adaptation of bestseller – The Magnificent 60s

The Sea Wolves (1980) ***

Francis Ford Coppola and Michael Cimino between them put paid to the more traditional “high adventure” war picture. The realism of Apocalypse Now (1979) and The Deer Hunter (1978), which came out months apart and gobbled up critical appreciation and Oscar nominations, spelled a more troubled release for the likes of Alistair MacLean’s Force 10 from Navarone (1979) and The Sea Wolves, which in part followed the MacLean template.

However, The Sea Wolves has never been properly appreciated for one important element – a more realistic portrayal of age and its limitations than was common in Hollywood. We tend to take it for granted that actors when not portraying superheroes can still in the action line have a special set of skills that allows them to throw themselves about or run and chase as if they were men 30 years younger. Liam Neeson was 73 when he was still taking down bad guys in Ice Road: Vengeance (2025), Tom Cruise a decade younger in the final episode of the Mission Impossible franchise in 2025 and Keanu Reeves a year short of 60 when committed to acrobatic action in John Wick Chapter 4 (2023). Jason Statham will be 60 when the sequel to The Beekeeper arrives next year.

In the action world, age never seemed to catch up with or limit the heroes. In The Sea Wolves age is by far the biggest obstacle. The three pre-eminent heroes are played by actors aged between 52 and 71. Their characters are fallible.

SOE operatives Col Lewis Pugh (Gregory Peck) and Capt Gavin Stewart (Roger Moore), going undercover in neutral Goa in World War Two, prove unable to unravel the mystery that results in German submarines destroying British destroyers. Any time they get hold of a likely suspect, they have the bad habit of killing them. And Stewart, prone to over-indulgence in the opposite sex even in the midst of a critical operation, is duped by femme fatale Mrs Cromwell (Barbara Kellerman) who proves not only to be the German spy they are hunting but capable of knifing men to death.

It’s only because the pair fail in their initial mission that Pugh is forced to call on a rag-bag bunch of ageing ex-soldiers from India led by Col Grice (David Niven) and undertake a more difficult operation to infiltrate a Goa harbor, sink German ships and silence radio communication. This bunch are never going to complete the kind of training program served up to The Dirty Dozen (1967) or The Devil’s Brigade (1968) so that aspect is mostly treated for laughs.

Vulnerabilities abound. They are violently seasick en route or they can’t get the boat’s engine to work or are likely to mistake a distant shark for a U-boat.

And there’s another unusual aspect of war that complicates proceedings. In most war films – and a feature of the current The Odyssey (2026) – the dead are left behind. Here, because the British are attacking a neutral territory, they can’t leave behind evidence of their involvement in the shape of corpses or wounded.

The actual plan is clever. Any sailors or officials in the target harbor who could possibly interfere are rendered incapable by the simple trick of getting them all drunk, a move sponsored by the British government. The battle itself is too long in coming and there are too many supporting characters involved for us to be committed to any of them and therefore the emotional impact of their deaths is minimal.

Sufficient tension is still generated but given the battle action only lasts about 20 minutes rather than the 150 minutes of Where Eagles Dare (1968), for example, it doesn’t quite qualify for the high adventure sub-genre.

Even the greatest of directors would fail to make work an action movie based on the type of people who should never be allowed near a machine gun or asked to join in fisticuffs, so that element is indeed a stretch. On the other hand, the frailties of those involved, determined not to admit to weakness, make this work.

By this point Gregory Peck’s career had received a second (or third) wind thanks to The Omen (1976) and The Boys from Brazil (1978). Roger Moore’s career had been revitalized by James Bond and he had just made Moonraker (1979), his most successful contribution to the series. David Niven was not in their marquee league but anyone who remembered him from The Guns of Navarone (1961) would go in with high expectations. Barbara Kellerman (The Quatermass Conclusion, 1979) is up to scratch as the cunning spy.

There’s a host of British supporting stars including Trevor Howard (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965), Patrick Macnee (The Avengers TV series 1961-1969), Patrick Allen (Puppet on a Chain, 1971) and Kenneth Griffith (The Lion in Winter, 1968).

Directed by Andrew V. McLaglen (Where Eagles Dare) from a script by Reginald Rose (Twelve Angry Men, 1957) based on the novel by James Leasor which recounted a true incident.

Not quite in the top drawer of the high adventure sub-genre but if you accept the approach and view this as something of an antidote to the standard war film you will find much to appreciate.

Shoot Out (1971) ***

The team behind True Grit – producer Hal Wallis, director Henry Hathaway and screenwriter Marguerite Roberts – make the mistake of thinking that lightning will strike twice in a tale of an older fella, in this case a bank robber rather than a lawman, saddled with a younger woman, in this case a child rather than a sassy teenager. It’s not the only mistake. The title is a misnomer, for a start, and there’s a rather dumb use of shooting the apple off a child’s head a la the “Swizzer” William Tell. In reality, it’s a revenge tale, and a violent one at that, mixed in with a sentimentality that’s at odds with the story.

Like James Stewart and John Wayne, Gregory Peck was in something of a default position in terms of the movies he was now making. This trio, in particular, now specialized almost exclusively in the western. From 1966 of the nine movies made by Wayne seven had been westerns. For Stewart, over the same period, it had been exclusively westerns – five of them. Now Peck was beginning to go down the same route – this would be his third western in three years.

The reason wasn’t hard to find. Of all the genres churned out by Hollywood, westerns were the most sellable abroad. So, at the global box office at least, this trio still held sway, justifying their hefty fees.

Clay Lomax (Gregory Peck), just out of prison, seeks vengeance on ex-partner Sam Foley (James Gregory) who shot him in the back after a robbery, leaving him to carry the can, and made off with the loot, which he has used to build a ranching empire. Learning Lomax is out, Foley puts a sadistic trio – Pepe (Pepe Serna), Skeeter (John Chandler) and Bobby Jay Jones (Robert F. Lyons) – on his trail, with orders not to kill him, which is pure torture for the bloodthirsty thugs, but just to track him and report on his whereabouts. But thuggery will out, and instead the thugs kill Trooper (Jeff Corey) in heinous fashion.

Quite why the narrative dictates that the gunslingers are not to kill Lomax is anyone’s guess because it makes little sense, unless Foley is aware how unfair a fight it will be and that the veteran outlaw will be more than a match for his crew. And that’s how it turns out, Clay knocks them six ways to Sunday and that’s just for disturbing his peace in a hotel.

The narrative takes another odd twist with the arrival of the seven-year-old Becky (Dawn Lyn) who is put in Lomax’s charge. When he fails to offload her, he takes her with him, only stopping off to bushwhack the thugs and steal their weapons.

Quite why Lomax doesn’t just shoot the gunslingers and be done with it is also anyone’s guess but that leaves the trio able to jump Lomax when he’s taken refuge with the kind of widow drifters tend to come across in westerns. It gets quite unnecessarily confusing at this point but given Lomax is close to finding Foley something needs to create a delay.

And that’s done with an overlong unduly sadistic session by Bobby Jay as he attempts to emulate the Swizzer by shooting cups off Becky’s head. But the upshot of all this is Bobby Jay ends up killing his buddies and making off with the kid. Naturally, Lomax is soon in pursuit, but the promised “shoot out” doesn’t materialize, at least not in the traditional sense of gunmen facing each other in the main street.

What makes the movie work is what they should have concentrated on in the first place, Lomax taking a parental interest in the girl. That neither wants the other makes for decent enough tension and there are enough moments to flesh out their relationship, with Lomax unwilling to accept that he might well actually be her father.

Of course, a jailbird as a father doesn’t sit right with the filmmakers, even though Lomax is clearly capable of keeping the little one washed and fed and comfortable at night. So that’s where your lonely widow Juliana (Patricia Quinn) comes in. Interestingly, that’s the only scene that’s completely devoid of sentiment. She’s had long enough – five years – of loneliness and consoling herself with whisky at night to be happy to take the first half-decent fella who comes her way.

The action, when Lomax is sorting things out fist first, is acceptable enough, but whatever movie Hathaway and Co thought they were making just doesn’t come off. Certainly, it doesn’t come close to True Grit.

Rio Conchos (1964) ***

Starts and ends as a rootin’-tootin’ western but sags badly in between. The chance of turning it into The Magnificent Four or even The Dirty Pair go a-begging and it’s both revenge- and redemption-driven without either taking enough precedent. And there’s a curious dynamic in that the murderers are clearly smarter than the soldiers. Set in the aftermath of the Civil War, it’s engaging enough but too episodic and far short of a classic.

Lassiter (Richard Boone) kills Apaches with brutal efficiency in revenge for losing wife and child to them. But there’s no law against murdering Native Americans, not even when they form a harmless burial party, and when arrested by Captain Haven (Stuart Whitman) it’s for buying a stolen rifle, part of a consignment of 2,000 feared to be heading into the hands of the Apaches and a rogue Confederate Col Pardee (Edmond O’Brien), under whom Lassiter once served.

Charged with going undercover to get the weapons back is Haven, who lost the cargo in the first place, and another soldier Franklyn (Jim Brown), posing as gunpowder salesmen. Lassiter is freed from jail along with exceptionally vain murderer Rodriguez (Anthony Franciosa). From captured Apache Sally (Wende Wagner) they discover the Apaches are hooking up three days hence with Pardee in Rio Conchos in Mexico.

Mostly, it’s tension between the soldiers and their captives-turned-colleagues. There’s an incident with a dead baby at a house attacked by Apaches, Lassiter shooting the tortured mother. Lassiter attacks a saloon keeper for refusing to serve Franklyn. Pardee is building an army to re-start the war. There’s a brutal scene of the men being dragged behind horses. While Haven plans to use the gunpowder to blow up the Apaches and/or the rifles, Lassiter and Rodriguez nurture plans to steal the cargo.

Lassiter is pretty smart, twice outwitting the Apaches by using fire as a distracting device, easily getting the better of Haven and more than a match for the duplicitous Rodriguez. But there’s a powder keg waiting to explode in more ways than one, the chances of Lassiter toadying along to Apaches seeming remote.

Richard Boone (Night of the Following Day, 1969) coming off Have Gun –Will Travel (1957-9163) and The Richard Boone Show (1963-1964) is impressive as the wily renegade. Here’s one of those actors you never quite know what he’s going to do and that unpredictability adds continuous tension, but it would probably have helped if the audience was fully filled in on his intentions, rather than being surprised all the time. Given he was the star here, he was allotted time to be seen making up his mind in various situations, something he would be denied as a later supporting actor. So when there’s not really much going, he creates tension.

Stuart Whitman (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) doesn’t really have enough to do what with Boone’s character always being one step ahead and clearly more attuned to danger. Anthony Franciosa (Fathom, 1967) has a gem of role, adding to his characterization with little bits of scene-stealing business, sharpening a knife on a wagon wheel, recovering a knife from the stomach of a victim being dragged away by a horse, snaffling a packet of cigarettes, and never ceasing to admire his attraction to women.

Jim Brown (The Split, 1968) makes a solid movie debut, offering more by his presence than in action terms since for the most part he is just the sidekick. Wende Wagner (Guns of the Magnificent Seven, 1969) has more screen time but mostly just smolders or looks sullen apart from a nice scene mourning the baby and another defying her tribe. Look out for Edmond O’Brien (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, 1962) and silent child actor Warner Anderson.

The action sequences are well done and director Gordon Douglas (Robin and the Seven Hoods, 1964) also deserves credit for allowing Boone such scope while the opening scene and the death of the unseen woman are exceptional. He has a great gift for the widescreen, but the movie could have done with more clarity. It’s not his fault the poster was misleading and led me into the picture with different expectations. The screenplay by Joseph Landon (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965) and Clair Huffaker (The War Wagon, 1967) was based on the latter’s book.

The Shuttered Room (1967) ***

More Straw Dogs (1971) than The Old Dark House (1963) with for good measure a side helping of Bad Day at Black Rock (1955) thrown in. After a super menacing opening, a sustained sense of threat is all the fuel we get to keep the story going, the horror elements kept at bay as much as the creature imprisoned behind the titular room in a mill.

The mill’s long since been abandoned since Susannah (Carol Lynley) spent a terrifying night there as a child when the creature broke out and had to be battered into submission by Susannah’s Aunt Agatha (Flora Robson). The mill’s on a remote island and Susannah’s back aged 21 to claim her inheritance. Only trouble is her cousin Ethan (Oliver Reed) thinks he tops the line of succession to inherit the tumbledown building.

Although her uncle is long dead, her aunt lives in a tower complete with hawk and strides around in the kind of black cape previously assigned to vampires. The mill’s still got a reputation, a local worker blinded and disfigured after being attacked by a fire-breathing demon. Susannah and husband Mike (Gig Young) have the idea of turning the mill into a summer home and have come by to try it out, though Susannah’s dormant fears keep spilling over.

So while we’re waiting to either the creature to break out again or for Susannah, in the manner of all foolish heroines, to trot up the stairs and push through the door, it’s up to Ethan and his gang to attempt to terrorize the couple. Clearly never being educated about incest, Ethan sets his heart on carnal relations with cousin Susannah.

If only he could get Mike out of the way. Trouble is Mike isn’t as meek as he looks and like Spencer Tracy in Bad Day at Black Rock he’s got all those tricky karate moves so that when Ethan comes after him it’s the local who ends up in the river.

But Ethan’s got a cunning plan and sets up an ambush. The gang block the road with their truck and when Mike gets out of his car to investigate is hog-bound in a fishing net, receiving a few more traditional punches to boot. To pass the time the gang commandeers his vehicle and race up to their bound captive, braking just in time.

Meanwhile, Ethan is pursuing Deborah through the mill, intent on rape. Although she manages to humiliate him by calling his bluff that just enrages him and his rage intensifies. It’s still unclear how/why the creature escaped but we know it’s on the loose because it’s previously despatched a local girl who sneaked into the mill to steal Susannah’s nylons.

So while Mike manages to escape the thugs and hit them with some more karate chops, Susannah doesn’t really need his help, the creature coming to the rescue. Beyond the creature being her sister, there’s no further explanation for her imprisonment. There is a (kind of) shock ending.

The main problem is this looks as if it’s been filmed without any rehearsal, as if the actors have been hired for their previous roles. It’s no stretch for Carol Lynley (Bunny Lake Is Missing, 1965) to come across as a somewhat vacuous blonde. Menace is Oliver Reed’s (Hannibal Brooks, 1968) middle name and Gig Young (That Touch of Mink, 1962) has always got by on a certain easy charm though the chop-suey came as a surprise.

The real achievement from director David Greene, in his debut, is to get away without much real horror. By now H.P. Lovecraft was major source of horror. This was the fourth movie out of five in the 1960s drawn from his portfolio. In the current century there’s been no shortage of adaptations. Despite the lack of genuine horror, the other ingredients make up

Bye, Bye, Braverman (1968) ***

Director Sidney Lumet didn’t have an easy time of it in the late 1960s. Like The Appointment (1969), this went missing in action. And you can see why. While The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1947) was straightforward in mixing fantasy with reality, this is more tricksy – in a contemporary way. The fantasy elements verge so much on the realistic that it’s difficult at times to work out what is real.

And to add a bit of more substantial culture to the mix, there are shades of James Joyce, in the idea of someone going to a funeral and imagining their own death. And while there are actually a quartet of buddies in early middle age heading for the funeral of their friend, the titular Braverman, luckily there’s only one, Morroe Rieff (George Segal) who appears to live in his imagination.

Morroe makes a living working in public relations, his novels not sufficiently commercial. You don’t realize this at first because you think he’s the cop who’s had to bring the news of her husband’s death to his wife Inez (Jessica Walters). Then you might think that he and Inez have the hots for each other and literally the moment the road is clear, she’s jumping his bones. But it’s pretty clear, from the way his wife Etta (Zohra Lampert) is annoyed about him running to Inez’s side at the slightest emergency, that he’s got more (unrequited) interest in her than a married man should have.

That last is the trickier one. It seems like it could be real. After all, the husband was notorious for his philandering, while Inez has played the dutiful wife. But you soon realize that any time Morroe is outside the strict confines of talking to his mutinous girlfriend or with his pals, virtually every other scene he appears in is manufacture.

The other three are well-drawn. Their occupations are largely irrelevant, because in Seinfeld fashion what they actually mostly do is talk, and often about things that are as inconsequential as Seinfeld, and they bond over communal memory of even odder things.

Felix (Joseph Wiseman) is the pick, in part because he has the best lines. He tells his feckless son, “I wasn’t crazy about your mother, and I like you even less.” He refuses to get into a Volkswagen because he’s Jewish and the car was made in Germany.

So mostly what you’ve got is the kind of inconsequential chatter that a bunch of intellectuals will indulge in, some of it intellectual, some of it not. That’s just the kind of movie it is. And either you’re going to sit back and let it work, or you’re going to switch off early once you realize what type of picture it is.

There were a lot of movies back in the day that concentrated far more on dialog and character than story and moving a story along. In part this was due to Hollywood drawing far more on the talents of playwrights, when William Inge (Bus Riley’s Back in Town, 1965), Tennessee Williams (Night of the Iguana, 1964) and Arthur Miller (The Misfits, 1961) were considered marquee attractions. The kind of story-driven action picture that proliferated from the 1970s onwards didn’t exist to make spectacle more important than dialog or character.

Making up the quartet are Barnet Weinstein (Jack Warden) who sports a toupee that comes off in a crisis and Holly Levine (Sorrell Brooke) and they’re all past masters at niggling each other and trying to niggle out the meaning of life.

Getting to the funeral isn’t straightforward. Inez’s directions prove difficult to follow. There’s an interaction with a taxi driver (Godfrey Cambridge) and they turn up at the wrong funeral.

Sidney Lumet steers clear of the grandiose, he’s not trying to make any visual points, and the fantasy inserts take the place of the inner monolog of James Joyce.

But it’s all dialog, so be prepared.

George Segal (The Bridge at Remagen, 1968) almost reinvents his screen persona, Jack Warden (Blindfold, 1966) revels in a more outgoing less choleric character, but Joseph Wiseman (Dr No, 1962) steal the show. Look out for Jessica Walters (Number One, 1969) and Zohra Lampert (A Fine Madness, 1966).

Screenplay by Herbert Sargent, in his debut, from the novel by Wallace Markfield.

You can see why this has gone missing but if you know what you’re going into it’s worth a look.

I have my own copy but you can get a good flavor of it – the first hour at least – on YouTube.

The Vampire Lovers (1970) ***

Should have a lot more going for it. Female empowerment for a start. This would also, in today’s terms, be called a reboot of the Dracula legend, though it does originate from a different source than Bram Stoker. Or you could look at the bold exploration of lesbianism, none of the angst of The Killing of Sister George (1968) or the lyricism of The Fox (1967). Or you could fall back on that old chestnut – a camp reinterpretation of the vampire world, where female breasts rather than necks are the prime target. At the very least, it should have set up Ingrid Pitt (Where Eagles Dare, 1968) for stardom.

And while all these hold true, it lacks the key ingredient of the horror picture, any kind of tension or imminent threat. Nor does it carry the emotional weight of Countess Dracula (1971) – also starring Pitt – a twist on Dorian Gray, of a woman trying to hold age at bay with infusions of virgin blood.

So, in the end, it comes off as little more than a commercial decision to revive a fading genre with lashings of nudity, sex and lesbianism. Director Roy Ward Baker (Moon Zero Two, 1969) brings significant style to the proceedings even though the backdrops look as if they’ve been picked from a cast-off bin.

The tale is based on a story Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu, that predated Bram Stoker. On the production side, Hammer and its American rival AIP teamed up, with the latter blamed for insisting on the sexual overdose. Although on that score you could as easily point the finger at the British censor known for his liberal approach to such shenanigans.

While it’s true that Dracula, especially as interpreted by Christopher Lee in Hammer offerings, carried a sexual frisson, there was never anything more than that, allowing the audience to determine whether the vampire was ever interested in a woman except for the purpose of sucking blood from her neck. Previously, diaphanous gowns and cleavage had been the extent of the sexual element. To switch the target from the neck to the breasts is a determined commercial move.

So, basically, with a gender twist, we’re following the old story – vampire stalks victims, finds acolytes, and falls victim to a vampire hunter. In the 19^th century, the beautiful Carmilla (Ingrid Pitt), traveling with her mother, a countess (Dawn Adams), is adept at inveigling herself into high-class households where she seduces the daughters and staff of the rich. Her first victim Laura is niece to General Spielsdorf (Peter Cushing) who subsequently enlists the help of vampire hunter Baron Hartog (David Wilmer), who mistakenly believes he had rid the world of the female vampire clan.

Next for the bloody breast treatment is a Mademoiselle Perrodot (Kate O’Mara), governess to Emma (Madeleine Smith). Perrodot becomes her lover and accomplice. Carmilla is an inclusive kind of vampire and if need be will seduce any male obstacle such as Morton’s suspicious butler Renton (Harvey Hall) while sucking the blood out of any passing male of more modest means.

Carmilla has the same get-out-of-jail-free as any male of the species and can take refuge in her grave until the heat passes. However, this time she’s intent on taking Emma with her. By now Baron Hartog has filled the general in on the threat, explaining that the Karnstein clan go back to the sixteenth century, and that he has dispatched many of the breed in traditional fashion, decapitation or stake through the heart, but he had been unable to find the night-time resting place of Carmilla.

So when Carmilla heads off to Karnstein Castle with Emma, she’s not expecting vampire hunters lying in wait. This time it’s the general who does the killing, making doubly sure by both cutting off her head and driving a stake through her heart. Emma recovers.

Given that any version of Dracula was essentially a franchise, Hammer/AIP managed to keep the Karnsteins going for another two episodes, Lust for a Vampire (1971) – which gave Yutte Stensgaard a shot a stardom – and Twins of Evil (1972) starring Playboy Playmates the Collinson twins.

While The Vampire Lovers was a launching pad for Ingrid Pitt as a new top-billed femme fatale, her marquee attraction didn’t last beyond the superior Countess Dracula. However, Pitt certainly brings gusto to the part and there’s an argument that the contemporary world deserved more explicit expression of that previously restrained sexual frisson. The counter-argument is that it’s blatant sexploitation.

Kate O’Mara (The Horror of Frankenstein, 1970), a future Scream Queen, would have been an obvious contender for the main role rather than a supporting one except that she refused to take off her clothes. Madeleine Smith (Taste the Blood of Dracula, 1970) became another future Scream Queen.

With Ingrid Pitt’s physical allure to the fore that limited the involvement of Peter Cushing (Frankenstein Created Woman, 1967). The more prominent of the wannabes was Jon Finch (Macbeth, 1971).

Written by Tudor Gates (Danger: Diabolik, 1968).

Still the argument continues – groundbreaking approach to the genre or mere sexploitation.

You decide – Amazon Prime currently has this.

Behind the Scenes: “The Guns of Navarone” (1961)

It’s time to celebrate the 65^th anniversary of The Guns of Navarone – world premiere on April 27, 1961, in London and New York opening on June 22, 1961. Although the picture set a new benchmark in high-octane entertainment, a fast-moving war thriller packed with twists and a genuine all-star cast, it was far – very far – from the sure thing it appears in retrospect.

For a start, U.S producer Carl Foreman, a victim of the McCarthy anti-communist witch-hunt of the early 1950s, was unable to assemble any of the talent he had set his heart on. He lost his preferred male cast of William Holden and Cary Grant and original scriptwriter Eric Ambler, the thriller writer famed for The Mask of Dimitrios and other novels.

He had a registered a major publicity coup by engineering the screen debut of opera diva Maria Callas, one of the most famous people in the world, but she also dropped out as did his other initial choice for leading lady. On top of that, once filming began he lost his director, Alexander Mackendrick, who had not only achieved a critical and commercial success with the British Ealing comedy The Ladykillers (1951) but also crossed the Atlantic to make the acclaimed The Sweet Smell of Success (1957) starring Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, to prove he could handle big Hollywood stars.

On top of that David Niven nearly lost his life during production and by the time the picture appeared Gregory Peck had suffered so many box office flops that he was a potential liability. And Foreman’s own marriage was in trouble.

It was a wonder it was made at all for Foreman was nobody’s idea of a sure thing. Although he had made his name as a screenwriter with three Oscar nominations for Champion (1949), The Men (1950) and High Noon (1952), his career was in ruins after being slung out of America for his supposed communist sympathies. He set up in London where he wrote screenplays under pseudonyms. But in 1956 won a four-picture production deal with Columbia at a time when that studio was investing heavily in making films in Britain to take advantage of the government’s Eady Levy (effectively, a tax rebate) and cheaper costs. But his first film, The Key (1958) with William Holden and Sophia Loren flopped in the U.S. Columbia persevered, seeing Foreman as the man to tackle its biggest-ever European production.

The Guns of Navarone almost fell at the first hurdle. Foreman’s first choice of location was Cyprus which was threatening to erupt into a civil war. At the last minute, he changed his mind and shifted production to Rhodes. Foreman, who also acted as screenwriter, made considerable changes to the book by British bestselling thriller writer Alistair Maclean, not least of which was introducing female characters to a story that had been resolutely all-male.

There was tension on set – four-time Oscar nominee Gregory Peck was annoyed at sharing the screen with two winners David Niven (Best Actor for Separate Tables, 1958) and Anthony Quinn (twice Best Supporting Actor for Viva Zapata, 1952, and Lust for Life, 1956). Replacement director J. Lee Thompson (Ice Cold in Alex, 1958) managed to sink a ship on loan from the Greek navy. The Actor’s Strike in Hollywood nearly forced the departure of the two younger stars.

The set for the titular guns was the largest ever built, costing £100,000, and even though that proved a design miracle, that, too, was not exempt from disaster, having to be rebuilt after a thunderstorm destroyed part of the set. The injury to David Niven was so severe he nearly died, putting the production in jeopardy. Even when the film approached completion there were other obstacles in the way, composer Dmitri Tiomkin (The Alamo, 1960), for example, demanding a record fee and Foreman locking horns with Columbia over his insistence on launching the picture as a roadshow, request which was ultimately denied, and one of the reasons for the film’ release delay,

I’ve written a book about The Making of The Guns of Navarone. Originally published in 2013, it has been revised with over 30 illustrations added for a new edition to tie in with the 65^th anniversary – available both in print and Kindle versions.

If you’re interested in this kind of book, you might like to know that I’ve also written The Making of The Magnificent Seven.

The Guns of Navarone (1961) *****

To celebrate this film now streaming on Netflix I thought i’d re-run a previous review.

Stone-cold action classic that blazed a trail for the big-budget men-on-a-mission war picture like The Dirty Dozen (1967) and Where Eagles Dare (1968). Brilliantly structured, written and directed, and featuring a sea battle, storm, shipwreck, mountaineering, chase, interrogation scenes, infiltration of an impregnable fortress, a pair of romances, two traitors, and an awe-inspiring climax make this a candidate for one of the greatest war pictures ever made.

The set-up is simple. Knock out the gigantic guns at Navarone or two thousand men will perish. It’s mission impossible and the clock is ticking. You don’t know who to trust and the enemy is ruthless.

In the early days of the all-star-cast, producer Carl Foreman rounded up an astonishing line-up, bulking out the bestseller by Scottish thriller maestro Alistair Maclean (The Secret Ways, 1961) with three top stars in five-time Oscar nominee Gregory Peck (The Big Country, 1958), double Oscar-winner Anthony Quinn (Heller in Pink Tights, 1960) and Oscar-winner David Niven (Please Don’t Eat the Daisies, 1960). Add in British household names Anthony Quayle (Ice Cold in Alex, 1958), Stanley Baker (The Concrete Jungle, 1960) and James Robertson Justice (Doctor in Love, 1960), a sprinkling of rising stars in James Darren (Let No Man Write My Epitaph, 1960), Gia Scala (I Aim at the Stars, 1960) and Richard Harris (The Night Fighters, 1960) and renowned Greek actress Irene Papas (Antigone, 1961).

Each man is a specialist. Capt. Mallory (Gregory Peck) the mountaineer whose climbing skills are essential to completing the fist part of the mission, explosives expert Corporal Miller (David Niven), mechanic ‘Butcher’ Brown (Stanley Baker), Greek patriot Stavrou (Anthony Quinn) and the ruthless killer Pappadimos (James Darren) who has the contact with the Greek resistance. The stakes are ramped up when we learn both Mallory and Stavrou have bounties on their heads, not to mention the fact they are sworn enemies, and that before the mission even gets under way, spies are discovered in the camp. The ostensible leader of the group Major Franklin (Anthony Quayle) is wounded early on, turning him into a liability and making Mallory the de facto leader.

The stakes are ramped up further – this time through relationships. Their Greek contact turns out to be a woman, Maria (Irene Papas), brother of Pappadimos. She brings with her a mute girl Anna (Gia Scala) for whom Mallory develops romantic feelings while Stavrou has eyes for Maria. Mallory is also torn about Franklin, his best friend.

And from there it pitches into one disaster after another. They are too easily hunted by the Germans. They are shelled with mortars and attacked by dive bombers as they race across open mountains and through caves to reach their destination. They have to shoot their way out of traps and finagle their way into the fortress. There are twists and turns all the way, the clock ticking in almost James-Bond-style as the deadline for the destruction of the troops approaches.

And although this is clearly a war picture it is also as obviously an anti-war one, no end to the killing in sight, people dying pointlessly.

Although the acting was ignored come Oscar time, each of the stars delivers and it is a communal tour de force. Director J. Lee Thompson (Ice Cold in Alex) ensures that in visual terms none of the stars dominates, each given equal screen time while the strong supporting cast each has their own narrative arc. With over two-and-half-hours’ running time, Thompson has both the bonus of time to allow each element to be fully played out and the problem of keeping the picture taut and he succeeds brilliantly in both aims. It is a masterpiece of suspense. And it looked fabulous, the guns themselves, by which the picture might succeed or fail, were awesome.

Thompson was Oscar-nominated as was producer Carl Foreman for both Best Picture and the screenplay, Dmitri Tiomkin for the score (one of the longest-ever), John Cox for sound, Alan Osbiston for editing. Bill Warrington who did the visual special effects and Chris Greenham who did the sound effects were the only winners on the night.

It was a commercial smash, top picture of the year in the U.S., the biggest picture of all time at the British box office and breaking records all over the world.

Two Gentlemen Sharing (1969) ***

Shelved was a polite term for what happened to this picture. It was funded by Paramount but they didn’t like the look of the finished article. It could have gone straight into the bin, but it was reprieved, sold onto AIP which was looking to shift away from horror and biker movies into mainstream productions. But though it was made in Britain and therefore would qualify for both the Levy tax credit and the quota system, AIP couldn’t find a British distributor to take it on, not even after being selected as the official UK entry to the Venice Film Festival and impressing New York critics. It wasn’t shown on a British screen until 2017.

So what the heck was wrong with it? I had wrongly assumed that the title was a hint that the two gentlemen were gay, but that isn’t the case.

We open with a fellow with a plummy voice called Andrew Mackenzie (Hal Frederick) calling round London landlords looking for digs. He’s a solicitor, wears a bowler hat, was educated at Oxford University, even famously scored a century in a cricket match – and you can’t fit in any more than being a top-class cricketer. But doors which would open for anyone else with such a pedigree are closed to him.

Problem is – he’s Black. He’s of Jamaican descent. He’s not homeless, he’s got digs in Brixton, a noted Black community. Eventually, he finds accommodation in very posh Knightsbridge with ad man Roddy (Robin Philips).

Racism had been tackled in the movie world primarily through the aegis of Sidney Poitier. His three 1967 films – To Sir, With Love, In the Heat of the Night and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, had all concluded on the upbeat. The Black man was accorded acceptance and respect.

That doesn’t happen here. The N-word is in common use. Andrew ends up being tossed out of the apartment by his landlady for essentially conforming to the cliché of being a “sexual degenerate,” i.e. for making too much noise while having sex. Eventually, he decides he’ll never fit in in Britain and returns to Jamaica.

But while the film deals bluntly with issues of endemic racism in British culture, it also tackles the problems facing the more socially aware, who tie themselves in knots trying to prove they are not racists. Although on the face of it accepting his flatmate’s color, Roddy has problems with his own beliefs. He’s certainly jealous of Andrew’s supposed sexual prowess, to the point of clearly believing he will enjoy more sexual freedom should he hitch up with a Black woman, and at various points exhibits inappropriate behavior towards them.

He also can’t come to terms with the fact that his girlfriend Jane (Judy Geeson) is not only very popular with Black men but has been brought up by a Black man after her own White father died when she was very young. To prove his liberal credentials once and for all, Andrew hosts a massive party in the apartment, inviting a crowd of Blacks, but when his drunken overtures to Black women are rejected, the party ends in disaster.

The characters are well drawn. Andrew is no saint. He’s misogynistic for a start, determining that his girlfriend Caroline (Esther Anderson) should do all the cooking and household chores. He’s arrogant and selfish, often grumpy. In other words, as human as the next guy.

Roddy is insecure. His job has none of the glamor we associate with advertising. His biggest decisions concern how many chips to have on a plate being photographed for an advertisement. Although coming from a wealthy background, his parents are now so impoverished they live in the squalid basement of a stately home. He has no understanding of women, tending to make too many of the wrong assumptions. So, just another young fella having problems growing up.

You’d think – and Roddy certainly thinks – that in the ad world he’d have a bevy of young women at his beck and call as does his colleague Phil (Norman Rossington) who, despite clearly taking advantage of his position in terms of seduction opportunities, is more enlightened – he has a Black girlfriend.

The movie’s very fair in determining when characters feel out of place. While Andrew struggles in the White world, Roddy and to a certain extent Phil struggle in the Black social world, bounding about awkwardly at a “jump-up”, the name given to a dance featuring Black music.

Given the actors are all primarily newcomers, showing promise is the extent of the acting. Reportedly Hal Frederick’s (Sandokan, 1964) plummy British accent was dubbed, but it is adequate for the task in hand which is to explore the minefield of the often unexplored aspects of British racism at a time when large-scale immigration was limited to certain cities and when the country still believed in “fair play” or convinced itself it did.

Robin Phillips (Decline and Fall…of a Birdwatcher, 1968) has a more complex part, needy, weak, his unformed unappealing character turning up at the edges. Judy Geeson (Three into Two Won’t Go, 1969) is better and Norman Rossington (Tobruk, 1967) throws himself into a peach of a part. Esther Anderson (The Touchables, 1968) is appreciated.

Canadian director Ted Kotcheff (Life at the Top, 1965) pulls no punches and certainly there is no sign of sentimentality or that, somehow, everything will all come good in the end. Screenplay by debutant David Stuart Leslie from the bestseller by Evan Jones.

Worth seeing if only to ask why we were kept from seeing it for so long. You can catch it on Amazon Prime at the moment.

The Swarm (1978) *

I’m delighted to inform you that there was only disappointment this time around, no provisos to save the day, no reassessment to make me change my original views. This truly is a terrible picture. Possibly the worst to involve Michael Caine, who was no slouch when it came to making inadvisable choices. Just as with The Island (1980) which on paper appeared a slam-dunk hit coming as it did in the wake of Jaws (1975) and The Deep (1977), based on Peter Benchley bestsellers, this looked like a no-brainer, another Irwin Allen disaster picture following on from mega-hits The Towering Inferno (1974) and Earthquake (1975).

It’s tempting to blame it on the bees. The special effects creating the sky-borne swarm makes them look like nothing more than a strange smudge on the screen. And the bodies or cars or helicopters smothered in millions of static bees score pretty low, actually, on the scare-o-meter, nothing like a giant shark on the loose. Anyone caught in the swarm has to go into some kind of slow-motion dance that fails to shake them off.

Sure we’ve got a runaway train coming off the tracks and sliding down a hill, but the action quotient is surprisingly pretty low. The opportunity, a la The Birds (1963), to lay low a town is ignored and after a few peremptory shots of bees causing havoc we’re stuck with TV reports. Even giant bees, caused by hallucination, might cause an audience to vaguely squirm but it doesn’t replicate the gut-wrenching terror of a killer shark or the tension of a burning skyscraper.

The cast spend most of their time in exposition mode, or arguing with each other as to whose exposition is better. We know a heck of a lot more about the bees, and why they’re on the rampage, some nonsense about alarm horns replicating the sound of bees mating, than we do about any of the characters.

There’s a smidgeon of romance between Dr Bradford Crane (Michael Caine) and Capt Dr Helena Anderson (Katharine Ross) but it doesn’t get beyond the teenage (“am I walking too fast for you?). And there’s a truly terrible attempt at romantic comedy as old codgers Felix (Ben Johnson) and Clarence (Fred MacMurray) fight over school marm Maureen (Olivia De Havilland) who looks as if she’d like to crack their heads together.

A young boy is caught up in the melee and a pregnant woman, and I was looking out for the statutory nun, a strange omission is a disaster narrative.

The only effective bit of the movie is the opening when a squad of soldiers all Hazchem-med up descend on a deserted missile base and find the entire garrison – apart from a half-dozen – lying dead on the floor. That Dr Crane happens to be passing by leads to a stupid subplot where Major General Slater (Richard Widmark) and sidekick Major Baker (Bradford Dillman) take the suspicion option and look for an excuse to bang up the academic.

This initially went on general release in a curtailed version running just short of two hours rather than the original 155-minute cut which you can now catch, as I did, on YouTube.

You can’t blame Michael Caine (The Island, 1980) for this mess and he would have acquitted himself well if there had been any actual acting to be done outside of the exposition and arguing with the major general. His best scene is when he gently carries crippled mentor Dr Krim (Henry Fonda) into his wheelchair. Katharine Ross (Hellfighters, 1968) has such a restrained screen persona half the time you think she’s going to burst into tears.

Uber-producer Irwin Allen (The Towering Inferno) had decided by this point that he could dispense with a name director and take on that chore himself. But I doubt if anyone could have made a better job given they were stuck with bees and a terrible script by Stirling Silliphant (In the Heat of the Night, 1967).

A true stinker.