movie review – Page 32 – The Magnificent 60s

Stargate (1994) ****

Outside of James Bond, why is it that science fiction has generated the biggest franchises? Star Wars, of course, and all the cross-over cross-under twiddledeedee Marvel worlds, three iterations of Planet of the Apes, Alien, Avatar, Star Trek, Terminator and Predator immediately come to mind. I hadn’t thought of including Stargate until I realized that the initial movie has generated three DTV movies and five television series.

When it first appeared I was knocked out by the chutzpah of bumping up the basic idea behind Chariots of the Gods – that the pyramids were built by aliens – into a big-budget heady adventure. I’ve not seen this in over a quarter of a century so came at it with some misgivings especially as the latest efforts of director Roland Emmerich such as Moonfall (2022) died at the box office, ditto writer-turned-director Dean Devlin (Geostorm, 2017).

The rather basic premise of Universal Soldier (1992) didn’t lead anyone to believe that Emmerich had a much more creative bent and would soon reinvent the invading alien subgenre. But Emmerich takes the greatest imaginings of the popular Egyptologist and produces everything that audience could ever desire, including the curious dog-faced snouts found on statues and of course flying pyramids and ancient gods with a side hustle into a futuristic version of shapeshifting.

Theoretically, Kurt Russell (The Thing, 1982), all brush-cut and snappy diction, is the star as Col O’Neil, heading up some kind of intergalactic task force. But in fact it’s meek Egyptologist Dr Jackson (James Spader), who does the heavy lifting – he even gets the girl – and who if he’d had a bit more pizzazz about him would have been a latter-day Indiana Jones.

The plot is, of course, preposterous, but that’s the nature of the beast. In true Indiana Jones style Jackson discovers the missing piece of an archaeological jigsaw that points to some kind of wormhole, redefined here as a stargate, that can zip people light years away in the blink of an eye, and in a speeded-up version of the phantasmagorial elements of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). And just as in the director’s Independence Day (1996), the U.S. Government is up to some shady stuff, the kind usually designated to Area 51, and has been working on its own stargate.

Quite why Col O’Neil is taking along an atomic bomb for the ride is anyone’s guess. But once we race through the titular stargate we land on a desert planet inhabited by humans building pyramids and in thrall to Ra, who turns up every now and again to terrorize them into submission and/or steal the next body he requires to continue his journey into eternity. There’s plenty mumbo-jumbo and as many plot holes, but Emmerich has such a knack for narrative that it fair zips along. Col O’Neil has signed up for the mission because, frankly, he’s in a suicidal state of mind after his son died in a gun accident. Anyway, without the involvement of Jackson, who has no great scientific standing whatsoever, the US Government has worked out that whoever controls the other end of the stargate needs a good thumping.

Emmerich has the knack of posing verbal questions, leaving them dangling, and providing visual answers, which is all you need to propel a narrative. There’s plenty to play with here, the visuals are outstanding, especially for the time and the budget, and you are soon swept into the futuristic version of Egypt, and sinuous villain Ra (Jaye Davidson), and all the humorous misunderstandings that arise from language miscommunication. There is plenty action, either the kind of advanced aerial fighters emanating from the mothership (as occurred on a larger scale in Independence Day), or the gun-blasters, or the superhuman powers exhibited by Ra’s guards or indeed by Ra himself, not one to let mistakes go unpunished. There’s a clever twist on the regenerating device, and naturally someone has to lead a rebellion, though without spouting poetry.

Despite a few snatches at stardom, James Spader (Wolf, 1994) was still in marquee terms strictly second potato. This turns on its head his usual intense screen persona, and he’s quite a delightful little nerd, and just the guy if you need saved in the nick of time. Kurt Russell is mostly taciturn and, except for being engaged on a secret mission, has too little to do, but his presence still manages to anchor the picture.

All in all the concept works magnificently. I remember being impressed when I saw it on its release (but not so taken to subsequently trawl through the later small screen iterations) and was equally impressed now.

Go with the flow.

The Slender Thread (1965) ****

Hollywood paranoia in the 1970s ensured that any type of electronic surveillance was treated with suspicion. Cops, too, were almost certain to be corrupt. Although he would subscribe to such paranoia and implicit corruption in Three Days of the Condor (1973), in his movie debut director Sydney Pollack turns these concepts on their head.

Crisis center volunteer Alan (Sidney Poitier) faces a battle against time to save potential suicide Inga (Anne Bancroft), using his own powers of empathy and persuasion, but helped more than a little by dedicated policemen and the system of tracking calls. On the one hand the ticking clock ensures tension remains high, on the other Alan own’s battle with his nascent abilities brings a high level of anxiety to the proceedings especially as we learn of the particular circumstances driving Inge.

Alan is studying to be a doctor and he carries within him the arrogance of his profession, namely the power to cure. But that is within the realms of the physical. When it comes to dealing with the mental side of a patient he discovers he is ill-equipped. The intimacy he strikes up with Inga ensures he cannot seek relieve by handing over the problem to anyone else, the fear being that the minute he introduces another voice the spell will be broken. His medical training means only that he knows far better than a layman the effect of the pills the woman has taken and can accurately surmise how long she has to live. In the process he experiences a wide range of emotions from caring and sympathetic to angry and frustrated.

By sheer accident Inga’s otherwise loving husband, Mark (Steven Hill), skipper of a fishing vessel, has discovered that their son is not his. On being rejected, she has nothing to live for.

The simple plotline is incredibly effective. The two main characters never meet but we discover something of Inga’s life through flashbacks as her life gradually unravels and elements of insanity creep in. Alan, meanwhile, is shut in a room, relying on feedback from colleagues such as psychiatrist Dr Coburn (Telly Savalas) and others monitoring the police investigation attempting to discover where she is.

The fact that there actually was a suicide crisis center operating in Seattle (where the film is set) will have come as news to the bulk of the audience for whom suicide was a taboo subject and virtually never discussed in public or in the media. The fact that the telephone network could be used so effectively to trace calls would not have been such a surprise since it was an ingredient of previous cop movies, but it had never been so realistically portrayed as here, results never instant but the consequence of dogged work.

Initially, the movie treats Seattle as an interesting location with aerial shots over the credits and other scenes on the shore or seafront, but gradually the picture withdraws into itself, the city masked in darkness and the principals locked in their respective rooms.

Sidney Poitier is superb, having to contain his emotions as he tries to deal with a confused woman, at various times thinking he is over the worst only to discover that he is making little headway and if the movie had gone on for another fifteen minutes might have reflected how impotent he had actually been. Anne Bancroft (The Pumpkin Eater, 1964) matches him in excellence, in a role that charts her disintegration.

The fact that their character never met and that their conversations were conducted entirely by telephone says a lot about their skills as actors in conveying emotion without being in the same room as the person with whom they are trying to communicate. Telly Savalas (The Dirty Dozen, 1967) delivers a quieter performance than you might expect were you accustomed to his screen tics and flourishes. Ed Asner (The Venetian Affair, 1966) and Steven Hill, in his last film for 15 years, are effective.

The bold decision to film in black-and-white pays off, ensuring there is no color to divert the eye, and that dialog, rather than costumes or scenery, dominates. Pollack allows two consummate actors to do their stuff while toning down all other performances, so that background does not detract from foreground.

Winning the Oscar for Lilies of the Field (1963) had not turned Sidney Poitier into a leading man and in fact he took second billing, each time to Richard Widmark, in his next two pictures. Anne Bancroft was in similar situation after being named Best Actress for The Miracle Worker (1962) and although she took top billing in The Pumpkin Eater (1964) it was her first film after her triumph and, besides, had been made in Britain. And for both 1967 would be when they were both elevated to proper box office stardom. Written by Stirling Silliphant (In the Heat of the Night, 1967) based on a newspaper article by Shana Alexander.

Given the greater awareness of suicide today, this will strike a contemporary chord.

As the High Noon of the psychological thriller this more than delivers. Gripping stuff. And it’s worth considering the courage required to undertake such subject matter for your first movie.

The Biggest Bundle of ‘Em All (1968) ***

Bunch of incompetent crooks kidnap an impoverished Mafia boss who pays his ransom by setting up a major heist. By a stroke of casting alchemy this brings together Cesare (Vittorio De Sica), the epitome of old world Italian charm, knock-out gangster’s moll and scene-stealer-in-chief Juliana (Raquel Welch) replete with scanty knock-out outfits and criminal mastermind Professor Samuels (Edward G. Robinson). In order to acquire the funds necessary to steal $5 million of platinum ingots from a train – the plan involving a tank and an WW2 bomber – the crew, initially headed by American Harry (Robert Wagner), need to carry out smaller jobs.

Problem is, none of them are any good, not even Cesare, who has lost his flair and botches an attempt to rob an old flame of her jewels. They can’t even carry out a simple theft from a restaurant. The heist itself is pretty spectacular and innovative. And the movie is quirky, with a darker edge. While there are few belly laughs, the light tone is enough to carry the gentle humor, mostly inspired by the misplaced team, amateurs for various reasons, not necessarily outright lawbreaking, on the run. These include London Cockney mechanic Davey (Davy Kaye), chef Antonio (Francesco Mule) distracted by hunger at every turn, cowardly violinist Benny (Godfrey Cambridge) and Joe (Mickey Knox) with a helluva brood to feed.

The story does a good bit of meandering, as does the camera, much of its focus on the voluptuous charms of Juliana, but the hurt pride of Cesare and the grandiose machinations of the professor keep it on course. The Italian settings, incorporating grand villas and ruins, do no harm either. The heist is terrific and there is a final twist you may or may not see coming. The interplay of characters works best when it involves Juliana, who attempts to twist Cesare around her little finger, that tactic mutual it has to be said, who keeps the professor on his toes by dancing with him in a disco, and it soon becomes apparent that she has the upper hand over loverboy Harry.

You could be forgiven for thinking the title refers to Raquel Welch – a cinematic infant at this stage with only One Million Years B.C (1966) in her locker – especially when her cleavage and looks receive such prominence, but the caper is classy and different. As well as being obvious she is both sinuous and seductive and clearly has a mind of her own, possibly the most criminally intent of the entire outfit, with weapons the others lack. By this point, she had invented the pop-out bikini, pictures of which had flooded Europe, making her the pin-up par excellence, but those who came to simply gawp quickly realised there was talent behind the body.

De Sica (The Shoes of the Fisherman, 1968) constantly plays around with the idea of being a defunct godfather and Robinson (Grand Slam, 1967) is the antithesis of the gangster roles on which his fame relied. Robert Wagner (Banning, 1967) is less effective, miscast and out of place in such august acting company and losing out to welch in every scene.

This was a considerable change of pace for British director Ken Annakin after Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines (1965) and Battle of the Bulge (1965) and he brings to this the comedy of the former coupled with the narrative complications of the latter, wrapping everything up in an easy inviting style that makes the most of his stars and the locations. Screenwriter Sy Salkowitz was a television veteran (Perry Mason, The Untouchables et al) , this marking his first venture into the big screen.

The Emperor of Paris (2018) ***

France has been particularly successful in attracting a global movie audience for its literary and real-life legends. There have been over 20 big screen versions of The Three Musketeers, six of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, over a dozen of Les Miserables, and Napoleon Bonaparte has been the object of stars like Marlon Brando and directors such as Ridley Scott. But one legendary French figure has failed to connect. Underworld thief-taker Vidocq has attracted little interest outside his homeland. Even Douglas Sirk’s Hollywood version A Scandal in Paris (1948) starring George Sanders failed to crack the international market.

The Emperor of Paris is the latest iteration. I came across it while scrolling through Amazon Prime’s small catalog and since it starred Vincent Cassel (Mesrine, 2008), inheritor of the Jean-Paul Belmondo mantle, I gave it a go.

Set in Napoleonic times, Vidocq’s fame as a criminal relied on his ability to escape from the toughest prisons. After his last escape in 1805, when everyone believed him dead, he turns legit, building up a business as a fabric retailer. But later he turns into a highly successful thief-taker, hired by the police as an unpaid detective to clean up the streets of Paris on the basis that he will be granted amnesty. The officials dangle him on a string of promise for a heck of a long time.

While the legend of Vidocq rests on him becoming known as the father of modern criminology, the founder of Surete Nationale and setting up the first detective agency, this tale focuses more on action than detection – and presumably the boring bureaucracy that entails. Much of the information about criminals comes from Vidocq’s own experience, those of his accomplices and from informants, willing or otherwise.

There’s nothing sophisticated about the French cops, little more than night watchmen or official thugs who prefer interrogation to detection, and this is filthy twisty-street Paris before Haussman got his hands on it and recreated it with boulevards and broad expanse.

Vidocq knows more than the police where the bad guys hide out though some of them, like the celebrated American mobsters of the Prohibition era, are more likely to vaunt their notoriety, as with sadistic gang leader Maillard (Denis Lavant). And as ever when a hero ventures too close, the bad guys are apt to take extreme measures to gain revenge.

The harsh tale is leavened by the introduction of petty thief and prostitute Annette (Freya Mayor) who never manages to get Vidocq, who trusts nobody, to commit to a relationship, and social climber and arch seducer Baroness Roxane (Olga Kurylenko).

Vidocq himself is something of an enigma, soft spoken, dour, a loner, penned in by all his suspicions and led a merry dance, it has to be said, by high-ranking officials determined to deny him just reward. Betrayal, unexpected alliances and cold-blooded killings keep the narrative on a constant simmer. In one of the standard tropes, Vidocq assembles his own team, of criminals. The sets are excellent and the action pretty much non-stop

The role is tailor-made for Vincent Cassel, the best of the bad boy good boys, who mostly has to look surly and dispense his own version of justice. Denis Lavant (Holy Motors, 2012) is a memorable villain and August Diehl (Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Spy, Assassin, 2024) makes meaty work of best friend turned enemy. Freya Mavor (Marie Antoinette TV series, 2025) is both crafty and romantic while Olga Kurylenko (Thunderbolts, 2025) is mainly the former.

This has the feel of a two-parter, with the more interesting part of the tale in criminology terms still to come, but so far there’s been no sign of a sequel.

Directed by Jean-Francois Richet (Mesrine) who collaborated on the screenplay with Eric Besnard (Wrath of Man, 2021).

While nowhere near as compelling as Mesrine, it’s still a fascinating tale and Cassel is always good to watch.

Catch it on Amazon Prime.

Five Branded Women (1960) ****

Should have qualified as that rare thing – an all-star female cast. Italian Silvana Mangano had led the arthouse revolution and kickstarted the importing of sexy Italians in international hit Bitter Rice (1949), Jeanne Moreau was a leading light in the French New Wave (and another sexy import to boot) as star of Les Liaisons Dangereuses/Dangerous Liaisons (1959), Vera Miles was hot after Psycho (1960), rising star Barbara Bel Geddes (Vertigo, 1958) another Hitchcock protegee. Never mind that the story was a serious one, the redemption of female collaborators in Yugoslavia in World War Two, there was still time for what had become very much a western genre cliché, the inability of any woman not to strip off at the sight of a waterfall – here all five go skinny dipping.

The narrative should have been clearcut as redemption tales generally are: miscreant finds salvation. But this one is pretty muddled up and the moral confusion gets in the way. While some of the women such as Ljubo (Jeanne Moreau) have sex with the occupying Germans to prevent a brother being sent to a work camp, others such as Jovanka (Silvana Mangano) simply fall in love or like widow Marja (Barbara Bel Geddes) are desperate for a child. All five have been conquests of German lothario Sgt Keller (Steve Forrest) who is castrated by the partisans. The women are humiliated by the partisans who shave their heads and the Germans cast them out of the town, Daniza (Vera Miles) part of the quintet though she denies having sex with Keller.

*Like “Deadly Companions” the marketeers major on the promise of female nudity in a pool.*

But it’s not just the Germans who are apt to have predatory notions about women. A pair of armed collaborators consider them fair game and attempt to rape Jovanka and Ljubo. Partisan Branko (Harry Guardino) – ostensibly in the category of good guy – attempts to rape Jovanka then seduces Daniza. The lovers are later executed by the partisans for breaking the rule not to have sex with each other. And this is where it gets mixed up. The pair were meant to be on guard when they started having sex. In consequence, three Germans sneaked into their camp and nearly caused disaster. Despite that, Jovanka, who believes she was unfairly treated in the first place in being denied love just because there was a war on, still insists that they shouldn’t be condemned for ordinary human desire.

The movie works best when it sticks to straightforward redemption or is character-driven. Given the chance Jovanka turns into an effective partisan, cutting down Germans with a machine gun, preventing rape of herself and Ljubo by shooting the attackers with a captured pistol. But she rejects an attempt at reconciliation by partisan leader Velko (Van Heflin), the one who had cut off her hair, blaming him for her unnecessary humiliation. He later tries to make amends, by trying to keep her out of brutal action.

Despite taking up arms, the women remain vulnerable to smooth-talking men. Ljubo takes prisoner Capt Reinhardt (Richard Basehart), who might fall into the “good German” category since he isn’t like Keller, was a professor of philosophy and generates sympathy because his wife died in an air raid. Taking his word of honor, Ljubo unties him. She thinks he will be exchanged for a partisan prisoner. But he knows the truth – there are no partisan prisoners available for exchange because the Germans kill them. So he tries to escape, and she machine guns him in the back.

By this point Ljubo is far from a soft touch, not likely to prattle on about women being free to love the enemy or their compatriots, and is the one who shoots Daniza as part of a firing squad when it is left to her or Jovanka to do so.

What saves it is the brutal realism of war, this predates the vengeful citizens who at war’s end would take revenge on local women who slept with any occupying Germans (Malena, 2000, showed this repercussion in Italy and it was the same throughout France). There’s certainly an innocence about female desire and Jovanka defending her right to have sex, though, surely, there would have been shame involved in having sex with even a Yugoslavian before marriage in what would still have been a devout country. So a complex defiant woman, refusing to bow down to male-enforced rules. But there’s a male corelative. Branko equally refuses to obey any rules, and his actions cause harm.

In terms of acting, Silvana Mangano and Jeanne Moreau are streets ahead of their American counterparts, and complement each other, Mangano loud and outspoken, Moreau quiet and brooding. Harry Guardino (Madigan, 1968), Richard Basehart (The Satan Bug, 1965) and Van Heflin (Once a Thief, 1965) are the pick of the males.

Martin Ritt (The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, 1965), who liked to back a cause, has chosen an odd one here, and after a slow start it picks up. Written by Ivo Perilli (Pontius Pilate, 1962) from the book by Ugo Pirro.

Easily leads the pack of the women-in-wartime subgenre and despite, or bcause of, the moral confusion still well worth a look.

Staircase (1969) ***

A huge flop at the time given both Richard Burton and Rex Harrison trousered $1 million. Now, primarily of historical interest, hailing from a time when homosexuals could be jailed. A man dressing up in woman’s clothing, as here, could be summoned in front of the magistrates. It’s the kind of movie that would work better if, as with the American idiom, the dialog of two people of any sex engaged in a long-term relationship was spattered with brilliant one-liners rather than a series of sarcastic putdowns.

Even so, there’s more here than originally met the eye. The fact that the hairdressers Charlie (Rex Harrison) and Harry (Richard Burton) have remained, like a married couple, together for twenty years says a lot about their enduring, if fractious, relationship. While Charlie has a daughter he never sees – and never wants to – Harry pines after a child. And there is some gentle complaint about why, in the eyes of the law, Harry would neither be permitted to adopt a child not to love a man, but those aspects are never in your face except that Charlie is awaiting his summons for the crime outlined above.

There’s not as much mincing and preening as you’d expect. Charlie is the better looking and has retained his good looks with the help of considerable pampering but Harry has lost his hair thanks to alopecia and rather than wearing a wig opts for a bandage.

It’s one of those movies where nothing happens based on a play (by Charles Dyer) where nothing happens, what little tension there is reliant on waiting (for the summons and the threat of an appearance by Charlie’s daughter). But while the stage can get away with two actors at the top of their game (Paul Scofield and Patrick Magee in London’s West End, Eli Wallach and Milo O’Shea on Broadway), that’s a far harder trick to pull off on screen.

So it’s to the credit of both actors than they make it work and we empathize with their immediate and ongoing circumstances. While Charlie sees his role as being the scathing dismissive one, leaving Harry to be supportive and apparently still in love, nonetheless his true feelings come out when he thinks his partner has had a heart attack.

In male-female terms, this would come across as just another middle-aged couple stuck in a humdrum marriage, and indeed there’s nothing elevated about the relationship between Charlie and Harry who live a very working class life in London’s East End, the former’s ambitions to become an actor long since dashed.

There’s not much director Stanley Donen (Surprise Package, 1960) can do to open up the play beyond sticking a few of the scenes outdoors and there’s one sequence that would raise eyebrows these days when Charlie ogles half-naked male teenagers playing in the sun. The worst reason for adapting a play for Hollywood is that, unless farce raises its head or there’s a string of one-liners or hilarious circumstance, the verbosity plays against the possibility of there being outstanding cinematic sequences. Luckily, it ends with one, when Harry takes a frightened Charlie by the arm.

I’m not sure I’d actually recommend it because there’s not much going on and the performances are not in the Oscar league, but it is much better than I thought. Rex Harrison (The Honey Pot, 1967) has the showier role, Richard Burton (Anne of the Thousand Days, 1969) reining himself in.

Commercially, nobody came out of this well. Rex Harrison didn’t make another film for eight years, Burton finding it more difficult to extract a million bucks from producers, and Stanley Donen continuing his run of poor box office. And harder for any British audience to take this seriously once comic pair Morecambe and Wise started sharing a bed in their sketches.

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969) ***

Holds a special place in my movie heart because it was the first James Bond film I ever saw and the first soundtrack I ever bought. Having, by parental opposition, been denied the opportunity to see any of the previous instalments and therefore having little clue as to what Sean Connery brought to the series I wasn’t interested in the fact that he had been replaced. I can’t remember what my younger self thought of the downbeat ending but on the current re-view felt that a rather cursory storyline was only saved by the stunning snow-based stuntwork, two races on skis, one on a bobsleigh, car chase on ice and the kind of helicopter framing against the sun that may well have inspired Francis Ford Coppola in Apocalypse Now (1979).

The heraldic subplot bored me as much to tears as it did the assorted dolly birds (to use a by-now-outlawed phrase from the period) and I was struggling to work out exactly what global devastation could be caused by his brainwashed “angels of death” (the aforementioned dolly birds). This is the one where Bond threatens to retire and gets married. Given the current obsession with mental health, the bride has a rather more contemporary outlook than would have been noted at the time. We are introduced to her as a wannabe suicide. Good enough reason for Bond to try and rescue her from the waves, and her mental condition not worthy of comment thereafter.

Turns out she’s the feisty spoiled-brat daughter Tracy (Diana Rigg) of crime bigwig Draco (Gabriele Ferzetti) and Bond persuades that Mr Big to help him snare the bigger Mr Big Blofeld (Telly Savalas), hence the convoluted nonsense about heraldry. There’s the usual quotient of fisticuffs and naturally James Bond doesn’t consider falling in love with Tracy as a barrier to seducing a couple of the resident dolly birds.

I takes an awful long time to click into gear but when it does the stunt work – perhaps the bar now having been raised by Where Eagles Dare (1968) – is awesome. Apart from an occasional bluescreen for a close-up of Bond, clearly all the chases were done, as Christopher Nolan likes to say, “in camera.” And there’s about 30 minutes of full-on non-stop action.

Pre-empting the future eyebrow-raising antics of Roger Moore, I felt George Lazenby was decent enough, bringing a lighter touch than Connery to the proceedings without his inherent sense of danger (which Moore also lacked). Diana Rigg, I felt was miscast, more of a prissy Miss Jean Brodie than a foil for Bond, even if this one was a substitute for the real thing. It was a shame Honor Blackman in Goldfinger (1964) had taken the slinky approach but that would have worked better to hook Bond than earnestness.

I’m not entirely sure how Blofeld planned to employ his angels of death but the prospect of a gaggle of dolly birds gathering in fields or rivers and being capable of distributing enough toxic material to destabilize the world seems rather ill-thought-out.

Theoretically, this is meant to be one of the better ones in the series but that’s mostly based on the doomed romance and the downbeat ending and I guess that Diana Rigg (The Avengers, 1965-1968) supposedly brought more acting kudos than others in the female lead category. Adopting something close to her Avengers persona would have been more interesting but I guess she was fighting against being typecast.

If you get bored during the endless heraldry nonsense, you can cast your eye over the assortment of Bond girls who include Virginia North (The Long Duel, 1967), Angela Scoular (The Adventurers, 1970), Joanna Lumley (Absolutely Fabulous, 1992-2012), Catherine Schell (Moon Zero Two, 1969), Julie Ege (Creatures the World Forgot, 1971), Anouska Hempel (Black Snake, 1973) and Jenny Hanley (Scars of Dracula, 1970), who, as graduates from this particular talent school, made a greater impact in entertainment than many of their predecessors.

Second unit director Peter Hunt made his full directorial debut but focussed more on his speciality – action – than the drama. Written by series regular Richard Maibaum (Dr No, 1962) and Simon Raven (Unman, Wittering and Zigo, 1971) and more faithful than usual to the Ian Fleming source novel.

Top marks for the action, less so for the rest.

Death Curse of Tartu (1966) **

Absolute hoot. I often think it’s a shame we can’t admit to enjoying a really good bad picture and here we have a gem in the So Bad It’s Good category.

If you have a notion for the kind of movie where actors have to wrap rubber snakes around their necks and pretend to strangle themselves, or do a passable imitation of being eaten alive by a non-existent shark, manage to position themselves in a tree so they can fall into the open mouth of a stationary model alligator, or foolishly go where even devils fear to tread, this one is for you.

This wasn’t even the kind of schlocky picture that scraped out onto the release circuit in flea-ridden cinemas – it had a one-week engagement at the ABC Regal in Glasgow city centre, Scotland, one of the city’s two main first run venues.

It’s the Florida Everglades version of the Old Dark House and comes replete with umpteen warnings. Already people have gone missing in this particular area of interest, reputedly an ancient Native American burial ground. But that doesn’t stop explorer Sam Gunter (Frank Weed) continuing his solo expedition against the advice of local guide (Bill Marcus) who warns of ghostly chants and drums and of finding the imprint of tiger feet.

Sam’s pretty chuffed with himself to uncover an archaeological find, a stone whose significance is unclear. Anyways, poor Sam has not taken into account the presence of deadly snakes that can slither through the undergrowth and (holy moly!) overturn a kettle and then climb a tree and ambush him and suffocate him to death – though who wouldn’t be suffocated if instead of trying to remove said creature from around your neck your task as an actor was to pull the damn reptile as tight as possible so it looks like it’s impossible to escape. This is a mighty predatory creature and must just be protecting its territory because it makes no effort to eat its prey.

Sam’s disappearance doesn’t put off archaeology lecturer Ed Tison (Fred Pinero) and wife Julie (Babette Sherrill) who are escorting four students on their first dig. Luckily, the youngsters – Johnny (Sherman Hayes), Tommy (Gary Holtz), Cindy (Mayra Gomez) and Joan (played by Maurice Stewart!! according to imdb) – are already paired off, so there’s time for a bit of necking and dancing.

But it’s not long before the larking about turns into peril. Frolicking in the water ain’t such a good idea when there’s a stray shark about (presumably culled from stock footage) and the actors, who have presumably taken thrashing-about lessons, manage to churn up the water sufficiently to suggest they have been attacked.

Meanwhile, every now and then, we have been favored with shots of some gruesome creature coming to life. Given that, according to legend, he was capable to turning himself into a tiger, it’s a fair enough conclusion that he was the marauding shark, whose appearance in the Everglades would otherwise be too mysterious this side of chemical pollution or atomic accident.

The monster takes human form and begins pursuing the remaining intruders. Although Ed has a bolt-action rifle he’s not much of a marksman so their pursuer is able to happily maraud and his target hasn’t enough wits about her to snatch the knife he has embedded in a tree – and thus defend herself – so naturally enough she ends up in quicksand (or gradually going down on her knees in a patch of sandy water so it looks like she’s sinking). It’s lucky there is quicksand because that provides the narrative solution as to how Ed is going to escape the monster. The girl can be given a helping hand to get out of the quicksand, but the monster, after being thrown in, is denied assistance. But before he can be sucked under, he turns into a skeleton.

This has some historical significance in the horror genre, being at the forefront of what was known as the “regional” subgenre where movies were made in remote spots on miniscule budgets often with amateur actors. Writer-director William Grefe (Sting of Death, 1966) conjured up enough of these pictures to enter the esteemed halls of cult, but he was significant for another reason. At a time when movies were in short supply, the exhibitors had decided to enter the production game and funded The Checkered Flag (1963), directed by Grefe, under the auspices of Motion Picture Investors.

Nothing more was expected of the actors than that they could put on a good show of dying. Fred Pinero, Gary Holtz and Babette Sherrill had appeared in Sting of Death, but that was the extent of their acting careers. Frank Weed made one other movie. It was another decade before Mayra Gomez made another picture but by then she was on her way to a career as a television presenter, for which she received a Spanish lifetime achievement award.

If there was a separate ranking system for So Bad It’s Good films this would be hitting at least the four-star mark. As it is under my current system, it has to be marked down, which is a shame because there’s a heck of a lot of fun to be had here.

Come September (1961) ***

The quite superb concept that underpins the traditional unsettling of Rock Hudson is sabotaged by the inclusion of an unnecessary generation gap element and because one of the youngsters is singer Bobby Darin that throws a musical spanner into the works. The basic set-up is that Lisa (Gina Lollobrigida), the Italian lover of wealthy American Robert (Rock Hudson), is fed up with the part-time nature of their relationship. Although their affair dates back six years, it only lasts for the one month (September) he vacations each year in his luxurious villa on the Ligurian coast.

She’s so annoyed at his lack of commitment that she’s about to marry posh Englishman Spencer (Ronald Howard), that imminent event only put off by the unexpected earlier-than-usual arrival of Robert. Matters are further complicated because his enterprising Italian butler Maurice (Walter Slezak) hires out the villa to paying guests for the other eleven months. To explain the owner’s sudden arrival, Maurice persuades his guests to go along with the notion that Robert is a former owner fallen on hard times deluded into thinking he still possesses the property.

The guests are a gaggle of young women, including psychology major Sandy (Sandra Dee) who proceeds to analyze Robert, and they are herded around by formidable chaperone Margaret (Brenda de Banzie) who prevents Lisa sneaking into her lover’s bedroom.

So enough plot to be getting on with. You’d assume Spencer is going to turn up, maybe with his equally formidable sisters, to cause ructions at the villa. Lisa appears to enjoy making Robert wait the way he has kept her wait, so a gentle shift in power, and there’s going to be an inevitable bust-up so we expect a quick shift into the will-she-won’t-she scenario. Plus, there’s the whole issue of Robert claiming back his villa and dealing with the over-entrepreneurial Maurice.

Instead, the second act enters a whole new realm. Unless one of the girls was going to make a play for Robert, there’s not much reason for them to be there except for the nuisance value and to allow Margaret to flex her authority. An unwelcome quartet of young men, led by Tony (Bobby Darin), embark on the equally unwelcome task of wooing of the young ladies, Tony having his eyes on Sandy. Although various romantic entanglements are enacted, that’s not what takes center stage.

Instead, the bulk of the middle section scarcely involves the Robert-Lisa quandary and instead it’s devoted to an endless battle between Tony and Robert as the younger specimen attempts to prove he is mentally and physically superior. Now the one element that had made these Rock Hudson comedies work was his helplessness. He may occasionally be smart or wealthy but the whole point of these stories was for a woman to run rings around him or at the very least drag him way out of his comfort zone.

Seeing Robert best Tony – endlessly – takes the shine off the picture and it’s not until Robert is revealed as a sanctimonious hypocrite, living by a double standard, that the movie catches fire again as Lisa storms off in a huff and we can settle down to some good old-fashioned will-she-won’t-she.

This proves a very successful change of pace for Gina Lollobrigida, and she reveals herself to be such a splendid comedienne that it became part of her repertoire – reunited with Hudson for Strange Bedfellows (1965) and leading a pack of men a merry dance in Buona Sera Mrs Campbell (1968).

There’s nothing particularly wrong with Rock Hudson. He’s good comedy value, but the second act ruins it. Bobby Darin (Pressure Point, 1962) and Sandra Dee (A Man Could Get Killed, 1966) act as if they’re in a completely different movie, of the frothy beach variety. Walter Slezak (The Caper of the Golden Bulls, 1967) is an adept scene-stealer. Look out for Joel Grey (Cabaret, 1972) in an early role and Brenda de Banzie (I Thank a Fool, 1962).

Directed by Robert Mulligan (The Stalking Moon, 1969) with a screenplay by Oscar-winning Stanley Shapiro (Bedtime Story, 1964) and Maurice Richlin (All in a Night’s Work, 1961).

A hybrid that rocks the wrong boat.

Valdez Is Coming (1971) *****

Five-star review for a long-forgotten much-maligned western? Let me explain. Let me start with one of the most stunning cinematic images I have ever seen that in the hands of a better director would be considered one of the greatest ever devised. The titular Valdez (Burt Lancaster) appears on the top of a hill arms stretched out back contorted under the weight of a crucifix strapped to his back. Another director, more conscious of the image potential, would probably have had him straighten up at that point and positioned the camera for a close-up so the image could be captured against the sky. Even so, it’s an extraordinary image for a director, Edwin Sherin, making his debut.

But that’s not the only one. We’re familiar with the innocent man being forced to dance as the area around his feet is peppered with bullets from a sadistic gunslinger. Here, the victim of gunman Davis (Richard Jordan) is an old Native American woman. As she walks from a hut to collect water, he assails her with a barrage of shots. Does she dance? Does she dickey! She doesn’t even pause. As though she’s used to worse.

The movie opens with another stunning image. Valdez, a local Arizona Territory constable (presumably a less important title than sheriff though he wears the badge), takes time out from riding shotgun to watch a bunch of young bucks blast away at a target. Which appears to be the hut I mentioned. Takes a while for an explanation to be forthcoming. Said hut houses a fugitive from justice.

There’s another startling image when Valdez is used as target practice by the thugs employed by local bigwig Tanner (Jon Cypher). As if he was the equivalent to the target girl in a knife-throwing act, every space around his body is hit by a bullet.

And that’s before we come to the audacious freeze frame ending which, theoretically at least, leaves matters unresolved.

There’s also a post-modern post-whatever feel to this which should very much appeal to the contemporary audience. Very little is explained. Valdez has anglicized his Christian name of Roberto to Bob. He can’t get rid of his Mexican accent but he talks so softly that mostly you don’t notice. From his later demeanor, it’s quite clear that earlier on he is making a huge effort to fit in, not stand out, in a town dominated by white Americans.

But we also never find out why Tanner is hunting a man. He’s responsible for putting the man in the hut under siege. And although that turns out to be case of mistaken identity, we never find out who Tanner is chasing or why.

Tanner’s live-in girlfriend Gay (Susan Clark), a widow, has murdered her husband and we never find out why either. But she’s not the only unusual character. The gunslinger Davies is a misfit, finding out the hard way that intemperance and impulsiveness are not the way to make friends, and even Tanner has little time for a gunslinger too handy with a gun, but despite the callous exterior he has a softer side. And while that softer side turns out to be lucky at one point for Valdez, the lawman still doesn’t trust the capricious youngster.

The tale, such as it is, is one of principle. Valdez has been tricked into killing the man in the hut. Given the man proved innocent, Valdez thinks it right his widow, the Native American victim of the target practice, should receive some compensation. A hundred dollars seems a small price to pay. But Tanner is insulted at the very thought. In his eyes, the dead man was a no-account African American.

When Valdez insists, he is trussed up in the makeshift crucifix and left to make a humiliating walk home. That’s when he reverts, shuffles off his disguise as a soft-spoken relatively harmless lawman in a town where the most he will be called upon to do is ride occasional shotgun and jail an occasional drunk.

It’s vague too – you’d have to be well up on western lore to know the significance of the photograph he keeps under his bed – regarding his past. But hidden under the bed is what was known as a buffalo gun, a long-range rifle, manufactured by Sharps (hence the term “sharpshooter”) and suddenly he’s a different, more threatening, person, kitted out in his old cavalry uniform, hat brim upturned.

He interrupts Tanner and Gay making love to demand his hundred dollars. He only takes Gay hostage to make his escape, minus the cash, and then kidnaps her to provide him with something to trade. Unlike in The Hunting Party (1971), the weapon doesn’t magically ease his path. He doesn’t just take pot-shots from a distance. He spends most of the time rushing up and down hills, using boulders as cover. He can’t afford to use the gun since that would pinpoint his position. So he’s got to knock out Tanner’s advance scouts in other ways.

Meanwhile, Gay, who initially sympathized with Valdez, is less keen on him once she’s a victim, and spends most of her time trying to escape. In due course, Valdez’s marksmanship reduces the pursuing force by eleven.

He just about escapes but in a spectacular piece of stunt work involving horses colliding and people being thrown from the saddle, he is surrounded. Chief thug El Segundo (Barton Heyman) realizes that he and Valdez have something in common. Valdez wasn’t a buffalo hunter at all, but a stalker of Apaches, the enemy of El Segundo.

So El Segundo pulls back his men leaving Tanner to face up to Valdez alone. Or perhaps pay up the hundred dollars. We never find out because the image is frozen on the screen as the camera pulls back.

Edwin Scherin was rewarded for his boldness by only being allowed to make one more movie (My Old Man’s Place, 1971). This was the first of Burt Lancaster’s western trilogy that encompassed Michael Winner’s Lawman (1971) and Robert Aldrich’s Ulzana’s Raid (1972), completing his move into more of the flawed character he first essayed in The Swimmer (1969). Susan Clark (Coogan’s Bluff, 1968) makes the most of a role that permits her to switch from sympathetic to hard-nosed. Richard Jordan (Chato’s Land, 1972) has a peach of a part as the swithering gunman desperate for attention. Screenplay by Roland Kibbee (The Appaloosa, 1966) and David Rayfiel (Castle Keep, 1969) based on the novel by Elmore Leonard (Mr Majestyk, 1974).

So, sure, justified vengeance but exceptionally well done.

Catch this on Amazon Prime.

Well worth checking it out.