movie review – Page 32 – The Magnificent 60s

Black Bag (2025) *** – Seen at the Cinema

Explain to me how this cost anything like the reported $50 million. Unless the cost of a nightclub scene has gone through the roof. Or someone has slapped an almighty tariff on shooting in Zurich. Or such middling box office attractions as Cate Blanchett and Michael Fassbender, against the laws of marquee valuation, are pulling down salaries in the region of $10 million apiece.

Because this is nothing but a glorified chamber piece, most scenes shot indoors or in secluded locations. There’s no car chase, one minor explosion (drone-triggered), not even a pursuit on foot. Some clever marketing oik has dressed up what’s no more than a BBC TV film as an expensive espionage picture in the hope of hooking a larger audience.

It’s short, little more than 90 minutes, so that’s on the plus side. But the plot’s full of holes, you’re scarcely going to swallow Fassbender and Blanchett, faces welded to stiff upper lip, as a hot middle-aged couple, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see Hercule Poirot or more likely Miss Marple lurch into view for the grand finale with all the potential culprits being set to rights around a dinner table.

Fassbender is so impassive at the best of times his character hardly needs to be expanded to include some OCD, and the most expressive he becomes is, wait for it, hand shaking when he pours a glass of water. The theme, wait for it, is that people who lie for a living are not to be trusted in their domestic lives. And just to polish the virtue-signalling credentials there’s still running amok in MI5/MI6/Black Ops/CIA some rogue top dog who thinks he can stop the unnamed war – presumably Ukraine – by causing a nuclear power plant meltdown in Russia.

And when Pierce Brosnan steals the show in a small supporting role you know your movie’s in trouble.

That said, there’s enough going on to keep you entertained. Top British agent George (Michael Fassbender) begins to suspect – or does he really – that his wife, also a top British agent, Kathryn (Cate Blanchett), is up to no good. So he begins to investigate. Mirror is piled upon mirror, complicated by the occasional murder, so that we are soon knee-deep in the kind of narrative where you don’t know who trust – but, equally, unfortunately, don’t much care because none of the characters is remotely attractive.

At least one them, Freddie (Tom Burke), would have been considered a security risk. So often does he stray he would be catnip for any passing honeytrap. But you might also have asked questions about his current squeeze, analyst Clarissa (Marisa Abela), paranoid as a posse of schizophrenics, who knows exactly how to pass a polygraph test (clenching the anal sphincter one of the tricks in case you’re interested), and as likely as not to ram a carving knife into unfaithful boyfriend Freddie’s hand at the dinner table. Naturally, it doesn’t do much harm, because Freddie is back at work next day with bandaged hand and not investigated by cops over a knife wound that could hardly be covered by the old slipping the shower routing.

Then we’ve got straitlaced psychiatrist Dr Zoe Vaughan (Naomie Harris) with a penchant for erotic fiction, sex in the office (including breaking the cardinal rule of her profession, sex with a patient), and stringing along two men at once, both of whom, Freddie and Col James Stokes (Rege-Jean Page), are engaged in other affairs.

George soon realizes he’s being played as a patsy, and that his investigation has compromised another operation, and facilitated the handover of a top secret document to the Russians.

In the current dearth of movies for the over-40s, make that over-30s not yet suffocating in superheroes and multiverses, this is what passes for entertainment aimed at an adult audience. And it is short, as I said, but this is exactly the kind of low-budget movie with a decent cast that traditionally ends up on a streamer.

For once, director Steven Soderbergh (Magic Mike’s Last Dance, 2023), whose career is littered with self-indulgence, sticks to the knitting, and it’s a more than passable espionage thriller, but the kind that would be more at home on the small screen. Written by David Koepp (Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, 2023).

Neither Fassbender (Next Goal Wins, 2023) nor Blanchett (Tar, 2022) do the most basic task required of a marquee name, which is to set the screen alight, and all the rest, excepting the much-in-demand Pierce Brosnan (Black Adam, 2022) – seven pictures in the last two years – merely trundle along in their wake, saddled with scenes where they express alarm at their deepest secrets being revealed like they have drifted in to some shopworn melodrama.

For all the actual investigation that takes place you could have set this in the kind of remote spot favored by Agatha Christie and played it out in traditional Poirot/Marple fashion.

Interesting but ultimately disappointing.

And the big question remains – where did the $50 million go? And, did it exist in the first place?

Sebastian (1968) ***

Decoding the emotional life of mathematics professor Sebastian (Dirk Bogarde) lies at the heart of a spy thriller mainlining on loyalty and trust. The presence of a flotilla of potential Bond girls has opened this picture up to charges of being a spoof, but I saw the mini-skirted incredibly-bright lasses as being a reversal of the standard secretarial pool. And a supposed representation of the “swinging sixties” would hold true if shot in the environs of Carnaby St rather than the bulk of locations being arid high-rise buildings.

In roundabout fashion, intrigued after literally bumping into him in Oxford, Rebecca (Susannah York) is recruited into an espionage decoding department staffed entirely by gorgeous (but brainy) women. Among the older employees is chain-smoking left-winger Elsa (Lili Palmer) whom security chief General Phillips (Nigel Davenport) suspects of passing on secrets. When romance ensues with SY, Sebastian dumps dumb pop singer girlfriend Carol (Janet Munro) who is already having an affair and spying on Sebastian.

Although there is no actual beat-the-clock codes to be unraveled, tensions remains surprisingly high as in best Turing manner, breakthroughs are slow. There’s an undercurrent of electronic surveillance, eavesdropping on recruits, bugs planted in the houses of even the apparently most trusted personnel, seeds of distrust easily sowed, codes shifting from numbers to sounds. The occasional nod to the contemporary, a disco, pop songs, Rebecca doing a fashion shoot in the middle of traffic, is background rather than center stage

Sebastian, though worshipped by is female staff, is “more whimsical than predatory.” Nonetheless, introspective and often morose, unable to deal with emotions, it falls to Rebecca to take on the task of sorting him out which naturally leads to complications.

Most reviewers at the time complained it was a victory of style over substance, but somehow they managed to overlook the essential questions about trust the picture asked. That said, it does follow an odd structure, the third act dependent on directorial sleight-of-hand.

Dirk Bogarde (Hot Enough for June/ Agent 8 ¾, 1964) is always highly watchable and Susannah York (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) catches the eye with an impulsive, slightly kooky character who turns out to be down-to-earth. Nigel Davenport (Play Dirty, 1969) brings his usual cynical malevolence to the party but with the twist of not knowing whose side he is really on. John Gielgud (Becket, 1964) is a delight. There’s a brief appearance by a pipe-smoking Donald Sutherland (The Dirty Dozen, 1967). Miss World Ann Sidney is one of “Sebastian Girls”

David Greene’s (The Shuttered Room, 1967) direction is mostly competent but the opening aerial tracking shots set the precedence for occasional bursts of style. Jerry Fielding supplied the score. Written by Leo Marks (Peeping Tom, 1960) and Gerard Vaughan-Hughes (The Duellists, 1977).

La Femme Infidele / Unfaithful Wife (1969) ****

Not surprising since French critics worshipped Alfred Hitchcock – the only ones who gave him their wholesale approval in the 1960s – that a French director would attempt to pick up his mantle. But where Hitchcock majored on mystery and suspense and generally an innocent entrapped in conspiracy or crime, here director Claude Chabrol mostly dispenses with mystery concentrating instead on suspense. And it’s of the kind exhibited in To Catch a Thief (1955), Vertigo (1958), North by Northwest (1959) and Marnie (1964) where you are willing a character to get away with their crime or at least find redemption. And where Hitchcock places that load on the glamorous femme fatale, here Chabrol throws us into that most mundane of crimes, the jealous husband wanting revenge on his wife’s lover.

Successful businessman Charles (Michel Bouquet) should be enjoying life, glamorous trophy wife Helene (Stephane Audran) way out of his league, big house in the country, adorable son. But there’s something amiss. When his wife, who appears loving, makes sexual overtures in bed he turns over. He has grown suspicious of the amount of time she wife spends in Paris, ostensibly visiting her hairdresser or having beauty treatments or going to the cinema. Eventually, he hires a private detective and discovers his wife has a lover, Victor (Maurice Ronet). He decides to confront the lover rather than the wife. But instead of playing the outraged husband card, he pretends to be a man of the world, suggesting that Helene and he have an open marriage and that Victor is the latest in a long line of lovers. What he hopes to achieve from this is unclear, perhaps put Victor’s nose out of joint, perhaps cover up his own anger.

But it doesn’t go the way he planned. He spies an over-large cigarette lighter in the bedroom, a present he gave his wife for their third anniversary and kills Victor. This being the 1960s before forensics determined that you could never entirely eliminate a blood stain on a floor, Charles, with considerable diligence, cleans up the blood, remembering to wash out the bucket and cloth, wiping his fingerprints from everything he touched, bagging up the man in bed linen and dragging him out to his car.

On the way to disposing the body he is involved in a minor road accident. Police are called. He is saved from opening the car trunk because it is damaged. But when he tries to get rid of the body, the trunk proves impossible to open. Victor had appeared such a smarmy character, you’ve got no compunction about his death, you just want Charles to get away with the murder. Eventually, he forces the trunk open and drops the body in a small algae-covered pond. For a moment air trapped in the package makes it appear unsinkable. But, then – audience enjoying a sigh of relief and perhaps a homage to Psycho (1960) – it disappears.

Whether he revels in the discomfort of his wife who is no longer able to enjoy her twice-weekly assignations with Victor and unable, of course, to explain her bouts of distress to her husband and must keep up a façade, is unclear.

This is only a perfect crime to someone who has never been involved in crime, unaware of all the means of investigation at the disposal of Inspector Duval (Michel Duchaussoy) and his evil-eyed colleague Gobet (Guy Marley) who has the kind of look that says I know you’re guilty.

Turns out Helene’s name is in Victor’s address book and she can come up with no plausible reason for it being there. Charles denies ever having met Victor. The police are not convinced and return to interrogate the pair. Any viewer will quickly realize that it’s virtually impossible for either of the pair to remain undetected, the regularity of Helene’s visits can hardly have gone unnoticed, and even on a quiet street someone might have noticed Charles’s parked car and possibly him lifting the bulky package.

Nor does Charles dissolve in a bout of guilt. There’s an air of inevitability about him. You have no idea whether he might divorce Helene. The notion that she might not just take another lover doesn’t seem to occur to him and he’s not offered the opportunity to air his suspicions. Is he just going to bump off every lover his wife takes?

His wife finds a photograph of her lover in her husband’s pocket. But instead of denouncing him to the police, she burns it, either to protect her marriage or protect herself from the humiliation of being linked to the dead man, or because she has realized the folly of her betrayal.

We never find out her intentions because at that moment the police return and take Charles away.

A marvellous pivot on Hitchcock, with none of the B-film seediness that might have attended such a femme fatale, as Chabrol sets out his stall as a purveyor of the ordinary criminal, the one who didn’t run in high-class circles or was involved in international intrigue. The crime is so commonplace, that’s the beauty of it, and Charles such an ordinary character it all works superbly.

While Stephane Audran (Les Biches, 1968) is luminous, Michel Bouquet (The Road to Cornith, 1967) is her down-to-earth opposite. Written by the director and Sauro Scavolini (Any Gun Can Play, 1967).

A director finds his metier.

Holiday in Spain / Scent of Mystery (1960) **

There were five our great reasons to see this picture. Firstly, it was in Cinerama. Secondly, it was the first attempt in that special format to tell a dramatic story rather than offer just a travelog. Though How the West Was Won (1962) was promoted at the first dramatic use of Cinerama, that was actually untrue. This came first. Third, there was a terrific gimmick – Smell-O-Vision – which allowed audiences to inhale around 30 fragrances at the same time as the onscreen characters. Fourthly, it was produced by Mike Todd Jr., son of the Oscar-winning producer of Around the World in 80 Days (1956) and second husband of Elizabeth Taylor who was instrumental in bringing Cinerama to the big screen in the first place., Lastly, it was the first top-billed appearance of rising British star Denholm Elliott.

Unfortunately, none of these hit the target and it remains a novelty in the Cinerama canon. For a start, there wasn’t much of a story – it’s a chase tale of sorts with crime novelist Oliver (Denholm Elliott) uncovering a plan to kill American heiress Sally Kennedy. In setting out to thwart it he travels all over Spain in the company of philosophic wise-cracking taxi driver Smiley (Peter Lorre). Cue travelog of scenic Spain including fiestas, dances and the running of the bulls, which appears not to have been specially staged but filmed documentary-style as it occurred with the bulls inflicting considerable damage on the humans foolish enough to think it’s a lark.

The hook is the mystery woman who can only be detected by her Schiaparelli perfume while the giveaway for the villain, hired assassin Baron saradin (Paul Lukas), is his tobacco. Cue an onslaught of scents. But the smells don’t just pop up when characters are involved. When a barrel of wine smashes, that produces another smell.

Astonishingly, the movie manages to bring in some of the Cinerama trademarks – the runaway element seen from the audience POV, not just the traditional vehicle but also barrels of wine.

The smell gimmick worked well enough in cinemas set up for such technical aspects, but that amounted to very few screens, and outside of those the movie just seemed a random series of scenes with only panoramic views of Spain to lessen the boredom.

It did nothing for the career of Denholm Elliott and he did little for the movie. He lacked the edge or innocence required to make such a character come alive and mostly he looks as though he doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t make another movie for three years and on his return for Station Six Sahara (1963) he was no longer the star but quickly shifting into the character actor he would be for the rest of his screen career.

It was nearly the last hurrah for Peter Lorre. He suffered heart attack during filming so the real Peter Lorre is only seen in half the picture, for the other half it’s a stand-in.

The presence of Elizabeth Taylor (Butterfield 8, 1960) could conceivably have redeemed the picture but she puts in only a fleeting appearance, so speedy her distinctive features barely register. You see more of Diana Dors (Baby Love, 1969).

In the hands of Alfred Hitchcock (Psycho, 1960) or imitators like Stanley Donen (Charade, 1963) and with a more finely worked screenplay, reliant on neither visual nor olfactory gimmick, this might have worked. But it was in hands of Jack Cardiff (The Girl on a Motorcycle, 1968), famed cinematographer but only his third outing as a director, and he clearly didn’t know how to balance the various ingredients and so it limps home.

The minute the location of the source novel by Audrey Kelley and William Roos shifted from New York to Spain and the number of investigators halved, the trouble started. The hunt for a woman whose existence is in question was a standard mystery trope and might very well have worked here minus the smells and Cinerama.

A curiosity.

The Ugly American (1963) ***

Terrific performance from Marlon Brando saves this prescient but preachy meditation on Vietnam. Harrison MacWhite (Marlon Brando) is the new ambassador, whose political credentials are questioned by many, parachuted into the fictional South-East Asia country of Sarkhan, knee-deep in civil war, Communist north versus westernized south. The battleground is the American construction of a “Freedom Road” north to China which dissenters fear will be a conduit for the military. MacWhite owes his appointment to his friendship with Deong (Eeji Okada), a charismatic leader.

On arrival, the ambassadorial car is engulfed in a riot, car rocked, windscreens smashed. MacWhite shakes up a complacent embassy and though articulate and scholarly believes he holds the solution to the tricky situation, not willing to accept that national self-determination does not necessarily mean complete hatred of the Americans. There is duplicity on both sides, rebels blaming U.S. truck drivers for deaths they caused, the Americans so used to getting their way they don’t stop to think if it is the right way.

Anxious not to be seen as a lapdog for Communism, MacWhite’s actions inflame the situation, while Deong falls victim to internal forces. Construction boss Homer Atkins (Pat Hingle) promotes the clever use of building hospitals along the road, thus encouraging locals to back it, but nobody falls for such honest skull-duggery masquerading as well-meaning intent.

Friends turning into enemies is a decent premise for any movie but this is over-burdened with debate that while interesting and providing a reflection of the times is basically a mixture of virtue-signalling and apportioning blame and, most heinous of failings, doesn’t really advance the story.

First-time director George Englund handles the action sequences well and captures the essence of a country about to explode against a background of growing tension and political machination. Use of Thailand as a location adds authenticity.

Based on a controversial novel by political scientist Eugene Burdick (who also wrote a more straightforward cold War thriller Fail Safe) and William Lederer, navy veteran and CIA officer, so it carried the stamp of authority in terms of putting forth the arguments for both sides. However, while the film bears only a “passing resemblance” to the book, according to co-author Burdick, he deemed it a superior achievement on the basis of its more dramatic treatment. Stewart Stern (Rachel, Rachel, 1969) was the screenwriter who received blame and praise in equal measure.

Marlon Brando (Burn! / Quiemada, 1969) exudes authority, broad shoulders packed into a suit, and brilliant captures the anguish of a man led into disaster by arrogance. Coming off back-to-back flops One-Eyed Jacks (1961) and Mutiny on the Bounty (1962), this was a considerable change of pace, the first of several excursions into political territory. Eeji Okada (Hiroshima, Mon Amour, 1958) proves a worthy opponent. Pat Hingle (Sol Madrid, 1968), Arthur Hill (Moment to Moment, 1965) and Jocelyn Brando (The Chase, 1966) provide sterling support.

The movie did not just predict what would happen if the U.S. lost the battle for hearts and minds but a similar situation confronting the U.S. Ambassador to Indonesia in 1965 whose appointment was unwelcome in that country.

Mayerling (1969) ****

Sumptuous historical romantic drama set in a fading European empire awash with political intrigue and incipient revolution. Archduke Rudolf (Omar Sharif), married heir to the throne and constantly at odds with rigid father Emperor Franz-Josef (James Mason), sympathizes so strongly with Hungarian dissidents that he threatens to tear apart the Austro-Hungarian Empire. However, when he falls in love with Maria (Catherine Deneuve) and wants to marry her instead that, too, threatens to throw the empire into disarray.

Although dissolute, a mistress (or two) on the side, and addicted to morphine, that is not the way Rudolf is introduced to the audience. Instead, he is one of a string of bloodied men arrested after a demonstration giving his name to an officer in a police station who, once he is recognized, orders all other prisoners be released. He is the poster boy for good royalty. The Hungarians, agitating for independence, want him to become their king.

Beautifully mounted with lavish sets and enough in the way of balls, ballet, processions, horse riding and sleighs to keep up a steady parade of visually interesting distractions, the films steadily builds up an undercurrent of tension, both between father and son and between rebels and ruler. The emperor is a political genius, not just spying on his son, but full of devious devices to hold together whatever threatens to break up the empire.

The romance develops slowly and with true historical perspective, the first kiss they share is not on the lips, Rudolf kisses both her cheeks, she kisses his palm. Yet, there is a real sense that, no matter his power, they can still both be trapped in roles they despise, separated at the whim of parents. Rudolf, as he understands true love for the first time, finds the self-belief to challenge political certainties.

The regal aspects are well done, arguments about the rule of monarchy come over as heated conversation rather than boring debate, the political realities unavoidable. Rudolf is desperate to avoid a future where someone has to die before he has a reason to live. Escape is not an option.

There is a wonderful bitchy atmosphere in the court, where ladies-in-waiting disparage each other behind their backs, one dress described as “wallpaper,” and are forever seeking advancement. Countess Larish (Genevieve Page) is a self-appointed procurer-in-chief for Rudolf, not caring what chaos she causes.

I should add, if you are as ignorant of your European history as myself, that Mayerling is a place not a person. I tell you this so that you don’t make my mistake of waiting for a Mayerling character to appear. The film pointedly avoids a history lesson but it could have spared a minute to explain that the events depicted take place just 20 years after the establishment of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the second largest land-mass in Europe, and among the top two or three nations. That would have helped clarify why Franz-Josef was in such a constant state, worried about forces that could break up the empire, and as concerned that his son, living such a debauched life, lacked the personal skills to hold it together after his father’s death.

It is ironic that Rudolf does prove his worth as a result of being briefly separated from Maria, taking the army to task for its incompetent officers and poor maintenance of everything from weaponry to horses.

To his credit director Terence Young (Dr No, 1962) does not rely on Omar Sharif’s soulful brown eyes and instead allows action to convey character and looks and touch the meaning of his love. This is probably Omar Sharif’s best role, one where he clearly made all the acting decisions rather than being over-directed by David Lean as in Doctor Zhivago (1965). Catherine Deneuve is equally impressive as a far-from-docile innocent, especially given the wide range of more sexually aware characters she has created for Repulsion (1965) and Belle de Jour (1967).

James Mason (Age of Consent, 1969) is superb as the conniving emperor, so rigid he will not approve a change of buttons for the army, so cunning that an apparent rapprochement with his son has unseen strings attached. Ava Gardner (55 Days at Peking, 1963) sweeps in briefly as an empress protective of her son and making the best of life in a gilded cage. Also impressive are Genevieve Page (Grand Prix, 1966) and James Robertson Justice (Doctor in Distress, 1963) as the high-living British heir nonetheless under the thumb of his mother Queen Victoria.

Terence Young also wrote the literate, often amusing. script, although Denis Cannan (A High Wind in Jamaica, 1965) and Joseph Kessel (Night of the Generals, 1967) are credited with additional dialog. While Francis Lai (The Golden Claws of the Cat Girl, 1968) wrote the score he relies heavily on classical music from Aram Khachaturian’s Spartacus.

If you come at this not expecting a David Lean style affair full of striking compositions, but an old-fashioned drama advancing at leisurely pace, you will not be disappointed.

Some Girls Do (1969) ****

Enjoyed this sequel to Deadlier Than the Male (1967) far more than I expected because it sits in its own little world at some point removed from the espionage shenanigans that dominated the decade. Hugh (nee Bulldog) Drummond (Richard Johnson) is neither secret agent nor involved in espionage high jinks, instead employed in the more down-to-earth domain of insurance investigator, albeit where millions are at stake. Although his overall adversary is male, the smooth-talking Carl Petersen (James Villiers), adopting a series of disguises for most of this picture, the real threat comes from a pair of villainesses in the shape of Helga (Daliah Lavi) and Pandora (Beba Loncar). If anything, this pair are a shade more sadistic than Irma and Penelope from the previous outing.

The sequel doubles up – or doubles down – on the female villainy quotient, Petersen having created a race of lethal female robots who spend their time dispatching scientists working on the world’s first supersonic airliner. Global domination is only partly Petersen’s aim since he also stands to gain £8 million ($134 million today) if the plane doesn’t launch on schedule. Livening up proceedings are Flicky (Sydne Rome), a somewhat kooky Drummond fan who has her own agenda, Peregrine “Butch” Carruthers (Ronnie Stevens), a mild-mannered embassy official assigned bodyguard duties, and chef-cum-informant Miss Mary (Robert Morley).

Villiers has found a way of turning an ultrasound device intended originally to aid cheating in a boat race into something far more dangerous. But, of course, for Helga seduction is the main weapon in her armory, and Drummond’s first sighting of her – a superb cinematic moment – is sitting on the branch of a tree wielding a shotgun. Equally inviting are the squadron of gun-toting mini-skirted lasses guarding Petersen’s rocky fortress.

The movie switches between Helga, Pandora and the robots raining down destruction and Drummond trying to prevent it. Dispensing with the boardroom activities that held up the action in Deadlier than the Male, this is a faster-moving adventure, with Drummond occasionally outwitted by Helga and calling on his own repertoire of tricks. Dialog is often sharp with Drummond imparting swift repartee.

The action – on land, sea and air – is a vast improvement on the original. The pick is a motorboat duel, followed closely by Drummond in a glider coming up against a venomous aeroplane and saddled with a defective parachute. And there are the requisite fisticuffs. Various malfunctioning robots supply snippets of humour.

Richard Johnson (A Twist of Sand, 1968) truly found his metier in this character and it was a shame this proved to be the last of the series. Although Daliah Lavi never found a dramatic role to equal her turns in The Demon (1963) and The Whip and the Body (1963) and had graced many an indifferent spy picture as well as The Silencers (1966), she is given better opportunity here to show off her talent. Beba Loncar (Cover Girl, 1968) is her make-up obsessed bitchy buddy. Sydne Rome (What?, 1972) makes an alluring debut. James Villiers (The Touchables, 1968) is the only weak link, lacking the inherent menace of predecessor Nigel Green.

There’s a great supporting cast. Apart from Robert Morley (Genghis Khan, 1965) look out for Maurice Denham (Danger Route, 1967), Adrienne Posta (To Sir, with Love, 1967) and in her first movie in over a decade Florence Desmond (Three Came Home, 1950). The robotic contingent includes Yutte Stensgaard (Lust for a Vampire, 1971), Virginia North (Deadlier Than the Male), Marga Roche (Man in a Suitcase, 1968), Shakira Caine (wife of Sir Michael), Joanna Lumley (television series Absolutely Fabulous), Maria Aitken also making her debut, twins Dora and Doris Graham and Olga Linden (The Love Factor, 1969). Peer closely and you might spot Coronation Street veteran Johnny Briggs.

The whole package is put together with some style by British veteran Ralph Thomas (Deadlier than the Male). Screenplay by David Osborn and wife Liz Charles-Williams (Deadlier than the Male) is based on the book by “Sapper”.

Bonhoeffer (2024) ***

I had forgotten all I knew about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian who was hanged three weeks before the end of the war for his part in the failed assassination of Hitler. I hadn’t realized, either, that there was a virtual spate of biopics, three in the last two years and two more since the turn of the century. The name of writer-director Todd Komarnicki didn’t mean much to me either, except, to counter that obstacle, he pops up before the movie begins to remind us of his credentials, director of World War Two picture Resistance (2003), producer of Elf (2003) and writer of Sully (2017), the latter involving, he is at pains to point out, Hollywood royalty in the shape of director Clint Eastwood and star Tom Hanks.

While this is workmanlike rather than, until virtually the very last scene, inspiring, and, until the final credits, pivots on virtually a handful of his writings – from the millions of words he wrote, many that have become the kind of pithy sayings that people are apt to quote.

There’s a sense that this is for the converted and that there’s little need to remind an audience of what it should already know. While the narrative doesn’t meander, it does oscillate through various timeframes and for those unacquainted with the life it could have done with more attention to detail.

Except for one detail that resonates at the end, the childhood sequences could have been eliminated, though they reveal that his elder brother died in the First World War. Then we are pretty much pitched straight into Harlem where a colleague, Frank (David Jonsson), attending the same New York theological college, introduces him to Baptists who expound gospel music, sassy preacher Rev Powell Sr (Clarke Peters) and the devil’s music, jazz. Bonhoeffer (Jonas Dassler) gets sharp reminder of the pervasive racism when he tries to book a hotel room for his African American buddy and gets whacked in the face with a shotgun for his troubles. This makes him realize piety isn’t enough and that action is required to stand up for your principles.

He becomes one of the first to report on Hitler’s victimization of the Jews and a leader in the dissident movement at a time when the German church is supportive of the Fuhrer. He was a published author from 1930 and became a significant public figure. He promoted the ecumenical movement and spent two years as a pastor in London. He was jailed for his opposition to the Third Reich.

As I said, this is mostly a straightforward affair, and you might struggle to keep up with church politics and it’s a guarantee you won’t have any idea who the other clerics are, and none of them come alive enough for us to care about them.

The best scene, and key to his beliefs, comes at the end. The night before he is due to be hanged, a prison guard offers to help him escape. But Bonhoeffer, fearing repercussions for both of their families, turns him down. He holds an imitation of the Last Supper for the other inmates, including, much to the initial fury of the assembled prisoners, the guard. He dies not just with considerable dignity but welcoming death.

Jonas Dassler (Berlin Nobody, 2024) is stolid more than anything and it’s very much a one-note performance. Frankly, none of the acting will take your breath away. However, placed against the current political climate, this resonates more than the film possibly deserves. It’s a worthy biopic and a timely reminder that “not to act is to act.”

However, if the name Bonhoeffer has ever entered your consciousness and you want to know more this is as good an introduction as any (though in fairness I haven’t seen the other biopics and I suspect the one starring Klaus Maria Brandauer will carry more emotional heft).

This was surprisingly busy when I saw it at my local multiplex on Monday, so the name has not been forgotten.

The Last Showgirl (2025) **** – Seen at the Cinema

I’m assuming this fell foul of Oscar voters because it lacked a woke agenda. In fact, it’s distinctly anti-woke, the subject matter of women flaunting their bodies for dough, and a heroine who revels in it, going against the contemporary grain. And I know Demi Moore put on a more showy performance in The Substance (2024) but Pamela Anderson here demonstrates significantly more substance. Everything you’ve heard about her performance is true and you do wonder, far more than with Demi Moore, why some casting director didn’t alight on such talent which would have been ideal for a rom-com or drama as a put-upon character.

I’ve scarcely come across a more well-rounded character – and yes the script by Kate Gersten was an Oscar shut-out, too, but scripts are more than fancy-dancy lines or setting up woke agendas. There’s a just fabulous scene where ageing showgirl Shelly (Pamela Anderson) slams the door in the face of one of the young dancers coming to her for emotional support. Shelly is too wrapped up in other personal dilemmas at that point to cope. Up to now she’s been maternal to a pair of younger girls, Jodie (Kiernan Shipka) and Mary-Anne (Brenda Song), and happy to offer a shoulder to cry on.

But it’s two-way. The girls help her fix bits of her costume. Following the door-slamming episode, Jodie takes the hump and refuses to assist pre-show and Shelly come a bit unstuck.

But not only is Shelly a willing participant in male fantasy, she’s also poster girl for a female fantasy, that her body and somewhat limited talent will carry her through to old age (older age, she’s 57 now) and she can dwell on career highlights such as being feted by the media and corporations who ferried her across the world as some kind of brand ambassador.

Frankly, she’s not ready to face up to much – certainly not the end of her career, the show (Le Razzle Dazzle) is closing and her daughter Hannah (Billie Lourd) is not only challenging her perception that she was a good mother but derides her occupation.

The script is cleverly structured in a kind of Christmas Carol fashion. We’ve got before – Jodie and Mary-Anne the eager beavers with stars in their eyes. After is represented by the jaded older hard-drinking gambling addict Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), reduced to cocktail waitress (a rather grand term for what she does) in a casino with her cleavage on show as a possible repository for tips.

Shelly has more than enough shades of character. She’s daffy, hard-nosed when the situation requires, manipulative (also when required), selfish, unselfish, fulfilled, unfulfilled, friendly, lonely. Turns out there’s still room for the exploitative show as long as striptease can be performed in post-ironic fashion, throw in some slapstick and bizarre comedy, and there’s demand for the straightforward Vegas showgirl but they need a good bit more dancing training than Shelly can muster – brutally taken apart in that scene.

Thankfully, director Gia Coppola (The Seven Faces of Jane, 2022) doesn’t go down the sentimental route, nor is she out to curry pity. You’ll sympathize with Shelly for sure, but you’ll hold back because her problems are all of her own making and you know full well that she’ll find some solution, manipulative or not, to her immediate problems.

If you’re looking to expend a bit of sympathy your better bet is Annette. The scene where, presumably as part of her job, she has to climb on to a mini-stage in the casino and gyrate to a tune with nobody paying the blind bit of notice resonates. Sharp-tongued though she is, Annette has the self-awareness to know she will always be broke, unable to kick her gambling addiction, even if it means losing her home and sleeping in her car.

Hannah’s really the only cliché, there as a scripting prop to make Shelly reassess her life (interestingly enough Shelly finds little to fault), and make her face up to her tawdry career. Though in a scene which makes some emotional sense – acceptance of parental failings, I guess, or pride at paternal skill – that I didn’t believe the daughter applauds her mother’s dancing having previously lambasted it.

This is old-school, from the time when you could make a whole film just about a character coming to the end of their career and facing up (or not, as here) to decisions made. It could be a football coach or a teacher or a politician. Here, it just happens to be a showgirl.

This would in any case have been the best performance of Pamela Anderson’s career because, frankly, that bar was set decidedly low. Demi Moore, by comparison, could at least point to some critical acceptance for roles like Ghost (1990) and A Few Good Men (1992). I don’t buy into the idea that box office stars are hard-done-by in not being offered Oscar-bait roles because as we’ve seen only too often any star can buy their way into a good role – by that I mean cutting their salary to the bone or spending their own dough to bring a picture to fruition, it’s what the term “vanity project” was invented for.

Still, with what Pamela Anderson presents here, shorn not so much of make-up but the glossy sleekness of her previous screen persona, and presenting a more realistic characterization, you could see her fitting well into a series of more demanding roles.

Yes, for once, the reviews are correct. Well worth seeing.

King of the Roaring 20s (1961) ***

Occasionally stylish B-picture purporting to tell the story of American Prohibition-era gangster Arnold Rothstein. It’s more of drama with various nefarious figures trying to outwit each other rather than a shoot ‘em up in the style of Al Capone (1959). David Janssen (Warning Shot, 1967) is ideal casting as the thoughtful, cold, calculating and possibly gambling genius Rothstein, the opposite of an intemperate crook like Capone.

The story is told essentially in two parts, Rothstein’s rise to power in partnership with childhood pal Johnny Burke (Mickey Rooney), initially running dice games in the street and pulling the odd con before graduating to fly-by-night horse racing operations. When the opportunity arises to move into mainstream illegal gambling, he dumps Burke. Corrupt cop Phil Butler (Dan O’Herlihy) is a constant thorn in his side and showgirl fiancée Carolyn Green (Dianne Foster) views marriage as risky – “he’s the gambler but I’m the one that’s going to be doing the gambling.”

For whatever reason, the movie dodges what was believed to be Rothstein’s biggest coup, the fixing of the baseball World Series, but one long section is devoted to how he pulls off a massive horse racing win where he ends up placing a $100,000 bet through insider information and strategic betting. Inevitably, his gambling puts the kibosh on his marriage but by far the most interesting part of the picture is the chicanery as he shakes off one partner, battles another, and without compunction sets up Burke as patsy to settle his score with Butler.

In some respects Rothstein is a template for Vito Corleone (The Godfather, 1972) in terms of his business brain and ability to out-think and out-fox opponents and certainly his facial expressions and innate coldness bear comparison with what Al Pacino brought to his characterization of Michael Corleone. Except that he didn’t trust banks, and carried round wads of cash (hence the title of the biography on which this is based – The Big Bankroll), it’s hard to get a sense of the wealth the gangster generated or, given the minimal violence, the world of imminent peril he inhabited.

Period detail is cursory, limited to dancing the Charleston and pouring champagne into teacups. A better idea of the flavor of the times is the wholesale corruption endemic in police departments, untrustworthy lawyers and hypocrisy run wild. It’s not really Janssen’s fault that it’s hard to warm to such a cold-blooded character, although you could point to The Godfather and The Brotherhood (1968) for that matter as examples of Mafia hoods who do elicit audience empathy.

With occasional bravura moments involving long tracking shots and overhead shots, and a terrific image of champagne bubbles seen through a pair of binoculars, director Joseph M. Newman (This Island Earth, 1955) shows stylistic flourishes that eschew his B-movie roots. Given Janssen is called upon to show as little emotion as possible, he does very well. Dianne Foster (The Last Hurrah, 1958), though initially demure, provides the fireworks. Jack Carson (The Bramble Bush, 1960) as kingpin Tim O’Brien matches Janssen in the cool stakes and proves a worthy adversary. Rooney overacts but Dan O’Herlihy (The Night Fighters, 1960) relishes his dirty cop role.

In a rare Hollywood outing British sexpot Diana Dors (Hammerhead, 1968) puts in an unexpected and brief appearance as Carolyn’s cynical flatmate. The tremendous supporting cast includes Keenan Wynn (Point Blank, 1967), Mickey Shaughnessey (North to Alaska, 1960), Regis Toomey (The Last Sunset, 1961), Oscar-winner Joseph Schildkraut (The Diary of Anne Frank, 1959) and veteran character actor William Demerest.

Jo Swerling (It’s a Wonderful Life) delivers a pointed screenplay focusing on gangster conflict with some excellent observation of the deterioration of the Rothstein marriage and the nervousness of the usually ice-cold Rothstein when confronted by his father. This is one of those pictures that you think deserves a Netflix series, a dozen or so episodes to explore the myriad characters involved and especially to examine Rothstein in forensic detail. The movie spells out that potential and on a tight budget does it well.