adaptation of bestseller – Page 28

Age of Consent (1969) ***

Reputations were made and broken on this tale of a jaded artist returning to his homeland to rediscover his mojo. Director Michael Powell had, in tandem with partner Emeric Pressburger, created some of the most acclaimed films of the 1940s – A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947) and The Red Shoes (1948) – but the partnership had ended the next decade. Powell’s solo effort Peeping Tom (1960) was greeted with a revulsion from which his career never recovered. Age of Consent was his penultimate picture but the extensive nudity and the age gap between the principals left critics shaking their heads.

For Helen Mirren, on the other hand, it was a triumphant start to a career that has now spanned over half a century, one Oscar and three nominations. She was a burgeoning theatrical talent at the Royal Shakespeare Company when she made her movie debut as Mason’s muse. It should also be pointed out that when it came to scene-stealing she had a rival in the pooch Godfrey.

You would rightly be concerned that there was some grooming going on. Although 24 at the time of the film’s release, Cora (Helen Mirren), an under-age nymph, spends a great deal of time innocently cavorting naked in the sea off the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. But there are a couple of provisos. In the first place, Cora was not swimming for pleasure, she was diving for seafood to augment her impoverished lifestyle. In the second place, she was so poor she would hardly have afforded a bikini and was the kind of free spirit anyway who might have shucked one off.

Thirdly, and more importantly, artist Bradley Morahan (James Mason) wasn’t interested. He wasn’t the kind of painter who needed to perve on young girls. An early scene showed him in bed with a girlfriend and it was clear that he was an object of lust elsewhere. Morahan, fit and tanned, obsessed like any other artist about his talent, and was in this remote stretch not to hunt for young naked girls but to find inspiration. As well as eventually painting Cora, he also transforms the shack he rents into something of beauty.

Morahan is vital to Cora’s self-development. The money he pays her for modelling goes towards her escape fund. Her mother being a useless thieving alcoholic, she has little in the way of role model. And the world of seafood supply is competitive. She is lost in paradise and the scene of her buying a tacky handbag demonstrates the extent of her initial ambition. Although her physical attributes attract male attention, it is only on forming a relationship with the painter that Cora begins to believe in herself. There’s not much more to the central story than the artist rediscovering his creative spark and helping Cora’s personal development along the way.

Morahan is a believable character. He is not an impoverished artist. Far from being self-deluded, he is a questing individual, turning his back on easy money and the temptations of big city life in order to reinvent himself. He isn’t going to starve and he has no problems with women. And he is perfectly capable of looking after himself. A more rounded artist would be hard to find. Precisely because there is no sexual relationship with Cora, the movie, as a film about character development, is ideally balanced.

The movie is gorgeously filmed, with many aerial shots of the reef and underwater photography by Ron and Valerie Taylor.

What does let the show down is a proliferation of cliched characters who over-act. Nat Kelly (Jack McGowran), sponging friend, ruthless seducer and thief, leads that list closely followed by Cora’s grandmother (Neva Carr-Glynn) who looks like a reject from a Dickens novel. There’s also a dumb and dumber cop and a neighbor so bent on sex that she falls for Kelly. It’s not the first time that comedy has got in the way of art, but it’s a shame it had to interrupt so often what is otherwise a touching film.

At its heart is a portrait of the artist as an older man and his sensitive relationship with a young girl. In later years, Powell married film editor Thelma Schoonmaker and after his death she oversaw the restoration of Age of Consent, with eight minutes added and the Stanley Myers score replaced by the original by Peter Sculthorpe.

Unusually sensitive screenplay from Peter Yeldham who, as my readers will know, is more usually associated with Harry Alan Towers productions like Bang! Bang! You’re Dead / Our Man in Marrakesh (1966), based on the novel by Norman Lindsay.

Intriguing, occasionally moving, superb debut from Mirren plus it works.

The Pink Jungle (1968) ***

Near miss rather than the spectacular crash dive the poor box office returns suggested. Though it’s scarcely surfaced in five decades. Espionage adventure-cum-treasure hunt is slightly undone by knowing winks to the camera and it won’t take an eagle eye to spot that most of the action doesn’t take place in the jungle at all, although the title is explained in a clever twist at the end.

Shame the script goes AWOL and you might be left lamenting what might have been had it been a hit and the boost it could have given the careers of George Kennedy (Cool Hand Luke, 1967), playing ebulliently against type, and Eva Renzi (A Taste of Excitement, 1967) who proved to have lot more screen charisma than her ensuing roles suggested. Not to mention James Garner (Duel at Diablo, 1966), marquee value taking a hit after a string of flops.

However, if you can accept James Garner as a fashion photographer, and a gag that sees all three male principals decked in out varying shades of lipstick, and shut out the noise of Garner’s character offering commentary on what is about to happen, it’s a pleasant, non-demanding ride, with a believable central romance.

And I learned diamond arithmetic: five carats equals one gram, 28 grams is one ounce so you’re talking a phenomenal amount for a diamond weighing a few ounces never mind a 20lb haul which is where the endless MacGuffins lead. And if Ann-Margret can elect to shoot a fashion spread against the backdrop of motocross (C.C. and Company, 1970), choosing the South American jungle as the ideal spot for a lipstick advert is scarcely a stretch.

The long-winded tale begins with photographer Ben (James Garner) having his consignment of lipstick confiscated by police chief Ortega (Michael Ansara) who suspects they conceal hidden microfilm from the C.I.A. for rebel insurgents. When model Alison (Eva Renzi) arrives by helicopter that’s promptly stolen by South African illegal diamond dealer Ryderbeit (George Kennedy). The stranded couple repair to the nearest town, followed by the cops and by a pair of thugs, where Ryderbeit connects them to Englishman Capt Stopes (George Rose) who boasts a map leading to the lost diamond haul.

There’s no great reason for Ben to get involved, and the script offers nothing compelling, but let’s go for the ride, so suitably prepared (cigars and whisky essentials apparently) they set off with mules into the desert (yep, no jungle) where the model demonstrates her rodeo skills. There, they encounter Australian McClune (Nigel Green), the supposed deceased partner of Stopes, but he dupes them, leaving them stranded without water or mules, in the desert and heads off to find the loot himself. Of course, that does mean he has to come back the same way so the inevitable shootout, compounded by villains and cops, ensues.

Though determinedly sluggish in parts and the introduction of McClune adding little to the scenario, for the most part, although treading a thin line between cliches, it’s enjoyable enough. Ben is surprisingly handy with his fists, Alison has unusual depths and Ryderbeit is an engaging conman.

For a time there’s a bit of a tussle over Alison, as she’s clearly at times more attracted to the “masterful” adventurer Ryderbeit, a cool dude especially when he demonstrates his dance moves, than the cynical Ben. McClune takes a more predatory interest in Alison. But the growing romance between Ben and Alison is gentle stuff and almost required acting of the highest caliber given that the two actors hated each other according to the scuttlebutt.

Guilty of over-plotting and trying hard not to take the scenario seriously enough, even when it’s clear it won’t work unless that does occur, and that as a previous Garner episode proved, as in A Man Could Get Killed (1966), you can easily skirt around dense narrative and espionage malarkey without getting too bogged down. Over-populated, though, with characters and accents vary.

I’m used to Garner’s schtick by now, but Eva Renzi and George Kennedy were revelations, as was Nigel Green (Fraulein Doktor, 1969) also having a ball as a duplicitous character far removed from his usual ramrod-straight persona.

Oscar-winning director Delbert Mann (Mister Buddwing / Buddwing, 1966) does his best but he could have moved it on a bit for the pace seriously slackens at times. Charles Williams (Joy House, 1964) contributed the screenplay based on the novel by namesake Alan Williams.

Far more enjoyable than I expected and worth it for Renzi and Kennedy.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: James Garner in Cash McCall (1960), The Wheeler Dealers (1963), Move Over, Darling (1963), The Americanization of Emily (1964), 36 Hours (1965), The Art of Love (1965), A Man Could Get Killed (1966), Duel at Diablo (1966), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Grand Prix (1967), Hour of the Gun (1967), Marlowe (1969); Eva Renzi in Taste of Excitement (1969); George Kennedy in Lonely Are the Brave (1962); Charade (1963), In Harm’s Way (1965), Mirage (1965), Shenandoah (1965), The Sons of Katie Elder (1965), The Flight of the Phoenix (1965), Hurry Sundown (1967), Cool Hand Luke (1967), Bandolero! (1968), Guns of the Magnificent Seven (1969); Delbert Mann directed A Gathering of Eagles (1963), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Fitzwilly/Fitzwilly Strikes Back (1967).

Counterpoint (1968) ****

Absorbing duel of minds between two autocrats obsessed with their own glory and needs and dealing with dissension in the ranks. That it takes place during the Battle of the Bulge turns out to be less of a dramatic hindrance though you maybe have to suspend disbelief in the notion that any resistance fighters might take time out from trying to sabotage Germans to help rescue a bunch of whining, pampered non-combatants with no strategic value whatsoever.

Once you accept that the U.S.O. would deem a classical orchestra the best way to entertain the troops rather than Betty Grable or Bob Hope then you’re halfway there.

*Poster that misleadingly apes “The Great Escape” and “The Dirty Dozen”. Naturally, no woman would attempt such an escape without giving everyone a glimpse of cleavage.*

Anyway, the Germans launching an offensive in December 1944 by accident capture the classical orchestra led by world-famous conductor Lionel Evans (Charlton Heston). The Germans are under orders to take no prisoners so as not to divert vital troops during this last-stage effort to extend the war, so under the direction of Colonel Arndt (Anton Diffring) the musicians face a firing squad until General Schiller (Maximilian Schell) happens to pop his head out of his window and recognize his hero, Evans.

Death is temporarily averted while Schiller purrs over his captive. But Evans, still high on principle and arrogance, refuses to comply with Schiller’s request to play a concert for him during a delay in the battle as, the Germans, hit by fuel shortage, are unable to continue their campaign and therefore have time on their hands. There ensues the aforesaid duel of minds plus various demonstrations of disloyalty and ruthlessness.

The joy here is the dialog because there’s not much else going on, beyond a half-hearted attempt to escape, and the tension doesn’t rachet up until Evans realizes Schiller is only keeping them alive until the concert, after which they will be turned over to the trigger-happy Arndt, who lacking any subtlety, has already begun to dig a mass grave in full view of the trapped self-proclaimed neutrals.

*Teamed up in Britain with the long-lost “The Pink Jungle”, which, as it happens, I’m reviewing shortly.*

It’s almost a parade of bon mots as each of the leaders tries to top the other’s sentences, and not in merely a clever manner, but with full-blown fascinating argument, in part about the different outlooks of each country, but also about their contradictions, and it’s a rare movie that can hold your attention just through dialog unless it’s set in a courtroom. But, here, Evans isn’t so much arguing for the suspension of a death penalty, for example, but in a remote high-mindedness complaining that, well, there’s no other word for it, that it’s just “unfair” as if the Geneva Convention has a special clause regarding classical musicians.

Maybe it does, given these are Americans, though not in uniform, which might be a point in their favor. But any commander would be correct in assuming they could, through courageous action, perform an act of sabotage or at the very least, as I mentioned, tie up vital resources.

Matters are complicated because Arndt, less self-indulgent than his superior, goes behind Schiller’s back to rat him out to HQ in Berlin while nameless persons within the orchestra are clearly in cahoots with the Germans. And you can’t blame them either. Arndt believes Schiller’s actions could compromise the attack, the orchestra traitors that Evans’ defiance will get them all killed. Evans is quite happy to sacrifice former lover Annabelle (Kathryn Hays) to keep the German commander, who has taken a fancy to her, happy.

Matters are complicated by the presence in the orchestra ranks of two U.S. soldiers in uniform, who feel duty bound to find a way out, so there’s a bit of the kind of action you’d get in a heist movie where an audience listens to classical music while above them a cat burglar is divesting them of their jewels. Here, the two soldiers are clambering up the innards of a church to the roof to scope out the territory and then attempt escape using a home-made rope made up of scarves and nylons etc.

As it becomes obvious that there is no point in Evans playing for time, the tension and turmoil does increase as that unfilled mass grave beckons. Doesn’t play out the way you’d expect, a couple of neat twists keeping cliché at bay.

But, as I said, the primary interest is the verbal battle between two refined minds convinced they are the most important people on the planet. The only standout scenes not involving Evans concern Schiller’s “seduction” of Annabelle and the playing of the American national anthem by one of the soldiers, planted in the orchestra, who Arndt suspects, from his age (too young to be in such august company unless a musical prodigy), doesn’t fit in.

Charlton Heston (Number One, 1969) and Maximilian Schell (Topkapi, 1964) are both superb as flawed characters. There’s a rare movie appearance for Kathryn Hays (Ride Beyond Vengeance, 1966) and another chance to see Leslie Nielsen (Beau Geste, 1966) before he became comedy catnip.

But it’s the script by James Lee (Banning, 1967) and Joel Oliansky (The Todd Killings, 1971), that really delivers, although I’m guessing that the best lines came directly from the source novel, The General by Alan Sillitoe (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning). Directed by Ralph Nelson (Once a Thief, 1965).

Rare to get a movie that relies so much on script and actors on such top form.

Underrated gem.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Charlton Heston in Diamond Head (1962), 55 Days at Peking (1963), Major Dundee (1965), The War Lord (1965), Khartoum (1966), Planet of the Apes (1968), Number One (1969); Maximilian Schell in Judgement at Nuremberg (1961), Topkapi (1964), Fate is the Hunter (1964), Father Goose (1964), Return from the Ashes (1965), The Deadly Affair (1967), Krakatoa -East of Java (1968); Ralph Nelson directed Soldier in the Rain (1963), Once a Thief (1965), Duel at Diablo (1966) and Soldier Blue (1970).

A Lovely Way To Go / A Lovely Way To Die (1968) ****

Woefully neglected detective thriller with a sparkling script and sexy leading stars exuding screen charisma. Like the celebrated William Goldman-scripted opening to Paul Newman private eye picture Harper (1966), the credit sequence here is at least as innovative in that it appears to be little short of a trailer, a highlights reel showing the audience what lies in store.

Schuyler (Kirk Douglas) is a womanizing cop too handy with his fists, half his arrests making an unexpected detour to hospital. Rena (Sylva Koscina) is the bored young wife of an older millionaire whose idea of fun is to chuck an expensive scarf out of a speeding car forcing her husband to pull up and go back and fetch. When her husband is shot, suspicion falls on Rena, inclined to dress in revealing outfits for the media, and her playboy boyfriend.

At the behest of attorney Fredericks (Eli Wallach) sporting a rich Southern accent and a with knack for speaking in parables, Schuyler, having resigned from the force one step ahead of being fired, is sent in to provide security and find out whether her alibi stacks up. He soon finds out it doesn’t but by this time he has fallen under her spell. Witnesses disappear, intruders are dealt with, attempts are made on the detective’s life, and the twists come thick and fast. Rena is the arch femme fatale who is a past master in the twisting department – twisting every male within a 50-mile radius round her little finger.

Harper was a throwback to The Maltese Falcon/The Big Sleep but A Lovely Way To Die knocks that shamus tradition on the head. For a start, Schuyler is a high-living high-rolling character who doesn’t take prisoners. The second time we meet him he has dumped the girl he took to the races for someone he has met when picking up his winnings. Seducing gorgeous women and dumping them is second nature. This is Douglas as a glorious charmer, a part of his screen persona lost after a glut of more serious pictures like Seven Days in May (1964) and Cast a Giant Shadow (1966). Yugoslavian actress Koscina, often little more than eye candy for most of the decade, had vaulted into the higher echelons after a turn as Paul Newman’s squeeze in The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968).

An inherent part of the attraction of this picture is how deftly Rena keeps Schuyler at bay. Scriptwriter A. J. Russell (Stiletto, 1969) and director David Lowell Rich (Madame X, 1966) deliver the goods in maintaining the tension in their relationship. There is a wonderful scene where the expectant Schuyler follows her up the stairs of her fabulous mansion and three times he ignores the import of her unmistakable “Goodnight,” his uber-confidence taking him to her door – which she shuts in his face.

Sure, in some ways it is slick, but it is also taut and realistic, Schuyler does not win all his fights and he eats with the rest of the help at the mansion. And he does some terrific detection so it doesn’t fall short in that department. He is definitely helped by some choice lines – “police methods are sometimes difficult for an amateur to understand” he tells Rena after he brutally deals with an intruder.

Koscina is in her element as the sexy, wealthy suspect, and especially in her banter with Douglas – her main aim to disarm his cockiness. Eli Wallach (The Moon-Spinners, 1964) is also superb, given just enough ham to hang himself, but matching Douglas in arrogance and outgunning the D.A. with his courtroom gymnastics. A couple of the subsidiary characters are well-drawn, a housekeeper who plays the markets.

For some reason this sank like a stone on its initial outing, audiences perhaps being more attuned to the Bogart-style sleuth, but I found it highly enjoyable and this could be seen as a taster for anyone familiar with the antics of the star’s son Michael Douglas who found himself in similar territory in Basic Instinct (1992).

Complex tale high on intrigue and sex, well worth a watch.

REVIEWED PREVIOUSLY IN THE BLOG: Kirk Douglas in Strangers When We Meet (1960), Lonely Are the Brave (1962), Two Weeks in Another Town (1962), For Love or Money (1963), Seven Days in May (1964), In Harm’s Way (1965), The Heroes of Telemark (1965), Cast a Giant Shadow (1966), Is Paris Burning? (1966), The Way West (1967), The Brotherhood (1968), The Arrangement (1969); Sylva Koscina in Jessica (1962), Hot Enough for June (1963), Deadlier than the Male (1967), The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968); Eli Wallach in Seven Thieves (1960), The Misfits (1961), Act One (1963), The Moon-spinners (1964), Kisses for My President (1965), Lord Jim (1965), Genghis Khan (1965), How to Steal a Million (1966).

Ten Little Indians (1965) ***

This is more like it. Classic Agatha Christie mystery told in classic fashion but devoid of either of her major sleuths, Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple, and set in the grander equivalent of the country house locale that had become something of a trademark. Here it’s the kind of castle perched atop a mountain, accessible only by cable car unless you have mountaineering skills, that you would need the combined services of Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton to affect a rescue, and as with Where Eagles Dare (1968) the conditions are distinctly wintry.

Ten strangers, including the two servants, have been invited to this retreat by the mysterious Mr Owen. They soon learn they are cut off, telephone lines down, cable car out of commission for a couple of days, nearest village a straight drop 15 miles down a perilous cliff.

All they have in common, as they discover via a taped message delivered by their host, is that they all got away with murder or at the very least a dubious death. There is a private eye on hand, former cop Blore (Stanley Holloway), but he’s lacking in the little grey cells that Poirot put to such clever use in such circumstances. So, like a troupe of actors let down by some stage entrepreneur, they have to get the show on the road themselves, a combined effort to solve the problem.

Not so much why they are gathered here, but why they keep on getting bumped off, and rather in the fashion of the titular song. The movie business wasn’t awash with serial killers though this decade would see nascent interest in this sub-genre, witness Psycho (1960) and The Boston Strangler (1968). But Ms Christie mysteries never really seemed to get going until the death toll had reached multiple figures.

The good element of this kind of movie with a large cast is that each character gets a moment in the sun, here that spotlight largely concerned with what crime they committed for which they were never truly punished. Pop singer Mike (played by pop singer Fabian) gets the ball rolling, explaining that his only punishment for killing someone while driving under the influence was a temporary withdrawal of his license.

And so it goes on, everyone wondering who will be next to be despatched and going from the initial conclusion that Owen is responsible and is hidden somewhere in the house to the obvious one that Owen is one of them. I have to confess I’m easily gulled by the murder mystery and I hadn’t reached that conclusion myself.

The movie’s not necessarily filled with that kind of twist – although there certainly are a good few, some people not as guilty as they might appear, not quite who they appear to be – more you glancing at the cast list and wondering, by dint of billing or box office pull, who will be next for the chop and unless the director has got the Hitchcock vibe it’s not going to be one of the leads.

So it’s a choice of Hugh Lombard (Hugh O’Brian), secretary Ann Clyde (Shirley Eaton), actress Ilona Bergen (Daliah Lavi), General Mandrake (Leo Genn), Judge Cannon (Wilfrid Hyde White), Dr Armstrong (Dennis Price) and the aforementioned Blore plus servants the Grohmanns (Marianne Hoppe and Mario Adorf). And this isn’t your standard serial killer either with a constant modus operandi that will eventually, through standard detection, trap him or her. Instead, variety is the key. Death by fatal injection, knife, poison, slashed rope.

As the numbers whittle down, and you even feel sorry for the actions of some, the actress, for example, whose husband committed suicide when she left him, the tension mounts. You won’t be on the edge of your seat because there are just too many characters involved for you to become overly concerned with their plight but it’s still has you on the hook. You do want to know whodunit and why and you can be sure Ms Christie, as was her wont, will have some clever final twist.

At least, unlike the later variations on the genre, nobody’s been bumped off because they are too fond of sex, and the violence itself is restrained, almost dignified, and there’s no sign of gender favoritism.

All in all, entertaining stuff, though since by now this kind of murder mystery, given we’ve been through various iterations of Poirot – Albert Finney, Peter Ustinov, Kenneth Branagh et al, not to mention numerous Miss Marples – a lot of this feels like cliché (though that’s a bit like a contemporary audience considering John Ford’s Stagecoach old hat, not realizing this was where many of those western tropes were invented or polished to a high level). And I had to say I had a sneaky hankering for some of the out of left field goings-on of The Alphabet Murders (1965).

Sad to see Hollywood not taking advantage of Daliah Lavi’s acting skills, under-estimated in my opinion after her terrific work in The Demon (1963) and The Whip and the Body (1963). But then this wasn’t Hollywood calling but our old friend producer Harry Alan Towers (Five Golden Dragons, 1967) who specialized in dropping a biggish American name into a B-list all-star-cast.

George Pollock, who helmed this decade’s four Miss Marple movies, enjoys keeping the mystery alive without resorting to a central know-it-all. Everyone cast does what they’re expected to do. Towers wrote the screenplay with his usual partner Peter Yeldham.

Worth considering alongside The Alphabet Murders, but stands up well on its own.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Hugh O’Brian in In Harm’s Way (1965), Texas: Africa Style (1967); Daliah Lavi in The Demon (1963), The Whip and the Body (1964), Lord Jim (1965), The High Commissioner (1968), Some Girls Do (1969).

The Boys in the Boat (2023) ***** – Seen at the Cinema

Remarkable. I never thought George Clooney (Good Night and Good Luck, 2005) had it in him. His previous offerings had all been worthy but dry. Here, he conjures up a gripping drama of underdogs pitted against the rich and powerful of the USA and then the might of Nazi Germany at the 1936 Olympics.

Rowing is generally considered an elite sport, contestants plucked from elite universities – in Britain it was always associated with the annual Oxford vs Cambridge Boat Race though from 1984 the country has won at least one gold at the Olympics and Sir Steve Redgrave, who lacked an alma mater, won five on the trot.

Except for athletics and golf, most popular sports are team games – football/soccer, American football, baseball – but the media and Hollywood tends to treat them as opportunities for individual excellence, the striker scoring the winning goal, the quarterback the winning touchdown, the baseball player the winning home run. The team aspects of these sports are rarely touched upon, even though you need a specific quantity of personnel working in tandem in order to compete.

What makes rowing so unusual is that, as one of the characters comments, you don’t have eight men in an eight-man crew you have one – in other words the guys have to be so in synch that they act as one. I probably learned more about the technicalities of sport from this one picture than any other sports-related movie I’ve ever seen and yet that information is passed out in dramatic form.

In terms of the feel-good factor, this comes closest to Chariots of Fire (1981), but in some regard exceeds that because it’s not about individuals coming good or coming from behind to win a medal, but about group dynamics. And it’s quite astonishing that with the narrative covering three key races, none much different from the other, just boats on water, that director Clooney manages to rack up so much tension.

And like Oppenheimer (2023) it’s a throwback, to those old days of men with hats. Unusual, too, that, like Moneyball (2011) or Any Given Sunday (1999) as much concerned with management as playing.

So, in the middle of the Great Depression, the young men who queue up to battle for a place on the eight-man rowing squad at the University of Washington (in Seattle not the national capital) are kids desperate to feed themselves, not those born with a silver spoon in their mouths, because making the team comes with a scholarship, a bed and meals. But qualifying is a massive attack on the human physique, not to mention psyche, as the combatants need to learn to breathe different and wear out muscles in a way no human being should.

There’s not room to showcase all the athletes so the narrative weight drops on Joe Rantz (Callum Turner), the hobo, abandoned by parents when young, living in a car wreck, skimping on food. He’s got a crush on well-to-do Joyce (Hadley Robinson) who has to do most of the running to get their romance over the line. Next in line is Don (Jack Mulhern), with a Charles Bronson haircut and taciturnity, no social skills but a handy piano player, his respiratory illness threatening to torpedo the team’s chances. In any other picture the cox Chuck (Thomas Elms) would hog the limelight because he’s the one who disobeys the coach’s commands and beats verbal hell out of the team.

Al Ulbrickson (Joel Egerton) is the coach fighting for his career, taking on the shady politics and rules-rigging and a system that wants to only reward the rich. Sidekick boatbuilder George (Peter Guinness) is the kind of backroom character who is mostly silent unless he has a pithy word of wisdom. Al manages two teams, the veterans if you like, who’ve been training together for three years and the juniors, comprising the Depression kids, but it’s the driven newcomers who impress the most and against all odds are selected to represent the university.

I had always assumed there was nothing to do in Poughkeepsie except “pick your feet.” Turns out its river is the locale for the annual rowing championships and so popular it’s not just a huge gala event but there’s even some kind of railway cars packed with passengers that runs along the side of the water so the elect can keep up with the rowers.

Most reviews of this picture have been on the niggardly side but I found it not only deftly done, but very moving, a couple of heart-tugging tear-snagging moments as it pounds its way to feel-good conclusion. The women, who are relegated to bit parts, are exceptionally good, Hadley Robinson (who I had just seen in a completely different role in Anyone But You, 2023) dances across the screen while Courtney Henngeler, as the coach’s wife, has a couple of the best lines in the entire picture. But probably the absolute zinger has to go to a blink-and-you-miss-it moment featuring Jesse Owens (Jyuddah James) when asked if he was going to “show” the Germans what he could do, replies that, no, he was going to show his countrymen back home, indicating the racial prejudice he had to overcome to win selection.

Terrific turn from Joel Edgerton (Red Sparrow, 2018) who has been hovering around for donkeys without delivering a career-defining performance. Breakthrough, too, for Callum Turner (Divine, 2020) and Jack Mulhern (Pet Sematary: Bloodlines, 2023) though I have a sneaky feeling you’ll go away thinking British character actor Peter Guinness has stolen the picture. Top notch script by Mark L. Smith (The Revenant, 2015) from the bestseller by Daniel James Brown.

All the elements that appear essential to a contemporary sports picture, namely sex, drugs and violence, are missing and what a difference that makes, allowing the picture to streamline forward without getting bogged down. And critics, believing something critical is missing, are missing the point. At the opposite end of the pizzazz scale from Oppenheimer but with as interesting and adult-oriented tale to tell. And for once allows audiences the chance to let their hearts rule their head. And at just over two hours, doesn’t overstay its welcome. This ain’t made by a streamer so catch it in the cinema where it belongs.

Instant classic.

The Mark (1961) ****

Despite an exceptional and Oscar-nominated performance by Stuart Whitman (Rio Conchos, 1964) , I suspect modern audiences will take less kindly to this tale of convicted child molester trying to come to terms with his feelings. At least it’s considerably more honest than the creepier May December (2023) where the criminal steadfastly contended her innocence.

And I suspect, too, that Whitman’s square jaw and muscular physique got in the way of his attracting the parts for which the depths of vulnerability he was able to exhibit were most suited. He came to this straight after an action role, as the charming bad-good-guy of The Commancheros (1961) where, as far as audiences were concerned, what he did with his fists was more important that what he expressed through his eyes.

There’s a bit of a grey area that lends the convicted Jim Fuller (Stuart Whitman) the benefit of the doubt. He was found guilty of intent not of actual molestation and a goodly part of the picture is spend on examining why he went down that route, either in a group exercise in prison or one-on-one with a psychiatrist, chain-smoking Irishman Dr McNally (Rod Steiger) in both instances.

I’m not sure how the psychiatric evidence adds up, but basically, with a dominant mother who bullied his father, he grew up frightened of women, despite being attracted and attractive to them, and sought out someone with whom he felt more comfortable, less challenging, leading him to spend too much time watching children at play and eventually buying a young girl an ice cream and going out on walks with her.

It would have been too much for audiences of the time – as it even was with May December – to go into the technicalities of what he intended to do so we are left to trust his own word that he never intended to instigate anything sexual, though why kidnap a child in the first place. The second element that would fill modern audiences with alarm is that though he manages to begin a sexual relationship with a woman of his own age, secretary Ruth Leighton (Maria Schell), she is a widow with a young daughter. Most people would instantly come to the conclusion he was using mother to groom daughter.

However, the film takes the tack that he’s using the daughter to explore a normal relationship with a child, the joy of having a daughter, and the delight and happiness that a young person can bring into a dour repressed life. Dr McNally keeps on banging on that Fuller is “cured” but it’s a very uneasy watch trying to work out if he is or not.

In the event, the first time he’s alone with the girl he is photographed by a local journalist who sticks the photo on the front page, destroying the life Fuller has carefully rebuilt. He has found employment as an accountant with a sympathetic business owner Andrew Clive (Donald Wolfit), fitting in so well he is promoted, though at odds with another senior employee Roy Milne (Paul Rogers). He is chucked out of his accommodation, loses his job and although Ruth initially stands by him the minute she sees Fuller with her daughter her instincts are hostile.

There would be no point in an actor trying to gain sympathy for such an unsympathetic character by playing to the gallery with bouts of temper or floods of self-pitying tears, but even so, the vulnerable husk Whitman presents, his struggles with his self-contempt, his understanding of the feelings he must invoke, his determination to live as quietly as possible, almost in that determined English manner of never being heard nor seen, is what makes this film. Interestingly, he replaced Richard Burton, who pulled out at the last minute (as did Jean Simmons) and you could easily imagine with those trademark quick intakes of breath and deep growls how that actor would have played the part.

Whitman doesn’t go near any grandstanding. It’s just a heartfelt performance of a man who’s lost his way and knows he might never find his way back, haunted by his past, unable to trust himself, unable to believe that he is, in fact, cured. Probably, the biggest issue is that the movie comes down on his side, especially when he becomes one of the usual suspects in another crime involving children, though he did not commit that, and tries to suggest that a child molester will find salvation through living with a mother and child in the normal fashion. As I said, this is not my subject of expertise, thankfully, and that may be well what’s advocated rather than staying away from children altogether.

While the approach might be considered a shade naïve at the same time it does examine issues surrounding reintegration and avoids the obvious trap of attempting some kind of character redemption.

Apart from Whitman, there are good performances all round. Maria Schell, whose career within a decade would go from roadshow blockbuster Cimarron (1960) to WIP epic 99 Women (1969), subsumes her normal more glamorous persona to play a believable working mother. With his chain-smoking, Rod Steiger (The Pawnbroker, 1964) is allowed to fidget to his heart’s content but even such obvious scene-stealing only places more emphasis on the quieter Whitman. Donald Wolfit (Life at the Top, 1965), too, reins in his usual bluster.

Guy Green (The Magus, 1968) directed from a screenplay by Sidney Buchman (The Group, 1966) and Stanley Mann (The Collector, 1965) from the bestseller by Charles E. Israel.

In this instance, given the Oscar nom, Stuart Whitman could hardly be considered under-rated but over the years seems to have disappeared from sight.

Worth a look to see what he could do with the right material.

Dear Brigitte (1965) ***

In the same year as his momentous turn in Shenandoah, James Stewart at his exasperating best has the time of his life in this throwback comedy that takes its time getting all its ducks in a row while taking a tilt at nuclear energy, computers and the eternal battle between the arts and science with a fair chunk of whimsy thrown in.

Surprisingly contemporary nod to this whole business of actors speaking directly to the camera, with the ramblings by the Captain (Ed Wynn) in this capacity constantly being interrupted by passersby in the vein of “you talking to me?” or “stop talking to yourself.” Professor Leaf (James Stewart), a distinguished poet constantly at odds with Dean Sawyer (Howard Freeman) at the local college where he teaches – on the few times when he’s not handing in his resignation – and which has a nuclear power station next door, tries to espouse the arts at every opportunity, including a family four-piece outfit playing classical music, only to discover son Erasmus (Bill Mummy) doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body.

Surprisingy, in the UK down-graded to supporting feature in this kid-centric double bill. The marketing men pulled another fast one in the poster, leading audiences to believe that was BB in the bikini when it was only the usually-nude model of an artist neighbour attempting to be decent.

What Erasmus has, for some reason only now coming to the fore although he must be about ten or so, is that he’s a mathematical prodigy, able to work out complicated sums faster than a computer and pointing out errors in the calculations of the local bank. Leaf’s wife Vina (Glynis johns) doesn’t have a great deal to do except rein in the professor but she has a wonderful scene where she brings the local bank manager to book.

Anyway, eventually, Erasmus gets hooked into helping the boyfriend Kenneth (pop singer Fabian) of Leaf’s daughter Pandora (Cindy Carol) guess the winners of horse races as a way of assisting the couple in raising enough money to get married. By this time, Leaf has finally resigned and worked out he won’t pick up easy cash from the Government – another terrific scene – and is hoodwinked by con artist Peregrine Upjohn (John Williams) into setting up a charity to help disadvantaged students by employing his son’s skills.

Anyone familiar with horse racing will be aware how preposterous the conceit that anyone, no matter how scientifically skilled at working out the odds, can consistently pick winners. But this all flies by since it’s that kind of movie, one that not only defies belief, but basically sucks you into believing the whole thing, the way the untalented youngsters always managed in Hollywood times gone by to muster a great stage show or turned any kind of loser into a winner.

Still, all this goes on before we get close to the nub of the title. Erasmus has fallen in love with Brigitte Bardot and because he’s basically the family’s sole breadwinner eventually dad takes son to France to meet the real-life superstar who is far more charming than you would expect, the sexpot on hold for the occasion.

So, mostly, as I said, it’s an old-fashioned confection, the kind you could still get away with in the mid-1960s before the changing times demanded that comedies take on a harder edge. And with James Stewart in top form and husky-voiced English star Glynis Johns (who had her own television series in the U.S.) jumping in now and then to prevent him from making things worse it works a treat. Stewart exaggerates all those mannerism you might have thought mildly irritating before – he’s all limbs and sentences cut off in their prime and telling people to leave their own houses. But if he had toned any of that down, the air would have quickly escaped the balloon, for really he’s the only thing keeping it afloat.

But that’s stardom for you. A vehicle comes along that in total isn’t really worthy of the involvement of a marquee attraction like Stewart, who could be lending his talents to more solid fare like Shenandoah and The Flight of the Phoenix (also released the same year). While he’s crucial to both those other pictures, giving one of his best performances in the former, perhaps surprisingly, U.S. audiences, voting with their dollars, felt his performance here trumped that of the Aldrich picture.

Ir’s usually believable roles that attract the greatest critical plaudits for stars, but actually their most notable contribution is in making fly movies that should never work on paper but somehow with their magical injection not necessarily makes the screen sizzle but turns doughy material into something lighter and more easily digestible.

Henry Koster (Mr Hobbs Takes a Vacation, 1962) directs with occasional flair from a screenplay by Hal Kanter (Move Over, Darling , 1963) and Nunnally Johnson (The Dirty Dozen, 1967) based on the bestseller by John Haase.

As under-rated as The Trouble with Angels (1966) as lightweight comedies of the decade generally were, this is worth a look for Stewart alone.

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Mysterious Island (1961) ****

It’s the Ray Harryhausen Show. You’re not here for the story, surely, or the characters. You’re just waiting patiently for the monsters to appear. The only element that’s ever wrong with this kind of picture is that in-built delay. The need to set up the story and establish the oddities of the world before the behemoths trundle into view.

Doesn’t matter whether the creatures already live in an accommodating global ecosystem like Jason and the Argonauts (1963) or One Million Years B.C. (1966). Or whether you are going to come across them by the simple device, most famously, of dropping through a rabbit hole (Alice in Wonderland) or via a cupboard door (The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe) or a rockface cracking open (Prehistoric Women / Slave Girls, 1967) or a time warp (Wonder Woman, 2017).

Here, it’s a bunch U.S. Civil War soldiers who need to break out of their prison and commandeer a handy hot-air balloon that can fly thousands of miles to the uninhabited volcanic island occupied by giant beasts. So we’ve got a monstrous crab, giant bees, chicken, gigantic octopus. And the success or failure of the picture relies not so much on whether our heroes can overcome these than that they look realistic.

And, boy, they are just brilliant. This is fairly early on the Harryhausen catalogue but if his stop-motion animation was still going through an experimental stage it’s hardly noticeable. Enhanced claws and beaks are just dandy for trapping humans, having them wriggling madly to avoid being split open with one snap. And the bee is pretty cunning, filling in the hole the invading humans have created in the massive honeycomb.

And should, perchance, your mind be wandering director Cy Endfield (Zulu, 1964) has a bout of sequel-itis, throwing in Captain Nemo from author Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues under the Sea (1954), and prequel-itis – the pirates from his In Search of the Castaways (1962) – plus, to add the romantic touch, a couple of shipwrecked damsels and, for the climax, volcanic eruption.

No doubt you’re dying to know about the characters you couldn’t really care less about who are encountering this legion of beings. So, we’ve got the grizzled Capt. Harding (Michael Craig), young Herbert (Michael Callan) who will express his romantic side, Sgt. Pencroft (Percy Herbert), Corporal Nugent (Dan Jackson) and Gideon (Gary Merrill). There are joined by posh English lady Mary Fairchild (Joan Greenwood), who happily buckles to and is handy with a rifle, and her niece Elena (Beth Rogan) who decides laziness is the better option when she’s not canoodling with Herbert.

Their job is to squabble, beat off the monsters, adapt a local geyser for cooking purposes, set to building a boat to escape, and await the next monster/person who’s going to upset their plans.

Captain Nemo certainly makes an impression, his ship, the Nautilus, stranded under the volcano and the man himself taking a break from the world since he doesn’t believe he is such a good fit. Turning up out of the waves in an improvised aqualung isn’t quite an entrance on a par with Ursula Andress in Dr No (1962), but it runs it close, though bikini tops rubber-suit all the time.

The pirates are just a menace and I wouldn’t be surprised if you came away with the notion that they are rammed into the tale just so their sunken ship, scuttled by Nemo, can miraculously rise from the waves thanks to the sailor’s ingenuity.

Time has been kind to Harryhausen. What was once viewed as appealing only to children and the childish wondrous aspects of adults has now become cult viewing. And no wonder. In the age of CGI, it’s quite astonishing what he has managed to achieve with what appears the most rudimentary of techniques.

Of the actors, British star Michael Craig (Doctor in Love, 1960) has his hands full to stop the picture being stolen by rising American actor Michael Callan (The Interns, 1962), a grumpy Gary Merrill (A Girl Named Tamiko, 1962), an almost avuncular Herbert Lom (The Frightened City, 1961) and a delightful turn by plummy-voiced Joan Greenwood (The Moon-Spinners, 1964).

You wouldn’t think this was the ideal movie to set you up for Zulu, but Cy Endfield does a good job of keeping the story moving and keeping out of the way during the Harryhausen sections. Screenplay by John Prebble (Zulu), Daniel B. Ullman (the television writer’s only movie of the decade) and veteran Crane Wilbur (The George Raft Story, 1962).

Huge fun. All hail King Ray.

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Riot (1969) ***

Stand-Off might be a more apt title but that’s not going to sell many tickets. After taking over the wing of a prison, not a great deal happens except for character development. As it turns out the threat of a riot is intended merely as a ruse to cover an attempted break-out.

Inmate Cully (Jim Brown) is the first to point out to escape mastermind Red (Gene Hackman) the deficiencies of his plan. For a start, they are in the middle of the desert and without transportation and food, neither of which is handy or arranged, they are likely to find the wilderness a worse prison. Secondly, there’s a hell of a lot of digging to do, a tunnel long enough to allow them to emerge on the other side of the walls.

And thirdly, and most presciently, most of the prisoners don’t give a fig about organizing a break-out. They are simpler souls, wanting to enjoy a brief moment, even if still incarcerated, of freedom, happy to glug down gallons of home-made brew, watch drag acts for entertainment and slit the throats of the guards taken hostage.

It’s ironic that Cully and Red begin acting like prison warders, defending the hostages against the most vicious of the inmates, guarding them as they take a walk of shame to a hideout, and chucking into solitary the most depraved of the prisoners. The prison break, when it finally comes, is exceptionally well done by director Buzz Kulik (Villa Rides, 1968) .

A small hole in the sun-parched earth becomes bigger until a furry head like a groundhog appears and the outside of the prison walls is viewed from the perspective of a potential escapee.

*The ultimate sex’n’violence double bill.*

But, mostly, it’s a long haul of tension. Red holds the officials at bay with not just the hostages but a set of demands for better treatment, triggering a bout of negotiation and talking to the media. As in female-starved male-dominated pictures like The Flight of the Phoenix (1965) and The Dirty Dozen (1967), women are shunted in by devious means, in the former via a mirage, in the latter through the sex workers smuggled in prior to the mission. Here, Cully dreams of landing by helicopter beside a pool of beautiful bikini-clad women who rush to worship him.

Although Cully and Red don’t exactly see eye-to-eye and for the picture to work of course must bury their differences and work together, the pair don’t rack up the confrontation required for this movie to zing. Cully is somewhat laid-back and Red uses his fingers rather than his fists or loud voice to make points. You kind of wished there was more sign of imminent explosion.

Sure, there are setbacks, and having to change plan and improvise on the spot. The stakes are only really raised when the vacationing prison governor returns and dumps the softly-softly approach of his stand-in, telling the prisoners in no uncertain terms that he will happily murder ten prisoners for each hostage killed, storm the wing and gas them all. The end shows exactly what level of brutality he is capable of.

But, meanwhile, we are left dancing around a bunch of fairly cliché characters, the prisoners in for short terms who don’t want to participate, the lifers wanting brief respite, the killers denied the opportunity to kill, the men who hide their sexual desires under the more acceptable cross-dressing.

Rioting is actually thin on the ground. In fact, Red has to do the opposite. Prevent everyone getting out of line because that will precipitate assault by the prison guards. Keeping everyone happily penned up for the time it takes to complete the tunnel is more Red’s plan than letting the prisoners loose to run riot.

That said, both Jim Brown (100 Rifles, 1969) and Gene Hackman (The Gypsy Moths. 1969) are impressive. Brown reins in the tough-guy act, holding sway in soft-spoken manner, while Hackman brings out more elements of the screen persona that would win him an Oscar a couple of years later for The French Connection. Naturally, Hackman, in retrospect, attracts the kudos but in reality I think this is a step-up for Brown and he is not acted off the screen. (The pair had appeared together in The Split, 1968).

One of the flaws, I would hazard, is that this kind of picture should have been the break-out vehicle for rising stars – as with The Magnificent Seven (1960), The Great Escape (1963), and The Dirty Dozen – but in that department it’s sorely lacking and I think the picture overall suffers as a result.

Given he knows more than the audience where the story is headed Buzz Kulik (The Warning Shot, 1967) does well to concentrate on the friction between Brown and Hackman. James Poe (The Bedford Incident, 1965) wrote the screenplay from the Frank Elli book.

Men under pressure are not under enough pressure to make it zing.

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