check and when he’s wounded his inexperienced deputy Tim (Rod Lauren) foolishly steps up to the plate.

You can’t help but feel sorry for Ellie, forced to play the part of the lure to dupe Rogers, especially when it’s clear she has more feelings for him than she does for Pete, whom she admits she doesn’t love but needs his security. There’s an interesting power struggle between Tom and Rile with the gunslinger refusing to kowtow to his employer. The court case is riveting because it turns on various twists. And climax is a knockout that you won’t see coming.

This isn’t one like The Shooting (1966), rescued from oblivion by critics and cultists – Paramount issued it as a second feature so it’s not unseen – and it’s not trying to rewrite the Hollywood history of Native Americans, and as I said it’s not distinguished visually, but it does pack an awfully thoughtful punch, tackling areas that the bulk of western film directors have ignored.

Dale Robertson (Coast of Skeletons, 1965) heads a good B-picture cast with veterans William Bendix (Oscar-nominated for Wake Island, 1943), Yvonne De Carlo (career revived by The Munsters, 1964-1966), Lon Chaney Jr (The Wolf Man, 1941) and Bruce Cabot (King Kong, 1933).

William F. Claxton (Desire in the Dust, 1960) is to be commended for cramming in so much interest. Script by Steve Fisher (Rogue’s Gallery, 1968).

An unexpected treat.

Inadmissible Evidence (1968) ***

The Angry Young Man approaching 40 is not only a lot angrier but misogynistic, rude, contemptuous, constantly berating society, and, despite his physical energy, completely lacking in the charm that made playwright John Osborne’s groundbreaking Look Back in Anger (1959) with Richard Burton such a conspicuous success.

Lawyer Bill Maitland (Nicol Williamson) exhibits neither self-awareness nor remorse as the aspects of his personality that have fueled his downfall are brought home to roost. He is abandoned by wife, two lovers and colleagues and finds that all the people he has ostracized over the years are unlikely to come to his aid in time of trouble.

Mostly, it’s just a catalog of disaster as his personal and professional life fall apart. While never a high-flyer in the legal field he had done enough to run a reasonably successful business, delegating those tasks for which he was unfit to employees, but treating everyone with disrespect, except temporarily when he is in seduction mode.

There’s an early scene advising a client on her impending divorce where it seems as though the scenario could shift in his favor, in the sense that the audience could be more on his side, empathizing with his situation rather than hating him. Mrs Gamsey (Isabel Dean) doesn’t want to divorce her philandering husband but realizes she can’t make him happy and has no idea what might bring him contentment, a situation that clearly reflects Bill’s own, and though for a moment it looks like he might be on the verge of self-realization the moment passes and he’s back on a rant against the world.

When secretary and lover Shirley (Eileen Atkins) tells him she’s pregnant, his first instinct isn’t congratulations or commiseration, but to try and establish, by working out when they last had sex, whether he could be the father. No sooner has she quit than he’s trying it on with the newest staff member, the comely Joy (Gillian Hills). Despite sleeping with him she doesn’t stay enamored of him for long. No matter, he already has another mistress, Liz (Jill Bennett) but that relationship is on the brink.

His marriage to Anna (Eleanor Fazan) is falling apart and she at least has the strength of mind to give him a good slap when at a party he insults their friends. That sends him scurrying out of the marital house. Daughter Jane (Ingrid Brett) can’t put up with his behavior either.

He is too late in realizing just how essential his clerk Hudson (Peter Sallis) is and by the time he offers the man a partnership, Hudson is already halfway out the door having received a better offer. He’s a poor operator, leaving a client (and former lover) in the lurch while another client is reduced to tears.

Throughout this, Bill keeps up a steady stream of abuse on virtually anyone his imagination alights. But it’s that imagination that also preys on his mind as he slips into nightmare scenarios of being brought to court for trial for his personal misdemeanors, of being disqualified from the profession, of being cremated. It’s not going to end well but just how it ends is left to the audience’s imagination.

It’s only the energy of Nicol Williamson (The Reckoning, 1970) that makes this fly at all. This falls into the sub-genre of successful men, lacking in self-worth, heading for a nervous breakdown as exemplified by The Arrangement (1969). Williamson was being hailed as the successor to the mantle of Richard Burton, but his choice of films soon scuppered that notion. He was a bigger draw on stage.

Here, director Anthony Page (Absolution, 1978) does him a disservice by, in terms of framing, refusing to give him physical stature. The camera always seems to be looking down on him, squashing his features, rather than elevating him as occurred in other films. Page does the audience a disservice by choosing to film in black-and-white. Whether for budgetary or artistic purposes is unclear. Adapted by Osborne from his play.

For about 30 minutes this is terrific stuff because Williamson can command the screen like few others. But then it’s just too wearing.

The Carpetbaggers (1964) ****

Likely because the gigantic bestseller by Harold Robbins (Stiletto, 1969) on which this was based made it impervious to critics, the critics determined to slaughter it. Which was a great shame because if they had been at all open-minded, not to mention fair, they would have recognized, outside of a terrific tale with a spellbinding performance by George Peppard (The Blue Max, 1966), a master class in screenwriting from double Oscar nominee John Michael Hayes (Butterfield 8, 1960).

There’s hardly a slack line in the entire ensemble and given he was adapting a monster of a book he cuts to the chase with infinite guile. Scenes demonstrate instant characterization and are littered with quotable lines and the story, even at two-and-half-hours, is told at breakneck speed.

No sooner are we introduced in the opening two scenes to the reckless, arrogant and bedhopping Jonas Cord (George Peppard) than his father has dropped dead and Cord has not only inherited the company but immediately turned from louche spoiled brat into hard-nosed businessman, not just tough but determinedly mean especially in the area of revenge. In a superb scene with his father’s widow Rina (Carroll Baker), we learn that she dumped Jonas for his richer father, and although Jonas appears to be leading her on, that’s only until he can humiliate her by exposing her innate greed.

Despite her wayward sexuality, Rina is a savvy businesswoman, enough to make sure she is set up for life, although the other men she gravitates towards are not as weak as Jonas’s father, nor as nasty as Jonas, and Nevada Smith (Alan Ladd) has the wisdom to led her down gently when he enters her seductive web. The Nevada Smith backstory, which takes up a hefty chunk of the novel, is dealt with in one clever scene, which could act as a trailer for the later film starring Steve McQueen.

And early on there’s a superb scene, akin to the madwoman in the attic, where Jonas opens a locked door containing a derelict bedroom strewn with children’s toys that belonged to his brother. The reason for the locking away is never explained but it’s the only time Jonas gives in to his vulnerable side.

Both Rina and Nevada segue into successful film careers and eventually have an affair. Cord becomes a movie mogul.

Though it certainly enters soap territory in the second half it’s so true to the characters that it plays out in hugely enjoyable fashion. Jonas remains ruthless – and unhappy – while Rina powers her way through men and booze, the latter leading to her death. Nevada doesn’t turn into a superstar, Jonas abandons wife Monica (Elizabeth Ashley) and child, begins an affair with former porn star Jennie (Martha Hyer) and destroys her.

You will be surprised to learn this has a happy ending. I can’t confess to have read the book so no idea whether or not this was tacked on to keep the studio happy. Whatever, it’s a terrific ride, full of punchy lines and sharply-wrought scenes and enough of the pell-mell structure of the book to keep an audience riveted.

This proved the career breakthrough for George Peppard – Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) had done considerably less for his career than it had for Audrey Hepburn – and he offered Hollywood mavens a new kind of hero, not just a tough guy in the Steve McQueen mold, but a mean tough guy that would open the door for the likes of Lee Marvin.

As you will know I’ve got a soft spot for Peppard, who’s generally been under-rated as an actor. This performance, despite the depths he showed, was equally dismissed, but it’s the turn of this career.

Carroll Baker (Harlow, 1965), too, has a part with real meat and makes the most of it, not just a slinky sex god, but devious and smart, and vulnerable. Alan Ladd (Shane, 1953) in his final picture is well out of his comfort zone and might have looked forward to an extended career playing a different kind of character except for his untimely demise.

The females are uniformly good, especially as they all have underlying reasons for their attraction to the wealthy Jonas, Monica desperate to save her father’s business, Jessica desperate to hide her past.

Edward Dmytryk (Mirage, 1965) doesn’t put a foot wrong, allowing insecurities in tough characters to creep through, but the star of the show for me is John Michael Hayes who turns what could have been a routine blockbuster with a built-in audience into a cracking entertainment.

One to catch.

The Wrong Arm of the Law (1963) ***

Effortless stuff from Peter Sellers – funny accents and all – that put into sharp perspective his later strained performances in vehicles like What’s New Pussycat (1965) coupled with one of those delicious tales replete with countless twists that sets bad guy against bad guy. An on-from Sellers dominates any picture and here he’s at the top of his game and all you can do is sit back and wallow in the pleasure of watching him.

Theoretically, he’s playing two roles – poncy French fashion house owner Jules and London crime mastermind Pearly Gates. But the Frenchman is a role he’s adopted. In that capacity he garners information from a gullible clientele only too happy to boast about where they’ve stashed their jewels or where someone else is putting on an ostentatious display of wealth. This is relayed back to the gang who go and steal it.

The first twist is that the gang itself is being duped. Another mob, Australians, posing as cops (known as the I.P.O. mob – Impersonating Police Officers) arrest the thieves and make off with the loot. Gates is furious and is convinced it must be an inside job, he’s got a grass on his team. He is correct. But, twist number two, he’s the blabbermouth, unwittingly passing on details of his next criminal coup to girlfriend Valerie (Nanette Newman), adept at playing on his arrogance to winkle out the information.

As the gangsters are operating under a city-wide syndicate with gangs allocated territories and not treading on each other’s shoes, Gates’s first suspicions fall on rival gang leader “Nervous” O’Toole (Bernard Cribbins). But when that proves a bust, the syndicate teams up with the real cops led by Inspector “Nosey” Parker (Lionel Jeffries) with the approval of his boss (John le Mesurier) and establish a 24-hour no-robbing arrangement while trying to flush out the IPO outfit.

Together, they set in motion a major crime, assuming the information will be passed on to the IPO team, and the cops can catch them in the act. Twist number three, Gates doesn’t see why he should go to all that trouble without adequate reward and plans to make off with the stolen money.

The terrific cast doesn’t let Sellers have it all his own way. Lionel Jeffries (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, 1968), Bernard Cribbins (She, 1965) and John Le Mesurier (Dad’s Army television series, 1968-1977) can scene-steal with the best of them. Nanette Newman (The Wrong Box, 1966) is a revelation and the supporting cast is bumped up with the likes of Graham Stark (The Magic Christian, 1969) and Bill Kerr (Doctor in Clover, 1966) and if you’re quick you’ll spot a pre-fame Michael Caine (Zulu, 1964).

Not all the jokes are good but they come so thick and fast that you don’t care. And in the midst of this we have a rather enlightened and vulnerable Gates. He is a considerate employer, looking after his team in bad times, paying them well and generally acting as a paternal figure, while away from the gang he can unwind with Valerie and let his true feelings and the pressures he’s under be known.

Director Cliff Owen (The Vengeance of She, 1968) hardly stops to take breath. Screenplay by the due of Ray Galton and Alan Simpson (The Spy with a Cold Nose, 1966) working in conjunction with John Antrobus (The Big Job, 1965).

Avoid the snigger territory of the Carry On pictures, this is probably the last British comedy that could get away with such innocence and was rewarded with huge box office numbers in Britain.

Sheer enjoyment.

Bunny Lake Is Missing (1965) ****

Otto Preminger (Hurry Sundown, 1967) returns to his film noir roots (Laura, 1944; Whirlpool, 1950) for this crisply-told tale, mixing police procedural with psycho-drama, of a missing child who may the figment of her mother’s imagination. It’s beautifully filmed and for anyone brought up on modern cinema of short takes and the camera bouncing from one close-up to the next, it will be a revelation, as Preminger favors classic Hollywood style, long takes, in a single shot the camera often following a person in and out of several rooms, and equally classical composition, scenes containing three or four characters where everyone acts within the frame.

Single-mother Ann (Carol Lynley) turns up to collect her four-year-old daughter Bunny from her first day at a London nursery only to discover not just the child gone but nobody has any recollection of the child being there in the first place. That is, apart from the school cook (Lucie Mannheim), who promised to look out for the child but who has subsequently disappeared. Ann is anxious anyway because she is moving house and in her new apartment has an encounter with her creepy landlord Horacio (Noel Coward), a master of the innuendo and the casual stroke of the arm.

It’s a very English school with stiff-upper-lip not to mention snippy teachers. “We mustn’t get emotional,” school administrator Miss Smollett (Anna Massey) warns the distraught mother. Ann’s brother Steven (Keir Dullea), a journalist, kicks up more of a stink, arguing with staff, and with a very threatening manner. Things get creepier still. Upstairs, they hear voices but it’s just the school’s founder Ada (Martita Hunt) who records children talking about nightmares. Steven seems over-protective towards his sister, which is understandable, and somewhat over-affectionate, which is not.

Detective Superintendent Newhouse (Laurence Olivier) and sidekick Sgt Andrews (Clive Revill) investigate. He is an unusual cop. A university graduate but not of the excitable Inspector Morse persuasion for one thing, and reasonable to an irritating degree in that he keeps all his options open. But the cops are thorough, descriptions of the missing child issued, search of the premises and surrounding area undertaken. But it turns out there is no record of Bunny in the school ledger, no sign of her existence in the flat, and it transpires that as a child herself Ann had an imaginary companion called Bunny.

As Steven becomes more obstreperous and the intense Ann verges on the hysterical, not helped by the unwanted attentions of the landlord, a BBC performer with a melodious voice he believes irresistible to women and more than a passing interest in sadism, the case appears to be heading in the direction of a quick visit to a psychiatry ward. The usual anchor in these situations, the policeman, is not as definite as normal, Newhouse not pushing the investigation in a direction the audience will find acceptable, but largely standing back, as if yet to make up his mind, which adds to the sense of mystery.

*Carol Lynley with the potential landlord from hell Noel Coward.*

Preminger isn’t in the business of piling twist upon twist, but as these arrive in due course, the options they offer are even more psychologically damaging. And from setting off at a steady pace with everything apparently settled down by the steady superintendent, the minute he departs the scene, the story takes on a different dimension and there are three superb chilling scenes, one in hospital, another in a doll’s hospital and the last in a garden as the question of just who is unhinged becomes more apparent. There is certainly madness in the movie but it comes when you least expect it and from a direction you may not have considered. On another level, the world of children is entirely alien to the adult and the reconciliation between the two worlds impossible to bridge.

Preminger extracts a performance from Laurence Olivier (Khartoum, 1966) that cuts the character to the bone, eliminating many of the actor’s tropes and tics, but at the same time making him perfectly human, unable to resist, for example, a traditional school pudding, and finding ways to curb Steven’s excesses while comforting Ann. By controlling the actor who always exerts screen presence, Preminger makes him come across with even greater authority. It’s an achievement in itself to ensure that Olivier never raises his voice.

Carol Lynley (The Pleasure Seekers, 1964) is excellent as the distraught mother, one step away from losing her mind and Keir Dullea (The Fox, 1967) constantly raises the stakes. Noel Coward (The Italian Job, 1969) possibly does the best job of the lot, his normal high levels of sophistication eschewed in favour of the downright creepy. In supporting roles look out for Clive Revill (Kaleidoscope, 1966), Finlay Currie (Vendetta for the Saint, 1969), Anna Massey (De Sade, 1969) and Adrienne Corri (The Viking Queen, 1967). Pop group The Zombies featuring Rod Argent and Colin Blunstone put in an appearance.

Husband-and-wife team John Mortimer (John and Mary, 1969) and Penelope Mortimer (The Pumpkin Eater, 1964) wrote the screenplay from the besteller by Evelyn Piper. But it is most assuredly an Otto Preminger production. He has a surprisingly good grasp of British custom and character, shot all the movie on location, but in black-and-white so it is not dominated by the tourist London of red buses or red pillar boxes, and his probing camera and long takes are a marvel for any cinematic scholar.

The Magic Christian (1969) ***

Substitute contemporary artwork/installation/performance art for practical joke and this will come up trumps. Taken in the artistic sense, where artists are pillorying society, there are gems – a stage Hamlet performing a striptease, feeding scraps of money to the ducks, ship passengers experiencing an apparent voyage when the vessel hasn’t left land, cutting up a famous work of art. Although I have to point out this will inevitably be remembered by some for a bikini-ed Raquel Welch cracking the whip over a galley of topless oarswomen.

Effectively a series of comedy skits loosely tied together under the theme of money, mostly in the form of bribery. Billionaire Sir Guy Grand (Peter Sellers) sets out to teach adopted son Youngman (Ringo Starr) just what money can buy. Could you pay one of the teams sufficient dough in the annual Boat Race for them to ram the other? Would a parking warden (Spike Milligan) eat the parking ticket he has just issued? In the spirit of fair play is it okay to down a pheasant with an anti-aircraft gun?

When the going slows down, surrealism enters the equation: ship’s captain kidnapped by a gorilla, vampire waitperson, black head on white body, urine-soaked banknotes given away to a crowd, the occasional nun or Nazi, newspapers where apologies are written in Polish.

Plot-wise, there’s not much to it and the satire is merely repetitive as Sir Guy embarks on educating Youngman on the perverse uses of money. It has the feeling not of following a storyline but of “what can we get up to next” and attempting to layer shock upon shock in the manner, it has to be said, of some contemporary directors.

But there’s neither sufficient bite to the satire nor punch to the shock so it remains an elaborate series of disconnected sequences. Luckily, nobody’s having to pretend to put in an acting shift which is just as well because Ringo Starr proves he can’t act.

And it’s not much helped by a host of cameos – Laurence Harvey (A Dandy in Aspic, 1968), Richard Attenborough (Guns at Batasi, 1964), Christopher Lee (Dracula, Prince of Darkness, 1965), Raquel Welch (Bandolero!, 1968), director Roman Polanski (Rosemary’s Baby, 1968), Wilfred Hyde-White (P.J. / New Face in Hell, 1967), comic Spike Milligan and various members of the future Monty Python team including John Cleese (A Fish Called Wanda, 1988) and Graham Chapman. Harvey and Welch make the biggest splash.

Excepting Dr Strangelove, Hollywood had failed to capture the essence of offbeat novelist Terry Southern (Candy, 1968) and despite input from Chapman, Cleese and Sellers, this never really gets off the ground.

Peter Sellers (The Pink Panther, 1963) was in something of a career rut where very little struck home at the box office and he would continue a dismal losing streak until resuscitating The Pink Panther franchise in 1975.

Director Joseph McGrath’s (The Bliss of Mrs Blossom, 1967) record was spotty. Best known for music videos for The Beatles, he was only well served when his cast was filled with strong actors.

No more than an occasionally humorous trifle with an equally occasional target hitting the bullseye.

Town Without Pity (1961) ****

Long-forgotten courtroom picture that deserves urgent reassessment in the wake of Jeffrey Epstein and especially the casual destruction of Virginia Giuffre. We’re so accustomed to attorneys being shown in a good light – defense lawyers rescuing the innocent, prosecutors putting away the evasive guilty – that we forgot just how brutal a trial is for the unprepared. Even a “fair trial” permits a lawyer to brutalize a witness. Until recently, rape trials came apart once the prosecution could prove the victim was “asking for it.”

Four American soldiers rape a young girl in Occupied Germany at the start of the 1960s. Major Steve Garrett (Kirk Diouglas), defending the quartet, goes on the attack, attempting to demolish the reputation of banker’s daughter Karin (Christine Kaufman). Unusually, the stakes are the highest they could be. Under a quirk of German law, the soldiers could face the death penalty. Under another quirk, for that to have any chance of occurring, Karin has to take the witness stand. If Garrett can place her and her family under sufficient pre-trial duress she might excuse herself from court.

Turns out Garrett finds many willing accomplices among the townspeople. It’s not so much a town without pity as a town called malice. Some dislike her father, others feel she has already brought the town into disrepute, and there’s the usual generation clash. A voyeuristic neighbor reports that she stands boldly naked at her window. Another has seen Karin and her boyfriend Frank (Gerhart Lippert) spend a weekend together. Her shamed father Karl (Hans Nielsen) discovers a lot he didn’t want to know about his adored daughter, though, even so, he backs her, willing to suck up the humiliation and finger-pointing.

Everyone knows the men are guilty although one of them, Corporal Larkin (Robert Blake), might be technically innocent because he proves to be impotent. Even so, he was present and did nothing to prevent the assault. The men’s defense is that they came upon her naked and, having quarrelled with Frank, she flaunted herself, desiring the sexual attention of men. Since it would be embarrassing to admit that she stood around naked beside the river, she lies and says she was wearing a bikini at the time.

Kirk Douglas was such a dab hand at playing the action hero – Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957), The Vikings (1958), Spartacus (1960) – and the misunderstood, as in Lust for Life (1956), that audiences tended to forget his cynical turn in Ace in the Hole (1951) and that he could transition into mean at the drop of a hat. Here, he has the excuse of only doing his job.

But it’s vicious stuff and once Garrett has Karin in the courtroom there’s only going to be one winner at the expense of destroying the loser. She is torn apart as he sets her up as a woman who enjoys showing men her naked body and proves false her contention that the men ripped the bikini from her.

She can’t take the gruelling attack and faints, her father removing her from the witness box, rendering the death penalty inapplicable. There’s a sad coda, which would not have been unexpected.

German director Gottfried Reinhardt, who had worked with Douglas before on The Story of Three Loves (1953), takes an unusual approach, to some extent shielding the audience from Garrett with a voice-over narration from local reporter Inge (Barbara Rutting), with whom Garret initially flirts. But there‘s little grandstanding, any references to the law are not in recognition of its contribution to justice, but in pointing out that it’s not a good idea to get caught in the legal maw because you will be destroyed one way or another.

There’s one shot at the end where Garrett realizes that he’s been instrumental in driving Karin to suicide, but mostly he views himself as a victor, a legal warrior who will do anything to win. He excuses his behavior because he’s not trying to get his clients off the charge of rape but merely determined to avoid them hanging. But you know he’s still belongs to the tribe of men who can brutalize the innocent on the witness box and never feel remorse.

Kirk Douglas is superb, as is Austrian-born Christine Kaufman (Taras Bulba, 1962) in her debut. And although the rest of the cast has little to do, the collection of wannabes includes Robert Blake (Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here, 1969) and Richard Jaeckal (The Dirty Dozen, 1967). Scripted by George Hurdalek (Tread Softly, 1965) and Sylvia Reinhardt (Situation Hopeless But Not Serious, 1965) from the book by Manfred Gregor.

Watching it now, the case of Virginia Giuffre hangs over this. She was reviled on all fronts before reaching an out-of-court settlement but never recovered from the ordeal and took her own life.

Worth reassessment.

Robin and the 7 Hoods (1964) ****

I’m still trying to work out why I enjoyed the Rat Pack’s last hurrah so much. Sure, it’s the knockout debut of “My Kind of Town,” the last tune Frank Sinatra performed on the big screen and one that would have epitomised Ol’ Blue Eyes had it not been supplanted a few years later by “My Way.” And Bing Crosby, also in top crooning form, would have stolen the show except for Peter Falk’s gangster and Barbara Rush weaving a seductive web around all the males. But, actually, it’s mostly because this one time, far more than in the three preceding pictures, there’s a match between story and stars, as if at last the whole idea has come together. The gimmick of transplanting the Robin Hood legend to 1920s Prohibition Chicago works a treat, a gentle spoof rather than an awkward one.

The notion that you would bring together three of the greatest singers – Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. – of their generation and deny audiences the chance to hear their voices was anathema to audiences. As if nobody could make up their mind which way a Rat Pack vehicle was headed, Martin and Davis were accorded tunes in Oceans 11 (1960) but the next two pictures, westerns of one kind or another, appeared tuneless. Robin and the 7 Hoods is a proper musical, all the stars sing, some even get to dance, and the story carries a lot more heft than your usual musical, some decent running gags, and an affectionate nod to the old Warner Brothers gangster pictures.

Guy Gisborne (Peter Falk), having taken control of the city by rubbing out his rival, comes up against Robbo (Frank Sinatra) refusing to bow the knee. Naturally, both decide the only solution is to bust up each other’s joints. Even more naturally, this ends in stalemate. Cue the entrance of Marian (Barbara Rush), the dead mob boss’s daughter who wants her father avenged. As a by-product of her involvement, Robbo ends up donating $50,000 to the poor, a good deed turned into public relations bounty by orphanage chief Allen A. Dale (Bing Crosby), reviving the legend of the outlaw who stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

Complications arise when Robbo refuses to fall for Marian’s wiles and is framed for the murder of a corrupt Sheriff Glick (Robert Foulk). Marian proves far smarter than her male counterparts and when bribery, seduction and corruption fail she turns to politics.

While Sinatra’s rendition of “My Kind of Town” is the standout, tunesmiths Sammy Cahn and Jimmy van Heusen showcase some terrific numbers, in particular the gospel-style “Mr Booze” performed by Bing Crosby, “Style” involving Sinatra, Martin and Crosby, a Martin solo “Any Man Who Loves His Mother,” Sammy Davis with “Bang! Bang!” and even Peter Falk makes a decent stab at “All for One and One for All.” Once Sinatra, Martin or Crosby wrapped their larynxes round a particular song, they claimed ownership for life, you can’t imagine anyone else doing it better. And so it proved here.

In acting terms Sinatra, Martin and Davis are on cruise control, although Sinatra, the butt of the conspiracy, tends to have to work a little harder. The supporting cast relish the opportunities presented. Peter Falk (Penelope, 1966) makes the most of a made-to-order role as the back-stabbing mob chief, his fast-talking style little match for more superior brains, and you can see a screen persona develop in front of your eyes. Bing Crosby (Stagecoach, 1966) starts out as a joke with his outlandish language but soon comes to represent a different perspective on legitimate illegitimate moneymaking schemes. Barbara Rush (Come Blow Your Horn, 1963) is quite superb as the conniving sophisticate, all long dresses and innovative ideas.

Although Gordon Douglas (Stagecoach, 1966) would hardly be your go-to director for a musical, he acquits himself very well, incorporating a great deal of the style he evinced in Claudelle Inglish (1961). There are two marvellous running scenes. The first is that whenever the municipality sees fit to lay the foundation stone of some great new building you can be sure the block contains a corpse. But the second is just wonderful. Any time Marian has a man in her lounge, she goes round switching off the lamps until the room is in darkness. Each time, the scene is played in exactly the same way and of course the minute she starts switching off the lights, moving as sinuously as a spider from lamp to lamp, you know where this scene is going. I should also mention the “Mr Booze” sequence in which an illegal nightclub is transformed into a gospel meeting.

Edward G. Robinson (The Biggest Bundle of Them All, 1968) has a cameo and also look out for Oscar-nominated Victor Buono (What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, 1962). Songs aside, David R. Schwartz (The Bobo, 1967) penned this one.

Mad Doctor of Blood Island (1969) ***

Not a direct sequel to Brides of Blood (1968) but in today’s vernacular this would be taking place in a “Bloodverse”. Swap human sacrifice for erotic ritual, eliminate the man-eating trees and giant insects, throw in buckets of green blood and women who can’t pass a waterfall without diving in naked, a voyeur, add a touch of estrangement, remove any mention of radiation, and while there’s clearly a monster on the loose a strange doctor appears as much of a liability. To keep the exploitation audience onside, there’s more nudity, plus sex. To keep the arthouse fans happy there’s innovative camera use, a kind of shuddering disorienting effect as the camera jumps back and forward.

This time round our visiting scientist, pathologist Dr Bill Foster (John Ashley), is investigating a strange disease that’s broken out on the island. Accompanying him are non-scientists Sheila Willard (Angelique Pettyjohn) looking for her father (Tony Edmunds) and Carlos (Ronaldo Valdez) who’s planning to persuade his widowed mother (Tita Munoz) to leave. Dr Lorca, the local authority, welcomes the visitors.

None of the new arrivals have much luck. Sheila’s father is a hopeless alcoholic and doesn’t view with any interest reuniting with his daughter while Carlos’s mother refuses point blank to leave. Worse, his father, it transpires died in mysterious circumstances several years before. Dr Lorca is generally obstructive.

It takes a good few sightings of the monster, not a giant as such beings often are, but the size of a normal human with skin a funny color and extremely mottled, to keep things going. Generally speaking, said monster, as in the previous film, has a predilection for naked women, though their nudity doesn’t always seem linked to skinny-dipping under a waterfall.

Finally, the monster becomes more inquisitive and invades the house where the guests are staying. Sheila, who makes the mistake of wandering out into the jungle alone, is attacked by the monster but escapes.

*Blood sells – double the feature, double the blood*. *Check out my review of “Blood Demon.”*

Carlos discovers his father’s coffin is empty. Sheila and Bill hit it off, sufficiently enamored of each other that they make love in a cave. About the only contribution Bill makes, apart from being one-half of the love interest, is to track the monster to a cave where people are being kept prisoner.

The warder is Dr Lorca who has been carrying out experiments on the natives, one of his earliest victims being Carlos’ father Don Ramon who is the current monster. For no apparent reason, except he’s a monster, Don Ramon kills his wife and then because he’s not completely a monster but still has human feelings lets his son go free, instead turning his vengeance onto Dr Lorca and in the carnage that follows apparently killing himself.

But not so fast. As had already been demonstrated in the 1960s, success could breed instant further success, franchises now abounding, not just James Bond, Matt Helm, Harry Palmer and Derek Flint but The Magnificent Seven and The Pink Panther, so nobody was going to pass up the opportunity to make a few more bucks. The door is opened for a sequel when the final shot picks out the hand of the monster hiding in a lifeboat on the ship ferrying away the survivors.

This is more of a cliché than Brides of Blood and some scenes such as the erotic ritual and dalliance at waterfalls and in caves seemed intent on hooking an audience other than horror. Once again, it’s the female lead who steals the picture – though it’s not much of a fight. Angelique Pettyjohn (Heaven with a Gun, 1969) has not just the heaving bosom of her predecessor and her sassiness but a more solid emotional journey.

You’re not going to expect much genuine emotion in a horror picture of the period but in that respect Pettyjohn and, surprisingly, the monster come off best.

Again directed by Eddie Romero and Gerardo De Leon from a script this time round by Reuben Canoy (The Passionate Strangers, 1966).

Passable.