movie review – Page 3 – The Magnificent 60s

The Ravishing Idiot / Agent 38-22-36 (1964) ****

Hadn’t been aware that Brigitte Bardot (Viva Maria!, 1966) had made a spy picture. The original English title doesn’t indicate that. Given co-star Anthony Perkins (Psycho, 1960) had previously shown no predilection for comedy and that this was shaping up to be an espionage spoof, my heart sank.

Except for Jacques Tati – and he was only welcome in the arthouse – French comedies of this period did not translate, the antics of a Bourvil or Louis De Funes limited in their attraction. Spy spoofs suffered from over-playing or gormless characters.

So it is with some astonishment that I can report this French-made English-set number is an utter delight, full of terrific sight gags, buckets of charm and a storyline so daft it turns out to be seamless. There’s not one but two ravishing idiots – if you accept how the female gaze might look upon Anthony Perkins – and several other idiots who might not fall into the ravishing department.

Harry Compton (Anthony Perkins) is so smitten with seamstress-cum-model Penelope Lightfeather (Brigitte Bardot) that he over-runs his lunch break to catch a glimpse of her in a restaurant. Consequently, he is sacked from his job at a bank. Penelope is demoted to seamstress for being too truthful when modelling a dress for wealthy client Lady Barbara Dumfrey (Denise Provence).

Meanwhile, Barbara’s husband, Sir Reginald (Andre Luguet), a first-class upper-class dolt, is being set up as bait to catch the head of the Russian spy network in London. He has been entrusted with a fake report which MI5 hopes will lead them to the top Russian spy whose code name could be Aunt Fanny.

Meanwhile meanwhile, Harry turns out to be a Russian spy. He is given the job of stealing the fake plans. After Penelope reveals she is a member of the Communist Party, he enrols her in his scheming. Unfortunately, she will have to be denounced afterwards. Meanwhile meanwhile meanwhile, Barbara, believing the plans are some kind of birthday gift, has opened the safe to all her friends to show where they are hidden, not imagining that her household may contain a traitor. Indiscreet that she is, she’s even told Penelope the code to the safe.

It only remains for all the incompetents to express their idiocy in the widest possible manner. Naturally, misconceptions abound. An assassin is drugged by his elderly victim because she thinks he’s crazy. Penelope accuses the assassin, a cop, of being as useless a cop as Harry is of being a spy.

The visual gags are inspired, beginning with a credit sequence of bowler hats. The meet cute is under a table. Chaos ensues when a dog steals Penelope’s shoes. Getting a table in a restaurant is a version of musical chairs. When the door to the secret safe swings open Harry shuts it. A hovercraft version of a vacuum cleaner goes haywire. Bowties fall in ice buckets, dresses to the floor. Duffer Dumfrey leaves the spies alone in the room with the safe.

But there’s no wink to the audience. Nobody is playing it for laughs and therefore they come easily. Two twists at the end make sense of the title.

Brigitte Bardot displays a fine knack for comedy. Anthony Perkins makes the jump from awkward maladroit to charming.

Directed by Edourd Molinari (La Cage aux Folles, 1978) with a screenplay by Francois Billetdoux (La Gamberge, 1962) and Andre and Georges Tabet (Don’t Look Now..We’re Being Shot At, 1966) from the novel by Charles Exbrayat.

An effortless confection.

The Devil’s Advocate (1997) *****

Ripe is not the word. Crank this up to 11, race on past full-tilt boogie and you’ll still need more in the tank to get anywhere near to how mad, bad (in a good way) and enormously entertaining is this trip into the murk. Not been such fun being bad on screen since Basic Instinct (1992).

You thought it was tough enough for Tom Cruise in The Firm (1993) trying to extricate himself from the job-of-a-lifetime handling business for the Mafia. That’s nothing to finding yourself hired by the Devil.

And all because – and what’s wrong with that – you can get any sleazeball off the terrible crimes they have committed. Principle be damned when it gets in the way of winning. It’s hardly enough to scorn your client afterwards when you know he’s guilty and going to keep on committing heinous crimes until a poorer defense attorney can’t keep him out of jail. As well as that skill, he’s a genius at jury selection, finding flaws others miss.

After getting a child abuser off, top lawyer Kevin Lomax (Keanu Reeves), who’s never lost a case, is headhunted by a glitzy New York company, so swimming in loot that he’s parked in an enormous upscale apartment where wife Mary Ann (Charlize Theron) can spend her time drinking cocktails, hanging out with other glam wives and dedicate herself to deciding what color to paint the walls of their dwelling.

He’s pretty glad to get away from all that Florida sunshine and doom-laden mum (Judith Ivey), a hellfire Christian who pretty much sees damnation in just taking a breath, never mind hiving off to the Babylon of New York. Naturally, you’re talking long, long hours and a wife who’s beginning to feel neglected and worried that there’s just too many sexy women hanging around Kevin’s charismatic boss John Milton (Al Pacino), especially redhaired Christabella (Connie Nielsen) who might swing both ways and to whom hubby is inching dangerously close.

Never mind the drama played out in the courtroom, Kevin’s sudden arrival out of nowhere and the notion he might be the boss’s protégé sets tensions flaring in the firm especially with managing director Eddie Barzoom (Jeffrey Jones) who gets the notion his job is on a shoogly peg.

Virtually all of this is played out as if we’re in F1, so a bucket of shouting and finger pointing and for all his smarts it’s clear Kevin is dumb enough to get seduced by all the high-living. So let’s cut to the great scenes, of which there are many.

*Yep, the universal poster has arrived. Just change the title into your own language.*

Anyone who tries to betray Milton comes to a sticky end. Making love to his wife, Kevin fantasizes that he’s having sex with Christabella. A naked baby plays with bloody intestines. Mary Ann stands up naked in a church. Milton dipping a finger into holy water in a church sets it boiling. How does Kevin discover that another client on trying for murder is lying – it’s a matter of circumcision. The walls of Milton’s apartment come alive, ensuring a harmless fresco can turn into an orgy. Kevin’s mum isn’t quite the saint she pretends. His father isn’t who he’s been brought up to believe.

Mary Ann starts losing her marbles, gets visions, sees women turn ferocious and the naked baby is actually playing with removed ovaries, because she is infertile and pretty soon bonkers enough to get committed and pretty soon so over-the-top that she’s going to go the extra damnable mile.

Somehow in all this malarkey, you’re not particularly surprised to discover that Milton is actually Kevin’s father, though he’s been spreading his seed far and wide and it’s taken quite a while before he’s found any of his offspring capable of inheriting his empire. But you might balk at the notion that Milton wants to guarantee the continuity of his line through the small matter of incest.

Three twists at the end ensure the picture ends on the same bonkers high note that it began.

Al Pacino was on a hell of a roll. He’d become something of an elder statesman, helping bring through younger rising stars – Johnny Depp in Donnie Brasco (1997), Russell Crowe in The Insider (1999) and Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx in Any Given Sunday (1999). He relishes this performance, sly, knowing, subtle, even sexy (though charismatic is probably a better description), a master of seduction, and giving vent in long speeches as he argues that God has abandoned Earth.

You wouldn’t think Keanu Reeves had it in him to go toe-to-toe with such an accomplished actor, but he does, and anyone who just thinks of him as the largely monosyllabic John Wick who lets violence do his talking had better think again. Charlize Theron (The Odyssey, 2026) is pretty good, too. This brought Connie Neilsen (Gladiator, 1999) to Hollywood’s attention.

Directed with zest by Taylor Hackford (An Officer and a Gentleman, 1982) from a screenplay by Tony Gilroy (the Bourne series) and Jonathan Lemkin (Shooter, 2007) from the book by Andrew Neidelmann.

Hypnotic.

You can catch it on Amazon Prime.

Firecreek (1968) ****

Unfairly overlooked intelligent western with terrific performances from the two male stars and thematically prefiguring both Once Upon a Time in the West (1969) and The Wild Bunch (1969). Granted it appears slow but it’s the slow-burn kind of slow that works exceptionally well. Too often under-stated means under-rated while subtlety rarely attracts critical plaudits. And if you see the role of the screenwriter as probing personality and uncovering self-delusion rather than merely devising pithy lines then this is one for you.

Johnny (James Stewart) is a two-bit (“honorary”) sheriff in a two-bit town stuffed full of losers. Into his patch comes a gang of hired killers fresh from range wars led by the wounded Bob (Henry Fonda) and including cocksure trigger-happy Earl (Gary Lockwood), mean Norman (Jack Elam) and dumb Drew (James Best). With Bob side-lined with his injury, it’s not long before the gang kicks off, Earl half-drowning a man, smashing up the saloon and nearly killing a pompous preacher (Ed Begley) while Norman attempts to rape Native American squaw Meli (Barbara Luna). They think a few dollars will repair the damage and nullify hurt feelings.

But for the most part tensions just simmer, it looking like the outlaws are temporary visitors, Johnny using diplomacy to settle matters, and none of the townspeople inclined to get into a shooting match. And there’s a rich seam of characters who even when they skirt cliché seem to offer if not necessarily something new but not shop-worn either and with emotional depth.

Headstrong teenager Leah (Brooke Bundy) is attracted to dangerous Earl even though he would as soon rape as romance her, level-headed Evelyn (Inger Stevens) finds solace in a man she knows is a killer and midwife Dulcie (Louise Latham) is so dry her language could cut you with a knife. Johnny’s too trusting wife Henrietta (Jacqueline Scott) bewails “why did we settle for less than we wanted,” storekeeper Whittier (Dean Jagger) would be a knife-whittling charming elder statesmen except for his habit of going for the jugular, and hero-worshipping stable boy Arthur (Robert Porter), too old to be just cute and verging on a calamity, “couldn’t tell you what day it was.” And there’s a hint that the upstanding Johnny ain’t quite so perfect, the question of Meli’s white child left dangling in the air.

It’s the kind of “cemetery” town where people end up when they’ve nowhere else to go, the inhabitants discomfited “because today didn’t turn out like yesterday.” Johnny’s the worst offender, stopping here on his way to a better life further west because all he “saw here was land nobody wanted and ground that nobody would be challenging me for.” The only person who will stand up for law and order is the witless Arthur who unwittingly triggers trouble. The townspeople mirror the villagers in The Magnificent Seven (1960) who require the assistance of mercenaries before they can stand on their own two feet except in this case nobody is rushing to the rescue.

The initial stand-offs between Johnny and Bob are under-stated, serving to stoke up tension, and the twist is that it’s Bob who tries to avert a showdown, feeling sorry for the sheriff, knowing he will be no match for a proven gunslinger, while the climax provides a surprising savior. In fact, Bob is the most self-aware of all the characters. He tells Evelyn “you are living even more in the past than I am” and that “I don’t have your temperament to accept another empty day.” And even though he doubts the quality of his gang, he can’t give them up, or the power of being in charge. “I’ve been alone, didn’t like it…I can’t gamble with being a nobody, I’ve been that, doesn’t work for me.”

Among the ton of great touches are Johnny’s badge, made by his kids, title misspelled, the climax in a dust whirlwind, the pompous preacher whose bluster can’t save him, and the most terrible wake you will ever witness.

It’s quite astonishing that a film with such a high quotient of characters – except Johnny at the end – lacking redeeming features could work so well. Director Vincent McEveety was the epitome of a journeyman, best known for television and Disney (Herbie Goes Bananas, 1977) go-to guy. This was his debut feature – if you exclude Blade Rider, Revenge of the Indian Nations (1966) stitched together from episodes of television’s Branded – and it sank at the box office despite the presence of Stewart and Fonda, admittedly at the tail end of their marquee power.

Outside of the wake and the climax, the best scenes are under-played. McEveety lets the words do the talking, a good choice given the exemplary writing (as indicated above) and three principal actors who can be relied upon to ignore the temptations of over-acting. He handles the action well and there’s a growing sense of terror as the townspeople realize what their cowardice has let them in for.

There’s a nod here and there to High Noon (1952) with the town full of cowards but from today’s perspective it’s as a precursor that the movie is perhaps more interesting. Henry Fonda’s (The Best Man, 1964) performance, complete with pitiless stare and thick stubble, seems a rehearsal for Once Upon Time in the West (1969) while his gang, like The Wild Bunch (1969), complete with squabbling outlaws and leadership challenge, are “running out of borders.” You might notice how Fonda’s death here – the movement to the side when shot, the shock in his eyes – while markedly less operatic closely resembles a similar scene in Once Upon a Time in the West. And if you want further reference to Sergio Leone’s epic, how about a nearby town called Sweetwater.

You might think you’ve seen this James Stewart (The Rare Breed, 1966) performance before but it’s a subtle variation on the hapless character of Mr Hobbs Takes a Vacation (1962) and far removed from the take-charge characters of this decade. This is man who has fooled himself into thinking he is something he is not, a man of the west in name only.

Inger Stevens (House of Cards) again delivers, like the other townspeople acting tough to hide the weak interior. There’s a terrific supporting cast. Gary Lockwood (2001: A Space Odyssey) is given more rein than anybody else outside of Ed Begley (Warning Shot, 1967). Look out also for Dean Jagger (Elmer Gantry, 1960), Richard Porter (Mackenna’s Gold, 1969), Jay C. Flippen (Hellfighters, 1968), Louise Latham (Marnie, 1964), James Best (Shenandoah, 1965), Brooke Bundy (The Gay Deceivers, 1969) making her movie debut, Barbara Luna (Che!, 1969) and Jack Elam (Once Upon a Time in the West).

Credit for the intelligent screenplay goes to Calvin Clements (Kansas City Bomber, 1972), also making his first picture.

How to Save a Marriage…And Ruin Your Life (1968) ****

Eight years before Michelle Triola struck a legal blow for women’s rights in her ground-breaking “palimony” case against Lee Marvin, this highly under-rated comedy – with none of the highbrow or earnest pontificating usually associated with issue movies – points the world in that direction. This was high concept before the word was invented. Would have made a perfect bittersweet Doris Day-Rock Hudson concoction especially as mistaken identity is at the heart of the matter. And the final half-hour where feminist revenge kicks in achieves more in the male-comeuppance-game than either the meretricious Three in the Attic (1968) or the more high falutin’ Carnal Knowledge (1971).

On top of that it’s hilarious. It’s packed with one-liners, zingers and brilliant repartee and the second section where revenge unwinds is an absolute hoot. Given, star Dean Martin (5 Card Stud, 1968) could have worked a tad harder on his comic timing, While he leans away from the tough guy of his recent spate of westerns maybe he leans too far into his Rat Pack-style persona. But Eli Wallach (The Magnificent Seven, 1960) and Stella Stevens (Sol Madrid/ The Heroin Gang, 1968), scarcely known for their comedic chops, more than make up, with Stevens especially good at channelling her interior Doris Day when that star screwed up her eyes and started given the male what-for.

There’s a brilliant sub-plot revolving around a grave that is a delight all on its own. Screenwriter Stanley Shapiro was the genius behind Pillow Talk (1959), Lover Come Back (1961) and That Touch of Mink (1962) and he knew when to play it subtle, embrace slapstick or go straight for the jugular.

Call it “mistress-alimony” or “mistress pension” or just the unfairness of the male gaze when it decides that the recipient of its gaze now lacks the physical attributes which attracted the gaze in the first place. Swollen ankles, a thickening of the waist – and a decade of service as a mistress is over and the lady in question, a decade older, physical attributes diminished, comes away from the relationship with virtually nothing, certainly nothing like security or the alimony to which a divorced wife would be entitled.

How we get to this point is mistaken identity. Playboy commitment-phobe David Sloane (Dean Martin) tries to help resolve the marital problems of buddy Harry Hunter (Eli Wallach) by taking out of temptation’s way Harry’s mistress. Unfortunately he mixes up Harry’s real mistress Muriel Laszlo (Anne Jackson) with one of Harry’s very attractive employees Carol Corman (Stella Stevens), a woman of principle who refuses promotion when it means sleeping with her supervisor.

Unfortunately, Carol falls in love with David, especially after he spins her a line that he can’t marry again for fear of betraying his wife Edna, who died the day after they married. Equally unfortunately, Harry decides to make up with wife Mary (Katharine Bard) and take her on a second honeymoon. To ensure no backsliding, David helps Harry draft a nasty legal letter telling Muriel to quit the apartment.

Just about at the same time as David realizes he’s made a mistake over the mistress, Carol discovers that “Edna” is not David’s wife. Egged on by a disconsolate Muriel, who is being turfed out after years of adoring service, Carol takes revenge in hilarious fashion. She pretends to be the easily-seduced woman that David has convinced Harry she is, resulting in her pretending to sleep with David’s business partner and two of his chums, resulting in David, taking physical offence at such perceived betrayal, being jailed and locked up in a sanatorium. Then she launches a one-woman picket line outside his office, standing up for deserted mistresses everywhere.

Meanwhile, Harry’s second honeymoon lasts only a few hours and he tries to get Muriel back, whereupon the women are inspired to force him to sign a mistresses’ charter whereby they are compensated for loss of mistress-hood and heavily rewarded for remaining in the relationship.

The stars have a great time. Director Fielder Cook (Prudence and the Pill, 1968) can’t believe his luck in landing such a sassy script, co-written by Nate Monaster (That Touch of Mink).

Too funny to be tabbed a message picture but it certainly makes its points in style.

The Informers / Underworld Informers (1963) ***

Who would be a film director? One minute you’re in charge of Swiss Family Robinson (1960), Disney’s biggest live-action venture since 20,000 Leagues under the Sea (1954), and knocking up a home run at the box office. Then you’re handed a massive budget, mega-cast and huge logistics with the added responsibility of saving near-bankrupt 20^th Century Fox with 70mm roadshow The Longest Day (1962) and then you’re hurled into two more roadshows, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines (1965) and Battle of the Bulge (1965), the latter in Cinerama, again big budgets and all-star casts.

And in between you’re relegated to this black-and-white run-of-the-mill London cop thriller. Maybe you said you were fed up with all those stars and big budgets and fancied a more intimate number. Maybe not. Maybe you just weren’t flying as high as you imagined and like anyone else you just had to eat.

While you’re not contending with the likes of John Wayne, Robert Mitchum or Henry Fonda, at least for The Informers you’ve a pretty good British cast, many of whom would become marquee attractions or make their bones in television. Star Nigel Patrick would head up the Zero One TV series (1963-1965), Harry Andrews (Play Dirty, 1968) would be a sterling movie supporting player. Colin Blakely would be Dr Watson in Billy Wilder’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970), Derren Nesbitt would shine as a Gestapo officer in Where Eagles Dare (1968), and Oscar-nominated Frank Finlay would be one of The Three Musketeers (1973).

This crime tale has inefficient cops being led a merry dance by efficient bank robbers. While top cop Supt Bestwick (Harry Andrews) puts his faith in the new-fangled wire-tapping and electronic eavesdropping, underling Chief Inspector Johnnoe (Nigel Patrick) prefers the more traditional method of relying on informers, “snouts” in underworld parlance, such as the perpetually sozzled Jim Ruskin (John Cowley).

The cops might have had a better chance if the robbers weren’t listening in to the cops or using the informer route to mislead them. While Johnnoe might get the better of gangster kingpin Hoyle (Derren Nesbitt) in a verbal duel, he’s resolutely outwitted when it comes to criminal wiles, duped by another crook Sale (Frank Finlay) and gangster’s moll Maisie (Margaret Whiting) so that he ends up on a corruption charge, which puts him out of the investigation.

Luckily, he’s got a smart determined wife Mary (Katherine Woodville) who sets about clearing his name with the help of junk dealer Charlie (Colin Blakely), brother of murdered snout Jim.

Most of this is what would be later termed police procedural as the cops follow up leads and enter the lion’s den and get trapped in bureaucracy until Johnnoe, suspended from duty and out on bail, no longer has to play by the rules. The rogue cop was more of an American movie tradition than the British but Johnnoe makes a good stab at it.

Charlie’s not inclined to play by the rules either and gets together a mob of his own to hit the robbers and revenge his brother. Given the Brits aren’t armed to the teeth, when it comes to the battle royal, they go in there with wrenches and other hand-tools supplemented by the occasional knife rather than machine guns or shotguns. But it’s still an astonishing fight for this era of British crime.

There’s some unusual emotional elements, too, particularly with the moll and a surprising sequence involving Roy Kinnear, generally not considered to have such emotional depth. Did I mention the cat? The one who attempts, for fun, to foil an escape by a trapped cop.

Not quite in the vein of the later British crime thrillers like Get Carter (1971) or Villain (1971) but certainly moving in a harder-nosed direction.

Ken Annakin is almost going back to his British cinematic roots and proving he can do the business on a small budget. Written by Alun Falconer (Never Let Go, 1960) from the novel by Douglas Warner.

Better class of British crime.

I caught this on YouTube but it’s as likely to turn up on Talking Pictures TV.

I Deal in Danger (1966) ***

Crooner Robert Goulet, winner of the 1963 Grammy for best new star, was going down a familiar route of transition to the big screen. Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, Oscar-winners both, had led the line for singers who made it big in films. And they wouldn’t be the last – Barbra Streisand (Funny Girl, 1968), Kris Kristofferson (Convoy, 1978), Jennifer Lopez (Hustlers, 2019) and Lady Gaga (Joker: Folie a Deux, 2024) would also achieve the crossover.

Goulet has the looks and delivery to fit into the burgeoning espionage market, though this is set in World War Two. As well as action, it is packed full of crises to be overcome, double agents, triple agents, dirty tricks, and clever maneuvers. You never know which way it’s going to go at any given moment.

David March (Robert Goulet) is an American double agent who has infiltrated the Third Reich at a very high level – he acts as a kind of Lord Haw-Haw, predicting the Germans will come out on top and sneering at Allied efforts to stop them. But he’s under suspicion from Gestapo officer Elm (Werner Peters) who’s convinced the Yank is the last of an 18-strong espionage operation called Blue Light.

Having passed on information to the Allies, via a hole in a bar of soap, about the Germans working on a new secret weapon, March is later tasked with destroying it. But first he has to deal with another Yank traitor, Spauling (Donald Herron),who, ostensibly, could break March’s cover. Instead, it turns out Spauling’s job is to sacrifice himself to enhance March’s cover.

March is horrified at the prospect of having to shoot his old friend stone dead, even if Spauling is suffering from an incurable illness and only has weeks to live, so more like a mercy killing than murder. Instead, with a clever ruse, March turns the tables on Elm, convincing his own colleagues that the Gestapo officer is the last member of Blue Light, leaving March in the clear to concentrate on sabotage.

Naturally, as a spy, he must have an affair and who better than with fellow double agent Suzanne (Christine Carere) who convinced the Germans she was a collaborator after her French father, a World War One hero, was hanged by his own countrymen in World War Two.

So now we’re into The Heroes of Telemark (1965)/The Guns of Navarone (1961) territory except the secret weapon is a submarine that can cross the Atlantic fitted with enough missiles to take the USA out of the war without going to all the bother of an invasion.

But the sabotage operation is far from straightforward. March and Suzanne enrol in their mission German scientist Gretchen (Eva Pflug), whose scientist father has been denounced by the Germans but, in one of the best scenes, draws the line at treachery. And soon Gretchen has qualms about betraying her colleagues. Suspicious guards foil March’s attempts to smuggle in items essential to explosions. March’s own principles are called into question.

And with his initial plans hampered, March aims for implosion rather than explosion, turning the weapon on the factory building it.

Very passable entertainment and would have suited a marketplace desperate for the supporting material that could make up a decent double bill. You can’t quibble with Robert Goulet (I’d Rather Be Rich, 1964) especially as the espionage game threw up lots of worse actors. French actress Christine Carrere and German Eva Pflug bring a Continental air to proceedings while Werner Peters (Battle of the Bulge, 1965) continues his run of bad guys.

You might be more attracted by director Walter Grauman who helmed 633 Squadron (1964) and cult writer-director Larry Cohen (Black Caesar, 1973). This was, in fact, culled from four out of seven episodes of a US television series Blue Light (1966), created by Grauman and Cohen and swiftly re-edited to hit the overseas market.

Basically, a better class of B-picture.

Wake Me When It’s Over (1960) ***

You could scarcely find a better example of the pleasant undemanding fare that constituted Hollywood’s bread-and-butter than this mild comedy. It takes 20 minutes to even get to first base, setting our hero on his journey to a distant land, and another 20 minutes before the narrative sets out a purpose, from which various romantic and dramatic complications can arise. It doesn’t boast any stars.

If top-billed Ernie Kovacs (North to Alaska, 1960), in his third movie (and first as the headline act) had any marquee attraction it was to a television audience following his output in various comedy shows, but those would carry no weight abroad. The second-billed Dick Shawn (A Very Special Favor, 1965) carried even less appeal. He was best known as a guest star liable to pop up on television shows. Both comics were an acquired taste, belonging to the avant-garde, so their styles were not guaranteed to necessarily go down well. Not like, for example, more established comedians such as Bob Hope or Jerry Lewis.

The public was even less familiar with female lead Margo Moore (The George Raft Story, 1961). She only made three movies in total, this being the middle one.

This probably was greenlit thanks to director Mervyn Leroy who had helmed two very successful service comedies, Mister Roberts (1955), replacing John Ford, and No Time for Sergeants (1958), both based on hit Broadway plays.

Through a bureaucratic error, unassuming Gus Brubaker (Dick Shawn) is re-drafted into the U.S. military and dispatched to a remote island near Japan where, this being in the aftermath of the Korean War, there is nothing for the soldiers to do except laze around. Capt Stark (Ernie Kovacs), the unit commander, is as intent on doing nothing as anyone else.

Brubaker hits on the idea of utilizing the natural hot springs of the area to build a hotel using materials acquired very cheaply in order to capitalize on this wonder, offering hot spa treatments to visitors and recuperating soldiers.

The soldiers, including resident medic Capt Farrington (Jack Warden), sign on, seeing it as a business opportunity, involvement in which, somehow, does not run contrary to military regulations. Just when you’re waiting for the picture to develop some snap – it’s not going to be romance between Brubaker and Ume (Nobu McCarthy), daughter of the local mayor, because he’s already happily married to Marge (Noreen Nash) – up pops Lt Nora McKay (Margo Moore), bringing a female sensibility to the project and in charge of hiring the 40 local women to staff Hotel Shima.

With Brubaker off limits, it’s up to Stark and McKay to make romantic hay, though that ultimately encounters complication. Building the hotel would be the modern equivalent of a corporate team building operation because the solders soon revert to proper military ways and bond.

But word misleadingly gets out that far from being known for its healing properties, the hotel is actually a front for sexual encounters and Brubaker is court-martialed, leading to all sorts of shenanigans. After being found guilty, he is let off the hook due to the original bureaucratic error that led him to be re-drafted in the first place.

Once it gets going – and that’s quite a long time – it turns into harmless enjoyment and the two stars have ample opportunity to show they are not run-of-the-mill comedians. There are some good visual jokes, The cans of beer Brubaker has dropped in a pool to cool explode to demonstrate the water is actually a hot spring, the MacGuffin of the piece. On finding himself on the island, Brubaker plans to immediately submit a request to leave. The filing cabinet for a simple request is half-full, the one seeking a transfer full and the one demanding he be viewed as a special case overflowing.

Charming in its own way. Didn’t turn anyone into a star but proved that Hollywood could make this kind of small picture – what we’d call a “sleeper” – with enough going on to maintain interest.

Carnal Knowledge (1971) ****

You could argue that this is every bit as meretricious as Three in the Attic (1968). That the misogynism is every bit as rampant, the language considerably coarser, women judged by their physical attributes rather than their brains, men boasting about every little detail of their sex lives. More locker room than intelligentsia. You could argue that Porky’s (1981) and American Pie (1999) take exactly the same approach with no suggestion they have reached some exalted critical status.

There’s similar reliance here as in Three in the Attic on technical tricks, long monologues with the camera in a fixed position, and it would appear as if the person is indeed breaking the fourth wall and talking directly to the audience except for one shot, two at most, of a listener. Or the same fixed approach focusing on, for example, a girl laughing hysterically or a female skater, and background music that appears completely irrelevant except in the most perfunctory fashion depicting a time period.

Of course, there’s no comparison when it comes to the actors. This boasts a stellar cast – Jack Nicholson (Easy Rider, 1969) with one Oscar nomination already under his belt casting a spell on the audience, Candice Bergen (Soldier Blue, 1970), a standout among the new generation of female stars, and Ann-Margret (Stagecoach, 1966) at one point bigger than either in the Hollywood stratosphere making a comeback that would win her an Oscar nomination. Art Garfunkel, one half of the most potent double act in the recording business, was making his movie debut.

Director Mike Nichols was on a hell of a roll, his first two pictures – Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966) and The Graduate (1967) – awash with Oscar kudos and unprecedented box office gravy.

And you could make the same double-handed argument about feminism. Susan (Candice Bergen) would certainly count as a liberated women given she’s stringing along best buddies Jonathan (Jack Nicholson) and Sandy (Art Garfunkel), not just having sex with both, but leading the way with the shy latter. And once married to Sandy she keeps him up to scratch in the bedroom, teaching him to make love the way she likes it.

Given Jonathan’s obsession with the inches on the female body that are so important to him, it’s amazing her was at all interested in Susan, except for his competitive streak, delighted to steal away the girl who is apparently his pal’s girl. While Sandy appears the more insecure, in fact Jonathan more than matches him, always comparing Susan’s gentler treatment of Sandy. He might even have invented the tale of his poor childhood in order to gain her sympathy.

Certainly, once Sandy and Susan are married, Jonathan’s jealousy goes up a notch, annoyed that his pal is greeted by his wife on return from work with a martini and dinner while his voluptuous girlfriend Bobbie (Ann-Margret) struggles to warm up a television dinner and can’t keep his apartment tidy.

While Jonathan avoids commitment, Arthur isn’t as committed as he seems, having a mistress Cindy (Cynthia O’Neal) in tow, whom Jonathan thinks it’s fair game to woo and even gives Arthur carte blanche to take a chance on Bobbie.

Even given the misogyny of the period, you’d struggle to find two more obnoxious men. Any woman that attempts to be their match or gives as good as she gets is deemed a “ball-buster” or just after men for their money. You’re almost thankful that, just like Three in the Attic, there’s a touch of morality at the end, with the impotent Jonathan reduced to paying sex workers to tell him how powerful he is in order to gain an erection. Though Sandy appears to get off scot-free – now dating 18-year-olds.

But the performances all round are superb. Susan could perhaps have done with her character being filled out rather than just seen through the eyes of the men. Ann-Margret revived her career with his performance, of a woman whose body has betrayed her, all her sexiness not winning her the security she desires. It’s as bold a move for Jack Nicholson to play such a loathsome arrogant character. I was never convinced by Art Garfunkel.

Despite the tricksy presentation, Mike Nichols, as with Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, traps his characters under an intense microscope. Screenwriter Jules Feiffer, better known at the time as a cartoonist and playwright, excels in his debut.

Hard going at times given the repellant characters but still excellent.

Three in the Attic (1968) *

Wish I’d never watched Two Gentlemen Sharing on Amazon Prime if this is the kind of “recommendation” its algorithms throw up. It would be easy enough to dismiss it as the kind of rubbish that American International was famed for – it turned into their biggest hit in a decade – except I’ve a sneaky feeling that it’s the kind of rubbish that could get greenlit these days and sold as a feminist revenge drama.

The fact that it is just so badly made doesn’t help even with a leavening of decent middle-range stars like Christopher Jones (Privilege, 1967) and Yvette Mimieux (Dark of the Sun / The Mercenaries, 1968). It is full of montages, jump cuts, voice overs, slow-mo and any other technical experimentation that might liven up the dross rather than going to the effort of writing scenes that explore character.

The stars might well have carried it except the plot defies belief. College lothario Paxton Quigley (Christopher Jones) has three girls on the leash – middle class Tobey (Yvette Mimieux), teacher Eulice (Judy Pace) who yearns to be a chic biker chick, and way out artist Janet (Maggie Thrett). Paxton has sex with each of them twice a week on rotation and spends his spare time boasting to his pal Jake (John Beck).

The girls find out about his triple dealing and decide to take their revenge. How? By throwing all his clothes out into the street? Smashing up his Yamaha? Mixing him up a concoction that’s going to put him in bed for a week? Taking a sledgehammer to his private parts?

Nope. They reckon the best revenge is to “give him a taste of his own medicine.” Which is to lock him up in an attic and force on him non-stop sex?

So, setting aside the element of kidnapping, coercion and female rape, wearing a guy out by subjecting him to what he loves doing seems bizarre in the extreme. This could only be the kind of notion dreamed up by a guy (step forward screenwriter Stephen Yafa, whose screenplay had won a competition). It’s like one of those old-fashioned parental discipline notions where your old man makes you smoke a cigar till you’re sick after he’s caught you taking a puff of a cigarette as a teenager.

It’s just too coarse for words. Sure, Paxton initially has commitment issues, Tobey trying to hustle him too quickly into an apartment-share.

Honestly, I’ve no idea how anybody got talked into making this. Directed by Richard Wilson (Invitation to a Gunfighter, 1964). There’s a Tarantino connection if you’re interested.

Hellish.

Fury at Smuggler’s Bay (1961) ***

Surprising to find so much moral complexity when it seemed we would be restricted to discussing the difference between good bad smugglers and bad bad smugglers and good good bad guys and bad bad guys. Given the limited running time (it clocks in at 82 minutes) we’ve also just got about enough time to take in hypocrisy.

Compromise, too, for that matter. Squire’s son Christopher (John Fraser) is inclined to warn girlfriend smuggler’s daughter Louise (Michele Mercier) that his father Squire Trevenyan (Peter Cushing) is setting soldiers on the local smugglers. The local highwayman known as The Captain (William Franklyn) is considered something of a decent fellow because once he’s robbed travellers going along the road one way he’ll make sure they’re not robbed on their return.

Trevenyan finds the most convenient way to prevent his son marrying beneath himself is to imprison Louise’s father Francois (George Coulouris) on the grounds of receiving stolen goods – his sentence is deportation to Australia. He’s helped by his son having to run off to London after killing one of the smugglers in self-defense, the father assuming anyone witness to the struggle will side with the smuggler.

Aware that maybe the plot’s getting a bit too cute for anyone’s liking, director John Gilling makes the most of the thunderous seas, boats getting battered to bits in the storm, waves hammering the wheelhouse, men swept overboard from vessels losing their way because rudimentary lighthouses have been shattered by predatory smugglers (known as “wreckers”). Stunning Cornwall scenery also helps though beaches being littered with heavy-duty rocks rather than glistening sand tends to inhibit action sequences.

The wreckers are the bad bad smugglers, the ordinary locals, dealing with a bit of rum and tobacco to avoid the exciseman or helping themselves to loot from legitimate shipwrecks, are the good bad smugglers.

You can always depend on a good bad highwayman to defend an innocent girl against a bad bad smuggler. As you might expect the Squire is deliberately ineffectual since he’s being blackmailed by Black John (Bernard Lee), leader of the wreckers, because Christopher is the result of an indiscretion. So it’s left to the son to race back from London and set things to rights.

Although there’s a bit of fenceplay – there is one good duel between Christopher and The Captain – it’s not really a swashbuckler, a knife or pistol or musket the more likely weapon of choice, and since the director’s enamored of the silhouette against the darkening sky quite often what takes place is obscured.

Which helps the final section of the plot, as Christopher puts abroad that he’s dead while secretly signing up with Black John. This could have fitted into the Renown portfolio given the number of twists. Traps backfire. Ruses fail. Falling for the tale that his son is dead, Trevenyan puts the boy in mortal danger by sending troops to the beaches. Various rivals have to team up for the good of the cause.

By the time it turns into high adventure most of the moral complexities have been resolved.

The only problem is it’s the bad guys who steal the picture. While Peter Cushing (The Skull, 1965) continues his evolution as an actor of considerable scope, John Fraser (Tamahine, 1963) is a cardboard cut-out of a hero. But Bernard Lee, before assuming the mantle of M in the James Bond series, cuts loose as the bad bad guy while William Franklyn (The Big Day, 1960) does a dastardly good job of creating a charming good bad guy. For a bonus there’s rising French star Michele Mercier (You Can’t Win ‘Em All/Dubious Patriots, 1970).

Written and directed, with some panache, by John Gilling (The Pirates of Blood River, 1962).

Entertaining matinee fare with a soupcon of complexity.