movie review – Page 30 – The Magnificent 60s

Can-Can (1960) ***

A sterling cast does justice to some great Cole Porter songs in an entertaining musical typical of the period. Apart from appropriating some stock footage, nobody was going to bother to head out on location when a Hollywood-ized version of Paris could be recreated on the set. While the film is ahead of its time in several ways – Simone (Shirley Maclaine) owns the nightclub and the women in the title dance are meant to be minus their panties, hence attempts by authorities to shut it down – the plot features an old-fashioned love triangle.

While the chief magistrate (Maurice Chevalier) turns a blind eye to the lewd dance, his younger colleague Phillippe (Louis Jourdan) does not and ensures Simone is arrested. Complications arise when Philippe falls in love with Simone who already has a lover, the lawyer Francois (Frank Sinatra) who is averse to committing to marriage. The four stars are all very charming and there is gentle comedy and effortless acting as the romantic knots are tightened and then unpicked. Hypocrisy is tested and found wanting. The courtroom scenes are amusing and most of the story focus is on how Phillippe can get round his principles and legal obligations to successfully woo Simone.

But in reality, the audience is here for the music, and to hear classic Porter songs interpreted by Sinatra and Chevalier. While the songs are top-drawer, what captured my imagination most was the “Garden of Eden” ballet with a stunning design and superb dancing by Simone and Claudine (Juliet Prowse). The “Apache Dance” also boasts some singular choreography but otherwise while the “Can-Can” itself is rousing and well-done this is for obvious reasons a censored version.

The Cole Porter contribution includes: “I Love Paris,” “C’Est Magnifique,” “It’s Allright With Me,” “Let’s Do It,” and “Just One of Those Things.”

Walter Lang was a safe pair of hands in this genre having helmed Call Me Madam (1953), There’s No Business Like Show Business (1954) and Oscar-nominated for The King and I (1956). The screenplay was a harder slog. The original Broadway musical was a romance between the judge and the nightclub owner. Adding the lawyer Francois to the mix necessitated major changes to the story. But Dorothy Kingsley also had form, having been responsible for the screenplays of Kiss Me, Kate (1953), Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954) and Pal Joey (1957). Co-writer Charles Lederer, although involved in Kismet (1955), had a better grasp of comedy, as seen in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953) and It Started with a Kiss (1960).

Although not universally admired by the critics, it won two Oscars – color costume design for Irene Sharaff and best music for Nelson Riddle. It didn’t hit a home run at the box office either and the finger was pointed at Twentieth Century Fox for committing the mortal sin of inflating revenue figures on its initial launch.

While not one of the all-time great musicals and put in the shade when compared to West Side Story (1961) and The Sound of Music (1965), it’s an enjoyable confection.

Companion (2025) **** – Seen at the Cinema

Body Heat meets I, Robot in a film noir high-concept sci fi female revenge thriller. Such a contagion of ideas should skid off the rails but it works a treat as debut director Drew Hancock offers a highly intelligent adult movie. And might have been ideal Valentine’s Day counter-programming fodder to the more lightweight Bridget Jones: No More Please except that Captain America: Brave New World has already snapped up the counter-programming slot. Hopefully, this will pull in a deservedly wide audience that it’s still around to cause the other franchise operations some grief.

In my eyes sci fi and horror have to follow an internal logic, in other words create a world that can’t be twisted to suit an inconvenient obstacle. This is filled with them, but the best is when our heroine Iris (Sophie Thatcher) has discovered she’s a robot programmed to fulfil the needs of her owner but gains control of herself and plays around with her personality only to discover that the electric car in which she is trying to escape won’t respond to her new voice.

This is just so brilliantly done that when you get one twist after another following in logical fashion you don’t recognize these as twists but rather logic played out to the ultimate degree.

Three couples meet for an idyllic weekend in the country in a fancy pad beside a lake, owned by dodgy Russian multi-millionaire Sergey (Rupert Friend) who has brought along docile trophy mistress Kat (Megan Suri). Joining them are robot owner Josh (Jack Quaid) and Iris and gay couple Eli (Harvey Guillen) and Patrick (Lukas Gage), who, also, it transpires, is a robot.

The robots are programmed with highly believable meet-cutes, one involving a fancy dress party, the other the clumsy up-tipping of a stack of oranges in a supermarket. The robots are programmed to a) have sex at the drop of a hat; b) love their owners; c) be unable to tell a lie and d) follow the first rule of robotic development, as laid down by Isaac Asimov, of being unable to kill a human.

The last commandment ain’t quite so hard and fast and it turns out an owner, for nefarious purpose, can actually turn on the aggression control. As much as Sergey is probably, thanks to his wealth and perceived status as a thug, programmed to assume any woman is there for the taking, so a robot, aggressive instincts sharpened, can respond violently to attempted rape.

So, first of all, this looks like it’s going to be a tale of how do the other members of the holiday gang deal with Sergey’s murder and the more philosophical question of whether a robot can be held responsible for a crime or whether blame would lie with the owner for dickering around with the controls or for the inventor for allowing such a possibility.

You could have had a fair old time exploring any of these possibilities, and a fairly satisfying picture, given the detail of the programing and the examination of female dependency (Kat is as much under the thumb of Sergey as Iris of Josh) and male control and in low-key fashion the kind of guy who would otherwise most likely be an unwilling celibate. The movie poses another question that it doesn’t really go into, which is how our view of an otherwise unattractive male character changes when he has a beautiful woman on his arm, Hollywood the first to perpetuate such fictions.

Anyway, the story goes in a different direction. Turns out Josh is quite the sneaky conspirator. He has programmed Iris to take the rap for Sergey’s death while he and Kat make off with the $12 million the Russian keeps in his safe. But, like any heist picture, the theft is the easy part, the thieves inclined to fall out, and with a robot distraught at discovering she’s a robot and that her life is a fiction (and Josh’s to boot) then it’s only going to get murky.

But that’s without taking into account more logic. As the story develops, Patrick takes a programmed shine to Josh, acting as his protector, Josh discovers the makers of the robots have built in some safeguards, and Iris finds that the acquisition of greater intelligence (with little more than, ironically, a swipe right) more than makes up for losing the love ideals for which she is constructed and which constitutes the center of her understanding of her life’s purpose. Like M3GAN (2022), this is sitting up and begging for a sequel.

Top marks to Drew Hancock, who doubled up as writer, for exploring so many avenues and in contriving an interesting plot without cocking it up with easy solutions. Sophie Thatcher (Heretic, 2024) is the standout, but Jack Quaid (Oppenheimer, 2023), latest in the acting dynasty, essays well a difficult part, turning from clumsy charmer to needy controller. Lukas Gage (Smile 2, 2024), too, shifting up the gears from adorable to deadly.

Certainly, one of the most intelligent sci fi thrillers in a long time.

Flight Risk (2025) ** – Seen at the Cinema

At best, nifty piece of counter-programing, short on running time compared to the ballast-heavy bum-numbing three hours-plus of The Brutalist. At worst – where do we start? Maybe with the bald wig where you can see the join. Just part of the bombastic over-the-top zoppazaloola performance by Mark Wahlberg, deciding not to entertain a smidgeon of finesse or subtlety, not even of the John Malkovich (In the Line of Fire, 1993, Con Air, 1997) vintage, in his portrayal of a sadistic bisexual rapist murderer with a propensity for chopping off fingers and indulging in other anatomical atrocities.

The aim was, I guess, Narrow Margin on a Plane, though the confines of a cabin in a tiny plane leave little room for maneuver. And blow me down if the whole damn thing wasn’t shot over Alaska as the movie portends, but in Nevada, although I guess to the uninitiated one snow-capped peak looks very much like another. And blow me down number too, just when the tension (what tension?) should be ratcheting up to eleven, if we don’t take time out from chaining up the bad guy to allow our other more civilized bad guy to go all sentimental on us and want to do something good.

And that’s before we delve deep into a dumb back story about our cop being responsible for burning a prisoner to death after she went against all the rules of the profession and allow said female prisoner to take a shower, shackled to the bath to permit privacy, not expecting someone to lob a Molotov Cocktail into the bathroom. Your heart bleeds.

So, U.S. Marshal Madolyn (Michelle Dockery) in sore need of redemption after the prisoner-burning episode is escorting Winston (Topher Grace) from his hidey-hole near the Arctic Circle so he can appear as a witness in a Mafia trial, him being the mobsters’ accountant. Daryl (Mark Wahlberg) is their cocky pilot. Winston’s main job is to add laffs, by being just the kind of weak-minded entitled chap who took the easy route to riches rather than go to college and get a proper job. Madolyn has got other things on her mind beyond redemption and not liking the look of the cocky pilot.

She has sniffed out corruption in the department which might go as high as very high indeed, with a guy on the Mafia payroll, whom Winston, once he gets into his stride as a reformed criminal, is going to give up. All this by dint of her remote detection.

Or she could just be distracted by the rom-com elements of the plot. Did I mention there was romance? Our Madolyn is way too smart to fall for a dumbass like Winston and ain’t going to let a cocky hardhead like Daryl engage her in banter. But she’s a sucker for a sweet-talking off-stage fella who’s going to instruct her how to fly the plane once she’s incapacitated Daryl. He’s full of great information which I’ll bear in mind next time I’m on a plane coming in to land that’s run out of fuel. Guess what, it’s easier to land a plane if it’s run out of fuel. Phew, that’s a relief.

I’m generally all-in when it comes to hard-edged crime pictures with less-than-stellar casts as long as the action keeps coming and the plot makes some sense. This feels like they put out an all points bulletin for any idiotic plot handle they could find and when that didn’t work thought the casting would save them. Let’s get one of those top-class English lasses from Downton Abbey and put her through the mill and let’s get a fairly stellar action star and let him go off-piste.

In fairness, Michelle Dockery, who had already mined a tough streak in Godless (2017), isn’t bad, discarding all the girly girl prettiness in favour of no make-up no-nonsense toughness and twisting around seven ways to sundown to accommodate all the twists in the plot, even softening enough to indulge the romantic dreams of her off-stage lothario.

There’s maybe a chance this will turn into so-bad-it’s-good gold and if so it will be down to a demented performance by Mark Wahlberg (Father Stu, 2022), one of the few top stars, either by desire or financial necessity, to take risks with his screen persona. The problem is that his part is really a glorified cameo, the picture not so much revolving around his horrid horror-porn imagination, as the redemption-cum-rom-com focus of Michelle Dockery, the latest in a series of eye-gouging unlikely action heroines.

Directed by double Oscar-winning Mel Gibson (Hacksaw Ridge, 2016), no slouch himself, as an actor, in putting in a demented performance. Directed, without, I guess, the slightest notion of irony. Script by Jared Rosenberg in his screen debut.

But as I said, beats The Brutalist hands-down when it comes to lean running time (just 87 minutes).

The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone (1961) **

Dreary miscalculation. Ever since Tennessee Williams hit a home run with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958), studios, directors and stars had clamored for his works, so much so that Hollywood had greenlit seven adaptations in five years. While box office was one consideration, the playwright was catnip to the Oscar, racking up 17 nominations with a hefty number in the Best Actress category.

However you dressed it up, his work contained a substantial number of portraits of sadness and malevolence and often teetered on the murky, so making them work at all depended not just on the acting and direction, but the initial story. Rather than being based on a play, this was sourced from his first novel, a bestseller.

But the tale never shifts out of first gear and it’s difficult to summon up sympathy never mind interest in any of the characters. The middle-aged romance had proved a cumbersome fix for studios, and since May-December numbers featuring ageing male and younger female had proved popular, Cary Grant set up with an endless supply of woman nearly half his age, it seemed only fair to give middle-aged actresses the opportunity to romance younger men.

Usually, however, this followed a more straightforward path, involving genuine feelings on both sides. But Hollywood was also digging into another cesspit, the female sex worker, somewhat dressed up in Butterfield 8 (1960) and Go Naked in the World (1961), treated more straightforwardly in Never on Sunday (1960) and Girl of the Night. So it only seemed fair to introduce the gigolo.

Stage actress Karen Stone (Vivien Leigh) heads for Rome with her wealthy husband to recover from the failure of her latest play, a Shakespearian outing. When her husband dies on the plane, Karen decides to hang on in the Italian capital, which, after a year, brings her into the orbit of gigolo Paulo (Warren Beatty) and his unscrupulous mentor/manager Contessa Magda (Lotte Lenya). While Karen isn’t entirely a dupe and quickly sees through Paulo, nonetheless a year of loneliness has taken its toll.

Plus she understands the attraction of the older lover, her husband being a good two decades older and willing to subsidize her theatrical and cinematic ambitions. Despite not falling for Paulo’s more obvious con tricks, Karen finds herself enmeshed in a one-sided romance, ignoring the warnings of friend Meg (Coral Brown) on the dangers of becoming the talk of the town with her lover clearly more attracted to rising movie star Barbara (Jill St John). Paulo quickly dumps the Contessa, leaving her free to pour bile into Karen’s ear.

Inevitably, the younger lover tires of the older, but generally such pairings work well enough because initially at least there is attraction on both sides. But when it’s as lop-sided as this no amount of long drawn-out close-ups of the disenchanted provide sufficient compensation for a story that overstays its welcome.

While there are hints of the decadence of La Dolce Vita (1960) that Fellini explored, here it’s more of a surface examination until the surprising ending, where you would think Karen is doing little more than willingly opening the door to a potential serial killer.

The only redeeming element, which might reverberate more easily today, is of the woman demonstrating her independence by being the one to choose, and to some extent discard, the man. While not for most of the movie a sexual predator, she may well have turned into one at the end.

Oscar-winner Vivien Leigh, in her first movie in six years, essays her role well but is compromised by portraying a character that fails to elicit sympathy. Warren Beatty (Promise Her Anything, 1966) avoids the trap of thickening his Italian accent and going wild with the gestures which lends his character more of a thoughtful personality but there’s not much here to write home about. Lotte Lenya (From Russia with Love, 1963) steals the show and was rewarded with an Oscar nomination. Jill St John (Tender Is the Night, 1962) plays the ingénue like an ingénue.

Unless you’re a student of theater I doubt if you’ll have come across Panamian director Jose Quintero. This was his only movie and he was more famous for staging some of Williams’ plays and for resurrecting Eugene O’Neill on Broadway. His inexperience shows in lingering on faces at the expense of creating drama. Gavin Lambert (Inside Daisy Clover, 1965) adapted the novel.

Disappointment.

They Came from Beyond Space (1967) ***

If you’re familiar with the Amicus output from its portmanteau horror movies this excursion into sci fi might come as a surprise. On the other hand, should you be a fan of Dr Who you might well be acquainted with Amicus’s two excursions into this genre – Dr Who and the Daleks (1965) and Daleks’ Invasion Earth 2015 A.D. (1966). In fact, the outfit’s production at this point was evenly split between sci fi and horror and had They Came from Beyond Space and stablemate The Terrornauts (1967) done better the company might have persevered with the genre.

That these two were originally intended to go out as a double bill – they did in the U.S. but not in Britain – is somewhat surprising given they have similar themes of some kind of dying alien species using Earth for survival. And with a bigger budget, They Came from Beyond Space might have made a bigger dent into the box office, instead of heading beyond the realms of cult into oblivion.

There are some neat touches. Meteorites fall on Earth. Nothing odd in that, certainly not in the world of cinematic sci fi. What’s strange is how they land – in a perfect V-formation. What’s more their source is the Moon. You won’t be at all surprised to learn, however, that the aliens bear no resemblance to the amazonian-type women promoted in the poster.

Also peculiar, for the time, is that the scientists sent to investigate are led by a woman, Lee (Jennifer Jayne), her boss and lover Dr Temple (Robert Hutton) left behind because he has a silver plate in his head as the result of an automobile accident. The meteorites exert a strange power and soon Lee and her confederates are organizing some massive scientific project to send a mission to the Moon, funding procured from a million-pound loan from a hypnotized bank manager and the local community falling victim to a strange plague which renders them obedient.

Eventually, alarm raised by Lee commandeering so much expensive equipment, Dr Temple does go to investigate and is baffled by the construction of a military compound complete with armed guards and electrified fence housing a vast underground laboratory and a rocket ready for launch.

He manages to kidnap Lee, possessed by an alien force, and with buddy Farge (Zia Mohyeddin) comes up with a variation on the kind of common-cold weapon employed to defeat aliens – in this case the use of silver to block the alien rays, you always knew that silver plate in his head would have narrative purpose. Realizing her situation, Lee now pretends to be an alien and the trio sneak aboard a rocket and after a fantastically speedy journey land on the Moon where they are confronted by the Master of the Moon (Michael Gough).

Quite why female sacrifice was a common theme between this and The Terrornauts is anyone’s guess but soon enough the aliens have Lee staked out. And that silver plate has to be surgically removed from Dr Temple’s head so the aliens can get a good look at his brain.

Like The Terrornauts, there are no physical aliens, just some kind of energy source. And like E.T. some decades later they just want to go home. Farge leads the enslaved in revolt and normally that would trigger some violent finale but here, instead, there’s a curious – and welcoming – climax.

A kind of “why didn’t you say so, old chap” ending where the Earthlings agree to help the aliens return to their planet, no collateral damage necessary. This is probably the most unexpected thinking person’s twist that you could ever conceive – a variation on the idea of foes finding common cause. It certainly didn’t fit into the genre and my guess is most audiences were baffled at the outbreak of peace. It just didn’t go with the territory.

None of the acting is anything to write home about, but the picture is generally well done, the special effects more than passable given the budget, and enough in the narrative tank to keep you going.

Robert Hutton (The Vulture, 1966) was coming to the end of a B-picture career. Jennifer Jayne’s (The Liquidator, 1965) hardly really took off. Zia Mohyeddin (Deadlier Than the Male, 1967) had a decent run in supporting roles. Everyone is no more than adequate in roles that demand no depth.

Freddie Francis (The Skull, 1965) does his best with a script by producer Milton Subotsky (The Skull) adapting the novel by Joseph Millard.

Undemanding but holds the interest.

In the Line of Fire (1993) *****

Outside of the top-billed trio of Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock and Meg Ryan, Rene Russo stole the limelight as the decade’s leading lady, bolstering the credentials of such supposedly superior marquee names as Dustin Hoffman (Outbreak, 1995), Mel Gibson ( Lethal Weapon 3, Ransom and Lethal Weapon 4, 1992, 1996 and 1998), John Travolta (Get Shorty, 1995), Kevin Costner (Tin Cup, 1996) and Pierce Brosnan (The Thomas Crown Affair, 1999) – an almost unprecedented, for a female star of the period, roster of hits.

Not only that, but she had also come to the game late, 35 at the time of her debut in Major League (1989) and therefore well into the most dangerous age for a female star in Hollywood, her 40s, by the time she came to work with some of the industry’s biggest names. By comparison Julia Roberts was 23 at the time Pretty Woman (1990) was released, Meg Ryan 28 when she captured hearts in When Harry Met Sally (1989) and Sandra Bullock 32 when she snazzed Sylvester Stallone in Demolition Man (1993).

It’s worth remembering that Eastwood, the previous decade washed away with insipid box office, was entering a late career halcyon period, his critical and commercial esteem boosted by the Oscar-winning Unforgiven (1992). Previous male superstars close to retirement age weren’t called upon to put in a sprint or two. Sure, John Wayne and James Stewart could land a good punch, but that was generally in a confined space and nobody was calling on their athletic skills. But, here, Eastwood set the tone for later pictures like Taken – and he was a decade older than Liam Neeson in that one.

Russo, an MTA, oozed class and maturity, never looked as if she was out of her depth or if she would come off second best to any of the macho males she was generally surrounded with. This isn’t her greatest role – her duel with Brosnan takes that accolade – but comes pretty close.

As Lilly Raine, she nurses ageing Secret Service agent Frank Horrigan (Clint Eastwood) over the line. Frank isn’t just perennially out of puff, but catches bad colds and makes such a basic error that he’s chucked out of the presidential protection elite, though kept on by boss Sam (John Mahoney) in a bid to track down assassin Mitch Leary (John Malkovich).

This is nuts-and-bolts action, a lot of time spent in basic detection, following up insignificant leads, but it’s also a classic hunter vs. hunted duel, with for the most part the assassin getting the upper hand, running rings round the entire Secret Service with his disguises and ability to remain more than one step ahead. Instead of a car chase, there’s a rooftop chase.

Horrigan is the kind of imperturbable cop who doesn’t mind partner Al (Dylan McDermott) being suffocated half to death if it gives him an edge on a villain. He’s got a chequered past, maligned by the Warren Commission in the Kennedy assassination report, feeling his age, but when life gets too tough tinkers away at the piano.

He has spicy exchanges with Lilly, taking sexism to what was an acceptable limit back in the day (now of course he’d be in the same dinosaur category as James Bond), and in due course, in quite oblique narrative fashion, wooing Lilly. The sex scene is treated as comedy, the first items to hit the carpet in the undressing malarkey are not panties and bra, but handcuffs and pistols. Hot romance is put on the back burner, which is just as well because Horrigan has his hands full not just with Leary but with a variety of superiors what with his inability to bite his tongue.

Meanwhile, we follow Leary as he coldly disposes of two men and two women in separate instances who have inadvertently caught him out. And he’s not going to make it easy for Horrigan. This isn’t the one-plan-man of previous assassin pictures, he doesn’t just have a back-up, instead employing all sorts of strategies to mislead and misdirect. And he’s not your usual nutter either. Clearly, he’s a worthy opponent, matching the enterprise, initiative and imagination of the anonymous killer of Day of the Jackal (1973). And in those days, what with developments in technology, an assassin can assemble his own gun rather than handing the task, as in Day of the Jackal, to a denoted weapons expert.

The stunning key sequence, astonishing in character terms, is when Horrigan passes up the option of shooting the assassin stone dead in favor of saving his own life – resulting in the irony (as Leary points out) of good guy being saved by bad guy. And in avoiding such action Horrigan condemns his partner to death. There’s as good a scene where I could swear Horrigan’s chin wobbles as he wonders if he could have prevented Kennedy’s death.

Sure, this is a variation on the serial killer trope of someone tormenting a potential victim, but the connections Leary attempts to build with Horrigan aren’t as far short as the cop would like to believe.

Director Wolfgang Peterson (Outbreak) is due considerable praise especially for his pacing, fitting in a complex narrative in a shade over two hours, building tension in myriad ways, but not being afraid to take a laid-back approach with the camera, long, lingering shots establishing mood and occasionally character. The sequence where Horrigan waits, somewhat wistfully, for Lilly to look back from a considerable distance after they have enjoyed an ice-cream together on a national monument is in many ways one of the finest nods to incipient romance ever put on celluloid.

Terrific acting all round. Written by Jeff Maguire (Victory, 1981).

Superb stuff. Top notch.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) ****

Reassessment sixty years on – and on the big screen, too – presents a darker picture bursting to get out of the confines of Hollywood gloss. Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) is one of the most iconic characters ever to hit the screen. Her little black dress, hats, English drawl and elongated cigarette often get in the way of accepting the character within, the former hillbilly wild child who refuses to be owned or caged, her demand for independence constrained by her desire to marry into wealth for the supposed freedom that will bring, demands which clearly place a strain on her mental health.

Although only hinted at then, and more obvious now, she is willing to sell her body in a bid to save her soul. Paul Varjak (George Peppard), a gigolo, being kept, in some style I should add, with a walk-in wardrobe full of suits, by the nameless wealthy married woman Emily (Patricia Neal), is her male equivalent, a published writer whose promise does not pay the bills. The constructs both have created to hide from the realities of life are soon exposed.

There is much to adore here, not least Golightly’s ravishing outfits, her kookiness and endearing haplessness faced with an ordinary chore such as cooking, and a central section, where the couple try to buy something at Tiffanys on a budget of $10, introduce Holly to New York public library and boost items from a dime store, which fits neatly into the rom-com tradition.

Golightly’s income, which she can scarcely manage given her extravagant fashion expense, depends on a weekly $100 for delivering coded messages to gangster Sally in Sing Sing prison, and taking $50 for powder room expenses from every male who takes her out to dinner, not to mention the various sundries for which her wide range of companions will foot the bill.

Her sophisticated veneer fails to convince those whom she most needs to convince. Agent O.J. Berman (Martin Balsam) recognizes her as a phoney while potential marriage targets like Rusty Trawler (Stanley Adams) and Jose (Jose da Silva Pereira) either look elsewhere or see danger in association.

The appearance of her former husband Doc (Buddy Ebsen) casts light on a grim past, married at fourteen, expected to look after an existing family and her brother, and underscores the legend of her transformation. But the “mean reds” from which she suffers seem like ongoing depression, as life stubbornly refuses to conform to her dreams. Her inability to adopt to normality is dressed up as an early form of feminism, independence at its core, at a time when the vast bulk of women were dependent on men for financial and emotional security. Her strategy to gain such independence is of course dependent on duping independent unsuitable men into funding her lifestyle.

Of course, you could not get away with a film that concentrated on the coarser elements of her existence and few moviegoers would queue up for such a cinematic experience so it is a tribute to the skill of director Blake Edwards (Operation Petticoat, 1959), at that time primarily known for comedy, to find a way into the Truman Capote bestseller, adapted for the screen by George Axelrod (The Seven Year Itch, 1955), that does not compromise the material just to impose a Hollywood gloss. In other hands, the darker aspects of her relationships might have been completely extinguished in the pursuit of a fabulous character who wears fabulous clothes.

Audrey Hepburn (Two for the Road, 1967) is sensational in the role, truly captivating, endearing and fragile in equal measure, an extrovert suffering from self-doubt, but with manipulation a specialty, her inspired quirks lighting up the screen as much as the Givenchy little black dress. It’s her pivotal role of the decade, her characters thereafter splitting into the two sides of her Golightly persona, kooks with a bent for fashion, or conflicted women dealing with inner turmoil.

It’s a shame to say that, in making his movie debut, George Peppard probably pulled off his best performance, before he succumbed to the surliness that often appeared core to his acting. And there were some fine cameos. Buddy Ebsen revived his career and went on to become a television icon in The Beverley Hillbillies. The same held true for Patricia Neal in her first film in four years, paving the way for an Oscar-winning turn in Hud (1963). Martin Balsam (Psycho, 1960) produced another memorable character while John McGiver (Midnight Cowboy, 1969) possibly stole the supporting cast show with his turn as the Tiffany’s salesman.

On the downside, however, was the racist slant. Never mind that Mickey Rooney was a terrible choice to play a Japanese neighbor, his performance was an insult to the Japanese, the worst kind of stereotype.

The other plus of course was the theme song, “Moon River,” by Henry Mancini and Johnny mercer, which has become a classic, and in the film representing the wistful yearning elements of her character.

Negatives (1968) ***

Role play wasn’t the sub-culture it is now. Though fashion had injected more of a sense of dressing up what with Russian furs courtesy of Doctor Zhivago (1965) and snazzy berets from Bonnie and Clyde (1967), the idea of people living out their lives in costume had not taken hold. So consider this a precursor – and maybe a warning – as to what can go wrong if taken too far.

Obscurity to the point of obfuscation was an arthouse default especially prevalent in more commercial ventures like Blow-Up (1966) and In Search of Gregory (1969) so no need to bother yourself with hunting out motivation or background.

The erotic subtext – voyeurism too – here takes on a disturbing quality as it touches on the notion of male justified in using violence in response to female provocation. Drama centers on a clash of role model sensibilities with a weak male shifting from interpreting a murderous villain to imitating a heroic pilot.

Antiques dealer Theo (Peter McEnery) spices up his stale marriage to Vivien (Glenda Jackson) by dressing up as serial killer Dr Crippen. She invests in the role of his complaisant lover Ethel. Play-acting, at her behest it appears, doesn’t prevent her verbally tearing into him. Into this unconventional nest arrives German photographer Reingard (Diane Cilento) who has been spying on him for several weeks. She has her own fantasy and soon has him rigged out as World War One flying ace Baron von Richtofen, complete with ancient biplane. He responds to the militaristic characteristics of the pilot, entering more into the spirit of the game than the famed killer.

Naturally, Vivien doesn’t take kindly to this intrusion, not least because she realizes she isn’t the only one who can manipulate her malleable husband and violence and tragedy ensue. It’s not entirely clear why either female character indulges in such fantasies and does give rise to the cliche notion, and redolent of the times, of the female wishing to give in to the dominant male, even when the man shows little sign of being a dominant personality.

Apart from Theo visiting his father (Maurice Denham) who appears to be dying in hospital, the picture doesn’t shift much from its three-cornered narrative. The idea of the ongoing masquerade is emphasized by a sequence set in Madame Tussaud’s. Given the censorship of the times, the eroticism is largely of the discreet variety, rather than going down the full-blown sexual fantasy of The Girl on a Motorcycle (1969).

Glenda Jackson both plays a character right up her street and brings far more to the role than either Peter McEnery (The Moonspinners, 1964) or Diane Cilento (The Third Secret, 1964) who give the appearance of slumming it in a low-budget production in the hope it might bring career kudos.

Unwilling to dig any deeper into the characters, director Peter Medak (The Ruling Class, 1972), in his debut, merely toys with technique, elaborate shots following a character round a room or unusual compositions.

With the trendy crowd parading down King’s Road with all the latest hip gear including military uniforms and Victorian garb, this might have seemed to fit right in, except that the main characters have little in common with the “Youthquake” of the era.

On the one hand a true oddity with McEnery and Cilento well out of their comfort zones, on the other proof of what Jackson and Medak had to offer.

Might appeal to the role-playing crowd, more likely to those interested in early Glenda Jackson.

The Devil’s Brigade (1968) ***

I couldn’t get my head around the idea of the U.S. Army recruiting a bunch of undisciplined misfits, many with jail time, in order to link them up with a crack Canadian outfit. Turns out this part of the film was fictional, the Americans in reality responding to advertisements at Army posts which prioritized men previously employed as forest rangers, game wardens, lumberjacks and the like which made sense since the original mission was mountainous Norway. I should also point out the red beret the soldiers wear is also fictional and while depicted on the poster sporting a moustache commanding officer Lt. Col. Frederick (William Holden) is minus facial hair in the film.

But, basically, it follows a similar formula to The Dirty Dozen (1967), training and internal conflict followed by a dangerous mission. The conflict comes from a clash of cultures between spit-and-polish Canucks and disorderly/juvenile Yanks though, as with the Robert Aldrich epic, the leader taking some of the brunt of the discontent. Collapsible bunk beds, snakes under the sheets and a tendency to fisticuffs are the extent of the antipathy between the units, which is all resolved, as with The Dirty Dozen, when they have to take on people they jointly hate, in this case local bar-room brawlers in Utah.

The movie picks up once they are sent to Italy. Initially employed on reconnaissance, Frederick challenges Major-General Hunter (Carroll O’Connor), who prefers to do things by the book, and in a maverick move sets out to take an Italian position by trekking two miles up a riverbed, creeping into town by stealth and capturing the location without firing a shot.

Next up is the impregnable Monte la Difensa. Taking a leaf out of the Lawrence of Arabia playbook, in a brilliant tactical move, the Americans attack the mountainous stronghold from the rear by way of a mile-high cliff. But that’s the easy part. The rest is trench-by-trench, pillbox-by-pillbox, brutal hand-to-hand fighting.

The battle scenes are excellent and the training section would be perfectly acceptable except for the example of The Dirty Dozen which set a high bar. That said, there is enough going on with the various shenanigans to keep up the interest, but we don’t get to know the characters as intimately as in The Dirty Dozen and there is certainly nobody to match the likes of Telly Savalas, Charles Bronson, Jim Brown and John Cassavetes. That also said, the men do bond sufficiently for some emotional moments during the final battle

At this point William Holden’s career was in disarray, just one leading role (Alvarez Kelly, 1966) and a cameo (Casino Royale, 1967) in four years, and although his screen persona was more charming maverick than disciplined leader he carries off the role well, especially solid when confronting superiors, exhibiting the world-weariness that would a year later in The Wild Bunch put him back on top. Ironically, Cliff Robertson was coming to a peak and would follow his role as the strict disciplinarian Major Crown, the Canadian chief, with an Oscar-winning turn as Charly (1968). Vince Edwards (Hammerhead, 1968) as cigar-chomping hustler Major Bricker makes an ill-advised attempt to steal scenes.

This was the kind of film where the supporting cast were jockeying for a breakout role that would rocket them up the Hollywood food chain – as it did with The Dirty Dozen. Jack Watson (Tobruk, 1967) is the pick among the supporting cast, but he has plenty of competition from Richard Jaeckel (The Dirty Dozen), Claude Akins (Waterhole 3, 1967), Jeremy Slate (The Born Losers, 1967), Andrew Prine (Texas Across the River, 1966), Tom Stern (Angels from Hell, 1968) and Luke Askew (Cool Hand Luke, 1967). Veterans in tow include Dana Andrews (The Satan Bug, 1965) and Michael Rennie (Hotel, 1966).

William Roberts (The Magnificent Seven, 1960) adapted the bestselling book by Robert H. Ableman and George Walton. Director Andrew V. McLaglen (Shenandoah, 1965) was more at home with the western and although there are some fine sequences and the battle scenes are well done this lacks the instinctive touch of some of his other films.

Dirty Dozen-lite.

Tender Is the Night (1962) ***

Hollywood hadn’t had much luck with F. Scott Fitzgerald, now considered one of the three American literary geniuses of the 20^th century along with Nobel prize-winners Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. His novel The Great Gatsby has easily proven the century’s best-read literary novel. He was an alcoholic wastrel when in the employ of studios, in the latter stages of his life. Although The Great Gatsby had been filmed twice, in 1926 with Warner Baxter and 1949 with Alan Ladd, both versions had flopped.

His biggest seller, debut novel The Beautiful and the Damned (1922) didn’t hit the box office mark either. The Last Time I Saw Paris (1954), based on one of his short stories and starring Elizabeth Taylor, and a modest success, didn’t inspire Hollywood and it took Beloved Infidel, the memoir of his lover, gossip columnist Sheilah Graham, to kickstart further interest. But the film of that book, even with top marquee name Gregory peck, died at the box office in 1959.

So, whatever way you cut it, Twentieth Century Fox was taking a serious gamble – the budget was $3.9 million – trying to mount Tender Is the Night especially with such questionable stars. It was a comeback for Jennifer Jones, at one time a solid performer at the box office and an Oscar-winner besides. But she had been out of the business for five years, a lifetime in Hollywood terms. Male lead Jason Robards was virtually a movie unknown. This was his sophomore outing and his debut By Love Possessed (1961) had flopped. How much his Broadway prowess would attract audiences outside the Big Apple was anyone’s guess.

But Oscar-nominated director Henry King (Beloved Infidel) who had helmed Jones’s breakthrough picture Song of Bernadette (1944) clearly thought he was on to a winner because this had the slow and stately feel – running time close on two-and-a-half-hours – of a movie that’s never going to run out of breath never mind pick up a head of steam.

Truth is, it’s slow to the point of being ponderous. Takes an age to set up the story. Psychiatrist Dr Dick Diver (Jason Robards) living with ex-patient wife Nicole (Jennifer Jones) – an arrangement that would be professionally frowned upon these days – in the French Riviera in the 1920s host a party where the husband takes a shine to Rosemary (Jill St John) and the wife shows she has not shaken off her mental malady. Despite there not being a great deal of actual period detail, we spend a long time at the party as various permutations take shape.

Then we dip into a long flashback to find out how we got here, mostly consisting of Dick falling in love with his patient, abandoning his career to enjoy a hedonistic lifestyle funded by Nicole’s wealthy sister Baby Warren (Joan Fontaine). There’s a stack of gloss. We swap the South of France for Paris and Switzerland and we’re hopping in and out of posh restaurants and hotels and the kind of railway trains that for the rich never meant a draughty carriage and hard seats.

Basically, it’s the tale of a disintegrating marriage – one that would have been better avoided in the first place as most of the audience would have pointed out – and falls into one of those cases of repetitive emotional injury. Clearly, living on his wife’s sister’s money renders Dick impotent, compounded by the loss of peer regard.

Jennifer Jones (The Idol, 1966) is pretty good, essaying a wide variety of moods, flighty, whimsical, and stubborn, exhibiting the kind of nervous energy that was implicit in her illness and which he managed to tamp down but not fully control. Jason Robards is basically on the receiving end of a character he knows only too well, and he is simply worn down by the force of her personality. So, he can’t come across as anything but pathetic, especially when he wishes to succumb to the temptations of the likes of Rosemary.

For all the strength of his usual screen persona, Robards is miscast. He doesn’t command as he needs to in order for the film to work and for the audience to sympathize with his downfall. At this stage of her career, Jennifer Jones was so far more accomplished it doesn’t take much, even when she’s not letting fly, for her to hog the screen at the expense of a balanced drama. There’s a twist in the tale but by the time that comes we couldn’t care less.

In a less showy role than was her norm, Jill St John (Banning, 1967) is effective.

Ivan Moffat (The Heroes of Telemark, 1965) wrote the screenplay. A box office disaster, it only hauled in $1.25 million in U.S. rentals. Henry King didn’t direct another picture.

Trimmed by 30 minutes, this would have been more effective.