Unusual and unusually effective entry into the low-budget British B-film crime category. Teeters for a time on the bittersweet before plunking for ending on a more realistic sour note. Surprising, too, in being issue-driven – the problem of the rehabilitation of criminals, or the way such efforts are blocked by the general populace wanting nothing to do with thieves and villains, especially when it comes to employment or romance.
On release from prison, George (David Sumner) is given the chance of a new life from do-gooder Tom Daniels (James Hayter) who runs a halfway house for ex-cons. George isn’t particularly grateful, since he sees life stacked up against him. But he’s making an effort and turns down the chance to join the other residents in setting up an illegal scheme. Instead, Tom finds him work as a driver for a furnishings manufacturer where he meets Muriel (Mela White). But their nascent romance is scuppered when the cops come calling, investigating a murder on the “Flats”, an area of wildland close to both the factory where he works and the pub he frequents.
When the killer strikes again, and again, the cops Det Supt Chadwick (John Arnatt) and Sgt Tracey (Jack Watson) realize the murderer is striking at the full moon. Luckily, neither of the detectives is apt to go down the werewolf route, especially as the killer tends to strike when a full moon would be of little assistance because the “Flats” are covered in thick fog (for no apparent reason except the script says so).
George becomes the chief suspect and the cops decide to set up Sgt June Lock (Susan Travers) as bait – odd how often this became a trope in these B-pictures. She’s to befriend George and, come the full moon, prevent herself being killed (the cops are keeping tabs on her) long enough to trap George as the killer.
There’s generally little time to waste in these running-time-conscious thrillers (this only lasts 68 minutes) on any characterization beyond the obvious but here we discover George has been disowned by his mother, a rather well-off character who lives in a good-sized house in middle-class Chiswick. When he asks to be allowed home, she turns him away and when the cops come calling her first words are, “I don’t have a son.” She’s a cold fish for sure, and hardly the entire reason he’s turned to crime, but it would go some way to explain his general bitterness.
George also appears to have an artistic bent and June encourages him, going so far as lining him up for some work. Before we get to the finale, there are other treats in store, the shrewish mother Mrs Foster (Hilda Fenemore) of the sulking Lily (Coral Morphew) who escaped attack by the killer. The other occupants of the house are also well-drawn, with a villainous hierarchy in operation, and clearly much more likely than George to re-offend.
The cops, too, are more ready than usual to admit defeat. Clues are non-existent what with the fog and any attempt at forensics limited to wondering why George cleaned his shoes so assiduously, the obvious deduction being the existence of mud or grass would have put him close to the crime scene.
In truth, there’s not much to the detection, but at least, as I said, nobody falls for the werewolf line and the idea of the date bait seems to come too easily to the cops.
As it stands, it’s mostly a character study, of a young man who can’t get a break, of society’s attitude to criminals, the lack of redemption available and little chance of a second chance once your past is discovered. I’m not sure how much this was an issue at the time but George exhibits a more understandable seam of bitterness than the likes of the surly Arthur Seaton in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960). The movie only scratches the surface of the affect of a child on the lack of a mother’s love, and since we don’t know what triggered George’s first crime it’s hard to go any deeper.
There’s the chance of a happy ending. June is clearly smitten with George and determined to prove him innocent rather than, as her superiors require, guilty. But bitterness wins out in the end.
Directed by Montgomery Tully (The Terrornauts, 1967) who had a hand in the screenplay along with producer Maurice J. Wilson (Master Spy, 1963) based on the novel by Bruce Graeme.
David Sumner (The Long Duel, 1967) gets his teeth into a peach of a part. Career-wise Jack Watson (The Hill, 1965) fared best though Susan Travers (Peeping Tom, 1960) had a running role in TV series Van der Valk (1972-1973)
Producer Irving Allen remains best known as the fella who turned down James Bond. While partnered with Cubby Broccoli in Warwick Films, he decided the Ian Fleming books were not big screen material. Their production shingle, based in Britain, had turned out movies like The Red Beret (1953) with Alan Ladd and Fire Down Below (1957) pairing Robert Mitchum and Rita Hayworth. Divorced from Broccoli, Allen headed down the big-budget historical adventure route but neither The Long Ships (1964) spearheaded by Richard Widmark and Sidney Poitier nor Omar Sharif as Genghis Khan (1965) hit the box office target.
Luckily, Allen had already made an investment in espionage, owning the rights to the hard-edged Matt Helm novels, knocked out at the rate of one or two a year since 1960 by Donald Hamilton whose most notable brush with Hollywood was selling the rights to his novel The Big Country (1958) filmed by William Wyler with a top-class cast. The Matt Helm series was praised by the top thriller critic of the era, Anthony Boucher, who noted that Hamilton brought “sordid truth” to the espionage genre and “the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett.”
Having optioned the books, Allen persuaded Columbia to buy the rights to eight, with the notion of setting up a direct rival to James Bond, that idea given an extra fillip when the Sean Connery series which had appeared on an annual basis skipped 1966. Initially, Allen planned to make films that followed the novel’s serious approach to espionage, intending to cast a marquee name like Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963) – who ironically proved major competition for the first offering through Hitchcock’s Torn Curtain (1966) – or conversely a relative unknown such as Mike Connors (Harlow, 1965).
To hook Dean Martin, Allen had to make him a partner, resulting in the actor making more dough out of a spy film than Sean Connery did from Bond. Martin was something of a Hollywood enigma. Audiences who flocked to the Rat Pack outings tended to disdain his stand-alone efforts such as Toys in the Attic (1963) and Kiss Me, Stupid (1964) and if he was a current household name that owed much more to his recording and television career.
But Allen shifted the emphasis away from straight adaptation to tongue-in-cheek, setting up the series initially as gentle parody rather than out-and-out spoof though as the movies progressed they fell more into the latter category.
Playing to Martin’s strengths of urbane charm and effortless style, as well as his reputation as a lothario, and accommodating his age (he was 48) by ensuring his character was brought out of retirement, and with comedy writer Herbert Baker brought in at Dean Martin’s behest to beef up Oscar Saul’s script, and by surrounding him with more heavyweight damsels than the Bonds, the series was good to go. Baker had written early Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis vehicles like Jumping Jacks (1952) and Scared Stiff (1953). The script drew upon two Hamilton novels, Death of a Citizen (the first in the series) and The Silencers (the fourth). The idea of Helm being married was dropped to allow him the same sexual license as James Bond.
Stella Stevens and Daliah Lavi were unusual choices for the leading ladies of a spy picture, their proven marquee appeal considerably in excess of that of Ursula Andress (Dr No, 1962), Honor Blackman (Goldfinger, 1964) and Claudine Auger (Thunderball, 1965), that trio of movies opening Hollywood doors for the actresses rather than as with Stevens and Lavi already being welcome attractions. Lavi had starred in The Demon (1963) and Lord Jim (1965) while Stella Stevens had been female lead in The Nutty Professor (1963) and Advance to the Rear (1964). The Slaygirls, however, a direct imitation of the Bond Girls, also owed something to Playboy’s Playmates.
Other cast members had some distinction, Victor Buono Oscar-nominated for Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962) and James Gregory acclaimed for his role in The Manchurian Candidate (1962). Both had worked previously with Martin, Gregory on The Sons of Katie Elder (1965) and Buono on 4 for Texas (1963) and Robin and the 7 Hoods (1964).
Martin also called upon President Lyndon B. Johnson’s personal shirtmaker Sy Devore, previously personal clothier to Martin and Lewis, to come up with his stylish attire.
Budgeted at just under $4 million, The Silencers began shooting on 12 July 1965, the 12-week schedule (ending 16 September) taking in locations like Carsbad Caverns, White Sands, El Paso and Juarez with the car chases filmed in Santa Fe and Phoenix, Arizona. Columbia’s backlot was deemed too small for interiors, and two of Desilu’s largest soundstages were joined together to make Big O’s underground HQ.
Director Phil Karlson (The Secret Ways, 1961) and the producer didn’t see eye-to-eye. Despite ostensibly aiming for a comedy, Allen wanted Karlson to adopt the style of the more serious The Ipcress File (1965) and shoot “through chandeliers, under tables.” It turned out that movie’s director Sidney J. Furie had relied on Karlson for most of his cinematic flourishes.
Like Sinatra, Martin preferred one take. “Dean was always great to work with,” recalled James Gregory, “because he never took himself seriously…Dean was always relaxed – if it doesn’t work do it over, but for heaven’s sake you oughta not need more than that one or two times to get it right.”
Despite the easy-going atmosphere, there were casualties. Buono was out of action for four days after slipping while climbing a wall, foot in an unseen cast for the rest of his time on the picture. Supporting actor Arthur O’Connell’s face was sliced open during an explosion. He completed the scene with the bandage covering the wound hidden under a turtleneck sweater. Stunt man Tom Hennessey lost three front teeth. There was a bill of several thousand dollars to cover an unexpected explosion on set, combustible dust igniting after one of the grenades went off on the Big O set.
Astonishingly the movie came in $500,000 under budget and $1 million was recouped from television sales. Columbia was so taken with the end result that prior to its release two sequels were announced.
The Slaygirls featured prominently in promotional activities in the U.S. with six sent overseas to hustle up interest. As well as a movie tie-in paperback and album, merchandising included toy guns from Crescent Toys and Louis Marx. Martin wasn’t available for the Chicago world premiere (he was shooting Texas Across the River, 1966) on 16 February 1966. The movie was gangbusters from the start, clocking up $7.35 million in U.S. rentals (the studio’s cut of the box office), enough for 85th spot (by my exclusive count) on the list of the top earning films of the decade.
SOURCES: Brian Hannan, The Magnificent ‘60s, The 100 Most Popular Films of a Revolutionary Decade (McFarland, 2022); Bruce Scivally, Booze, Bullets and Broads, Behind the Scenes with Dean Martin’s Matt Helm Films of the 1960s (Henry Gray, 2013); William Schoell, Martini Man: The Life of Dean Martin (Cooper Square Press, 2003); Cinema Retro Movie Classics Issue No 9: Matt Helm’s Back in Town.
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.
Will instantly connect with the contemporary audiences for two unusual reasons. First off, it’s the initial depiction of deepfake. Secondly, a major plot point concerns an aspect of the roughest kind of sex, erotic asphyxiation. These days you’ll find many women complaining that a partner’s addiction to porn has forced them into such dangerous experiment. Here, lending fire to the idea that it’s nothing but fun, is the notion that it’s the woman who’s desperate for such.
There used to be a standard Hollywood ploy of sticking a younger rising star alongside an established bigger name. After Top Gun (1986) Tom Cruise proved the best exponent of this, working with Paul Newman in The Color of Money (1986) and Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man (1988). The idea is that the younger fella will learn from the older (Newman and Hoffman proved top-class tutors, both winning Oscars).
And in fact the narrative here actually takes up such an idea. Semi-retired cop Capt. John Connor (Sean Connery) plays mentor to Lt. Webster Smith (Wesley Snipes) when both are called out to act as liaison between investigator Tom Graham (Harvey Keitel) and the top brass of Japanese corporation Nakamoto where a murder has been committed. The death was initially dismissed as a sex game that went too far and as scarcely worth anyone’s time given the victim was a sex worker, Cheryl (Tatjana Patitz), sometime girlfriend of Japanese playboy and fixer Eddie Sakamura (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa).
Matters are complicated because Nakamoto is bidding to take over a key American computer manufacturer and because Senator John Morton (Ray Wise), who initially opposed the deal, is now in favor of a merger. Connor begins to suspect the Japanese have manipulated video recordings of the murder. Single father Smith, objecting to Connor’s involvement, is compromised by a secret past, exposure of which could potentially stop the investigation in its tracks. Slippery American fixer Bob Richmond (Kevin Anderson) is desperate to get a deal over the line.
While the intricate investigation is engrossing in itself, what really makes this fly, beyond another excellent performance by Connery, are the business machinations and the insights into Japanese culture. On the face of it, you might think this is an attack on the Japanese business machine, rampant at the time, but, in reality, my guess is the Japanese would love it for the way it shows American companies in their thrall.
In Japan “business is war” and companies gird themselves for battle by forming alliances that would be outlawed in America. An adept screenplay manages to seed a rich background, featuring elements of Japanese society that are both positive (criminals are generally caught plus caring for employees and “fixing the problem, not the blame”) and negative (racism is widespread). Connor, steeped in Japanese culture, able to move in the highest business circles, calling in favors, is our guide, but that’s never to the detriment of the overall picture, and instead adds welcome depth.
There’s a certain subtlety at work, too, the introduction of the single dad (treated seriously rather than for comic effect) a bit of a thematic coup for the times and Connor’s relationship with Jingo (Tia Carrere) is more fluid than you might expect, the older man leaving the “cage door open” should his younger lover find someone of her own age.
Three decades on from the cultural appropriation of A Majority of One (1961) when Hollywood elected Alec Guinness to play a Japanese man, there’s no shortage of players of Japanese descent to supply the movie with more authenticity. Mako had been Oscar-nominated for The Sand Pebbles (1966) while Stan Egi (Come See the Paradise, 1990), Clyde Kusatsu (In the Line of Fire, 1993) and Nelson Mashita (Darkman, 1990) flesh out the ranks.
Beard aficionados will welcome Connery’s stylish cut which, once again, serves as a shortcut to character – this is a confident, fashionable man. Sean Connery (The Man Who Would Be King, 1975) drives the movie, he’s always one step ahead even when the bad guys think they have him beat. Another top-notch performance from Sean Connery. Wesley Snipes (Passenger 57, 1992) wasn’t paying much attention to the free acting lessons handed out by Connery, not learning to rein it in, and, presumably to maintain his action cojones, is permitted some unlikely karate kicking. That last wasn’t in the book. There were only two other major changes from the book – adding a couple of early scenes with the victim and giving Connors a relationship with Jingo. Some of the book is heavily truncated for obvious reasons – you’ll wonder just what the heck is the purpose of Willy the Weasel (Steve Buscemi).
The screenplay by author Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park, 1993), director Philip Kaufman and Michael Backes in his debut, manages to fully convey the novel at the same time as squeezing in as many bon mots as possible without losing sight of the drama.
Philip Kaufman (Fearless Frank, 1967) makes the most of the rich material.
Strong contender for Hammer’s film of the decade, a tight adaptation of Dennis Wheatley’s black magic classic with some brilliant set pieces as Nicholas de Richleau (Christopher Lee) battles to prevent his friend Simon (Patrick Mower) falling into the hands of satanist Mocata (Charles Gray).
Initially constructed like a thriller with Simon rescued, then kidnapped, then rescued again, plus a car chase, it then turns into a siege as Richleau and friends, huddled inside a pentagram, attempt to withstand the forces of evil. Sensibly, the script eschews too much mumbo-jumbo – although modern audiences accustomed to arcane exposition through MCU should find no problem accommodating ideas like the Clavicle of Solomon, Talisman of Set and Ipsissimus – in favour of confrontation.
Unlike most demonic pictures, de Richleau has an array of mystical weaponry and a fund of knowledge to defend his charges so the storyline develops along more interesting lines than the usual notion of innocents drawn into a dark world. In some senses Mocata is a template for the Marvel super-villains with powers beyond human understanding and the same contempt for his victims. And surely this is where Marvel’s creative backroom alighted when it wanted to turn back time. Though with different aims, De Richleau and Mocata are cut from the same cloth, belonging to a world where rites and incantations hold sway.
While special effects play their part from giant menacing tarantulas and the Angel of Death, the most effective scenes rely on a lot less – Simon strangled by a crucifix, Mocata hypnotizing a woman, a bound girl struggling against possession. Had the film been made a few years later, when Hammer with The Vampire Lovers (1970) and Lust for a Vampire (1971) increased the nudity quotient, and after The Exorcist (1973) had led the way in big bucks special effects, the black mass sequence would have been considerably improved.
The main flaw is the need to stick with the author’s quartet of “modern musketeers” which means the story stretches too far in the wrong directions often at the cost of minimizing the input of de Richleau. In the Wheatley original, the four men are all intrepid, but in the film only two – de Richleau and American aviator Rex van Ryn (Leon Greene) – share those characteristics. At critical points in the narrative, de Richleau just disappears, off to complete his studies into black magic. Where The Exorcist, for example, found in scholarship a cinematic correlative, this does not try.
Christopher Lee (She, 1965), pomp reined in, is outstanding as de Richleau, exuding wisdom while fearful of the consequences of dabbling in black magic, both commanding and chilling. Charles Gray (Masquerade, 1965) is in his element, the calm eloquent charming menace he brings to the role providing him with a template for future villains. The three other “musketeers” are less effective, Patrick Mower in his movie debut does not quite deliver while Leon Greene (A Challenge for Robin Hood, 1967) and Paul Eddington (BBC television’s Yes, Minister 1980-1984) are miscast. Nike Arrighi, also making her debut as love interest Tanith, is an unusual Hammer damsel-in-distress.
Hammer stalwart Terence Fisher (The Gorgon, 1964) creates a finely-nuanced production, incorporating the grand guignol and the psychological. Screenwriter Richard Matheson (The Raven, 1963) retains the Wheatley essence while keeping the plot moving. A few years later nudity was no longer be an issue and Hollywood injected big bucks in horror special effects, so with those constraints in mind the studio did a devilish good job.
BOOK INTO FILM
Dennis Wheatley was a prolific bestseller producing three or four titles a year, famous for a historical series set around Napoleonic times, another at the start of the Second World War and a third featuring the “four modern musketeers” that spanned a couple of decades. In addition, he had gained notoriety for books about black magic, which often involved series characters, as well as sundry tales like The Lost Continent. Although largely out of fashion these days, Wheatley set the tone for brisk thrillers, stories that took place over a short period of time and in which the heroes tumbled from one peril to another. In other words, he created the template for thriller writers like Alistair MacLean and Lee Child.
The Devil Rides Out, his fourth novel, published in 1934, featured the “musketeers” involved in his phenomenally successful debut The Forbidden Territory (1933), and introduced readers to his interest in the occult. Although of differing temperaments and backgrounds his quartet – the Russian-born Duke De Richleau (Christopher Lee in the film), American aviator Rex Van Ryn (Leon Greene) and wealthy Englishmen Richard Eaton (Paul Eddington) and Simon Aron (Patrick Mower) – are intrepid. And while screenwriter Richard Matheson stuck pretty much to the core of the Wheatley story, the film was hampered by the actors. The laid-back Paul Eddington hardly connects with the Wheatley characterization and Patrick Mower is too young for Aron.
As with the book, the story moves swiftly. Worried that Aron is dabbling in the black arts, De Richleau and Van Ryn go haring down to his country house where they meet black magic high priest Mocata (Charles Gray) and discover tools for satanic worship. And soon they are embroiled in a duel of wits against Mocata, climaxing in creating a pentagram as a means of warding off evil.
In order not to lose the audience by blinding them with mumbo-jumbo the script takes only the bare bones of the tale, bringing in the occult only when pivotal to the story, and that’s something of a shame. A modern audience, which has grown up on enormously complicated worlds such as those created for Game of Thrones and the MCU, would probably have welcomed a deeper insight into the occult. While out-and-out thrillers, Wheatley’s novels also contained copious historical information that he was able to dole out even when his heroes were in harm’s way. The Devil Rides Out is not a massive tome so it’s a measure of the author’s skill that he manages to include not just a condensed history of the occult but its inner workings. Every time in the film De Richleau goes off to the British Library for some vital information, his departure generally leaves a hole, since what he returns with does not always seem important enough to justify his absence.
But then the screenwriter was under far more pressure than a novelist. In some respects, this book like few others demonstrated the difference between writing for the screen and writing for a reader. With just 95 minutes at his disposal, Matheson had no time to spare while Wheatley had all the time in the world. Wheatley could happily leave the reader dangling with a hero in peril while dispatching De Richleau on a fact-finding mission, the action held up until his return. It’s interesting that Matheson chose to follow Wheatley’s characterization of De Richleau, who didn’t know everything but knew where to look. Matheson could easily have chosen to make De Richleau all-knowing and thus able to spout a ton of information without ever going off-screen.
But here’s where the book scores over the film. The reader would happily grant Wheatley his apparent self-indulgence because in the book what he imparted on his return, given the leeway to do so, was so fascinating. There are lengthy sections in the book which are history lessons where De Richleau gives readers the inside track on the satanic. In the opening section, once De Richleau and Van Ryn have rescued Aron, the author devotes a full seven pages to a brief introduction to the occult that leaves the reader more likely to want more of that than to find out how the story will evolve. He has hit on a magic formula that few authors ever approach. To have your background every bit as interesting as the main story is incredibly rare and it allowed Wheatley the opportunity to break off from the narrative to tell the reader more about the occult, which in turn, raised the stakes for the characters involved.
Dennis Wheatley
Effectively, there was too much material for a screenwriter to inflict upon an audience ignorant of the occult. Some decisions were clearly made to limit the need for lengthy exposition. But these often work against the film. For example, Mocata wants the Talisman of Set because it bestows unlimited power with which he can start a world war, but in order to accomplish that he needs to find people with the correct astrological births, namely Simon and Tanith. But this element is eliminated from the story, making Mocata’s motivation merely revenge. Matheson also removed much of the historical and political background, replaced the swastika as a religious symbol with the more acceptable Christian cross, and deleted references to Marie’s Russian background. Her daughter Fleur becomes Peggy. Matheson also treats some of the esoteric light-heartedly on the assumption that seriousness might be too off-putting.
Overall, the adaptation works, you can hardly argue with the movie’s stature as a Hammer classic, but the more you delve into the book the more you wish there had been a way for much of the material to find its way onscreen and to inform the picture in much the same way as the depth of history and character backstory added to Game of Thrones.
Variation on the director’s earlier The Treasure of the Sierra Madre as a pair of British ex-military cheekie chappies whose reach exceeds their grasp come unstuck when confronted by powerful religious elements. Enticingly presents a marvellously ironic puzzle – you can have everything your heart desires except anything that would make you human. And elevated less by John Huston’s cinematic achievement than by terrific performances by the two stalwarts of the British film industry at the time, Sean Connery and Michael Caine, the former taking the acting kudos by a nose as the less intelligent of the duo. Given Connery’s standing at the time, this was somewhat playing against type. Yes, he exudes screen charisma and is a macho as ever, but nonetheless not quite as quick on the uptake as the more calculating Caine.
Story is told in flashback after a maimed Peachy Carnehan (Michael Caine) turns up as the offices of journalist Rudyard Kipling (Christopher Plummer). They originally met when Peachy had stolen the writer’s watch, returning it on realizing they were fellow freemasons. With buddy Daniel Dravot (Sean Connery), they attempt to enlist Kipling in a blackmail scheme and in due course the soldiers set off to make their fortunes in the forbidding land of Kafiristan, at the top of the Indian sub-continent, where no white man has set foot since Alexander the Great.
Their scheme is simple – to hire themselves out as mercenaries to various tribes, bringing modern warfare skills and weaponry to primitive society and ascending the ranks of power. When Daniel appears unhurt after plucking an arrow out of his chest, the natives confer on him the status of god, and so he is elevated to kingshippery and all the gold he could want. But in this Garden of Eden there is a humdinger of a Catch 22, the apple he must not touch.
He can’t take a wife.
You can see the logic. As a god you should be above base earthly desires. A god could not possibly wish such intimacy with a human. Otherwise he would lose his otherworldly sensibilities, not to mention that the chosen woman would expect to physically explode. While the more sensible Peachy has been all the time calculating just how he’s going make a getaway with as much gold as he can carry, Daniel becomes trapped in the notion that he can have his cake and eat it.
The religious hierarchy says otherwise and it doesn’t end well.
Audiences may well have been disappointed at the lack of action. There’s only one battle and it’s over in a minute, albeit that there’s a timeout to make the point about the power of religion. And although our boys endure a momentous trek it’s fairly standard stuff and Huston lacks the vision of a David Lean to turn the journey into anything more dramatically or visually memorable. A whole bunch of indigenous background material – including the ancient version of polo where the ball is a human head – doesn’t make up.
What does transform this relatively slight tale is the playing. Connery and Caine are a delight, the kind of top-of-the-range double act on a par with the cinemagical pairing of Paul Newman and Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) and The Sting (1973). They spark each other off just a treat. Caine, surprisingly, is the one in charge, Connery adrift in matters of arithmetic, strategy and, when it comes down to it, common sense even though when called up to judge on civil matters proves himself relatively astute and fair.
The writing, too, seems to understand implicitly how to get the best out of the characters. When they fall out, it is so subtle you would hardly notice. Caine scarcely bristles when Connery explains that Caine really should be falling in line with the rest of his subjects and bowing his head, but if you are astute reader of an acting face you can see the chasm that has opened up in their relationship.
To employ a Scottish phrase, Connery gives it “laldy” – acts with gusto – when playing the part of a madman, whirling around like a demented dervish, but mostly reins it in.
The intricacies of freemasonry would wait a few decades before called to the cinematic altar in The Da Vinci Code (2006) but here the mumbo-jumbo proves less important than, as with the Dan Brown epic, a symbol, and, again with the lightest of narrative strokes, we are left considering its mystic origins.
John Huston (Sinful Davey, 1969) back on top form but he’s more than helped by exceptional acting by Sean Connery (The Hill, 1965) and Michael Caine (Play Dirty, 1968) with Christopher Plummer (Nobody Runs Forever / The High Commissioner, 1968) in unusually subtle form as well. Gladys Hill (Reflections in a Golden Eye, 1967) and Huston were Oscar-nominated for the the screenplay based on the Kipling short story.
Impressed by this performance I should warn you I feel a Sean Connery binge coming on.
For a movie intended to set up a series character in the vein of James Bond, it was ironic that it was the women who stole the show, not just from their tendency to turn up in bikinis but for their outrageous villainy. Irma (Elke Sommer) and Penelope (Sylva Koscina) are the seductive assassins in the hire of Carl Petersen (Nigel Green) who has designs on an Arab oil empire. On her own Irma dispatches mogul Henry Keller (Dervis Ward) then the pair – emerging from the sea like a pair of latter-day Ursula Andresses – harpoon his colleague Wyngarde (John Stone).
Soon Hugh Drummond (Richard Johnson), investigating the death of Stone, becomes a target and that sets him off, with nephew Robert (Steve Carlson) in tow, to the Mediterranean and the yacht of oil-rich King Fedra (Zia Mohyeddin) where, of course, the girls lie in wait.
Dispensing with the gadgets – except for one item employed by the villainesses – and gimmicks of Bond, but retaining the quips, this is a fun ride with a more down-to-earth leading man – like the early Bonds – smarter girls, a more old-fashioned mystery, hefty thug Chang (Milton Reid) in the Oddjob mold, a castle doubling as the villain’s lair, a suave master criminal, some detective work, and a super scene involving giant robotic chess men.
The bickering between Irma and Penelope, not just a tad sadistic but a kleptomaniac especially as far as her partner is concerned, coupled with their overweening confidence, makes them much more human than any Bond Girl and the character traits explored have a pay-off at the climax. Equally interesting are the mind games, Drummond vs. Peterson but also Drummond vs. Irma. And that the female baddies see it as points on their scoreboard to seduce Drummond rather than the other way round.
Drummond is every bit as capable a seducer as Bond and equally ruthless, stripping one suspect naked. Petersen is also a clever character, faking his own death and running a very smooth operation, and certainly his recruitment techniques are second to none.
Some ideas were certainly ahead of their time, the chess men are the equivalent of a modern computer game while the human bomb has, unfortunately, entered the modern lexicon and there are enough female serial killers around to prevent anyone believing they are always (to use a sexist phrase) the gentle sex. However, in the middle 1960s, the concept that women would be partial to murder and torture not to mention repeatedly seducing males went so much against the grain of the male authority figures that the British censor slapped an X-certificate on the movie.
Shakespearian actor Richard Johnson was at one time an MGM contract player, but his only previous top-billed outing was the Italian-made The Witch (1966) but he certainly made a splash with this character, investing it with a great deal more gravitas than Derek Flint or Matt Helm. The Teutonic Elke Sommer (The Venetian Affair, 1966) is brilliant as one half of the assassin tag-team with a batch of one-liners for every occasion. Sylva Koscina (A Lovely Way To Die, 1968), nose always put out of joint, almost steals the show. Nigel Green (Tobruk, 1967), while his usual sardonic self, has the playfulness of the rich and powerful.
Steve Carlsen, in his movie debut, doesn’t make much of an impact in a largely lame role. Zia Mohyeddin has a more interesting role as the oil kingpin wanting to help his people. As you can expect in a spy picture there are a host of beautiful women – Suzanna Leigh (The Lost Continent, 1968) a defector, Virginia North, also making her debut, Justine Lord (Night after Night after Night, 1969), and Didi Sydow in her only screen appearance.
The light comedy experience of director Ralph Thomas (Doctor in Distress, 1963) comes in very handy, as his sense of comic timing is excellent, but, perhaps learning from his previous brush with espionage in Hot Enough for June / Agent 8¾ (1964) brings a bigger punch to the action scenes. And it’s a bold ploy to start with an action sequence revolving around Irma and Penelope rather than our star man.
The screenplay was a team effort – Jimmy Sangster (The Devil-Ship Pirates, 1964), taking a break from Hammer duties, David D. Osborn (Maroc 7, 1967) and Liz Charles-Williams, making her screen debut – all involved. This was familiar territory for composer Malcolm Lockyer (Five Golden Men, 1967). British pop act The Walker Brothers had a hit with the theme tune.
This is more fun than camp, not a send-up of the genre like Derek Flint and Matt Helm, but a spy picture with a believable leading men and excellent villains. But the plot is more centered on filthy lucre rather than global control and there is a genuine understanding of how businesses work – takeovers, mergers, dirty dealings – though small wonder Petersen would like to be shot of pedantic boardroom nuisances like Bridgenorth (Leonard Rossiter) – wouldn’t we all?
Bulldog Drummond was an international crime-buster invented by “Sapper,” the pen-name of H.C. McNeile. Bulldog Drummond had been a Hollywood mainstay for over four decades, the twenty-plus pictures attracting stars like Ronald Colman (Bulldog Drummond, 1929, and Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back, 1934), Ray Milland (Bulldog Drummond Escapes, 1937), Walter Pidgeon (Calling Bulldog Drummond, 1951) and a young Ralph Richardson (The Return of Bulldog Drummond, 1934). But the notion, in the Swinging Sixties, of tagging any leading man by the moniker of ‘Bulldog’ did not seem like a good idea, so the character underwent wholesale reinvention, and his nickname is never mentioned.
The title comes from a line in a poem by Rudyard Kipling, The Female of the Species. That was the original title of the film and also of a Sapper book.
Dreary miscalculation. Ever since Tennessee Williams hit a home run with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958), studios, directors and stars had clamored for his works, so much so that Hollywood had greenlit seven adaptations in five years. While box office was one consideration, the playwright was catnip to the Oscar, racking up 17 nominations with a hefty number in the Best Actress category.
However you dressed it up, his work contained a substantial number of portraits of sadness and malevolence and often teetered on the murky, so making them work at all depended not just on the acting and direction, but the initial story. Rather than being based on a play, this was sourced from his first novel, a bestseller.
But the tale never shifts out of first gear and it’s difficult to summon up sympathy never mind interest in any of the characters. The middle-aged romance had proved a cumbersome fix for studios, and since May-December numbers featuring ageing male and younger female had proved popular, Cary Grant set up with an endless supply of woman nearly half his age, it seemed only fair to give middle-aged actresses the opportunity to romance younger men.
Usually, however, this followed a more straightforward path, involving genuine feelings on both sides. But Hollywood was also digging into another cesspit, the female sex worker, somewhat dressed up in Butterfield 8 (1960) and Go Naked in the World (1961), treated more straightforwardly in Never on Sunday (1960) and Girl of the Night. So it only seemed fair to introduce the gigolo.
Stage actress Karen Stone (Vivien Leigh) heads for Rome with her wealthy husband to recover from the failure of her latest play, a Shakespearian outing. When her husband dies on the plane, Karen decides to hang on in the Italian capital, which, after a year, brings her into the orbit of gigolo Paulo (Warren Beatty) and his unscrupulous mentor/manager Contessa Magda (Lotte Lenya). While Karen isn’t entirely a dupe and quickly sees through Paulo, nonetheless a year of loneliness has taken its toll.
Plus she understands the attraction of the older lover, her husband being a good two decades older and willing to subsidize her theatrical and cinematic ambitions. Despite not falling for Paulo’s more obvious con tricks, Karen finds herself enmeshed in a one-sided romance, ignoring the warnings of friend Meg (Coral Brown) on the dangers of becoming the talk of the town with her lover clearly more attracted to rising movie star Barbara (Jill St John). Paulo quickly dumps the Contessa, leaving her free to pour bile into Karen’s ear.
Inevitably, the younger lover tires of the older, but generally such pairings work well enough because initially at least there is attraction on both sides. But when it’s as lop-sided as this no amount of long drawn-out close-ups of the disenchanted provide sufficient compensation for a story that overstays its welcome.
While there are hints of the decadence of La Dolce Vita (1960) that Fellini explored, here it’s more of a surface examination until the surprising ending, where you would think Karen is doing little more than willingly opening the door to a potential serial killer.
The only redeeming element, which might reverberate more easily today, is of the woman demonstrating her independence by being the one to choose, and to some extent discard, the man. While not for most of the movie a sexual predator, she may well have turned into one at the end.
Oscar-winner Vivien Leigh, in her first movie in six years, essays her role well but is compromised by portraying a character that fails to elicit sympathy. Warren Beatty (Promise Her Anything, 1966) avoids the trap of thickening his Italian accent and going wild with the gestures which lends his character more of a thoughtful personality but there’s not much here to write home about. Lotte Lenya (From Russia with Love, 1963) steals the show and was rewarded with an Oscar nomination. Jill St John (Tender Is the Night, 1962) plays the ingénue like an ingénue.
Unless you’re a student of theater I doubt if you’ll have come across Panamian director Jose Quintero. This was his only movie and he was more famous for staging some of Williams’ plays and for resurrecting Eugene O’Neill on Broadway. His inexperience shows in lingering on faces at the expense of creating drama. Gavin Lambert (Inside Daisy Clover, 1965) adapted the novel.
If you’re familiar with the Amicus output from its portmanteau horror movies this excursion into sci fi might come as a surprise. On the other hand, should you be a fan of Dr Who you might well be acquainted with Amicus’s two excursions into this genre – Dr Who and the Daleks (1965) and Daleks’ Invasion Earth 2015 A.D. (1966). In fact, the outfit’s production at this point was evenly split between sci fi and horror and had They Came from Beyond Space and stablemate The Terrornauts (1967) done better the company might have persevered with the genre.
That these two were originally intended to go out as a double bill – they did in the U.S. but not in Britain – is somewhat surprising given they have similar themes of some kind of dying alien species using Earth for survival. And with a bigger budget, They Came from Beyond Space might have made a bigger dent into the box office, instead of heading beyond the realms of cult into oblivion.
There are some neat touches. Meteorites fall on Earth. Nothing odd in that, certainly not in the world of cinematic sci fi. What’s strange is how they land – in a perfect V-formation. What’s more their source is the Moon. You won’t be at all surprised to learn, however, that the aliens bear no resemblance to the amazonian-type women promoted in the poster.
Also peculiar, for the time, is that the scientists sent to investigate are led by a woman, Lee (Jennifer Jayne), her boss and lover Dr Temple (Robert Hutton) left behind because he has a silver plate in his head as the result of an automobile accident. The meteorites exert a strange power and soon Lee and her confederates are organizing some massive scientific project to send a mission to the Moon, funding procured from a million-pound loan from a hypnotized bank manager and the local community falling victim to a strange plague which renders them obedient.
Eventually, alarm raised by Lee commandeering so much expensive equipment, Dr Temple does go to investigate and is baffled by the construction of a military compound complete with armed guards and electrified fence housing a vast underground laboratory and a rocket ready for launch.
He manages to kidnap Lee, possessed by an alien force, and with buddy Farge (Zia Mohyeddin) comes up with a variation on the kind of common-cold weapon employed to defeat aliens – in this case the use of silver to block the alien rays, you always knew that silver plate in his head would have narrative purpose. Realizing her situation, Lee now pretends to be an alien and the trio sneak aboard a rocket and after a fantastically speedy journey land on the Moon where they are confronted by the Master of the Moon (Michael Gough).
Quite why female sacrifice was a common theme between this and The Terrornauts is anyone’s guess but soon enough the aliens have Lee staked out. And that silver plate has to be surgically removed from Dr Temple’s head so the aliens can get a good look at his brain.
Like The Terrornauts, there are no physical aliens, just some kind of energy source. And like E.T. some decades later they just want to go home. Farge leads the enslaved in revolt and normally that would trigger some violent finale but here, instead, there’s a curious – and welcoming – climax.
A kind of “why didn’t you say so, old chap” ending where the Earthlings agree to help the aliens return to their planet, no collateral damage necessary. This is probably the most unexpected thinking person’s twist that you could ever conceive – a variation on the idea of foes finding common cause. It certainly didn’t fit into the genre and my guess is most audiences were baffled at the outbreak of peace. It just didn’t go with the territory.
None of the acting is anything to write home about, but the picture is generally well done, the special effects more than passable given the budget, and enough in the narrative tank to keep you going.
Robert Hutton (The Vulture, 1966) was coming to the end of a B-picture career. Jennifer Jayne’s (The Liquidator, 1965) hardly really took off. Zia Mohyeddin (Deadlier Than the Male, 1967) had a decent run in supporting roles. Everyone is no more than adequate in roles that demand no depth.
Freddie Francis (The Skull, 1965) does his best with a script by producer Milton Subotsky (The Skull) adapting the novel by Joseph Millard.
Reassessment sixty years on – and on the big screen, too – presents a darker picture bursting to get out of the confines of Hollywood gloss. Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) is one of the most iconic characters ever to hit the screen. Her little black dress, hats, English drawl and elongated cigarette often get in the way of accepting the character within, the former hillbilly wild child who refuses to be owned or caged, her demand for independence constrained by her desire to marry into wealth for the supposed freedom that will bring, demands which clearly place a strain on her mental health.
Although only hinted at then, and more obvious now, she is willing to sell her body in a bid to save her soul. Paul Varjak (George Peppard), a gigolo, being kept, in some style I should add, with a walk-in wardrobe full of suits, by the nameless wealthy married woman Emily (Patricia Neal), is her male equivalent, a published writer whose promise does not pay the bills. The constructs both have created to hide from the realities of life are soon exposed.
There is much to adore here, not least Golightly’s ravishing outfits, her kookiness and endearing haplessness faced with an ordinary chore such as cooking, and a central section, where the couple try to buy something at Tiffanys on a budget of $10, introduce Holly to New York public library and boost items from a dime store, which fits neatly into the rom-com tradition.
Golightly’s income, which she can scarcely manage given her extravagant fashion expense, depends on a weekly $100 for delivering coded messages to gangster Sally in Sing Sing prison, and taking $50 for powder room expenses from every male who takes her out to dinner, not to mention the various sundries for which her wide range of companions will foot the bill.
Her sophisticated veneer fails to convince those whom she most needs to convince. Agent O.J. Berman (Martin Balsam) recognizes her as a phoney while potential marriage targets like Rusty Trawler (Stanley Adams) and Jose (Jose da Silva Pereira) either look elsewhere or see danger in association.
The appearance of her former husband Doc (Buddy Ebsen) casts light on a grim past, married at fourteen, expected to look after an existing family and her brother, and underscores the legend of her transformation. But the “mean reds” from which she suffers seem like ongoing depression, as life stubbornly refuses to conform to her dreams. Her inability to adopt to normality is dressed up as an early form of feminism, independence at its core, at a time when the vast bulk of women were dependent on men for financial and emotional security. Her strategy to gain such independence is of course dependent on duping independent unsuitable men into funding her lifestyle.
Of course, you could not get away with a film that concentrated on the coarser elements of her existence and few moviegoers would queue up for such a cinematic experience so it is a tribute to the skill of director Blake Edwards (Operation Petticoat, 1959), at that time primarily known for comedy, to find a way into the Truman Capote bestseller, adapted for the screen by George Axelrod (The Seven Year Itch, 1955), that does not compromise the material just to impose a Hollywood gloss. In other hands, the darker aspects of her relationships might have been completely extinguished in the pursuit of a fabulous character who wears fabulous clothes.
Audrey Hepburn (Two for the Road, 1967) is sensational in the role, truly captivating, endearing and fragile in equal measure, an extrovert suffering from self-doubt, but with manipulation a specialty, her inspired quirks lighting up the screen as much as the Givenchy little black dress. It’s her pivotal role of the decade, her characters thereafter splitting into the two sides of her Golightly persona, kooks with a bent for fashion, or conflicted women dealing with inner turmoil.
It’s a shame to say that, in making his movie debut, George Peppard probably pulled off his best performance, before he succumbed to the surliness that often appeared core to his acting. And there were some fine cameos. Buddy Ebsen revived his career and went on to become a television icon in The Beverley Hillbillies. The same held true for Patricia Neal in her first film in four years, paving the way for an Oscar-winning turn in Hud (1963). Martin Balsam (Psycho, 1960) produced another memorable character while John McGiver (Midnight Cowboy, 1969) possibly stole the supporting cast show with his turn as the Tiffany’s salesman.
On the downside, however, was the racist slant. Never mind that Mickey Rooney was a terrible choice to play a Japanese neighbor, his performance was an insult to the Japanese, the worst kind of stereotype.
The other plus of course was the theme song, “Moon River,” by Henry Mancini and Johnny mercer, which has become a classic, and in the film representing the wistful yearning elements of her character.
The Magnificent 60s 