Francis Ford Coppola and Michael Cimino between them put paid to the more traditional “high adventure” war picture. The realism of Apocalypse Now (1979) and The Deer Hunter (1978), which came out months apart and gobbled up critical appreciation and Oscar nominations, spelled a more troubled release for the likes of Alistair MacLean’s Force 10 from Navarone (1979) and The Sea Wolves, which in part followed the MacLean template.
However, The Sea Wolves has never been properly appreciated for one important element – a more realistic portrayal of age and its limitations than was common in Hollywood. We tend to take it for granted that actors when not portraying superheroes can still in the action line have a special set of skills that allows them to throw themselves about or run and chase as if they were men 30 years younger. Liam Neeson was 73 when he was still taking down bad guys in Ice Road: Vengeance (2025), Tom Cruise a decade younger in the final episode of the Mission Impossible franchise in 2025 and Keanu Reeves a year short of 60 when committed to acrobatic action in John Wick Chapter 4 (2023). Jason Statham will be 60 when the sequel to The Beekeeper arrives next year.
In the action world, age never seemed to catch up with or limit the heroes. In The Sea Wolves age is by far the biggest obstacle. The three pre-eminent heroes are played by actors aged between 52 and 71. Their characters are fallible.
SOE operatives Col Lewis Pugh (Gregory Peck) and Capt Gavin Stewart (Roger Moore), going undercover in neutral Goa in World War Two, prove unable to unravel the mystery that results in German submarines destroying British destroyers. Any time they get hold of a likely suspect, they have the bad habit of killing them. And Stewart, prone to over-indulgence in the opposite sex even in the midst of a critical operation, is duped by femme fatale Mrs Cromwell (Barbara Kellerman) who proves not only to be the German spy they are hunting but capable of knifing men to death.
It’s only because the pair fail in their initial mission that Pugh is forced to call on a rag-bag bunch of ageing ex-soldiers from India led by Col Grice (David Niven) and undertake a more difficult operation to infiltrate a Goa harbor, sink German ships and silence radio communication. This bunch are never going to complete the kind of training program served up to The Dirty Dozen (1967) or The Devil’s Brigade (1968) so that aspect is mostly treated for laughs.
Vulnerabilities abound. They are violently seasick en route or they can’t get the boat’s engine to work or are likely to mistake a distant shark for a U-boat.
And there’s another unusual aspect of war that complicates proceedings. In most war films – and a feature of the current The Odyssey (2026) – the dead are left behind. Here, because the British are attacking a neutral territory, they can’t leave behind evidence of their involvement in the shape of corpses or wounded.
The actual plan is clever. Any sailors or officials in the target harbor who could possibly interfere are rendered incapable by the simple trick of getting them all drunk, a move sponsored by the British government. The battle itself is too long in coming and there are too many supporting characters involved for us to be committed to any of them and therefore the emotional impact of their deaths is minimal.
Sufficient tension is still generated but given the battle action only lasts about 20 minutes rather than the 150 minutes of Where Eagles Dare (1968), for example, it doesn’t quite qualify for the high adventure sub-genre.
Even the greatest of directors would fail to make work an action movie based on the type of people who should never be allowed near a machine gun or asked to join in fisticuffs, so that element is indeed a stretch. On the other hand, the frailties of those involved, determined not to admit to weakness, make this work.
By this point Gregory Peck’s career had received a second (or third) wind thanks to The Omen (1976) and The Boys from Brazil (1978). Roger Moore’s career had been revitalized by James Bond and he had just made Moonraker (1979), his most successful contribution to the series. David Niven was not in their marquee league but anyone who remembered him from The Guns of Navarone (1961) would go in with high expectations. Barbara Kellerman (The Quatermass Conclusion, 1979) is up to scratch as the cunning spy.
There’s a host of British supporting stars including Trevor Howard (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965), Patrick Macnee (The Avengers TV series 1961-1969), Patrick Allen (Puppet on a Chain, 1971) and Kenneth Griffith (The Lion in Winter, 1968).
Directed by Andrew V. McLaglen (Where Eagles Dare) from a script by Reginald Rose (Twelve Angry Men, 1957) based on the novel by James Leasor which recounted a true incident.
Not quite in the top drawer of the high adventure sub-genre but if you accept the approach and view this as something of an antidote to the standard war film you will find much to appreciate.
The team behind True Grit – producer Hal Wallis, director Henry Hathaway and screenwriter Marguerite Roberts – make the mistake of thinking that lightning will strike twice in a tale of an older fella, in this case a bank robber rather than a lawman, saddled with a younger woman, in this case a child rather than a sassy teenager. It’s not the only mistake. The title is a misnomer, for a start, and there’s a rather dumb use of shooting the apple off a child’s head a la the “Swizzer” William Tell. In reality, it’s a revenge tale, and a violent one at that, mixed in with a sentimentality that’s at odds with the story.
Like James Stewart and John Wayne, Gregory Peck was in something of a default position in terms of the movies he was now making. This trio, in particular, now specialized almost exclusively in the western. From 1966 of the nine movies made by Wayne seven had been westerns. For Stewart, over the same period, it had been exclusively westerns – five of them. Now Peck was beginning to go down the same route – this would be his third western in three years.
The reason wasn’t hard to find. Of all the genres churned out by Hollywood, westerns were the most sellable abroad. So, at the global box office at least, this trio still held sway, justifying their hefty fees.
Clay Lomax (Gregory Peck), just out of prison, seeks vengeance on ex-partner Sam Foley (James Gregory) who shot him in the back after a robbery, leaving him to carry the can, and made off with the loot, which he has used to build a ranching empire. Learning Lomax is out, Foley puts a sadistic trio – Pepe (Pepe Serna), Skeeter (John Chandler) and Bobby Jay Jones (Robert F. Lyons) – on his trail, with orders not to kill him, which is pure torture for the bloodthirsty thugs, but just to track him and report on his whereabouts. But thuggery will out, and instead the thugs kill Trooper (Jeff Corey) in heinous fashion.
Quite why the narrative dictates that the gunslingers are not to kill Lomax is anyone’s guess because it makes little sense, unless Foley is aware how unfair a fight it will be and that the veteran outlaw will be more than a match for his crew. And that’s how it turns out, Clay knocks them six ways to Sunday and that’s just for disturbing his peace in a hotel.
The narrative takes another odd twist with the arrival of the seven-year-old Becky (Dawn Lyn) who is put in Lomax’s charge. When he fails to offload her, he takes her with him, only stopping off to bushwhack the thugs and steal their weapons.
Quite why Lomax doesn’t just shoot the gunslingers and be done with it is also anyone’s guess but that leaves the trio able to jump Lomax when he’s taken refuge with the kind of widow drifters tend to come across in westerns. It gets quite unnecessarily confusing at this point but given Lomax is close to finding Foley something needs to create a delay.
And that’s done with an overlong unduly sadistic session by Bobby Jay as he attempts to emulate the Swizzer by shooting cups off Becky’s head. But the upshot of all this is Bobby Jay ends up killing his buddies and making off with the kid. Naturally, Lomax is soon in pursuit, but the promised “shoot out” doesn’t materialize, at least not in the traditional sense of gunmen facing each other in the main street.
What makes the movie work is what they should have concentrated on in the first place, Lomax taking a parental interest in the girl. That neither wants the other makes for decent enough tension and there are enough moments to flesh out their relationship, with Lomax unwilling to accept that he might well actually be her father.
Of course, a jailbird as a father doesn’t sit right with the filmmakers, even though Lomax is clearly capable of keeping the little one washed and fed and comfortable at night. So that’s where your lonely widow Juliana (Patricia Quinn) comes in. Interestingly, that’s the only scene that’s completely devoid of sentiment. She’s had long enough – five years – of loneliness and consoling herself with whisky at night to be happy to take the first half-decent fella who comes her way.
The action, when Lomax is sorting things out fist first, is acceptable enough, but whatever movie Hathaway and Co thought they were making just doesn’t come off. Certainly, it doesn’t come close to True Grit.
It’s time to celebrate the 65th anniversary of The Guns of Navarone – world premiere on April 27, 1961, in London and New York opening on June 22, 1961. Although the picture set a new benchmark in high-octane entertainment, a fast-moving war thriller packed with twists and a genuine all-star cast, it was far – very far – from the sure thing it appears in retrospect.
Box office smash in Britain.
For a start, U.S producer Carl Foreman, a victim of the McCarthy anti-communist witch-hunt of the early 1950s, was unable to assemble any of the talent he had set his heart on. He lost his preferred male cast of William Holden and Cary Grant and original scriptwriter Eric Ambler, the thriller writer famed for The Mask of Dimitrios and other novels.
He had a registered a major publicity coup by engineering the screen debut of opera diva Maria Callas, one of the most famous people in the world, but she also dropped out as did his other initial choice for leading lady. On top of that, once filming began he lost his director, Alexander Mackendrick, who had not only achieved a critical and commercial success with the British Ealing comedy The Ladykillers (1951) but also crossed the Atlantic to make the acclaimed The Sweet Smell of Success (1957) starring Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, to prove he could handle big Hollywood stars.
On top of that David Niven nearly lost his life during production and by the time the picture appeared Gregory Peck had suffered so many box office flops that he was a potential liability. And Foreman’s own marriage was in trouble.
Building the massive guns set.
It was a wonder it was made at all for Foreman was nobody’s idea of a sure thing. Although he had made his name as a screenwriter with three Oscar nominations for Champion (1949), The Men (1950) and High Noon (1952), his career was in ruins after being slung out of America for his supposed communist sympathies. He set up in London where he wrote screenplays under pseudonyms. But in 1956 won a four-picture production deal with Columbia at a time when that studio was investing heavily in making films in Britain to take advantage of the government’s Eady Levy (effectively, a tax rebate) and cheaper costs. But his first film, The Key (1958) with William Holden and Sophia Loren flopped in the U.S. Columbia persevered, seeing Foreman as the man to tackle its biggest-ever European production.
The Guns of Navarone almost fell at the first hurdle. Foreman’s first choice of location was Cyprus which was threatening to erupt into a civil war. At the last minute, he changed his mind and shifted production to Rhodes. Foreman, who also acted as screenwriter, made considerable changes to the book by British bestselling thriller writer Alistair Maclean, not least of which was introducing female characters to a story that had been resolutely all-male.
Original hardback book cover.
There was tension on set – four-time Oscar nominee Gregory Peck was annoyed at sharing the screen with two winners David Niven (Best Actor for Separate Tables, 1958) and Anthony Quinn (twice Best Supporting Actor for Viva Zapata, 1952, and Lust for Life, 1956). Replacement director J. Lee Thompson (Ice Cold in Alex, 1958) managed to sink a ship on loan from the Greek navy. The Actor’s Strike in Hollywood nearly forced the departure of the two younger stars.
The set for the titular guns was the largest ever built, costing £100,000, and even though that proved a design miracle, that, too, was not exempt from disaster, having to be rebuilt after a thunderstorm destroyed part of the set. The injury to David Niven was so severe he nearly died, putting the production in jeopardy. Even when the film approached completion there were other obstacles in the way, composer Dmitri Tiomkin (The Alamo, 1960), for example, demanding a record fee and Foreman locking horns with Columbia over his insistence on launching the picture as a roadshow, request which was ultimately denied, and one of the reasons for the film’ release delay,
I’ve written a book about The Making of The Guns of Navarone. Originally published in 2013, it has been revised with over 30 illustrations added for a new edition to tie in with the 65th anniversary – available both in print and Kindle versions.
If you’re interested in this kind of book, you might like to know that I’ve also written The Making of The Magnificent Seven.
To celebrate this film now streaming on Netflix I thought i’d re-run a previous review.
Stone-cold action classic that blazed a trail for the big-budget men-on-a-mission war picture like The Dirty Dozen (1967) and Where Eagles Dare (1968). Brilliantly structured, written and directed, and featuring a sea battle, storm, shipwreck, mountaineering, chase, interrogation scenes, infiltration of an impregnable fortress, a pair of romances, two traitors, and an awe-inspiring climax make this a candidate for one of the greatest war pictures ever made.
The set-up is simple. Knock out the gigantic guns at Navarone or two thousand men will perish. It’s mission impossible and the clock is ticking. You don’t know who to trust and the enemy is ruthless.
In the early days of the all-star-cast, producer Carl Foreman rounded up an astonishing line-up, bulking out the bestseller by Scottish thriller maestro Alistair Maclean (The Secret Ways, 1961) with three top stars in five-time Oscar nominee Gregory Peck (The Big Country, 1958), double Oscar-winner Anthony Quinn (Heller in Pink Tights, 1960) and Oscar-winner David Niven (Please Don’t Eat the Daisies, 1960). Add in British household names Anthony Quayle (Ice Cold in Alex, 1958), Stanley Baker (The Concrete Jungle, 1960) and James Robertson Justice (Doctor in Love, 1960), a sprinkling of rising stars in James Darren (Let No Man Write My Epitaph, 1960), Gia Scala (I Aim at the Stars, 1960) and Richard Harris (The Night Fighters, 1960) and renowned Greek actress Irene Papas (Antigone, 1961).
Each man is a specialist. Capt. Mallory (Gregory Peck) the mountaineer whose climbing skills are essential to completing the fist part of the mission, explosives expert Corporal Miller (David Niven), mechanic ‘Butcher’ Brown (Stanley Baker), Greek patriot Stavrou (Anthony Quinn) and the ruthless killer Pappadimos (James Darren) who has the contact with the Greek resistance. The stakes are ramped up when we learn both Mallory and Stavrou have bounties on their heads, not to mention the fact they are sworn enemies, and that before the mission even gets under way, spies are discovered in the camp. The ostensible leader of the group Major Franklin (Anthony Quayle) is wounded early on, turning him into a liability and making Mallory the de facto leader.
The stakes are ramped up further – this time through relationships. Their Greek contact turns out to be a woman, Maria (Irene Papas), brother of Pappadimos. She brings with her a mute girl Anna (Gia Scala) for whom Mallory develops romantic feelings while Stavrou has eyes for Maria. Mallory is also torn about Franklin, his best friend.
And from there it pitches into one disaster after another. They are too easily hunted by the Germans. They are shelled with mortars and attacked by dive bombers as they race across open mountains and through caves to reach their destination. They have to shoot their way out of traps and finagle their way into the fortress. There are twists and turns all the way, the clock ticking in almost James-Bond-style as the deadline for the destruction of the troops approaches.
And although this is clearly a war picture it is also as obviously an anti-war one, no end to the killing in sight, people dying pointlessly.
Although the acting was ignored come Oscar time, each of the stars delivers and it is a communal tour de force. Director J. Lee Thompson (Ice Cold in Alex) ensures that in visual terms none of the stars dominates, each given equal screen time while the strong supporting cast each has their own narrative arc. With over two-and-half-hours’ running time, Thompson has both the bonus of time to allow each element to be fully played out and the problem of keeping the picture taut and he succeeds brilliantly in both aims. It is a masterpiece of suspense. And it looked fabulous, the guns themselves, by which the picture might succeed or fail, were awesome.
Thompson was Oscar-nominated as was producer Carl Foreman for both Best Picture and the screenplay, Dmitri Tiomkin for the score (one of the longest-ever), John Cox for sound, Alan Osbiston for editing. Bill Warrington who did the visual special effects and Chris Greenham who did the sound effects were the only winners on the night.
It was a commercial smash, top picture of the year in the U.S., the biggest picture of all time at the British box office and breaking records all over the world.
Although Billy Wilder had written a script based on The Life of Sherlock Holmes (in fact he had three versions of the project running in his head, initially conceiving of the movie – twice – as a musical) by the time it came round to seeking funding in the early 1960s he was not originally considered as its director. Mirisch was looking to contain the budget to around the region of $2 million, which would rule out any big star. However, at this early stage of the production, there were issues with the Conan Doyle Estate which was in the process of firing up other movies based on Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Terror (1965) being the most recent and also had another Conan Doyle property The Adventures of Gerard (1969) in mind.
A Study in Terror had been the brainchild of producer Henry Lester (who was also behind The Adventures of Gerard) and perhaps to general astonishment these days Mirisch had agreed Lester would be allowed to make more Sherlock Holmes pictures as long as they remained very low-budget, on the assumption, presumably, that the marketplace would treat them as programmers rather than genuine competition.
However, Mirisch and UA retained the upper hand as regards the Conan Doyle Estate and “could cut him (Lester) off at such time as we have made definite plans to proceed.”
There was another proviso to the deal. The Estate would agree to forbid any further television productions unless Mirisch decided it wished to go down the small screen route itself. It was odd that Mirisch had eased Billy Wilder out of the frame given the mini-major had enjoyed considerable success with the director on Some Like it Hot (1959) and The Apartment (1960), a commercial partnership that would extend to The Fortune Cookie (1966).
Instead, Mirisch lined up British director Bryan Forbes who would be contracted to write a screenplay based on the Wilder idea. The sum offered – $10,000 – was considered too low, but it was intended as enticement, to bring Forbes into the frame as director. If Forbes refused to bite, “the only other name suggested and agreed upon was that of John Schlesinger.” Although David Lean was mooted, UA were not in favour. Mirisch didn’t want to risk paying for a screenplay before there was a director in position.
The offer of the Sherlock Holmes picture was seen as a sop to Forbes. Mirisch had canned The Egyptologists, a project which Forbes believed had been greenlit. And why would he not when he was being paid $100,000 for the screenplay. In bringing the project to an untimely close Mirisch hoped to limit its financial exposure to two-thirds of that fee.
Should Forbes balk at Sherlock Holmes, he was to be offered The Mutiny of Madame Yes, whose initial budget was set at $1.5 million, plus half a million for star Shirley Maclaine. Another Eady Plan project, this was aimed to go before the cameras the following year. If Forbes declined, then Mirisch would try Norman Jewison with Clive Donner and Guy Hamilton counted as “additional possibilities.”
As for Billy Wilder he had much bigger fish to fry. He was seeking a budget of $7.5 million to adapt into a film the Franz Lehar play The Count of Luxembourg to pair Walter Matthau and Brigitte Bardot. Should Matthau pass, Wilder would try for Cary Grant (whose retirement had not yet been announced) or Rex Harrison. Both sides played negotiation hardball. UA currently in the hole for $21 million for The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) and Mirisch, having pumped $13 million into the yet-to-be-release Hawaii (1966), didn’t want to commit to another unwieldy expensive project.
So Mirisch insisted the project advance on a “step basis” allowing UA to reject the project after seeing the screenplay. Wilder countered by insisting that if it went into turnaround he, rather than the studio, would have the right to hawk it elsewhere (generally, studios tried to recover their costs if a movie was picked up by another studio). But Wilder was also in placatory mood and even if UA rejected this idea he was willing to work with the studio on a Julie Andrews project called My Sister and I.
However, UA and Mirisch were all show. “After Billy left the meeting,” read the minutes, “it was agreed we would not proceed with The Count of Luxembourg since we did not want to give Billy the right to take it elsewhere if United Artists did not agree to proceed.” Harold Mirisch was detailed to give Billy the bad news, but use a different excuse.
Initial casting had mooted Frenchman Louise Jourdan (Made in Paris, 1966) as the detective with Peter O’Toole or Peter Sellers as Dr Watson. Jourdan had worked, anonymously as it happened, for Wilder before, providing the uncredited voice for the narrator of Irma La Douce (1963).
By 1967, the Sherlock Holmes business was heating up. MGM was planning an adaptation of Broadway musical Baker Street and Paramount had on the cards The Man who Was Sherlock Holmes. Mirisch was also ramping up production, with $20 million invested in five properties, its busiest period ever.
Although Walter Matthau had been mooted for a supporting role, presumably Mycroft Holmes (the part ultimately played by Christopher Lee), wilder had decided the new picture would have no stars, to keep down the mushrooming budget – the eleven-month shoot would cost $10 million – and so that audiences would not come to the film with preconceived ideas. A future Holmes, Nicol Williamson (The Seven Per Cent Solution) was considered but rejected in favor of Robert Stephens (The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, 1969) and Colin Blakely (Alfred the Great, 1968). All three effectively qualified as unknowns though by the time the movie appeared, Stephens, by default, had a stronger marquee name.
Although it was know that Rex Harrison (My Fair Lady, 1964) was desperate to play Sherlock, wilder stuck to his guns and opted for the lesser-known names. James Robertson Justice (Mayerling, 1968) and George Sanders (The Best House in London, 1969) were originally tapped for the role of Mycroft but were replaced by Christopher Lee (The Devil Rides Out, 1968).
There was extensive location work including several sequences set in Scotland. Baker Street was reconstructed on the Pinewood lot, where filming began on May 5, 1969.
Problems began after Mirisch viewed the first cut which ran to an epic three hours and 20 minutes. After a disastrous preview, Walter Mirisch kicked Wilder off the picture and carved one-third out of the picture, restructuring it, removing several episodes where Holmes solves various crimes and focusing on the Russian ballerina subplot and then the Belgian woman looking for her missing husband which takes Holmes to Loch Ness.
Naturally, the deletions altered the entire tone of the picture but as it stood it resembled little more that half a dozen 30-minute episodes, the kind of thing audiences could get for nothing on television.
United Artists did its best to make a big splash. It opened in November 1970 at the Radio City Music Hall in New York, the biggest and most prestigious house in the U.S., and that was to be followed by a Xmas release. However, the result at the Music Hall were deemed “dame” – just $150,000 from the 6,000-seat auditorium. Elsewhere it faltered, a “dim” $9,000 from five houses in Baltimore, a “pale” $5,000 in Boston, a “dismal” $3,500 in Cleveland and a “light” $5,000 in Kansas City. It came nowhere near covering its costs.
A gala royal premiere at the Odeon Leicester Square – the biggest and most prestigious cinema in London’s West End – did little to bring in the public and it opened to a distinctly underwhelming £7,000.
SOURCES: United Artists Archive, Wisconsin Center for Film & Theater Research; Walter Mirisch, I Thought We Were Making Movies, Not History (University of Wisconsin Press); “Billy Wilder Return from Great Silence,” Variety, May 19, 1965; “New Sherlock Holmes Pix,” Variety, January 21, 1967; Box office – Variety November 1970-January 1971.
Had already cost a bundle before one foot of film was shot. Mini-major Mirisch Bros, flush from the commercial success of West Side Story (1961), had forked out $600,000 (plus a percentage) for the screen rights to the Broadway hit by William Gibson. (this was $250,000 more than West Side Story fetched). Between another $500,000 (plus percentage) for star Elizabeth Taylor and likely $250,000 for Gregory Peck, the producers were already well over a million bucks out of pocket.
The play had run for nearly two years on Broadway, earning a $570,000 profit, a remarkable sum in those days, and also set records for a touring production. It marked the Broadway debut of both Anne Bancroft, who won a Tony, and writer William Gibson. They re-teamed for The Miracle Worker both on Broadway and in the 1962 film.
Over-runs on Cleopatra (1963) put paid to Taylor’s involvement, Peck pulled out, temporarily replaced by Paul Newman. Producer Walter Mirisch presumably didn’t think Henry Fonda and Anne Bancroft who’d played the parts on stage had sufficient marquee heft, nor was he keen on Broadway director Arthur Penn, and instead pursued Shirley MacLaine who he’s turned into a star thanks to The Apartment (1960) with Robert Mitchum stepping in for Newman (leaving him free to make the first of his iconic pictures, The Hustler, 1961) Robert Wise, director of West Side Story and looking for a less onerous gig, signed on to direct.
Despite being filmed on a 60-day schedule, the bulk of it on a sound stage, the budget had rocketed to $3 million, around half of which went on the main players and the screen rights.
Mitchum wasn’t too keen on the role, believing himself miscast from the outset. The lighter touch of James Garner, also considered for the role, might have worked better. Mitchum had turned down the movie twice, suggesting Mirisch would be better off with William Holden or Glenn Ford, for whom repression was a given.
MacLaine was on a roll, signed to a four-picture deal with Mirisch. She was given not one but two roles previously advertised with huge fanfare to have starred Elizabeth Taylor. As well as Two for the Seesaw, Taylor had been primed for Irma La Douce. The Taylor deal came unstuck in part due to her illness but also was attributed to her insistence that a role be found for her husband Eddie Fisher.
Wise and Mitchum had worked together earlier in their careers, in western Blood on the Moon (1948). And, no, this wasn’t the director hankering after working again with the actor. Noted Wise, “It was one of the few times I went on to a picture where the cast was already set. I don’t think Mitchum was quite right for the part. He was more believable in rougher, outdoor kinds of stuff.”
When they met at rehearsal, MacLaine was already a fan. Seventeen years younger than her co-star, she’d seen all his films, and was thrilled at working with one of her screen heroes. She was amazed at his photographic memory. He never had a problem with his lines. They certainly seemed to be getting on remarkably well for. Recalled Wise, “they got to ribbing and making jokes and making us all laugh so that the biggest problem we had was getting the two of them to settle down and get into the scene.” Added the director, “I had to have a closed set for a while. It was kind of embarrassed over what they were saying to each other. It was pretty spicy kidding, pretty ribald.2
Mitchum, apt to spout poetry, was revelation as a person far removed from his tough guy screen image. He was popular on set, very down to earth, mingling with all the crew and other actors. There was no entourage just a secretary bringing in lunch – and no hard liquor – for everyone.
What was going on between Mitchum and MacLaine was not obvious to everyone. Assistant director Jerome Siegel thought their light-heartedness was just a way of keeping tensions low on the set. “They were very subtle about it. You never saw anything where you could be sure there was a romance going on. but it didn’t surprise me when I did hear about it.” Needless to say, both actors were married at the time.
When Frank Sinatra and writer Malachy McCourt popped in to the set, Mitchum embarked on a drinking session that temporarily halted production, at least for the day. Wise infuriated his stars by using a stopwatch to time a kiss, one that was maybe going on too long with a pair of enamored characters. In his defense, Wise was just wary of the existing screen censorship, during which an overlong kiss would draw censure.
Wise had opened up the play with scenes set on Brooklyn Bridge and other parts accompanied by music suggesting the character was downcast. There’s a clever use of the split screen when the pair are on the telephone to each other.
The movie did well enough in first run New York and other big cities where the play had been performed but response outside those key sites and in the babes was muted. Most critics blamed the miscasting and Wise’s heavy direction.
SOURCES: Lee Server, Robert Mitchum, Baby I Don’t Cry (Faber and Faber, 2001); J.R. Jordan, Robert Wise, The Motion Pictures (BearManor, 2020); “Two Broadway Play Buys,” Variety, July 23, 1958; “Seasaw Earned $570,000 Profit,” Variety, November 4, 1959; “Shirley MacLaine’s Creamy roles,” Variety, October 26, 1960; “Two for Seesaw Budget at $3-Mil,” Variety, February 14, 1962.
Independent production company Mirisch had enjoyed spectacular success in the 1960s both at the box office and the Oscars. Commercial successes included The Magnificent Seven (1960) and sequels, The Apartment (1960), West Side Story (1961), The Great Escape (1963), Hawaii (1966) despite its huge budget, and In the Heat of the Night (1967). Walter, who did the legwork on the production side – his brothers Harold and Marvin were more backroom boys – picked up the Oscar for In the Heat of the Night and two other films he was involved in won Best Picture. Their films were solely distributed through United Artists, with whom they had a profitable relationship for most of the decade. But cracks were beginning to show in the 1970s and in the final reckoning after a meltdown at the box office Mirisch and UA went their separate ways in 1974. Harold had died in 1968 and Marvin pulled back, leaving Walter to go it alone with Universal, with some success – Midway (1976) and Same Time, Next Year (1978).
The demise of the original Mirisch came as their business was spiralling out of control. With a total loss of $32.6 million covering 13 films made for United Artists between 1966 and 1972, it was small wonder it spelled the end of the road for the independent company. Norman Jewison musical Fiddler on the Roof, an adaptation of the Broadway hit, was one of only three movies to end up in the black, clocking up $6.8 million profit. Return of the Seven (1966) starring Yul Brynner earned a meager $37,000 in profit from cinema exhibition and its overall profitability of $588,000 depended on $1.6 million from sales to television. The Magnificent Seven Ride! (1972) with Lee Van Cleef only made a small profit of $236,000 thanks to television and even counting in sales to the small screen Guns of the Magnificent Seven (1969) didn’t reach that benchmark.
Television played a significant role in keeping losses down to $32.6 million. Fiddler on the Roof went to television for $3 million, The Hawaiians / Master of the Island (1970) starring Charlton Heston, a sequel to Hawaii, and They Call Me Mister Tibbs for $1.3 million and The Organization $1.1 million, respectively, the latter two films relying on Sidney Poitier reprising his role from In the Heat of the Night.
Various deductions, not always obvious to outsiders, come off the top of rentals and television sales. First there are the distribution fees paid to United Artists, then marketing costs, finance, and profit shares – Brynner and Poitier were on percentages as was Jewison (on a whopping 20 per cent), and these were often paid out against overall rentals rather than actual profits.
In an alarming shift from the glory days of the 1960s, Mirisch presided over some out-and-out disasters. Jewison’s rites-of-passage Gaily, Gaily / Chicago, Chicago (1969) starring newcomer Beau Bridges (The Fabulous Baker Boys, 1989) in his first top-billed role and Greek Oscar nominee Melina Mercouri (Topkapi, 1964) went completely down the tubes, racking up a colossal $10.3 million loss. The Hawaiians / Master of the Islands directed by Tom Gries (Will Penny, 1968) wasn’t far behind – $8.3 million in the red.
The Billy Wilder (The Apartment) touch couldn’t save The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970) starring Robert Stephens (The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, 1969) from plummeting to a $7.5 million deficit. George Peppard western Cannon for Cordoba (1970) co-starring Giovanni Ralli (Deadfall, 1968) haemorrhaged $3.1 million. Heist comedy Some Kind of Nut (1969), directed by the renowned triple Oscar nominee Garson Kanin (Where It’s At, 1969) and toplining Dick Van Dyke (Divorce American Style, 1967) and Angie Dickinson (Jessica, 1962) faced a shortfall of $3 million.
Beau Bridges was also the luckless star of Hal Ashby’s debut The Landlord (1970) which went down to the tune of $2.5 million. School drama Halls of Anger (1970) starring Calvin Lockhart (Cotton Comes to Harlem, 1970) as a tough teacher was $1.8 million in the red. Jacqueline Bisset (Bullitt, 1968) in her first top-billed role in The First Time (1969) wasn’t a big enough attraction to prevent this tumbling into a $973,000 quagmire.
Even Sidney Poitier at the peak of his fame was no hedge against box office calamity. They Call Me Mister Tibbs was $1 million below breakeven and The Organization $500,000.
It didn’t help the Mirisch bottom line that it had invested $5.1 million in projects that were never made, although half of this was accounted by The Bells of Hell Go Ding-A-Ling-A-Ling, a Gregory Peck (Mackenna’s Gold, 1969) starrer directed by David Miller (Lonely Are the Brave, 1962) that was abandoned in 1966 in the face of extreme weather conditions with $2.7 million already spent. The studio has also lavished $1.2 million on I Do, I Do without a single foot of film shot. John Sturges spent $267,000 unsuccessfully trying to put together The Yards of Essendorf in 1969 that would have, variously, starred Steve McQueen or Warren Beatty (plus Ursula Andress and Jean-Paul Belmondo) in another World War Two venture. Sturges also wasted $68,000 on Richard Sahib to feature Spencer Tracy and Alec Guinness and $15,000 on The Artful Dodger, a sequel to The Great Escape.
Other projects sucking the well dry with nothing to show for it were Bandoola with an elephant as an unlikely World War Two hero to be filmed in Pakistan ($208,000 spent), Chinese Detective Story ($82,000) aka The Dragon Master with George Peppard lined up, The Egyptologist ($140,000), The Judgment of Corey ($185,000) with director Peter Yates (Bullitt), The Mutiny of Madame Yes ($110,000) with Ronald Neame (The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie) attached, Nothing to Lose ($92,000) to be helmed by Franklin Schaffner (Planet of the Apes, 1968), Andrew V. McLaglen (Bandolero! 1968) signed up for Warhorse ($39,000) and Snatch ($239,000).
The poor run continued into 1972 when Billy Wilder’s Avanti (1972) with Jack Lemmon, while not in the dire financial straits of the famous sleuth, still dropped $1.8 million.
SOURCE: William Bernstein, “United Artists Office Rushgram,” July 16 1973 (United Artists Archive, Wisconsin University.)
If you’re not Alfred Hitchcock with carte blanche to scare the pants off the audiences every which way but loose and you’re not launching a B-movie sexploitation drama, then you’ve got to take a more sensible path to selling a picture headlined by the world’s greatest hero Gregory Peck elevated to such a position by the extraordinary success of The Guns of Navarone (1961) which topped the annual box rankings in the USA.
So while your taglines can emphasize “shock and suspense” what you’re selling cinema managers is quality. So, in the Pressbook/Marketing Manual, Peck is portrayed as a “celluloid perfectionist” and “four-time Oscar nominee” so multi-talented he’s a triple hyphenate – writer, producer, actor. Such a perfectionist he’s known “to spend a week or more preparing for one small scene.”
He is a class act not some sleazy B-movie bum. “He not only completely absorbed all the dialog, its various nuances and shadings, but also probed the psychological and physiological motivations of the attorney he portrays,” notes the Pressbook.
And it’s not just Peck who’s to be praised. “Seldom has such an outstanding array of talent been so tellingly marshaled for such a dramatic thunderbolt.”
The messianic tone is evident throughout. Headlines claim “Bob Mitchum’s career reaches a new high,” Lori Martin has the “top role” of her career, Barrie Chase is “praised as top talent discovery” and “Telly Savalas termed top talent find by Peck.”
Polly Bergen “emerges as an actress of great sensitivity and insight.” Lori Singer, in her movie debut, “graphically attests to the polish she has achieved through her work as child lead in the video (television) series National Velvet.” Although Martin had another reason for turning up word perfect – so that she could get off early and go ice skating.
And the praise doesn’t stop there. “A whole new career should open for sultry Barrie Chase, one-time dancing partner of Fred Astaire.” She is “sensationally good as the casual pick-up ensnared by Mitchum.” The talent pickers had no doubt she was “destined to become one of the foremost dramatic talents of the industry. The very quality which made her such an outstanding dancer – her tireless attention to even the minutest detail – has helped turn her into a magnificent actress.” The marketeers were convinced her “masterpiece” performance would result in an Oscar nomination.
Peck had appointed himself the “tub-thumper” for Savalas after seeing him play Al Capone” in the television series The Witness (1960-1961) calling him “one of the finest new talents of the last 10 years.”
According to the Pressbook, director J. Lee Thompson “deliberately imparted…a distinctively British touch.” Claimed Thompson, “There emerges in the best of the British pictures a certain warmth and credibility which are looked upon as the English hallmark. Such an impression is achieved, it seems to me, through the simple technique of emphasizing character development.”
For journalistic snippets there’s not much beyond that Peck was so impressed with the location in Georgia that he purchased a plot of land on Sea Island to build a beach house. Plus that he’s turned into a noted photographer, now onto his seventh camera with a fast lens. Polly Bergen was creating a nightclub act. Robert Mitchum was thrown three times on his first film horse.
But it was unlikely that cinema managers would find a way of passing on to audiences the idea that this was a “quality sleaze” picture populated by proven and up-and-coming talent. The public had to make do with posters and taglines to get a feel for what was on offer. And in that respect the marketeers pulled few punches.
As usual, cinema managers were offered a plethora of choice when it came to the posters. Mostly, Peck and Mitchum were shown on opposite sides of the poster with in between an image intended to conjure up menace – the bare-chested Mitchum confronting Bergen, Bergen comforting her daughter, mother and daughter running, Mitchum tangling with the daughter.
Taglines spelled it out in a variety of ways: “A terrifying war of nerves unparalleled in suspense!” with a sub-tag of “A man savagely dedicated to committing a crime shocking beyond belief! A man desperately determined to end his ordeal of terror…even if it meant using the ultimate weapon – murder!”
Exclamation marks were in full flow. “Now, he had only one weapon left – murder…to prevent an even more shocking crime” was backed up by “the drama of an unrelenting war of nerves…and the helpless lives that were caught in its terrifying crossfire!”
Or try this – “The savagely suspenseful story of an unspeakable crime…and the man, the woman, the helpless people it touched with terror. From the moment they meet the tension is explosive. An electrifying war of nerves unrelenting in suspense!”
In case you didn’t get the message, here it is in more subtle form: “What happens to them in an adventure in the unusual!” That understatement is followed up with “So daring in theme…so frank in treatment…that it frightens while it fascinates and gives a terrifying new meaning in suspense!”
And there were variations of the above: “A terrifying war of nerves unparalleled in suspense! The Watched…who can only run so far before coming face-to-face with The Watcher…who waits for the moment when the woman and her daughter will be alone.”
And – “Now the nightmare was about to become a terrifying reality… the whispered threat a crime unspeakable. So daring in theme…so frank in treatment. What happens to them is an adventure in the unusual!”
Plus – “Their ordeal of terror triggers the screen’s most savage war of nerves! Unparalleled suspense…as one becomes a target for nightmare, the other becomes his target for execution.”
Unusually, there were a host of promotional items. As well as a motion picture paperback edition from Fawcett, “hot off the press” was the Prentice-Hall hardback The Polly Bergen Book of Beauty, Fashion and Charm, including stills from Cape Fear. Books were a major source for marketing, given there were over 100,000 outlets in specialist shops, drug stores, railway and bus terminals and carousels on newspaper stands.
Virtually any homely element of the movie was co-opted for promotional purposes. A scene taking place at a United Air Lines terminal counter provided opportunity for tie-ins with travel agents and ticket offices. Bowling “palaces” might be happy to display posters and promotional material given there’s a scene set in a bowling alley. Distributors of a Chris Craft boats, Chrysler station wagons, Larson speed boats and Scott outboard motors – which all appear in the movie – could be targeted.
Like many an ambitious – not to say greedy – actor, Gregory Peck had decided to go into the production business. In theory, there were two good reasons for this: actors could take control of their careers and they could make vanity projects. In reality, there were other over-riding reasons: after years in the business they thought they knew better than their Hollywood bosses and, more importantly, with a bigger stake in a picture they thought they could make more money. First of all came the tax advantages. As a producer, they could spread income over a number of years rather than just one. And they could take advantage of a loophole in the tax laws by making movies abroad. And then if all went as well as the actor imagined, they would get a bigger share of the spoils. If it proved a flop, then the studio carried the can and the actor walked off scot-free.
In 1956 Peck set up Melville Productions with screenwriter Sy Bartlett, with whom he had worked on Twelve O’Clock High (1950). They signed a two-picture deal with United Artists, the go-to studio for actors wanting to become producers. The first projected ideas fell by the wayside, Affair of Honor based on a Broadway play that subsequently flopped and Thieves Market – with William Wyler on board as director – whose commissioned script didn’t meet Peck’s standards. Also on the agenda was Winged Horse with a script by Bartlett and James R. Webb.
Instead, Peck set up The Big Country (1958) through another production shingle, Anthony Productions, and co-produced it with director William Wyler’s outfit, World Wide Productions. The budget rocketed from $2.5 million to $4.1 million, which limited the potential for profit.
Melville Productions launched with Korean War picture Pork Chop Hill (1959). When that flopped it was the end of the UA deal. Peck moved his shingle to Universal. The production company lay dormant while Peck returned to actor-for-hire for Beloved Infidel (1959) and On the Beach (1959), both flops, before jumping back into the top league with the biggest hit of his career The Guns of Navarone (1961) directed by J. Lee Thompson.
Melville Productions was resuscitated for Cape Fear. Peck and Barlett had purchased in 1958 a piece of pulp fiction (novels that bypassed hardback publication and went straight into paperback) by John D. MacDonald called The Executioners. Bartlett passed on screenwriting duties which were handed to James R. Webb (How the West Was Won, 1962).
Director and star had bonded on The Guns of Navarone. “We were working so well together,” recalled Thompson that when Peck handed him the script of Cape Fear he was intrigued. “I liked the book very much,” said Thompson. “Greg had a script prepared, we signed the contracts, and I came to make my first picture in Hollywood.” (The Guns of Navarone had been filmed in Greece and London).
Though author John D. MacDonald had written a hard-boiled thriller with a merciless killer, screenwriter James R. Webb (Pork Chop Hill) racked up the tension and added a thicker layer of predatory sexuality in the vein of Psycho (1960). The final touch was a Bernard Hermann (Psycho) score brimming with menace.
Ernest Borgnine (Go Naked in the World, 1961) was first choice to play psychopathic killer Max Cady. Rod Steiger (The Pawnbroker, 1964), Jack Palance (Once a Thief, 1965) and Telly Savalas (Birdman of Alcatraz, 1962) were also considered. “We actually tested Savalas and he gave a very good test for the part,” explained Thompson. “But these were character actors or at least secondary actors compared to Greg. At some point discussing it together we began to talk about having the villain played by an actor of equal importance, making it a much stronger match-up from the audience’s point of view and (Robert) Mitchum immediately came to mind.”
But Mitchum had essayed a similar venal character in Night of the Hunter (1955) and didn’t want to repeat himself. However, he liked the way the tale showed just how corrupt law enforcement could be and how easily the cards were stacked. Mitchum understood the character from the outset. “The whole thing with Cady is that snakelike charm. Me, Officer, I never laid a hand on the girl, you must be mistaken.”
“When we heard Mitchum’s thoughts,” noted Thompson, “we were more convinced than ever he would be terrific for the role. And I think by the end of the meeting he now realized that himself.” But he still held back, unsure. The producers sent him a case of bourbon. He drank the bourbon and signed up. There was the additional inducement of sharing in the profits by being made a co-producer which involved nothing more taxing than signing on the dotted line. Universal took it on as the first in two-picture deal with Melville.
Mitchum’s career was following its usual up-and-down course, a couple of flops always seemed to be followed by a big hit. His acclaimed performance in Fred Zinnemann’s The Sundowners (1960) had offset The Night Fighters / A Terrible Beauty (1960) and Home from the Hill (1960). His latest picture, The Last Time I Saw Archie (1961) was filed in the negative column.
Peck and Mitchum had opposite approaches to their profession, the former diligent and serious, the latter not able to get off a set quickly enough, not even bothering to learn his lines because thanks to a photographic memory he could scan his lines just before a scene began and be word perfect.
Locations were scouted in the Carolinas where MacDonald had set the book, but failing to find anything suitable exteriors were switched to Savannah in Georgia. Where Peck rented a house and went home every night, Mitchum took a room in the DeSoto Hotel and when work was finished for the day went out drinking, an assistant director taken along as ballast to keep him out of trouble. The town held bad memories for Mitchum. Last time he had visited he had been arrested for vagrancy and did a stint on a chain gang, which recollection possibly put steely bitterness in his portrayal of the ex-convict. Although he hated the town, he liked the idea that on his return everyone was kowtowing to the big movie star, including a bevy of hairdressers in town for a convention.
Fortunately, the Savanah sojourn was short, bad weather getting in the way, barely two weeks before the unit repaired to Hollywood (some of the boat scenes were filmed around Ventura but the climactic fight took place on the studio lake) where the production overshot its schedule by a month, wrapping on July 5 instead of June 8, and racking up $2.6 million in costs.
Mitchum appeared determined to demonstrate quite how different their approaches were. In one scene, off camera, Mitchum stripped naked to get a reaction from the stolid co-star, who remained immune to such provocation. In reality, Mitchum was very professional. “He would work perfectly,” said Thompson. “He just goes in and does it. He was superb.”
Though far from a Method Actor, Mitchum was chillingly close to the part. “I live character and this character drinks and rapes,” he confessed. During the scenes of violence he worked himself up. “He made people frightened,” acknowledged Thompson.
And that included Peck, especially during the slugfest in the water which took nearly a week of a night shoot to complete. Despite warmers being put in the water, it was freezing. “Sometimes, Mitchum overstepped the line,” said Thompson. “He was meant to be drowning Greg and he really took it to the limit…but Peck never complained.”
The final scene filmed was the rape of Polly Bergen playing Peck’s wife. Bare-chested and sweating, Mitchum built himself up into a fury. “You felt any moment he would explode,” said Thompson. “But there was no rehearsal, so nobody really knew what to expect. Thompson improvised the business with the eggs. But Mitchum was more brutal with the eggs than could ever be shown in a cinema, smearing the yolk over Bergen’s breasts. He cut his arm flailing wildly and he used the actress to break open the cabin door, so she finished the scene with the front of her dress sodden with egg yolk and the back covered in blood.”
While Peck expressed confidence in director J. Lee Thompson and could count on Mitchum’s experience to see him through, female lead Polly Bergen was making her first film in eight years, after a small part in western Escape from Fort Bravo (1953) starring William Holden. She had come to wider attention for winning an Emmy for The Helen MorganStory (1958).
“Greg spent an enormous amount of time with me,” said a nervous Bergen, “He was wonderful and he was very, very supportive.” She added, “I wouldn’t have let anyone know how insecure and frightened I was. But he, I think, knew that instinctively and was there to set me at ease and be helpful and nurturing.”
Peck had no worries about Thompson, the situation helped by the director appearing to take the line the producer-star wanted. When it came to editing, Peck played fair with Mitchum, resisting the temptation to tone down his co-star’s performance which threatened to overshadow his own.
The censors were livid. They eliminated all mention of the word “rape”, removed most of Mitchum’s ogling of Peck’s daughter and cut to the bone the sexual assault.
While critics tended to agree that Mitchum stole the show, the movie was mauled by the New York Herald-Tribune as a “masochistic exercise” and the New Yorker took Peck to task for becoming involved in “an exercise in sadism.”
Initially, it appeared to be doing well enough. There was a “big” $37,000 in New York, a “giant” $29,000 in Chicago, a “fancy” $14,000 in Cleveland, a “rousing” $18,000 in San Francisco and a “proud” $14,000 in Boston. But the “expectancy of lush performance” did not materialize. Final tally was $1.6 million in rentals, a poor 47th in the annual box office rankings, so there were no profits for Peck or Mitchum to share.
The British censor demanded five minutes of cuts. Thompson made headlines by claiming that 161 individual cuts, a record, had destroyed the film but censor John Trevelyan argued it was just 15. Despite claiming the movie would not be shelved until the controversy had died down, in fact it lost its May 1962 premiere slot at the Odeon Leicester Square in London’s West End and was held back until the following January when it opened at the less prestigious Odeon Marble Arch, setting a record for a Universal release. Bergen was furious at the cuts in her role. “I really blasted British censorship.”
Ironically, Peck made more money from selling the rights to Martin Scorsese for the 1991 remake, in which he had a small part, and whether it’s the Peck estate or Scorsese who benefits there’s a 10-part mini-series on the way starring Patrick Wilson (The Conjuring: Last Rites, 2025) as the attorney, Amy Adams (Nightbitch, 2024) as his wife and Javier Bardem (Dune, Part Two, 2024) as their tormentor.
SOURCES: Gary Fishgall, Gregory Peck, A Biography (Scribner, 2002) pp197-198, 208, 225-228; Lee Server, Robert Mitchum, Baby, I Don’t Care (Faber & Faber, 2001) p43-437; “Peck-Bartlett Spanish Pic Halts,” Variety, February 13, 1957, p2; “U Gets Melville Pair,” Variety, July 29, 1959, p18; “U Repacts Bartlett,” Variety, September 28, 1960, p4; “Director of Cape Fear Claims British Censor Demands Too Many Cuts,” Variety, May 9, 1962, p26; “Censor Replies to J. Lee Thompson,” Kine Weekly, June 28, 1962, p6; “Classification-Plus-Mutilation,” Variety, December 19, 1962, p5; “Your Films,” Kine Weekly, February 7, 1963, p14. Box Office figures: Variety April-May 1962 and “Big Rental Pictures of 1962,” Variety, January 9, p13,
Portraying legal poster boy Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird (1962) might well have been an act of redemption for Gregory Peck after his portrayal, a few months earlier, of this attorney who has little compunction in walking down the same mean streets as the criminals he wishes to see put away. And it just goes to show how thin the line is between upstanding façade and killer, no matter the excuse or provocation.
Attorney Sam Bowden (Gregory Peck) isn’t permitted as much leeway as you might expect when ex-con Max Cody (Robert Mitchum) turns up in his small town. This could as easily have played out as the virtuously good guy and family being hounded by a thug who would have spent most of his life being prosecuted for crimes except his victims usually failed to bring charges on account of their fear of retribution. Trigger the animal in him for sexual purposes and you’re lighting a fuse that leads directly to violence.
From the audience perspective, the cards should have been stacked against the villain, but that’s not the case here, not when the good guy begins to act more and more like a bad guy, persecuting him, through his police connections, with a string of arrests for crimes of which he is innocent, unable to put the finger on him for the vicious assault he does commit and generally been outwitted by a fella who knows the law a damn sight more than the lawyer.
Bowden isn’t your usual harassed victim, standing up stoutly against criminality, but a man crumbling under pressure and the frustration of being out-thought by the enemy and itching to get it over with the easiest way possible by finding an excuse to kill the perpetrator.
So, yes, if you’re that way inclined, you can view it as an attack on the American justice system that allows villains with criminal intent not to be incarcerated for considering committing a crime. But that’s not the way it plays out, not when Bowden uses every sleazy trick in the legal book to head off Cody, eventually attempting bribery, and when that doesn’t work hiring a gang of thugs to beat him up and when that also fails planning how to draw him into the kind of trap that would allow legal assassination.
So, now Bowden’s every bit as devious as his pursuer and much worse because he’s willing to stake out wife and daughter as bait for a known sexual predator. He seems to have no inkling of the fate that could be in store for his family should his clever plan go wrong and little compunction or remorse about the criminal intent in his own mind.
Back in the day it would have been easier to accept this kind of narrative, that you can step outside the law to protect your family (a trope that would burn through the 1970s once the vigilante was represented by the likes of Charles Bronson and others), but a contemporary audience is more likely to take a more jaundiced view of the good guy “forced” into bad action. Instead of hiring a private detective (Telly Savalas) to keep tabs on Cody, Bowden could as easily invest – and he has more than enough money – in a security guard to watch over the house and family.
So, even as we’re fearing for wife Peggy (Polly Bergen0 and teenage daughter Nancy (Lori Martin) we’re beginning to put the blame for their plight plumb on the shoulders of the upstanding lawyer who thinks he’s smarter than the most dangerous villain this side of Hannibal Lecter.
If there’s a happy ending, you’re left with wondering just what the heck that’s going to look like. Bowden has allowed his wife to be raped and his daughter scared so witless she’ll be mentally scarred for life, and him unemployable, courtesy of being struck off for breaking the law.
And this is all filmed in classic noir style, moody lighting, shadows and darkness squeezing out what little light there is, emphasizing the danger that lurks on the dark side. And a terrific showdown on a boat. But director J Lee Thompson (The Guns of Navarone, 1961) does just as well without going down the obvious noir route. Robert Mitchum never just strolls. He walks with intent, combining panther walk and erect carriage. So, the tracking shots of him approaching the camera, and therefore some potential victim, are enough to give the audience the message.
Robert Mitchum (The Sundowners, 1960) steals the show with his quiet menace and soft drawl. This appeared before How the West Was Won (1962) where Gregory Peck played a con man and after The Guns of Navarone (1961) where he played the action hero’s hero, so this would be the first audience had seen of a switch in the actor’s screen persona. Usually, he’s the guy who can handle pressure.
Polly Bergen (Kisses for My President, 1964) is excellent as is Lori Martin (The Chase, 1966) whose default early on, for narrative purposes, is fear. Look out for Martin Balsam (The Anderson Tapes, 1971) as a complicit cop and Telly Savalas (The Assassination Bureau, 1969).
Superbly directed by J. Lee Thompson. Written by James R. Webb (How the West Was Won) from the novel by John D. MacDonald (Darker than Amber, 1970).
The Magnificent 60s 