movie review – Page 20 – The Magnificent 60s

The Finger Man / Le Doulos (1962) *****

Stunning tour de force combining narrative complexity with technical audacity. Set up the template for later crime epics like Reservoir Dogs (1992) and The Usual Suspects (1995) and influenced Scorsese and Coppola. For the likes of me who revels in technical achievement, a delight, long tracking shots, two scenes over five minutes long shot in single takes, and rare use of the wipe. But technique is nothing without story. Luckily, here we are offered a riveting tale of double crossing, honor, revenge and that rare beast, irony. There’s a veritable tsunami of twists at the end but all the way through there’s the kind of sleight-of-hand that deserves a round of applause.

Jean-Pierre Melville hadn’t named his picture The Informer for the obvious reason of it being considered, erroneously, a remake of the John Ford 1935 Oscar-winning classic or just the danger of being unfavorably compared with it. But the pre-credit titles tell us that Le Doulos is underworld slang for an informer so we’re prepared for that element of the story. What we’re not prepared for is what comes next.

Maurice (Serge Reggiani), just out of prison after serving a six-year sentence, turns up at the house of fence Gilbert (Rene Lefevre) who’s helped him get back on his feet by setting him up with a safe-cracking job. Gilbert is appraising a cache of stolen jewels. Maurice shoots him, steals the jewels and a bundle of cash, burying the loot under a lamppost.

Maurice meets up with his partner Remy (Philippe Nahon) and another gangster Silien (Jean-Paul Belmondo), previously considered untrustworthy, who supplies the tools for the planned heist. While Maurice and Remy set off to burgle a house, Silien phones a cop, Inspector Salignari (Daniel Crohem). Silien viciously beats up Maurice’s girlfriend Therese (Monique Hennessey) and kills her.

The robbery doesn’t go according to plan, the cops turning up unexpectedly. In the shoot-out, Salignari and Remy are killed, Maurice wounded. Maurice passes on details of where he buried the loot to another buddy Jean (Philippe Marche).

Silien is picked up by the police as a known associate of Maurice. The interrogation scene, which lasts five or six minutes, is a piece of cinematic bravura. Shot in a single take the camera follows chief interrogator Clain (Jean Desailly) as he paces round the room, Silien only coming into view when the cop stops in front of him and asks him a question. While refusing to rat on Maurice, Silien agrees, under pressure from the cops who threaten to expose his drug racket, to phone around the various bars where Maurice might be holing up. This triggers another virtuoso piece of filmmaking as Melville employs the wipe. Maurice is located, reading a newspaper report on Therese’s death.

There follows another colossal technical achievement, Maurice interviewed in another long single take, this time the interrogator pacing in front of the prisoner. Maurice is jailed, where he shares a cell with an assassin.

Meanwhile, Silien gets hold of the jewels and cash. He enrols old girlfriend Fabienne (Fabienne Dali), currently the unhappy squeeze of top gangster and club owner Nuttheccio (Michel Piccoli), and hatches a scheme that makes little sense to the audience. So we just have to watch. Silien breaks into Nutthecio’s club and in the guise of selling the gangster the jewels gets him to hold some of the items, thus, we quickly realize, covering them with his fingerprints.

Silien kills Nuttheccio then waits for the club-owner’s partner Armand (Jacques de Leon) to arrive, kills him and stages the scene to look like they killed each other over the jewels which he deposits in the safe. One of the jewels was found at the failed robbery so that’s enough to free Maurice.

Then we play out the revelation, the same kind of scenario repeated in The Usual Suspects, where the audience learns the truth. Therese was the snitch. That’s why she was killed. Gilbert was shot by Maurice because the dealer in stolen goods had drowned Maurice’s previous girlfriend Arletty. Even though you could argue that was justified, Maurice not being a good judge of character and not aware, as Gilbert was, that Arletty was also a police informer.

It was pure coincidence that Silien phoned Salignari on the night of the burglary. Despite being on opposite sides of the law, they were friends and the gangster was merely inviting the cop to dinner.

Silien proves to be such a straight-up guy that he hands all the stolen cash to Maurice. Silien plans to get out of the business and retire with Fabienne to a house in the country. Then we learn that Maurice has distrusted Silien after all and arranged for the assassin he met in jail to kill Silien. To try and prevent that, he races to the country house, fortuitously arriving before Silien and is, ironically, shot by the assassin. When Silien arrives shortly afterwards he, with more savage irony, is also despatched.

I watched this initially thinking what a huge risk Jean-Paul Belmondo (Borsalino, 1970) was taking in playing, as I initially believed, not just a police informer, but stealing from Maurice the buried loot and leading the police to him. It would have been a hell of a note if the narrative had continued in the same hard-nosed vein especially after Silien’s absolutely brutal treatment of Therese. The slap he administered came out of nowhere and resounded like a gunshot. He then tied her up, again venomously, and poured a bottle of whisky over her head.

That it turned out to be a story of honor among thieves was perhaps the biggest twist of all.

Jean-Paul Belmondo is outstanding in an underplayed role, Serge Reggiani (The Leopard, 1963) convincing as the two-timing crook.

Deservedly recognized as one of the most influential crime pictures of all time, this is nothing short of a masterpiece by Jean-Pierre Melville (Army of Shadows, 1969). Written by the director from the novel by Pierre Lesou.

Beg, borrow or steal this one.

You Can’t Win ‘Em All (1970) ***

Charles Bronson travelogue. Slowest action picture you will ever come across. Director Peter Collinson forgets all he learned about tension from The Penthouse (1967) and action from The Italian Job (1969) and in trying to create a Turkish version of the visual delights of David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962) comes a cropper, not least because he hasn’t counted on the dust resulting in endless scenes of men on horseback being obscured. There must be about 10-15 minutes of just travelling by horse, train and boat through boring scenery.

There’s an interesting story in here somewhere but you’ll need all your patience to stick with it. Soldiers of fortune Adam (Tony Curtis) and Josh (Charles Bronson) are the type of characters who buddy up one minute and stitch each other up the next. Their attitudes are ingrained from the outset – Josh robs shipwrecked Adam who takes revenge by stealing his boat. They team up to take advantage of the chaos ensuing in Turkey in 1922 following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, setting themselves up as mercenaries before their small force of like-minded fellows, armed with Tommy guns, is hired by Governor Osman Bey (Gregoire Aslan) to escort a consignment of gold to Cairo. They soon discover that’s just a cover. The only gold on the gold bars is as much as it takes to provide a golden sheen to blocks of lead. There are actually more valuable prizes: Bey’s daughters and a trunk of priceless jewellery.

So far, they’ve beaten off various attacks, the submachine guns making short work of rebels armed only with rifles, and this looks as if it’s heading into fairly standard territory whereby the scoundrels will evade their captors and make off with the loot. But halfway through it does a U-turn. We discover that Adam is actually in the country to repossess one of his father’s ships lost in World War One. This is tweaked into an important plot point – the Turks have been blockaded by the Brits but a ship flying an American flag would be permitted safe passage.

Then it twists on its axis once again and we’re dropped into femme fatale land. The daughters are being escorted by the beautiful but wily Aila (Michele Mercier). She’s a step up from the usual two-timing female of the species. She’s a three-timer, attempting to woo in turn the governor, Adam and Josh. Actually, she returns to two-timing when she knifes the governor to death. And her plans go awry when Josh rejects her advances with a vicious slap.

Even so, he’s not averse to teaming up with her to betray Adam and make off with the loot. Adam, who has considered himself worldly wise, is furious and eventually traces Josh and Aila to the port of Smyrna.

It doesn’t end well, Josh and Adam are captured. But then it does end well. Aila, revealed as a spy, negotiates their freedom. After all, inadvertently, they helped her to transport the real treasure, an ancient Koran, while keeping the jewels for herself.

Leo Gordon (Tobruk, 1967) has penned a very wayward screenplay. Charles Bronson (Farewell, Friend, 1968) and Tony Curtis (The Boston Strangler, 1968) play well off each other, occasionally exchanging decent quips, with the kind of personalities that might congeal into an acceptable screen pairing, guys, while minus an honor code, who don’t stray into unacceptable behaviour. And it might have worked equally as well if the Michele Mercier (Angelique, 1964) strand had been introduced at the beginning and we had a three-way romantic dilemma. But director Collinson takes forever to get the two elements of the tale to mesh and wastes countless minutes, as previously noted, as our heroes laboriously grind their way towards their destination. The introduction of Mercier – sudden light catching her eyes in the darkness – is the only composition of note. And while Bronson and Curtis are a sparky pairing most of the time they flounder in an incomprehensible tale.

You can either catch this on YouTube and have your viewing interrupted by an advert every two minutes or on Amazon Prime where such interference is minimal.

Mosquito Squadron (1969) ****

Surprisingly somber, unusually reflective and exceptionally well-constructed. Except for taking the easy way out at the end, could easily have found itself in the classic finale stakes in the same league as Casablanca (1942) or The Third Man (1949) where true love is thwarted. More than enough aerial action for aficionados and an excellent battle sequence.

In addition we have that very contemporary trope of the human shield and the argument by British officers of obeying orders that would take on a different significance from the enemy perspective at the end of World War Two. Throw in an unexpected slug of guilt, a number of understated scenes, and a very clever wheeze from the Germans and you have a movie that rises well above the standard programmer.

Quint Munroe (David McCallum) is an orphan, taken in at a young age by the family of Squadron Leader “Scottie” Scott (David Buck) whom he regards as a brother. Also a pilot, Quint watches Scottie’s plane explode in a bombing raid over France. Next in line for promotion, Quint, with the usual survivor’s guilt, takes over.

In the first of the sequences that are notably out of place in a standard gung-ho World War Two picture, Quint is sent to tell the bad news to Scottie’s wife Beth (Suzanne Neve). He doesn’t have to say a word. She recognizes the look on his face. Quint had barely escaped from his own burning cockpit, a fact that’s gone unreported to Beth, but when she comes to her husband’s quarters at the air base, she gasps at the burn marks on the back of his jacket. There are four or five instances, again understated, in this scene when Beth is brutally reminded of her husband’s death. And Quint’s colleague Douglas (David Dundas) rejoices in the fact that he’s lost an arm because that’s saved his life, it’s his “ticket” to remain earthbound, and he can safely get married in the knowledge his wife won’t be receiving a knock on the door anytime soon.

This is a mission picture in case you haven’t noticed from my concentration on the other more interesting aspects of the movie. The RAF needs to bomb an experimental station developing the next range of German rockets that’s buried underneath a chateau in France. Flattening the area in the normal fashion won’t do it, the bombers need to be able to hit a very small target indeed, the entrance of the secret hideaway. So they turn to a version of Barnes Wallis bouncing bomb (see The Dam Busters, 1955) and have to practise like billy-oh against a very tight deadline to hit such a target.

Meanwhile…meanwhie…meanwhile. There are three dramatic meanwhiles. Quint begins an understated romance with Beth, he filled with remorse at stealing his dead pal’s wife, she less concerned because there was a hint of earlier romance between them. The Germans protect the chateau behind a human shield of captured RAF pilots. In carrying out the attack, the pilots are condemning colleagues to death, a worry knocked on its head by the gung-ho likes of Air Commodore Hufford (Charles Gray), but other more sensitive high-ranking officers resort to the “obeying orders” routine. Final twist: among the prisoners is Scottie.

Nobody outside the base is permitted to know about the prisoners in case taking such an action damages public morale, so now Quint is in a bind. There’s a final twist to the twists – Scottie has lost his memory so badly that even if he could return to Britain it’s doubtful if he would know who Beth was, though, of course, they would still be married, so that would scupper Quint’s chances unless the story went onto a fourth act in the vein of Random Harvest (1942).

The French Resistance are called in to launch a daring raid to free the prisoners and assuage guilt all-round. Quint is shot down and joins the brutal battle action in which, as predicted by Hufford, the escapees are mown down by superior German firepower. He finds Scottie, who doesn’t recognize him at all. Scottie is also of the gung-ho brigade and dies stopping a German tank.

Meanwhile, Douglas has got into trouble for telling too many people about the prisoners. He’s very good friends with Beth.

You can see the cinematic opportunity. Quint returns knowing he is free to marry Beth only to find Beth turns away from him because he went on an expedition that could kill her husband. But the producers bottle it and go for the happy ending instead.

David McCallum (Sol Madrid/The Heroin Gang, 1968) remains in low gear throughout, and though Suzanne Neve (Naked Evil, 1966) more than makes up for him, you would wonder at the wife of a dead pilot taking up with another flier who could end up the same way.

Director Boris Sagal (Made in Paris, 1966) is to be commended for spending so much time on the themes of guilt and loss and keeping reality to the forefront. Some of the sequences have been stolen from other movies or are stock footage. Written by Donald S. Sanford (The Thousand Plane Raid, 1969) and actress Joyce Perry in her big screen debut.

Raises far more issues than the normal war movie, certainly blown away at the box office by the bigger-budgeted all-star-cast Battle of Britain the same year, but more than holds its own, and if it had been an American low-budgeter with some better-known lesser stars would have probably been re-evaluated long before now.

Impressive.

A New Kind of Love (1963) ***

Just about scrapes by, small thanks to Paul Newman’s atrocious Texan accent, Joanne Woodward’s frightful blonde wig – more Lady Penelope than classy Parisian – and Maurice Chevalier serenading a horde of drunken women. Maurice Chevalier? Well, of course this is Paris and Chevalier always sings regardless of being peripheral to the story.

Suffers, too, from being a smart-ass picture, in the vain hope of hitting the satirical bullseye taking swipes at everything in sight, from women barging into a sale to haute couture, airline stewardesses, journalism and even Paris. And there’s a string of fantasy sequences that might (or might not) have worked at the time but fail to gell now. Takes forever for the principals to even be brought close enough together to envisage romance and it doesn’t help that that supposedly most eagle-eyed of creatures, the reporter, can’t see through a simple disguise.

Tomboy Sam Blake (Joanne Woodward) is a pirate. Not the swashbuckling kind, leaping through the rigging, which would be worth seeing I’m sure, but the industrial kind, stealing the designs of better designers for a New York department store.

Steve Sherman (Paul Newman) is piratical, stealing other people’s wives. When his latest conquest turns out to be married to his boss, he is shifted off to Paris as – punishment? Yep, you can see the awry thinking behind this one.

Meanwhile, Sam and a gang from her store, boss Joe (George Tobias) and colleague Lena (Thelma Ritter), are off to Paris on a spying expedition to the annual fashion shows. Lena has her eyes on romance with the boss but is beaten to that prize by the glamorous Felicienne (Eva Gabor). Sam isn’t interested in romance. She’s a career woman, or in the parlance of the day, a “semi-virgin” (though I suspect that description was a screenwriter’s invention). Neither is Steve, for that matter, at least not of the long-lasting kind, he’s happily tearing around with a woman on each arm, enjoying the more nefarious sights of the French capital while Sam is knee deep in work.

After Sam gets a makeover, complete with long cigarette-holder Lady Penelope style, resulting in the bouffant hair style and is sitting in a café, she is approached by Steve who, assuming she is a high-class courtesan, attempts to interview her for the article he hopes will save his job. They’ve bumped into each other, she disdaining his obvious approaches, a couple of times but then she was rigged out in a short haircut and dark glasses. And this is such a complete transformation he doesn’t recognize her. And, in order to make this movie work, the audience has to play along.

As does Sam, keeping up the pretense of being a high-class hooker in order to get her revenge on the man she despises. The fictions she dishes up, of dalliances with powerful men, are published in his column and their success ensures he’s not fired. Felicienne is edged out of the way, revealed as previously a sex worker, so Lena can make her play for Joe.

Before that ploy can work, Steve sets up Sam with Joe who sees through the disguise. There’s a whole bundle of other unlikely shenanigans before we reach the compulsory happy ending.

Hollywood was fairly enamored with the sex worker or goodtime girl – Never on Sunday (1960), Butterfield 8 (1960), Irma La Douce (1963), for example, with the Oscars chipping in to show their support – and another (yes, this had been done before) comedic twist seemed to offer potential especially with two big stars going all risqué.

Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963) never quite worked out how to manage comedy until Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) where he maintained his usual persona and just delivered the lines rather than trying to wring laughs out of them. He also has a bad habit of trying to demonstrate character by fidgeting, so his face, eyes and hands are all over the place.

Joanne Woodward (A Big Hand for the Little Lady/ Big Deal in Dodge City, 1966) is better value initially but when she takes on the disguise there’s too much of the knowing wink. Six-time Oscar nominee Thelma Ritter (Boeing, Boeing, 1965) has a better idea of how to play comedy by just sticking to the knitting.

Writer-director Melville Shavelson (The Pigeon That Took Rome, 1962) just about makes it work and when it doesn’t throws in sufficient distraction.

Not the Newman-Woodward team’s finest hour.

Hang ‘Em High (1968) ****

Clint Eastwood didn’t waste much time capitalizing on the unexpected success of the Dollars Trilogy. But the first was not released in the United States till 1967 and despite the success of the series across Europe was generally dismissed as a fluke, until American audiences suggested otherwise. The following year Eastwood appeared in three pictures, Hang ‘Em High, Coogan’s Bluff and Where Eagles Dare, which solidified his screen persona as portraying more with a twitch or a raised eyebrow than digging deep into the dialog.

Contrary to my expectations, Hang ‘Em High doesn’t quite fall into the trademark revenge mode of later westerns. It’s somewhat episodic, Jed (Clint Eastwood) often sent off on a tangent by Judge Fenton (Pat Hingle), allowing the lynch mob who failed to hang him in the first place a second chance at completing the job.

*Following the success of the James Bond double bills,*
*United Artists spun out its Clint Eastwood portfolio at every opportunity.*

And while the presence of the second-billed Inger Stevens (Firecreek, 1968) suggests heady romance that doesn’t kick in until the third act and it’s more tentative than anything and its purpose is more, in narrative terms, to provide Jed with a correlative with which to compare his own obsession, bringing to justice the nine men who attempted to kill him.

Just to confuse things, the middle section isn’t about revenge or romance, but about justice. Specifically, it’s about showing that justice will be done, that in the unruly West, with insufficient enforcers of law and order, that crimes will not go unpunished, a gallows on constant display to make the point.

Surprisingly, it’s Jed who argues that some of this justice is just too summarily executed. He tries in vain to prevent the execution of two young rustlers who fell in with one of his potential assassins, Miller (Bruce Dern), but who refuse to take advantage of the situation when Miller overpowers Jed while he’s bringing the trio in to face the judge. Admittedly, they don’t go to his aid either, but the fact they resist piling in allows Jed to escape. However, rustling is a hanging offence, so they cannot escape the noose, certainly not in Fenton’s town.

There’s a switch in the mentality of Jed. Before he’s co-opted by Fenton to return to his former profession of lawman, Jed is of the school of thought that decides to take the law into his own hands. Even wearing a badge, you are allowed to shoot a man stone dead if he’s trying to escape, even if such action is severely hampered by him already being badly wounded, as lawman Bliss (Ben Johnson) demonstrates. But Bliss isn’t as callous as he sounds. He’s a contradiction, too, racing to the aid of Jed dangling in a noose in a tree, freeing him so he can face justice, even if that will most likely result in hanging.

So Jed upholds the law, preventing other citizens from taking the law into their own hands, Miller a target of the family of the owners he slaughtered before making off with their cattle.

We only see shop owner Rachel (Inger Stevens) fleetingly for most of the picture. She appears any time a new wagon load of criminals is jailed, scanning their faces for who knows what, though likely we’ve guessed it’ll be to find the killer of a loved one. Not only has her husband been killed by two strangers but while his corpse is lying on the ground beside her she’s raped. And although she eventually responds to Jed’s gentle moves, she still can’t let go of her “ghosts.”

Jed is put through the wringer. Not only an inch from death following the initial hanging but ambushed again by the same gang and nearly dying of pneumonia after being caught in a storm, the latter incidents permitting the kind of nursing that often fuels romance.

There’s an ironic ending. Captain Wilson (Ed Begley), leader of the gang, hangs himself rather than be shot by Jed.

The score by Dominic Frontiere (Number One, 1969) lurches. We go from heavy-handed villain-on-the-loose music to eminently hummable echoes of Ennio Morricone.

Clint Eastwood reinforces his marquee appeal, Inger Stevens delivers another of her wounded creatures, and Pat Hingle (The Gauntlet, 1977) is an effective foil. Bruce Dern (Castle Keep, 1969) does his best to steal every scene without realizing that over-playing never works in a movie featuring the master of under-playing.

Host of cameos include veterans Ben Johnson (The Undefeated, 1969), Charles McGraw (Pendulum, 1969) and L.Q. Jones (Major Dundee, 1965) plus two who had not lived up to their initial promise in Dennis Hopper (though he would revive his career the following year with Easy Rider) and James MacArthur (Battle of the Bulge, 1965).

Journeyman director Ted Post made a big enough impact for Eastwood to work with him again on Magnum Force (1973). Written by Leonard Freeman (Claudelle Inglish, 1961) and Mel Goldberg (Murder Inc., 1960).

More than satisfactory Hollywood debut for Eastwood and worth checking out to see that even at this early stage he had nailed down his screen persona.

Tarzan Goes to India (1962) ***

Helluva fillip for reissue and credibility purposes to be able to point to the picture being helmed by the director – John Guillermin – of The Towering Inferno (1974), not to mention King Kong (1976) and The Blue Max (1966) – which suggested top-notch skills if not the budget to match. Guillermin, who also had a share in the screenplay, does a pretty good job of tailoring the picture to highlight issues that in others of the series are treated in more comedic fashion and making tremendous use of the location, far more than subsequent directors do with South American scenery. Elephants go mano a mano, Tarzan has a tussle with a leopard, but for sheer realism there’s little to beat a tiny mongoose putting a cobra in its place.

But what could be more timely for today’s audiences than presenting Tarzan (Jock Mahoney) as an eco-warrior. He is brought in to rescue a herd of 300 wild elephants being drowned when a much-needed hydroelectric dam is opened. Dam engineers Bryce (Leo Gordon) and O’Hara (Mark Dana), who show no compunction about the high death rate among the native laborers, are even less concerned about the fate of the elephants especially as have very tight deadline – the onset of the monsoon season – to meet. Princess Kamara (Simi Garewal), daughter of an old friend from Tarzan’s Africa days, is trying to get villagers out of the way as well. She’s not helped by Bryce’s top engineer Raj (Jagdish Raj) who sides with Bryce.

The main problem is that elephants can’t climb hills and are led by Bala, a rogue of the species, whom Tarzan determines he’ll have to eliminate. He’s helped by a small boy Jai who rides his own elephant Gajendra. Jai’s not there for comedic purpose and Tarzan helps him grow up, their bond facilitated by Tarzan saving the ivory-tusked beast from Bryce in white hunter mode.

Baits abound. Tarzan is chained to a tree by Bryce to entice a leopard. The boy is used, again by Bryce, as lure to draw Tarzan out into the open at the climax. Raj changes sides on seeing how cheaply Bryce treats life, but there’s no time for him to get lovey-dovey with the princess. Which is just as well because Tarzan’s got a lot on his plate. His plan to put an arrow through Bala’s brain goes awry, triggering the Gajandra-Bala duel, which is very well done.

Although set in India, this feels more like the real thing than the sojourns in South America. We never see Tarzan in a suit but I don’t think anyone thought to compare his entrance, emerging from a river clad only in loin-cloth, with the other more famous screen entrance of the year, that of Ursula Andress in Dr No. Tarzan does plenty of swimming, even employing the breathing through a reed trick, and swings through the trees, and runs a lot barefoot, and gets to ride on the back of an elephant. The absence of his usual animal sidekicks is no hindrance. His scenes with the young boy are touching rather than sentimental or clumsily jokey. The kid’s pretty smart, which helps.

Kamara’s there merely to help along the subplot rather than for romantic purposes. Given the lean running time (86 minutes) that kind of palaver would only get in the way. This was shot entirely on location, and it shows, no awkward switches to studio set-ups, glorious scenery all the way.

Best of all John Guillermin, who also helmed Tarzan’s Greatest Adventure (1959), knows how to construct a scene, and how to get the best out of actors whose acting skills would not be considered their main attributes. So it looks good whichever way you cut it.

Former stunt man and athlete Jock Mahoney makes the switch from Tarzan nemesis (Tarzan the Magnificent, 1960) to Tarzan with ease. Less muscle-bound than his predecessors, he brings a more mature tone to proceedings, exuding thoughtfulness more than being gung-ho.

One of the better Tarzans of the decade.

The Third Alibi (1961) ***

Sometimes there’s nothing more satisfying than a well-plotted narrative that doesn’t overstay its welcome and comes with a sting – or two – in the tail. And in the B-picture world we can accommodate all sorts of venal characters and even hope – or at least wonder if – they will get away with their nefarious plans.

We might have sympathy for stage composer Norman (Laurence Payne) stuck in a soulless marriage with Helen (Patricia Dainton). Small wonder he seeks spice through an affair with divorced sister-in-law Peggy (Jane Griffiths). After all, being a creative is hard work and we want him to enjoy showbiz success.

But that’s until driving home at night he knocks down an old man and races off without stopping. Luckily, the old fella’s not dead, otherwise it would have been in the papers. But then he’s bounced into asking his wife for a divorce since Peggy has announced she’s pregnant. But Helen isn’t agreeable, not least because of her dislike for her sister. And Helen’s very ill, a heart condition, but for reasons best known to herself, won’t confide this to her husband.

So Norman is left with no alternative but to bump her off. He comes up with a very clever plan that will allow him to pretend not be at home when he kills his wife there and also dreams up one of these clever alibis for Peggy, who’s integral to his plan, by getting her to make a nuisance of herself at the cinema, so everyone recalls her both arriving and departing, allowing her to slip out of the theater for the period of time she needs to assist Norman.

But Helen overhears the conspiracy. And when Norman goes home to shoot his wife, using an unlicensed therefore untraceable pistol provided by Peggy (war heirloom) instead of his own licensed traceable gun, he discovers the house is empty.

*Jazz singer Cleo Laine makes a cameo appearance, as, too, does Dudley Moore*.

When he returns to his lover, he finds her dead, shot through the head. As he rushes out, the police arrive. He’s only a suspect for a short time as his various alibis hold up. Helen appears to be standing by him. But then the police find his gun in the bushes outside the dead woman’s house.

When Helen confesses to the police that her husband has demanded a divorce, that puts her in the firing line. Except she’s got a perfect alibi. She stole the idea from the conspirators, making her visit to the cinema easily remembered by the staff both at the start of the movie and the end. It’s pretty much an unbreakable alibi unless any other witness can finger her.

Norman protests his innocence of course. And the irony is we know he’s innocent, but our sympathies are now with the killer, Helen, which twists around our preconceptions.

After all, not only is she the injured party in the romantic stakes, but she’s very ill, so needs all the audience sympathy she can get. So the audience, against its better judgement, is batting for her.

But, suddenly, twist number one, they don’t have to. Because the strain is all too much, and she has a heart attack and drops dead. And, surely, it won’t be long before Norman can find a way out of his predicament. And he believes he has the very thing.

There’s a nosy old neighbor who takes too close an interest in visitors to the house. So he must have seen Norman arrive there at the very time his lover was shot. The neighbor is brought in.

He’s a poor old soul. And blind. The result of being knocked over by a car a few weeks before.

What a cracking ending to a cracking tale. I always wonder why these kind of stories don’t get resurrected for some sort of portmanteau series, in the manner of Tales of the Unexpected. Although there’s little fat on them, a bit of judicious trimming would make them ideal for a one-hour television slot and this one, in particular, is little more than a three-hander, so wouldn’t cost much.

Each of the main characters is well drawn, each allowed a moment to stretch their emotional muscles. Solid, if not spectacular, acting from Laurence Payne (Crosstrap, 1962), Patricia Dainton (The House in Marsh Road, 1960), and Jane Griffiths (The Double, 1963), and impressive turn from John Arnatt (A Challenge for Robin Hood, 1967) as a doughty cop.

Written by Maurice J. Wilson (The House in Marsh Road) and director Montgomery Tully (The House in Marsh Road) from a play by Pip and Jane Baker. Tully is in fine form at the helm, wasting no time in driving this towards ironic conclusion.

I’ve been clocking up a few from the Tully portfolio in the last month or so. Astonished to find he directed another seven pictures this decade, so I might, in due course, complete the collection.

Enjoyable.

The Swinger (1966) ***

As chosen by my readers, this is the most popular movie on the Blog, so I thought I’d check back and see how it stood up. Having seen it before, of course, I knew what to expect. And despite the star’s acting abilities being better showcased in items like Once a Thief (1965) and Stagecoach (1966) I still found this effortlessly put together to deliver a movie that presented what studio and possibly the star felt was the best version (in terms of instant audience appeal) of herself. Think fun, fun, fun, if lightweight, lightweight, lightweight.

Pure confection. There was a sub-genre of romantic comedy pictures that spun on a simple plot device to throw together actors with terrific screen charisma. Doris Day, Rock Hudson and Cary Grant did little more than meet a potential new partner, fall out with them and then resolve their differences. The importance of actors of this caliber was the difference between a high class piece of froth and mere entertainment. This falls into the latter category, neither Ann-Margret nor Anthony Franciosa reaching the high standards of the likes of That Touch of Mink or Pillow Talk.

That said, this was clearly custom-made for Ann-Margret and her growing fan-base. Despite displaying unexpectedly serious acting chops in Once a Thief (1965) this plays more obviously to her strengths. She gets to sing, dance and generally throw herself around. The face, hair, smile and body combine in a sensational package.

Kelly Olsson (Ann-Margret) plays a budding writer so naïve that she tries to sell her stories to Girl-Lure, a Playboy-type magazine, owned by high-class Brit Sir Hubert Charles (Robert Coote) and run by Ric Colby (Anthony Franciosa). When her work is rejected, Olsson writes an imitation sex-novel, The Swinger, purportedly based on her own life. Sir Hubert buys the idea and Ric sets up a series of accompanying photo-shoots using Kelly as the model until he discovers her book is pure fiction.

The setting is an excuse to show an avalanche of young women in bikinis. The slight story is justification enough for Ann-Margret to strut her stuff as a singer and dancer. Since her stage show depended more on energy than singing, this effectively showcases her act.

So two-dimensional are the principals, you are not going to mistake any of these characters for actual characters. The film lacks such depth you would not be surprised if the likes of Elvis Presley or Cliff Richard popped up. The comedy is very lite, an initial attempt at satire soon dropped, the few bursts of slapstick seeming to catch the stars unawares.

But that’s not to say it’s not enjoyable, Ann-Margret is a gloriously old-fashioned sex symbol and certainly knows how to shake her booty. The standout (for lack of a better word) scene revolves around body painting. She even gets the chance to ride a motorcycle, one of her trademarks. Anthony Franciosa (Go Naked in the World, 1961) has little to do except smile. Yvonne Romain (The Frightened City, 1961) has a thankless role as Ric’s girlfriend.

Director George Sidney teams up with Ann-Margret for the third time after Bye Bye Birdie (1963) and Viva Las Vegas (1964). This was his penultimate outing in a 20-year Hollywood career whose highlights included Anchors Aweigh (1945), The Three Musketeers (1948), Annie Get Your Gun (1950), Showboat (1951) and Pal Joey (1957). So he certainly had the musical pedigree to ensure the songs had some pizzazz but clearly less impact on the script which was reputedly scrambled together at short notice by Lawrence Roman (McQ, 1974) to fulfil a studio commitment to the star.

Children of the Damned (1964) ***

I wasn’t aware that celebrated sci fi author John Wyndham had written a sequel to his iconic novel The Midwich Cuckoos, filmed as Village of the Damned (1960). And it turned out he didn’t (he did make an attempt but abandoned it after a few chapters). So he had nothing to do with the sequel. But the original had proved such a hit MGM couldn’t resist going for second helpings.

And there was nothing the writer could do about it, it being standard procedure that when you sold your novel to Hollywood the studio retained all the rights and could commission a remake, sequel, turn it into a television series, without consulting you.

The only drawback for a potential sequel was that main adult character Professor Zellaby (George Sander) and all the kids had died in the original, though the final image of eyes flying out of the burning house might have suggested the children had actually survived. And, as we know these days, just when your main character dies it doesn’t prevent him miraculously returning to life should box office dictate.

So screenwriter John Briley (Oscar-winner for Gandhi, 1982) was handed the sequel. And what we get is a lot of atmosphere, a chunk of running around in empty London streets (the result not of mass evacuation but filming in early morning when roads are clear), a very slinky turn from Alan Badel (Bitter Harvest, 1963) showing what he can do when hero not villain, and a twist on the previous problem – how to vanquish the kids – which is whether to weaponize them. Mostly, we are reminded of how better telekinesis was dealt with in the original picture and how poorly this compares to the likes of Brian De Palma’s later Carrie (1976) and even his The Fury (1978).

Apart from the title, there’s barely a nod to the previous incarnation, except that discerning the children’s paternity proves impossible. An United Nations project has tracked down six kids with incredible intellects. Like Professor Zellaby, British psychologist Dr Tom Llewellyn (Ian Hendry) and geneticist Dr David Neville (Alan Badel) want to study the kids while the more shadowy figure of Colin Webster (Alfred Burke) appears to have more sinister purpose in mind.

In any case none of the three achieve their goals because the kids escape and take refuge in an abandoned church, defending themselves against the authorities and the military by their brain controlling abilities and by the devising of a sonic weapon. Immediately under their thumb is the aunt, Susan (Barbara Ferris), of the young boy Paul (Clive Powell) who initially excited the interest of the British scientists.

Opinion varies as to whether the children are a genetic freak of nature, aliens or an advanced human race. The authorities can’t decide whether they are a threat or a wonder and decide to eliminate them, then change their mind, while the children decide to fight back then change their minds. The ending is quite a surprise.

Although the kids still have the fearful eyes, they are generally a lot less effective a scare than when the small gang of them stood side by side in the previous picture and stared at adults until they did the childrens’ bidding or killed themselves. There’s way too much discussion among adults. In the previous picture, those kinds of conversations had more emotional impact, since it was the villagers who were left distraught. Here, you couldn’t care less about the adults.

Interestingly enough, the standout isn’t any of the kids at all, but Alan Badel, who comes over as the libidinous sort, but very charming, and views any woman as fair game, but it’s fascinating to see how his usual screen persona here makes him a hero whereas in most other films exhibiting much the same characteristics he comes across as shifty, mean or downright villainous.

Ian Hendry (The Hill, 1965) was a rising British star but isn’t given much to get his teeth into. Barbara Ferris (Interlude, 1968) has a vital role.

Directed by television veteran Anton M. Leader (The Cockeyed Cowboys of Calico County, 1970) who makes his screen debut.

Not a patch on the original.

Village of the Damned (1960) ****

Superb chiller that, unusually, takes time to develop several strands over a longer time frame than is normal for a genre where the immediate takes preference. Opens a new dimension of terror, too, with the brain control sub-genre that would spill over into brainwashing. You could also, if you were of a mind, point to the genuine growing social power of the young as emphasized later in the decade with movies about hippies. It might not be too much of a stretch to point to the “Youthquake” at the end of the 1960s when pandering to a youthful audience nearly destroyed Hollywood.

Terrific opening sequence of everyone in the small village of Midwich dropping to the ground, the immobilized driver of a bus crashing off the road, the driver of a tractor hitting a tree, taps left running, telephone calls cut off, all manner of accidents ensue. You think everyone’s dead, as do the military, called in to investigate. They cordon off the area, employ canaries and then humans to discover how far the danger spreads. But when a soldier who is dragged out unconscious from the forbidden zone wakes up, they soon realize the population is merely unconscious.

Childless couple Professor Gordon Zellaby (George Sanders) and younger wife Anthea (Barbara Shelley) are among those affected, apparently suffering no side effects for having been knocked out for around four hours. A couple of months later Anthea is delighted to report she’s pregnant. She’s not alone. But for many of the villagers what would be a cause for celebration causes untold grief. One husband returns home after a year away to find his wife is pregnant. In the days when pre-marital sex was frowned-upon, virgins, similarly affected, are shamed.

The pregnancies don’t run to the normal period either, and fully-grown children are born within a few months. What’s more, they all look as if they have inherited the same genes. Their blonde hair and striking eyes suggest they share the same father. Soon it transpires they can not only read minds but control them, causing at least two people to commit suicide.

Turns out this is a global problem, several other communities afflicted with the same condition, the Russians so concerned at the prospect that they bomb one village to oblivion, other cultures simply murdering the children. Here, being English, where fair play still rules regardless of potential threat, the children are taken under the wing of Professor Zellaby, though the military, having sealed off the area, wait in the wings, itching to wipe out the troublemakers.

Quickly, it becomes a duel for power, the children will do anything to protect their species, Professor Zellaby at first wanting just to study the kids and understand them but soon recognizing the threat.

In between bouts of action, most of which is discreetly handled, none of the deliberately shocking scenes that might have emanated from an exploitationer, the authorities have plenty of time to ponder their existence. A leap in genetic mutation, or extraterrestrial origins, are among the options considered.

Eventually the villagers react like terrified Transylvanians confronting Dracula and attempt to set fire to the building where the children are housed but reckon without the brain control that can be exerted. In the end Professor Zellaby comes up with a self-destructive solution.

This is formidable stuff, all the more so, because in the days when most monsters grew fangs or claws or developed huge bodies and were otherwise physically frightening, the worst these kids get up to is to have a striking glow in their eyes, a startling contrast to their blonde hair, calm demeanor and neat uniform clothing.

Tremendously well done and it helps to have cast mainstream actors like George Sanders (Warning Shot, 1967) and Barbara Shelley (only later did she become a Scream Queen) and others who don’t carry the tinge of the horror genre.

Very well paced by German director Wolf Rilla (The World Ten Times Over, 1963) who resists the temptation to overplay his hand, achieving much more by leaving it to your imagination. Stirling Silliphant (The Slender Thread, 1965), George Barclay (Devil Doll, 1964) and the director adapted the groundbreaking novel The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham. Horror maestro John Carpenter remade this in 1995, which only wnent to show how more successful the restraint of the original was.

Top notch.