Hubert Cornfield – The Magnificent 60s

Pressure Point (1962) ****

Central to this under-rated tale of psychopathy and racism is one extraordinary scene, possibly the most exceptional bar-room sequence ever filmed. In the annals of imaginative repulsion, it ranks alongside the rape committed by Alex and his “droogs” in Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971). It begins with mere intimidation as an unnamed young man (Bobby Darin) begins to etch into a bar-counter the lines and symbols of Tic-Tac-Toe (aka Knots & Crosses or Noughts and Crosses). Discovering tins of paint, the man and his gang proceed to cover the entire bar – floor, walls, ceiling, even tables – with the same symbols.

The humiliation is ratcheted up a notch when, after forcing the tavern owner (Howard Caine) to lie on the floor behind the counter, the bar hostess (Mary Munday), rigid with fear, is tormented. Using lipstick rifled from her handbag, the young man decorates her face in the same fashion before pulling down the back of her dress and doing the same there. Fortunately, the scene – although unlikely the reality – ends at this point.

Other potent scenes show how the man arrived at his crazed state, smothered with affection by a weak mother (Anne Barton) who has taken to bed by choice in order to escape his drunken, raucous father (James Anderson) who taunts his ineffective wife by flaunting to her face his casual pick-ups and making love to them in the same room. Indicative of the lonely child’s disturbed personality is that when he invents an imaginary playmate, it is to have someone to subjugate, making his fictional friend lick his boots.

Imprisoned during the Second World War for sedition, the man, suffering from blackouts and nightmares – in which he imagines himself clinging to the edge of a giant plughole before being swept away by a torrent of water from the taps – becomes a patient of a young, also unnamed, doctor (Sidney Poitier) whom he subjects to racial abuse. The doctor, physically bigger and more imposing than the patient, would like to simply give him a good thumping, but his profession necessitates that he treats this objectionable person as just another patient. And eventually they come to enough of a concord that the patient accepts treatment although the doctor suspects that his core personality has not changed.

The movie is layered with themes other than psychopathy and psychiatry. While the racist element is to the fore, including the doctor’s need to prove himself in a white man’s world, director Hubert Cornfield also explores the growth of right-wing extremism among the disaffected who see no contradiction in still espousing traditional American values, for example giving the Nazi salute while singing in all sincerity the national anthem. The African American doctor has to come to terms with lack of objectiveness when dealing with such an abhorrent person.

The movie flits between scenes between the two protagonists staged in a stagey manner and expressionistic almost dreamlike sequences representing the patient’s upbringing such as being menaced by his butcher father among the swinging carcasses of the store. The patient flashbacks are shown without dialog, explanation given in voice-over – far more potent use of this device than in Nothing but the Best (1964) – by either the patient or the doctor.

Reliance on visual dexterity, however, detracts from the tension and director Hubert Cornfield (The 3^rd Voice, 1960) is also hampered by an unnecessary framing device which results in the story being told in flashback – and a conflation of flashbacks: of Poitier’s problems as a young doctor dealing with a difficult patent and the patient’s own life story. So the pressure indicated by the title is often undercut and does not build as much as you might expect. Critical reaction in those days pivoted on the racism elements, but a contemporary audience is almost certainly going to be more influenced by sequences involving the patient, so the picture automatically becomes more involved and Cornfield’s visual mastery more appreciated.

You can detect the influence of producer Stanley Kramer. In his capacity as director he had explored psychiatric therapy and antisemitism in Home of the Brave (1949) and racism in The Defiant Ones (1958) also with Poitier. As producer he was responsible not only for selection of the original material, based on a short story The Fifty-Minute Hour by Robert M. Lindner, but also imposing the present-day framing device, which Kramer wrote, on the picture. Those scenes relate to another psychiatrist (Peter Falk) coming to a much older and experienced Poitier for advice after hitting a brick wall with a similarly repugnant patient, Poitier telling the story of his treatment of the Bobby Darin patient as a way of showing that even the worst patients are treatable.

This is quite a different Sidney Poitier than you might be used to. Wearing suit and tie, and spectacles, this is a more restrained, measured performance. Poitier’s taboo-busting Oscar nomination for The Defiant Ones had not progressed his career that much, still restricted to starring roles in low-budget pictures. But Kramer broke another taboo in Poitier’s favor with this one, casting him a role not initially written as an African American.

Bobby Darin (Come September, 1961) had parlayed his status as hit recording artist into a burgeoning movie career but does not quite display the menace necessary for a fully-fledged psycho. Peter Falk (Machine Gun McCain, 1969) has a small one-tone role. The jazz-nuanced music by Ernest Gold (Exodus, 1961) is worth a listen. And if someone can tell me who designed the striking credit sequence, I would be very pleased.

Tic-Tac-Toe, in case you are unfamiliar with this two-person childhood game, consists of drawing lines to create nine squares and filling those with either a zero or a cross. The object of the exercise is to create a complete line of either symbols.

Still very powerful.

Angel Baby (1961) ***

Stunning cast – George Hamilton, Burt Reynolds, Mercedes McCambridge, Joan Blondell – in low-rent version of that ode to evangelism Elmer Gantry (1960) but here focusing on misplaced zeal and corruptible innocence. Strikes a contemporary note with “MeToo” reversal – elder woman grooming a choir boy – and fake news, how else to describe public gullibility for the so-called miracles that were the stock-in-trade of the revivalist business.

Would have been an interesting addition to the portfolio of the erratic director Hubert Cornfield (Pressure Point, 1962 a high, but Night of the Following Day, 1969, a low) except he took ill and passed the reins to Paul Wendkos (Guns of The Magnificent Seven, 1969).

Takes an interesting narrative slant, the three original principals bowing out after a strong start, leaving the way free for the titular character to come unstuck in the sleazy world of religious make-believe before they all turn up again for a rip-roaring finale.

Young charismatic preacher Paul (George Hamilton) is at odds with his dominating older wife Sarah (Mercedes McCambridge). She is all hellfire-and-brimstone while he wants to preach about love. They are in an “unholy marriage,” he plucked from the choir as a teenager and molded by her, her invocations to prayer always accompanied by sex, and once Jenny Angel (Salome Jens), a mute he heals and with an unwelcome boyfriend Hoke (Burt Reynolds), appears on the scene he begins to question his sexual and religious grooming.

Recognizing a love rival, Sarah bribes ambitious couple, resident alcoholics Mollie (Joan Blondell) and Ben (Henry Jones), to take her on and they, in turn, trade her to Sam (Roger Clark) who turns her unfulfilled potential as a preacher into box office dynamite by capitalizing first on her beauty, low-cut gowns emphasizing her physical attributes, and then by fake healings, not realizing, in his greed, that a preacher who can make reputedly make the blind see is asking for trouble.

Having seen the error of his way, Paul chases after Angel, Sarah chases after Paul and Hoke just happens to be in vicinity to ensure it all ends in colossal disaster, though with an unusual twist ending.

But it’s surprisingly good in an old-fashioned way. The depiction of the corrupt evangelists and, more importantly, the spiritual and actual poverty of the congregations, desperately looking for salvation, occasionally blaming God for their woes, and hoping sheer blind faith will see them through, is well done, even if Paul’s preaching sails close to the unsavory, with rather lewd accompaniments.

Jenny’s conviction in the face of initial failure that she can bring solace to the people is also believable. All innocence, no idea she is being duped, she simply perseveres, undaunted at the scale of her task, faced with dozens of critically-ill expecting cure.

Sam’s real scam is selling some kind of miracle potion that Jenny has apparently endorsed, the phone ringing off the hook with customers wishing to buy it once the preacher’s fame spreads. He, too, despite apparently God-fearing ways, is partial to liquor.

Given Jenny never doubts her vocation, you’d expect an innocence-sized hole at the center of the drama, but that’s filled up by the growing conflict between Paul and Sarah and a very humorous section dealing with the idiotic Mollie and Ben, especially in an inspired drunken scene.

It could easily have been a more cynical take on the dumb audience, so easily taken in, but instead, they are presented as individuals at the end of their tether with nowhere else to go but the Almighty in the hope that the burden of living terrible lives will be eased. How easily they are manipulated is no surprise.

George Hamilton (A Time for Killing, 1967) is unrecognizable, not just in the acting which at times has the charming creepiness of Anthony Perkins, but because, since this is made in black-and-white, he is devoid of his usual inches-thick tan. I was reminded a lot of Carrie (1976) in that Piper Laurie’s portrayal of the obsessed mother appeared modelled on that of Mercedes McCambridge (99 Women, 1969) as the scary wife and in Sissy Spacek’s imperturbability as she strides through the chaos she has caused that was a throwback to the gait of Salome Jens (Seconds, 1966) as she walks unharmed away from the wreck of her work.

Except for her physical presence, Jens isn’t given sufficient contemplation to make her stand out, and to some extent is just an object of other people’s satisfaction, but is at her best when clearly puzzled that, believing herself touched by God, her initial ministry fails to take off.

Burt Reynolds (Fade In, 1968) makes the kind of debut that would have gone unnoticed had he not a decade later transmogrified into a superstar. Hollywood Golden Age star Joan Blondell (Model Wife, 1941) has a sparkling turn as the blowsy alcoholic who invents Jenny’s stage name of Angel Baby.

Paul Wendkos makes the whole thing work by concentrating on two-character scenes, limited movement creating intensity, that works equally well for conflict and humor, while deftly managing the crowd scenes and pulling off the unexpected ending. Took considerable effort to knock Elsie Oakes Barber’s novel into shape, three screenwriters, neophytes in the main, involved – Orin Borstein in his debut and only screenplay, Paul Mason, no other screenplay credit until The Ladies Club (1986) and Samuel Roeca (Fluffy, 1965).

An interesting watch, not just for the cast, but as a reminder that it’s never too difficult to dupe a willing audience.

Pressure Point (1962) ****

Central to this under-rated tale of psychopathy and racism is one extraordinary scene, possibly the most exceptional bar-room sequence ever filmed. In the annals of imaginative repulsion, it ranks alongside the rape committed by Alex and his “droogs” in Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971). It begins with mere intimidation as an unnamed young man (Bobby Darin) begins to etch into a bar counter the lines and symbols of Tic-Tac-Toe (a.k.a. Knots & Crosses or Noughts and Crosses). Discovering tins of paint, the man and his gang proceed to cover the entire bar – floor, walls, ceiling, even tables – with the same symbols.

The humiliation is ratcheted up a notch when the gang leader forces tavern owner (Howard Caine) to lie on the floor behind the counter where he cannot see the bar hostess (Mary Munday), rigid with fear, being tormented. Using lipstick rifled from her handbag, the man decorates her face in the same fashion before pulling down the back of her dress and doing the same there. Fortunately, the rest of the scene, presumably ending in rape, is left to our imagination.

*Italian poster showing image from the Tic-Tac-Toe scene.* *A variation of this was shown in the main image which removed the domineering man and concentrated on the humiliated woman.*

Other potent scenes show how the man arrived at his crazed state, smothered with affection by a weak mother (Anne Barton) who has taken to bed in order to escape his drunken, raucous father (James Anderson) who taunts his ineffective wife by flaunting in her face his casual pick-ups and making love to them in the same room. Indicative of the lonely child’s disturbed personality is that when he invents an imaginary playmate, it is to have someone to subjugate, making his fictional friend lick his boots.

*The U.S. poster was different to that used in Italy. This is pretty much a straight rip-off of “The Defiant Ones” (1958).*

The movie is layered with themes other than psychopathy and psychiatry. While the racist element is to the fore, including the doctor’s need to prove himself in a white man’s world, and the lack of diversity in this particular medical field at that time, director Hubert Cornfield also explores the growth of right-wing extremism among the disaffected who see no contradiction in still espousing traditional American values, for example giving the Nazi salute while singing in all sincerity the national anthem. The African American doctor has to come to terms with lack of objectiveness when dealing with such an abhorrent person.

The movie flits between scenes between the two protagonists staged in a stagey manner and expressionistic almost dreamlike sequences representing the patient’s upbringing such as being menaced by his butcher father among the swinging carcasses of the store. The patient flashbacks are shown without dialogue, explanation given in voice-over by either the patient or the doctor.

*The father torments the mother by bringing a casual pick-up to their bedroom.*

Reliance on visual dexterity, however, detracts from the tension and director Hubert Cornfield (The 3^rd Voice, 1960) is also hampered by an unnecessary framing device which results in the story being told in flashback – leading to a conflation of flashbacks: the older Poitier explaining his earlier problems dealing with a difficult patent and listening in turn to the patient’s own life story. So the pressure indicated by the title is often undercut and does not build as much as you might expect. Critical reaction in those days pivoted on the racism elements, but a contemporary audience is almost certainly going to be as influenced by sequences involving the patient, so the picture automatically becomes more involved and Cornfield’s visual mastery more appreciated.

You can detect the influence of producer Stanley Kramer. In his capacity as director he had explored psychiatric therapy and anti-semitism in Home of the Brave (1949) and racism in The Defiant Ones (1958) also with Poitier. As producer he was responsible not only for selection of the original material, based on a short story The Fifty-Minute Hour by Robert M. Lindner, but also imposed the framing device, which Kramer wrote. Those scenes relate to another psychiatrist (Peter Falk) coming to a much older and experienced Poitier for advice after hitting a brick wall with a similarly repugnant patient, Poitier telling the story of his treatment of the Bobby Darin patient as a way of showing that even the worst patients are treatable.

Bobby Darin (Come September, 1961) had parlayed his status as hit recording artist into a burgeoning movie career but does not quite display the menace necessary for a fully-fledged psycho. The likes of Richard Widmark would have been a more convincing adversary. Peter Falk (Machine Gun McCain, 1969) has a small one-tone role. The jazz-nuanced music by Ernest Gold (Exodus, 1961) is worth a listen. And if someone can tell me who designed the striking credit sequence I would be very pleased.

Incidentally, the title of Lindner’s short story is ironic. Patients pay for one hour of a psychiatrist’s time but in reality only receive 50 minutes in order for the professional to achieve a swift turnaround and keep his/her appointment timetable scheduled to the hour. Tic-Tac-Toe, in case you are unfamiliar with this two-person childhood game, consists of drawing lines to create nine squares and filling those with either a zero or a cross. The object of the exercise is to create a complete line of either symbols.

Catch-Up: Sidney Poitier films previously reviewed in the Blog are The Long Ships (1964), The Bedford Incident (1965) and Duel at Diablo (1966).