British – The Magnificent 60s

Whispering Smith Hits London / Whispering Smith vs Scotland Yard (1952) ***

“In a change to the advertised program” is probably the best place to start, since in writing nearly 2,000 reviews I’ve only, from memory, dipped into the pre-1960 era a couple of times. So let me explain. First of all when I was diving through my trove of Pressbooks, deciding what to select for the new movie exhibition in the book shop I run – Abbey Books in Paisley, Scotland – I came across a Pressbook for this. I noted it was produced by Hammer which I had always associated with horror so I was intrigued to see what the company had been up to long before it made its name mainlining on Dracula, Frankenstein and The Mummy.

By coincidence, I spotted the title on the listings for British streamer Talking Pictures so decided to have a look.

The first point of note, I guess, is the cast. It was par for the course in the 1960s for producers to trawl many countries in the world to make films with an international, sometimes all-star, cast, as they had worked out that it was easier to sell a movie outside the U.S. if you could pin your publicity efforts on big names from France, Italy, Scandinavia, Britain and Australia.

Here, Hammer, maybe in the vanguard of that policy, took this to the extreme. Among the three top-billed names, there isn’t a single Brit. We’ve got American Richard Carlson (The Creature from the Black Lagoon, 1954), Norwegian blonde bombshell Greta Gynt (Soldiers Three, 1951) and Czech Herbert Lom (A Shot in the Dark, 1964).

All this might have been grist to the trivia mill had the movie turned out not to be so damned entertaining, well above par for a B-movie. Not only, visually, does it take on aspects of film noir, slats of lights penetrating the darkness, but there are distressing overtones relating to the insanity business, where once an inmate enters a sanatorium unscrupulous staff can do anything they want, make them worse or kill them if that’s on the agenda.

There are plenty twists and a cracker of a climax, but, as importantly, Yank sleuth Whispering Smith (Richard Carlsen) and his client Ann Carter (Rona Anderson), thanks to sparkling repartee, create genuine screen charisma.

When the celebrity cop arrives in London for a vacation he is door-stepped by publisher Ann tasked with investigating the apparent suicide of her American employer’s daughter Sylvia and the mysterious disappearance of her friend Louise. Although initially rejecting the case, he changes his mind when Ann is victim of an attempted hit-and-run.

Interviews with Sylvia’s fiancé Roger Ford (Herbert Lom), a part-time puppeteer, and her lawyer Hector Reith (Alan Wheatley) throw up impressions of the dead girl as wild, strange, jealous and a gambler. The missing Louise turns out to be rather glamorous, not easily fooled, and in the mood for a taste of seduction and with a nice line in put-downs, “I like a working man,” she tells Smith.

However, a creepy sanatorium run by goatee-bearded Dr Talen (Daniel Therry) appears to be a cover for a criminal organization and Smith soon uncovers a blackmail ring. But none of the victims is willing to talk and when they do are bumped off. Smith eludes various traps, including a showdown in a tunnel and a booby-trapped boat. When Sylvia’s corpse turns up it’s unrecognizable after spending too long in the Thames.

Ann and Smith make a great team, especially when she turns snappy. “You can keep your whispering for someone else,” is one of her better retorts. She’s a surprise in other ways, a dab hand at safe-breaking, for example. It’s not clear how far he is seduced by Louise, so the issue of romance remains inconclusive.

Three standout sequences: the chase in the tunnel: Dr Taren’s disquisition on how easy it is to trap the innocent through psychiatric gobbledygook; and a murder scene where the victim is forced to turn up the sound of a succession of wirelesses to disguise the noise of the imminent gunshot.

Whether it’s the introduction of the slick American or the Scandinavian beauty, or the general pacing and twists ladled out, this is a notch above the usual British B-movie.

I should point out the alternative title is misleading, suggesting Smith is some kind of maverick cop besting Scotland Yard when in fact they work in tandem. And, for the record, he doesn’t whisper either. You might catch a glimpse of Stanley Baker (Zulu, 1964) as a reporter.

Veteran director Francis Searle (The Marked One, 1963) makes the most of the cast, the narrative and the ambience. Written by John Gilling (The Pirates of Blood River, 1962) and Steve Fisher (Rogue’s Gallery, 1968) from the bestseller by Frank H. Spearman.

Worth a watch.

10 Rillington Place (1971) ****

We tend to view Anthony Hopkins as the bold game-changer when he switched from respectable upmarket leading man to Hannibal the Erudite Cannibal in The Silence of the Lambs, paving the way for a plethora of other stars to throw off the shackles of their screen personas. But, in fact, it was another Englishman, Richard Attenborough, equally well-known for exuding principle (and raffish charm when playing a con man in Only When I Larf, 1968), who broke that particular mold.

At the time, the impetus for the picture was the miscarriage of justice which saw innocent Timothy Evans hanged for the crimes of serial killer John Christie, a name that belongs in the British murderer premier league along with the likes of Dr Crippen and Jack the Ripper. The Ludovic Kennedy book on which the film was based was by now a decade old, but it had taken that long for the British censor to clear the subject for filming and to find a star who was not already a well-known screen villain and prevent the film tipping over into sensationalism.

So although Timothy Evans (John Hurt) is the unwitting dupe, the focus is more on the cunning of the killer Christie (Richard Attenborough) who manipulates the class system. Nobody would contemplate the notion of a well-spoken upright middle-class war hero being capable of the lurid killings. And the idea of repeat victims in a Britain still rejoicing in its notions of “fair play” was equally abhorrent.

So while we don’t quite get to the nub of why Christie was so obsessed with murder, he remains a fascinating character rather than a demonic villain. And this is grubby, not tourist, post-War London where poverty is endemic and workshy ill-educated rogues are apt to be taken advantage of and easily caught.

That Christie evaded suspicion, never mind capture, for so long – his crime spree began during the London Blitz of the Second World War – was a credit to his presentation of himself as much as police disinterest or ineptitude and public disbelief at the scale of the killings. That Christie remained free for so long was because Evans was such an idiot, caught out in countless lies and eventually confessing to the crimes. You can see the connection between Christie and Hannibal Lecter (in his control of fellow prisoners) in the hold they have over the less well-educated and easily-led.

Christie, literally, got away with murder simply because, to police eyes, Evans was a more obvious villain. The narrative obscures the worst part of his tendencies, implied necrophilia and sex with unconscious women. In another life he might well have been presented as the down-on- his-luck old codger who only required a break to right himself.

The wonder of Attenborough’s performance is that he doesn’t exude menace. Even as he’s trapping victims he comes over as trustworthy. His creepiness only grows on the audience once they are invited to see the part of him that his victims do not.

It’s a testament to Attenborough’s conviction in the part that you never notice how much he loathes the character. He only took on the role as part of a campaign to prevent the return of capital punishment. Critics clearly disapproved and their plaudits were reserved for John Hurt (Sinful Davey, 1969) in the more showy role. These days, thanks to Hannibal Lecter, audiences are more inclined to be more considerate towards actors playing irredeemable characters.

Director Richard Fleischer had been here twice before with Compulsion (1959) and The Boston Strangler (1968) and to his credit that he approached it in a low-key fashion eschewing the verbal gymnastics of Orson Welles of the former and the false nose of Tony Curtis and split screen of the latter. John Hurt is excellent and Judy Geeson (Three into Two Won’t Go, 1969) has a small part.

Most films about serial killers at this point in sub-genre’s history tended to follow an investigation or a courtroom drama – Psycho (1960) while initially focusing on victim and thence the killer quickly turned into an investigation. But this is primarily concerned with the actions of the murderer, who unravels as the movie proceeds, and is brought to justice when the general finger of suspicion, rather than the result of a detailed investigation, points to him.

Richard Attenborough created the template for the outwardly-respectable killer. Interestingly, Attenborough had previously played the more typical killer, the immediately loathsome gang-leader Pinkie in Brighton Rock (1948). Written by Clive Exton (Isadora, 1968).

Well worth it to soak up the creepiness that gently begins to subsume the character.

Jungle Street / Jungle Street Girls (1961) ***

More social document than thriller. Two elements make it stand out. Critics pointed to the likes of kitchen sink drama Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960) as exemplifying the British working class. Equally, when looking for a picture that identified the British criminal, critics and academics were more likely to point to Robbery (1967) and Get Carter (1971) where the villains demonstrated considerable intelligence, leadership and acumen.

Let’s get the social aspects out the way first. Petty thief Terry Collins (David McCallum) still lives with his parents. He argues with his father, is mollycoddled by his mother. There’s a fry-up for breakfast. The kitchen doubles as the dining area. Excitement is limited to winning the Pools (a football-based version of the current Lottery) and going to the cinema. His father (Thomas Collins) has worked all his life shifting sacks of potatoes (presumably in a market). But he’s not disillusioned with life. He’s brought up his family and can still spend time down in the pub.

Terry is a delusional gangster. But only a part-time one, making his living working in a garage, having chucked in his factory job. He thinks he can make a big score and run off to Europe to live the high life. He’s in love with stripper Sue (Jill Ireland) who doesn’t respond to his romancing. She’s taken to stripping because her lover Johnny (Kenneth Cope) is serving a one-year stretch for a jewel robbery.

People always seem to be laughing at Terry and he reacts violently. But he’s not the rough-tough dominant male he aspires to be. Three times he gets whacked about the face, twice by criminal colleagues, once by Sue.

Inadvertently, he’s killed an old man while robbing him. So the police are on his tail. Johnny’s been released from prison, reclaiming Sue, and wants to know what happened to his share of the loot from the jewel heist in which Terry was his partner. To compensate, Terry offers to set up a robbery of the safe at the strip club whose routines he has studied.

Once the safe has been opened, he clatters Johnny over the head, and scarpers with the cash, makes for Sue, and is astonished when she refuses to accompany him. Eventually, the police catch up and another deluded petty criminal bites the dust.

Initially, of course, the audience sides with our young lad, understands his need to escape the boredom of ordinary life that awaits. But, gradually, he provides little to root for.

Given the regular sequences of girls stripping, the running time is even leaner than usual. The heist has some considerable moments of tension especially when the watchman, bound hand and foot, inches along the floor to the alarm button, and then when Terry appears trapped before jumping out a window.

There’s nothing glamorous about the strip club either, Sue having to constantly ward off the unwelcome advances of owner Jacko (John Chandos) and every other customer who thinks a stripper is morally lax. Even though she’s kept herself for Johnny, he doesn’t believe her. Some girls know how to play the system, a new stripper not giving in to Jacko until he’s spelled out the financial benefits.

The seediness of the lower depths is depicted well and it’s not hard to see how young men and young women are easily snookered into this kind of existence when the alternative is so mind-numbingly boring.

David McCallum (Sol Madrid/The Heroin Gang, 1968) and real-life wife Jill Ireland (Cold Sweat, 1970) are both convincing, exuding surprising emotional depth. Kenneth Cope (Randall and Hopkirk Deceased/My Partner the Ghost, TV series 1969-1970) is on hand to show the young ingenue what it means to be a proper tough guy.

Charles Saunders (Danger on My Side, 1962) directs from a script by Alexander Dore (The Wind of Change, 1961) and Guido Coen (Baby Love, 1969).

More interesting as a character study than as a thriller.

Murder in Eden (1961) ***

Had there been the budget to spare for more stylish cinematography and a director more inclined to tip the wink to the audience, this would have been recognized as a late addition to film noir. As it is, thanks to keeping the viewer largely in the dark, there’s an almighty twist at the end that aficionados of the unexpected climax would relish.

Although aficionados of another kind might have been happy to sit through a less-well-worked thriller for the sake of watching a “bubble car” in all its glory. In some eyes, the three-wheeler Italian-made Isetta should take center stage. Or you might consider an early appearance by Irish actor Ray McAnally (My Left Foot, 1990) an extra bonus.

An investigation revolving round art forgery might seem initially less than an interesting starting point. But when the expert who pointed out the forgery is bumped off and Inspector Sharkey (Ray McAnally) is called in, the investigation seems to take second place to his budding romance with French journalist Genevieve (Catherine Feller) especially after a meet-cute where she, literally, falls into his arms.

Suspicion falls upon gallery owner Arnold Woolf (Mark Singleton), art dealer Bill Robson (Jack Aranson) and paintings restorer Michael Lucas (Norman Rodway). A fellow called Frenchman Jack (Noel Sheridan) might also have made it onto the suspect short list except he is murdered.

Sharkey isn’t much of an ace detective and the investigation plods along except to throw out the occasional red herring. Director Max Varnel (A Question of Suspense, 1961) spends most of the picture keeping his powder dry. Much of what we learn seems incidental.

So what if Arnold’s glamorous wife Vicky (Yvonne Buckingham) is having a fling with Lucas? So what if Genevieve seems a shade too industrious for a journalist working for a newspaper whose trademark is soft features about the rich, famous and glamorous? So what if this looks like a plan to stitch up and bankrupt Arnold? And what are we to make of what might these days be called a “panic room,” a secret part of a house hidden behind a two-way mirror?

When the denouement comes it looks like Varnel has sold us short, kept us out of the loop about what’s been going on behind the scenes when Genevieve is revealed not just as a femme fatale but a dupe herself. The last five minutes is a story all by itself, of betrayal, lust and revenge.

It’s one of these films where at the end you look back and think it was much better than you imagined and the director has been too slick for you.

Especially as there’s been a certain innocence about the proceedings. Although the background, as we eventually discover, is decidedly murky, this appears to take place in a world where upright cops don’t just jump into bed with seductive Frenchwomen but have to go about wooing her the old-fashioned way.

Ray McAnally, who in his later screen persona, was a much tougher character, comes over as a juvenile lead, a rising star in an era that was full of them. The gravitas that was later a significant part of his onscreen presence is nowhere in evidence and in stringing him along Catherine Feller (Waltz of the Toreadors, 1962) is not permitted to be as seductive as she is later revealed to be while the role of Yvonne Buckingham (The Christine Keeler Story, 1963) appears to have been edited down so as to not give the game away.

The bubble car looks like it’s been included as product placement. You enter it from the front, literally peeling back the entire front of the car, engine in the rear a la Volkswagen, and it can whiz into the tightest of parking spaces, never mind race along main road.

Written by John Haggarty (The Killer Likes Candy, 1968) and, in his sole screenplay, E.L. Burdon. Won’t take up much more than an hour of your time.

Another welcome contribution from the Renown B-picture crime portfolio which has found a home on Talking Pictures TV.

Whistle Down the Wind (1961) ****

Sheer coincidence that within the space of a week I’m watching three films that deal with the power of a child’s imagination. While The Magic Faraway Tree disappeared into the realms of fantasy and Eye Witness / Sudden Witness a lonely child’s fervid alternative realities, Whistle Down the Wind examines the ability of children to become involved in something that makes complete sense to them while keeping adults out of the picture.

And not just for the religious allegory is Whistle Down the Wind streets ahead. While the children in the other films are believable enough, this is much more down-to-earth. A farm here isn’t a refuge from the city and a place to indulge dreams, it’s muddy and cold and wet. Everyone trudges around in wellies. Adults drown kittens, are overly pious and view children as mostly a nuisance. The children wouldn’t dare be cheeky to those in authority.

And their belief in something that defies belief is both touching and understandable given the circumstances. They are convinced they have found a reborn Jesus (Alan Bates) in their barn. Perhaps it’s only a child, with all that innocence, who could actually be persuaded that, as stated in the Bible, Jesus will come again.

The characters are very well-drawn. Kathy Bostock (Hayley Mills), eldest of three siblings, motherless, is the leader, saving the drowning kittens, stealing to feed the man, and guiding her flock in taking care of him. Youngest child Charlie (Alan Barnes) is instinctively more cynical. Mr Bostock (Bernard Lee) has his hands full dealing with his kids and his snippy sister Dorothy (Elsie Wagstaff) resents having to act as housekeeper.

The religious allegory elements include of course finding Jesus in a barn (doubling for the stables at Bethlehem), bringing him gifts as if the kids were the Magi, feeding him bread and wine (a bottle of port stolen from a cupboard), treating him with adoration and denying him thrice (Judas Iscariot). Even when the first crack appears in the façade after Jesus has allowed a kitten left in his care to die, Kathy battles to keep the dream alive, pestering the local vicar to explain how Jesus could allow this and finding an answer that does the trick.

The enterprise collapses when a child is spotted secreting an extra piece of birthday cake for the man. By this time he has managed to secure a gun and we know he’s wanted for murder.

Even so, Kathy refuses to let go of her belief, promising to a younger child, saddened by the man’s capture, that Jesus will come again.

The allegorical aspects would have worked better at a time when fantasy was not all the rage. But the current diminution of Christian belief means that the ideas spelled out in the New Testament might well sound fantastical to a contemporary audience. Certainly, the idea of stumbling, by circumstance, onto a magical character forms part of the fantasy trope.

Understanding childhood from the remove of adulthood takes some doing. We are apt to forget how our younger minds worked. Children desperately want to believe in something else that lifts them from the gloom of the day-to-day. But, equally, they want to keep their childhood dreams secure from adult interference. No youngster really wants to entertain the cool dad who is “down with the kids.”

And the secret is something to savour. The local bully is disconcerted when a playground full of kids taunt him with “we know something that you don’t.” That fear of exclusion is highly potent.

Unlike The Magic Faraway Tree there is no complicit adult who will back up the fantasy. Here, the kids instinctively know adults will seek to destroy it, especially after the Sunday School teacher clearly can’t come to terms with the idea of Christ coming again any time soon and the vicar uses any interaction with children as an opportunity to blame them for something.

I was surprised this worked as well as it did. The viewer knows full well it’s only an accident of circumstance that there is a man in the barn and that the conjecture that he is Jesus Christ relies on his use of that word as a swear word (as it would be at the time). So we’re not being asked to believe in fairies or elves, as we are by now attuned to do after Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter etc. We are watching the reaction of the children to wondrous mystery.

By this point Hayley Mills was being turned into the standard vanilla child star by Walt Disney – Pollyanna had just confirmed that status – and I’m sure Disney was appalled that he had not secured her to an exclusive contract. Instead, every year she made a movie that, perhaps while capitalizing on the fame Disney was paying for, offered a more challenging role.

She’s not coiffed and clothed as in the Disney ventures, more an ordinary scruffy child, and she gives a superb performance. In some respects, given the acting intelligence exhibited, no one should have doubted she would make the crossover into the adult star of The Family Way (1966). The questioning Alan Barnes (The Victors, 1963) is a treat. Bernard Lee (The Secret Partner, 1961) is the pick of the adults. Alan Bates (The Running Man, 1963) has less to do than you might imagine.

Bryan Forbes (King Rat, 1965) made an auspicious directorial debut, not just wrangling the kids expertly but using the visual to complement the narrative, the bleak landscape a million miles away from the more commonly seen blooming English countryside. Written by the team of Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall (The Winston Affair, 1964) from the book by the star’s mother Mary Hayley Bell (Sky West and Crooked / Gypsy Girl, 1966).

Despite the unlikely premise, draws you in.

Eye Witness / Sudden Terror (1970) ***

Absolute cracking chase thriller spoiled by the central conceit and an overdose of whimsy. The standout chase is two cars, hemmed in by low walls, battering the hell out of each other at 50mph. We’ve also got motorbikes rattling down flights of stairs and a race through the catacombs.

There’s nothing new about a witness not being believed especially if he’s fingering a cop – check out a better version of this minus any of the thrilling chase sequences in Witness (1985). But when the witness, a child called Ziggy (Mark Lester), has an overactive imagination to the point of being considered a congenital liar and a grandfather (Lionel Jeffries) who encourages such playing about with the truth, it becomes a tougher watch, mostly because the bulk of the film is about the child squealing about not being believed whereas the deadly assassin he’s witnessed is scary enough – and a cop in a country where authority is not questioned – to make the whole picture fly with this complication.

Sometimes a picture can just unintentionally come off the rails when railroaded into such a corner. Ziggy persuades his equally young pal Ann-Marie (Maxine Kalli) to go to the cops on his behalf and when in consequence she’s brutally murdered it feels like we’ve entered another movie entirely.

There’s an odd cop, Inspector Galleria (Jeremy Kemp), in charge of the investigation. A notorious bully, he constantly upbraids his underlings for not being as clever as himself, even though it takes forever for him to string the clues together. The inspector adds nothing to the story.

Ziggy has caught sight of assassin Paul Grazzini (Peter Vaughan) and the assassin has caught sight of him. Probably even if Ziggy hadn’t been a lying little toad, nobody would have believed him anyway given Paul and his complicit brother Victor (Peter Bowles) are both cops, especially as the Grazzinis are determined to eliminate him and anyone else who gets in their path – or even helps them, a confederate ends up being chucked over a cliff.

It’s quite hard for the picture to accommodate a burgeoning romance between Ziggy’s big sister Pippa (Susan George) and passing tourist Tom (Tony Bloomer), except for her ability to scream on cue and clip Ziggy around the ear. Quite why ex-soldier grandpa has to be such an oddball is unclear except that this is one of those movies where subsidiary characters are required to earn their keep by exhibiting unusual characteristics. His military experience comes in handy, though, when it comes to fending off the bad guys with Molotov cocktails.

We soon realize why Tom, who’s done nothing much except upset stern housekeeper Madame Robiac (Betty Marsden), has been included in the plot – because he can drive like a maniac.

I wouldn’t say Mark Lester (Run Wild, Run Free, 1969) is out of his depth but the narrative is a bonkers version of the boy who cried wolf and given he’s spending so much of time crying wolf or running away, his character is never anchored.

Susan George certainly shines. She locked horns again with Peter Vaughan in the distinctly more venomous Straw Dogs (1971), a role that could not be more distant from the juvenile lead essayed here. Lionel Jeffries (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, 1968) has been playing this role forever. I certainly wouldn’t want to cross Peter Vaughan on a dark night nor his sidekick Peter Bowles (Charge of the Light Brigade, 1968).

Director John Hough (Twins of Evil, 1971), in his debut, is determined to make his mark visually with shots taken at odd angles or through spectacles etc but all that artistic effort is wasted given the adrenalin of the car chase, which must rank somewhere close to Bullitt (1968) and The Italian Job (1969). Written by Oscar-winning Ronald Harwood (A High Wind in Jamaica, 1965) from the book by John Harris.

I kept on thinking how well this would have worked if it hadn’t centered on a small boy. Apologies for being so picky but when you can create such a heart-pumping car chase as this surely it needs something stronger to fill in the gaps.

The Magic Faraway Tree (2026) *** – Seen at the Cinema

Watching just one movie on my weekly jaunt to the cinema seems such a dereliction of duty that occasionally I’ll throw in a picture which was not at all high – or completely absent – from my must-see list. The presence of either Andrew Garfield (After the Hunt, 2025) or Claire Foy (H is for Hawk, 2025) would not have been enough to draw me in otherwise, especially as this was being sold as a children’s story and I knew from a trailer I’d seen ages ago that they weren’t popping up in the guise of fairies and elves, the usual inhabitants I had imagined of any magical world dreamed up by the likes of Enid Blyton.

I have to confess I was astonished to see Blyton’s name attached to this as I thought she had been cancelled a long time ago for having the temerity to set her stories in middle-class households. Though I had read The Famous Five and The Secret Seven as a child, I hadn’t been aware she had written a series set in the titular tree. Though I imagine her adult characters would not be inventing intelligent fridges nor determining to make a living by selling home-made pasta sauce, nor would social media play any part in the lives of the children. So whenever the original stories were set, they’ve undergone radical surgery.

I’m not sure how the target audience would take to the moralizing aspect i.e. that social media is bad, but that’s only if you assume that the target audience is children rather than the adults paying for the tickets who would most likely chime with those views. That’s notwithstanding the fact that mother-of-three Polly (Claire Foy) has been dabbling with intrusive technology, though she’s principled enough to quit when she realizes just how invasive.

So minus a job and with stay-at-home husband Tim (Andrew Garfield) not contributing to the family coffers they embark on what seems at first a disastrous foray into “The Good Life”, living in a barn with no electricity or central heating and the children in open revolt at the lack of Wi-Fi. Eventually, the titular tree puts in an appearance and all the magic of childhood comes rolling back as the children, led by Fran (Billie Gadsen), discover its unusual properties and investigate a world that’s half-Lord of the Rings and half-Avatar peopled by fairies and odd creatures and villains living in the sky. There’s a nod to Toy Story, the idea that children too quickly abandon the joys of childhood.

It’s not all magic, or to put it another way, the magic sometimes backfires as when the children get to make a wish and discover they can’t undo the wish. But the invention is good fun – Moonface (Nonso Anozie), the Know-It-Alls and schoolteacher-from-Hell Dame Snap (Rebeca Ferguson) complete with ominous snaggle tooth. There’s the innocent-leaning-towards-the-vulnerable Silky (Nicola Coughlin), stroppy eldest child Beth (Delilah Bennett-Cardy), an airplane that stops flying when it gets tired and up in the clouds the kind of performers you’d find on a talent show and the greatest array of candy/sweets you could ever create what with marshmallow trees and sherbet flying saucers that actually fly.

There’s not much to the story, except believing in magic, and the climax is too earthbound to interest kids. Occasionally, the contemporary intrudes – Beth attacking Silky for defining herself by her beauty. But it’s just as well Beth is the lippy one, as it’s her ability to challenge that gets them out of scrapes, although her snarkiness is responsible for the family’s biggest problem.

Given this is gentle stuff, there are surprisingly potent emotional moments, though most revolve around Beth. She discovers that electricity comes in the form of a bicycle ridden by her exhausted father, that her snippiness does wound and that she is capable of destroying dreams.

In fact Delilah Bennett-Cardy is the standout with her expressive face and sharp retorts. Rebecca Ferguson (Dune: Part Two, 2024) wins out among the adults. Andrew Garfield is a goofy dad in the vein of Lionel Jeffries, Claire Foy the practical one.

The roster of television refugees includes Nicola Coughlin from Bridgerton (2020-2026), Jennifer Saunders from Absolutely Fabulous (1992-2012), Mark Heap from Friday Night Dinner (2011-2020) and Jessica Gunning (Baby Reindeer, 2024).

Ben Gregor (Fatherhood, 2018) directs with Simon Farnaby taking the plaudits/brickbats for modernizing Enid Blyton much as he did for tweaking Roald Dahl for Wonka (2023).

Much more enjoyable than I expected. Opening in the U.S. in August, so worth looking out for as counter-programming to the chunk of animation sequels heading your way.

The Violent Enemy (1967) ****

Surprisingly even-handed and thoughtful with more twists than The Housemaid. Rising star Tom Bell makes a bid to fill the spot in the British movie hierarchy vacated by Michael Caine who had gone to greater things while Susan Hampshire is trying to escape the screen persona foisted upon her by Walt Disney in such innocuous fare as The Fighting Prince of Donegal (1967). Australian director Don Sharp was hoping to add some gravitas to a portfolio that included The Face of Fu Manchu (1965) and Our Man in Marrakesh (1966). To some extent, all three achieve their aims.

Irish terrorist Sean Rogan, learning he has been refused parole and has another seven years of a 15-year sentence to serve, breaks out of jail, assisted by Hannah (Susan Hampshire), scion of an IRA legend. Twist number one, back in Ireland, Sean tells his boss Colum O’More (Ed Begley) that he’s going to go straight. Ireland having no extradition treaty with the United Kingdom for political prisoners he’s safe. Twist number two, Colum threatens to dump him over the border to Northern Ireland where he could be arrested.

O’More wants Sean, an explosives specialist, to blow up an electronics plant that services British armament factories and in doing so restore pride in a fading political force. Sean agrees to plan the job but not carry it out, leaving it to underling Austin (Jon Laurimore). Sean also, surprisingly, has scruples, wanting to limit the charge so that it doesn’t affect people living in caravans below the factory. Meanwhile, Inspector Sullivan (Philip O’Flynn) turns up with a killer piece of information. He tells Hannah, who’s grown sweet on Sean, that the escapee was deliberately misled – his parole had been granted. Hannah refuses to pass this along, her loyalty to the cause greater than her feelings for Sean.

As the deadline approaches for the sabotage, it becomes apparent Austin has a different project in mind. Instead of blowing up the plant he’s going to use the blackout caused by the dynamite to rob the factory, forcing Sean to come along so he can be rendered unconscious and take the fall.

The final twist is that Sean foils the robbers.

Apart from the sabotage and the heist there’s a lot to savor here. Old hands are deserting the cause to enjoy prosperity. The idea of ruining local livelihoods by terminating the plant is anathema to some. Many are just tired of fighting a war that’s not been won. Others, like Sean, believe they have done their bit and are entitled to peace and quiet.

Die-hards like Colum are easily duped by the unscrupulous – one of the best scenes the shock on his face when he realizes he’s been took and he lacks the authority to stop what might be deemed organizational malpractice – while Austin takes advantage of the money-making opportunity that supposed fealty to the cause creates. Hannah, too, has to change her attitude. Sean’s spent enough time in prison to appreciate what he’s lost.

There’s little remorse but equally there’s little tub-thumping and the movie largely steers clear of the political issues and sentimentality. There’s nothing glamorous or romantic in this Ireland, no glorious scenery, just dreich wet streets, and the flag isn’t tied to the mast but employed to package the loot. The heist is well done and there’s an unusual climax. Possibly the most imaginative section is the flight after the initial escape with Sean disguised as a chauffeur driving a Rolls-Royce. It’s probably a plus point that nobody attempts an Irish accent that they’d mess up anyway.

Possibly because of the subject matter, the movie flopped. Neither Tom Bell nor Susan Hampshire ascended to the higher echelons though Don Sharp returned to Ireland for Hennessey (1975) and went on to direct Bear Island (1978). Written by Edmund Ward (Goodbye Gemini, 1970) from an early novel by Jack Higgins (The Eagle Has Landed, 1976 ) who both revisited the Troubles for Mike Hodges A Prayer for the Dying (1987) with Mickey Rourke.

In between the action beats plenty to mull over.

Lock Up Your Daughters (1969) **

Worth seeing for all the wrong reasons, prime example being Christopher Plummer with a false nose and almost unrecognizable as an eighteenth century periwigged English dandy in a pure squalor of a coastal town. The best reason is the very realistic background, all mud, missing teeth, drunkenness, cockfighting, poverty, debtors strung up in baskets – not the usual bucolic image of Olde England. But everything gets bogged down in an indecipherable plot. Robert Altman mastered the multi-character narrative in such gems as Nashville (1975) but here debut director Peter Coe most demonstrably did not.

This started life as a modestly successful London West End stage musical and probably for budgetary reasons the songs were discarded. All that’s left is plot. And plot and plot. All to do with sex as it happens. Husbands exist only to be cuckolded. Cleavage is obligatory for women. Young women lusting after sex have been brought up in contradictory fashion to view it as dirty. And no eighteenth century tale is complete without a regimen of long-lost daughters and sons.

It starts promisingly enough in early morning with a town crier (Arthur Mullard) filling us in on the predilections and problems of various prominent citizens, most notably Lord Foppington (Christopher Plummer), the foppest of the fops, gearing up for an arranged marriage to Hoyden (Vanessa Howard). As a virgin not wanting to come to his wedding night bereft of the necessary skills, he employs strumpet Nell (Georgia Brown) to bring him up to speed.

Meanwhile, it’s “lock up your daughters” time as a ship’s crew, at sea for ten months, given two days leave, start charging through the town, fondling and kissing any woman of any age who happens to stand still for a moment. Among this randy bunch are Ramble (Ian Bannen), Shaftoe (Tom Bell) and Lusty (Jim Dale). Ramble is given the eye by married Lady Eager (Fenella Fielding), Shaftoe takes a fancy to Hilaret (Susannah York) while old flame Nell is targeted by Lusty (Jim Dale). Mrs Squeezum (Glynis Johns) seeks sex anywhere and there’s maid Cloris (Elaine Taylor) also seeking physical fulfilment.

Of course, the whole purpose of the narrative is to thwart true and illicit love, husbands and fathers returning at inconvenient times. And had the storyline stuck to the tried-and-tested formula devised very successfully for Tom Jones (1963) and The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders (1965) it might well have worked. But the instinct to make meaningful comment by way of satire takes the story in very unlikely directions, an extended court scene with a barmy judge the worst of such excesses, though a food fight comes close.

It’s meant to play as a farce, the men climbing (literally) in and out of bedrooms, the town’s apparently only ladder put to continuous use. But what would work on stage sadly falls down here, and not just because the occasional song might have come as light relief. There is an element of the female confusion over sex, natural instinct going against education, and so ill-informed that at the slightest chaste kiss they are likely to cry rape, but that’s as close as the movie gets to anything that makes sense. A movie that needed a sense of pace just becomes one scene tumbling into another.

Christopher Plummer (Nobody Runs Forever/The High Commissioner, 1968) makes by far his worst screen choice. He’s so concealed in his clothing that movement is inhibited and most of his acting relies on overworked eyeballs. Susannah York (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) is pretty much lost in the shuffle. Ian Bannen (Penelope, 1966) is the pick, largely because he is required not to play villain, grump or idiot, and his Scottish charm and confidence works very well. Tom Bell (The Long Day’s Dying, 1967) is not cut out for comedy whereas Jim Dale (Carry On Doctor, 1967) who very much is does not get enough.

The movie wastes the talents of a terrific supporting cast headed by former British box office queen Glynis Johns (The Chapman Report, 1962) plus Roy Dotrice (A Twist of Sand, 1968), Vanessa Howard (Some Girls Do, 1969), Elaine Taylor (Casino Royale, 1967), Roy Kinnear (The Three Musketeers, 1973), Kathleen Harrison (Operation Snafu, 1961), Fenella Fielding (Arrivedeci, Baby, 1966) and singer Georgia Brown (A Study in Terror, 1965).

Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall (Billy Liar, 1963) wrote the screenplay based on, as well as the original musical, a number of sources drawn from the works of Henry Fielding (author of Tom Jones) and John Vanbrugh. Peter Coe never directed another movie.

Hard to find – and probably deservedly so unless you’re of the So Bad It’s Good fraternity.

The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders (1965) ***

“The Husband-Hunting Adventures of Moll Flanders” might have been a more accurate title and if you were seeking a template for a multi-character eighteenth-century Olde English picture majoring on sexual shenanigans here would be a very good place to start. Of course, Tom Jones (1963) was the precursor but told the story from the male perspective and here it is from the more vulnerable female point-of-view. Despite the hilarity and the sexual proclivities on show, it remains abundantly clear that marriage remains a refuge, where the those without a title can gain either security or status by contrast, such a contract is viewed as a means of further enrichment for the already wealthy.

So orphan housemaid Moll Flanders (Kim Novak) has a difficult time persuading the elder brother (Daniel Massey) of her wealthy employer to marry her. Instead, he takes her as his mistress, leaving her no option but to marry the drunken fool of a younger brother (Derren Nesbitt) and instantly regretting her decision. When he drowns, you would have thought that would solve her problems. But this was the eighteenth century and a widow with no fortune (and therefore power) of her own can easily be tossed out penniless.

A widowed banker (George Sanders) might be a prospect especially as she has the wits to prevent him being entirely robbed by highwayman Jemmy (Richard Johnson). Plans to marry him thwarted, she takes a job for food and lodgings with Lady Blystone (Angela Lansbury) and her husband, an impoverished Count (Vittorio De Sica), who are constantly pursued by debt collectors. Meanwhile Jemmy has taken the decision to marry a rich woman and become a kept man.

But this set of characters becomes enmeshed, so the tale unfolds in classic fashion. Assuming Moll to be moneyed, Jemmy masquerades as the owner of three ships. Nothing, of course, works out for anybody, certainly not those pretending to be something they are not while aspiring to wealth beyond their reach, but it all concludes in propitious fashion as the actions of the various principals become embroiled.

While certainly having an inclination towards the amorous, Moll wishes for that within the context of true love, rather than selling her physical wares to the highest bidder. So for a picture sold on immorality – the “rollicking ribaldry” of the poster – there is an unsung moral standpoint. Finding safe passage into affluence proves very tricky indeed. And what appears at first glance to be merely a picaresque episodic tale turns out to be very well structured indeed. And those looking for cleavage will find it here in abundance, as if some kind of rationing had been imposed on clothing, or that it was matters of economy that dictated that the area around the bosom be left unclothed. Being the lusted-after heroine it falls to Moll Flanders to shed even more of her attire from time to time.

You are more likely to laugh out loud at the moments of offbeat humour – a flotilla of ducks heading in Moll’s direction when she cries for help in a lake, the Count while acting as a butler demanding a tip – but it is more of a gentle satire. There is some of the expected bedroom farce but, mercifully, no recourse to a food fight. It is handsomely-mounted and meets the highest expectations of the costume drama.

Kim Novak (Of Human Bondage, 1964) easily passed the English-accent-test and carries the picture with ease. Richard Johnson (Deadlier than the Male, 1967) reveals a rakish side so far hidden in his more dramatic works to date. And there is a fine supporting cast including George Sanders (The Quiller Memorandum, 1966), Angela Lansbury (Harlow, 1965), Vittorio De Sica (The Shoes of the Fisherman, 1968), Lili Palmer (The Counterfeit Traitor, 1962) as Jemmy’s mistress, Leo McKern (Assignment K, 1968) as Jemmy’s sidekick going by the name of Squint, Daniel Massey (Star!, 1968) and Derren Nesbitt (Nobody Runs Forever/The High Commissioner, 1968). In bit parts look out for Cecil Parker (Guns at Batasi, 1964), Dandy Nichols later of Till Death Us Do Part television fame and Carry On regular Peter Butterworth.

All directed with some style by Terence Young (Mayerling, 1968) and adapted from the lengthy Daniel Defoe novel by Denis Cannan (A High Wind in Jamaica, 1965) and Roland Kibbee (Valdez Is Coming, 1971).

An old-fashioned romp with, if you can bothered to look, a moral center.