movie review – Page 34 – The Magnificent 60s

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.

The Leopard (1963) *****

Masterpiece. No other word for the way director Luchino Visconti commands his material with fluid camera and three terrific performances (four, if you count the wily priest). An epic in the old-fashioned sense, combining intelligence, action and romance, though all three underlaid by national or domestic politics. And if you’re going to show crumbling authority you can’t get a better conduit than Burt Lancaster (check out The Swimmer, 1969, for another version of this), physical prowess still to the fore but something missing in the eyes. And all this on sumptuous widescreen.

Only a director of Visconti’s caliber can set the entire tone of the film through what doesn’t happen. We open with a religious service, not a full-scale Mass but recitations of the Rosary, for which the family is gathered in the massive villa of Prince Don Fabrizio Salina (Burt Lancaster). There is an almighty disturbance outside. But nobody dare leave or even react, children silently chided for being distracted, because all eyes are on the Prince and he has not batted an eyelid, worship more important than domestic matters.

Turns out there’s a dead soldier in the garden, indication of trouble brewing. Italy has been beset with trouble brewing from time immemorial so the Prince isn’t particularly perturbed, even if the worst comes to the worst an accommodation is always reached between the wannabes and the wealthy ruling elite.

There’s a fair bit of political sparring throughout but this is handled with such intelligence it’s involving rather than off-putting. Rebel Garibaldi is on the march, it’s the 1860s and revolution is on the way. But it’s not like the French Revolution with aristocrats executed in their thousands and when Garibaldi’s General (Guiliano Gemma) comes calling he addresses the Prince as “Excellency.”

The Prince is a bit of a hypocrite, not as devout as he’d like everyone to believe. He’s got a mistress stashed away for one thing and for another he blames his wife for the need to satisfy his urges elsewhere, complaining that she’s “the sinner” and that despite him fathering seven children with her he’s never seen her navel. Furthermore, the person he makes this argument to is the priest Fr Pirrone (Romolo Valli), who, knowing which side his bread is buttered on, doesn’t offer much of a challenge.

If you’re not going down the more perilous route of taking up arms, advancement in this society is still best achieved through marriage and the Prince’s ambitious nephew Don Tanacredi (Alain Delon), more politically astute, does this through marriage to Angelica (Claudia Cardinale), daughter of Don Calogeo Sedara (Paolo Stoppa).

Brutality and elegance sit side by side. You’re not going to forget the mob of women hunting down and hanging a Government police spy nor, equally, the astonishing ball that virtually concludes proceedings, showing that, whatever changes in society take place, those with money and privilege will still hold their own. But that’s only if they do a little bit of bending the knee to the new powers-that-be, something that Tancredi, by now a rebel hero wounded in battle, is more than happy to do, since that procures him even further advancement, but a step too far for the Prince, who at the end retreats into his study, as if this will provide sanctuary from the impending future.

Don’t expect battle on the scale of Lawrence of Arabia (1962), this action is a more scrappy affair, undisciplined red-shirted hordes sweeping through a town and eventually overwhelming cavalry and ranks of infantry.

But if you’re aiming to hold an audience for three hours, a decent script, romantic entanglement and camerawork isn’t enough. You need the actors to step up. Luckily, they do, in spades. Burt Lancaster is easily the pick, towering head and shoulders, and not just in physicality, above the rest, a man who sees his absolute authority draining away in front of his eyes. Alain Delon (Once a Thief, 1965) comes pretty close, though, not afraid to challenge his uncle’s beliefs nor point out his hypocrisy, and adept at picking his way through the new emerging society, his potential ascension to newfound power demonstrated by wearing a war wound bandage wrapped piratically around one eye, as though keeping a foot in both camps. Though American audiences never quite warmed to Delon, he was catnip for the arthouse brigade, courtesy of being anointed by Visconti and Antonioni in, respectively, Rocco and His Brothers (1960) and L’Eclisse (1962).

Far more than U.S. cinemagoers could imagine, Claudia Cardinale (The Professionals, 1966) also easily straddled commercial and arthouse – Rocco and His Brothers, Fellini’s 8½ (1963) – and on her luminous performance here you can see why. You might also spot future Italian stars Terence Hill (My Name Is Nobody, 1970) and Giuliano Gemma (Day of Anger, 1967). Adapted from the bestseller by Giuseppe Tomasi de Lampedusa by the director and his Rocco and his Brothers team of future director Pasquale Festa Campanile (The Libertine, 1968), Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Enrico Medioli and Massimo Franciosa.

I can’t quite get my head round the audacity of Netflix in attempting a mini-series remake. I’m assuming they’ve had the sense to buy up the rights to the Visconti to prevent anyone comparing the two.

One of the decade’s greatest cinematic achievements.

Fraulein Doktor (1969) ****

Surprisingly good World War One spy yarn full to bursting with clever ruses and pieces of deception and ending with a stunning depiction of carnage on the Western Front. Loosely based on the life of Elsbeth Schragmuller, it fell foul on release to British and American hostility to the Germans actually winning anything.

The film breaks down into three sections: the unnamed Doktor (Suzy Kendall) landing at British naval base in Scapa Flow in Orkney to plan the death of Lord Kitchener; a flashback to France where she steals a new kind of poison gas; and finally on the Western Front where, disguised as a Red Cross nurse, she masterminds an attempt to steal vital war plans. She is hampered by her emotions, romance never helpful for an espionage agent, and her addiction to morphine.

Duelling spymasters the British Colonel Foreman (Kenneth More) and the German Colonel Mathesius (Nigel Green) both display callousness in exploiting human life. The films is so full of twists and turns and, as I mention, brilliant pieces of duplicity that I hesitate to tell you any more for fear of introducing plot spoilers, suffice to say that both men excel at the outwitting game.

I will limit myself to a couple of examples just to get you in the mood. Foreman has apprehended two German spies who have landed by submarine on Scapa Flow. They know another one has escaped. The imprisoned Meyer (James Booth) watches his colleague shot by a firing squad. Foreman, convinced Meyer’s courage will fail at the last minute, instructs the riflemen to load up blanks. Before a shot is fired, Meyer gives up and spills the beans on the Doktor only to discover that Foreman faked the death of his colleague.

And there is a terrific scene where the Fraulein, choosing the four men who will accompany her on her final mission, asks those willing to die to step forward. She chooses the ones not willing to die. When asking one of these soldiers why he stayed back he replied that she wouldn’t want to know if he could speak Flemish if he was so expendable.

But the Fraulein is always one step ahead of her pursuers, changing clothes and hair color to make redundant any description of her, and knowing a double bluff when she sees one. In France, disguised as a maid, she turns seductress to win the trust of scientist Dr Saforet (Capucine) and in the final section takes command of the entire operation. It’s unclear whether this is her motivation to turn spy or whether at this point she is already an accomplished agent.

What distinguishes this from the run-of-the-mill spy adventure is, for a start, not just the female spy, how easily she dupes her male counterparts, and that the British are apt just to be as expedient than the Germans, but the savage reality of the war played out against a British and German upper class sensibility. When a train full of Red Cross nurses arrives at the front, the wounded men have to be beaten back; Foreman thinks it unsporting to use a firing squad; a German general refuses to award the Fraulein a medal because Kitchener was a friend of his; and the Doktor’s masquerade as a Red Cross nurse goes unchallenged because she adopts the persona of a countess.

Far from being an evil genius, the Doktor is depicted as a woman alarmed at the prospect of thousands of her countrymen being killed and Germany losing the war. In order to cram in all the episodes, her later romance is somewhat condensed but the emotional response it triggers is given full vent. And there is tenderness in her affair with Dr Saforet, hair combing a prelude to exploring feelings for each other.

Apart from The Blue Max (1966), depictions of the First World War were rare in the 1960s, and the full-scale battle at the film’s climax is exceptionally well done with long tracking shots of poison gas, against which masks prove little deterrent, as it infiltrates the British lines. The horror of war becomes true horror as faces blister and, in one chilling shot, skin separates from bone and sticks to the barrel of a rifle.

If I have any quibbles, it’s a sense that there was a brilliant film to be made here had only the budget been bigger and veteran director Alberto Lattuada (Matchless, 1967) had made more of the suspense. Suzy Kendall (The Penthouse, 1967) easily carries the film, adapting a variety of disguises, accents and characters, yet still showing enough of her own true feelings. Kenneth More (Dark of the Sun, 1968) in more ruthless mode than previous screen incarnations, is excellent as is counterpart Nigel Green (Deadlier than the Male, 1967) but James Booth (Zulu, 1963) has little to do than look shifty. Capucine (The 7^th Dawn, 1964) has an interesting cameo.

Ennio Morricone (Once upon a Time in the West, 1969) has created a masterly score, a superb romantic theme at odds with the discordant sounds he creates for the battles scenes.

Collectors of trivia might like to know that Dita Parlo had starred in a more romantic British version of the story Under Secret Orders (1937) with a German version, using the same actress, filmed at the same time by G.W. Pabst as Street of Shadows (1937).

This is far from your normal spy drama. Each of the main sequences turned out differently to what I expected and with the German point-of-view taking precedence makes for an unusual war picture. I enjoyed it far more than I expected.

Squad 36 / Bastion 36 (2025) **

Netflix appears to be going through the gears – the wrong way. But that’s what happens when you’re so dependent on content – any content. But no different really from old Hollywood, always a bucket of stinkers in the days when studios had to each greenlight 20-25 pictures just to stay in the business.

I’d been encouraged by Toxic Town (2025) and my love of French policiers to take a chance on this one. It shouldn’t have been much of gamble. Even though French gangster/crime movies don’t travel all that well, for aficionados like me, growing up on the likes of Gabin, Belmondo and Delon (and intruder Bronson) that doesn’t matter. Still lingering in my memory are Mesrine (2008) and 36 Quai des Orfevres (2004) with Daniel Auteil and Gerard Depardieu, for example, directed by Olivier Marchal, who helms this one.

This at least gets off to a good start, a blistering chase through a rain-sodden Paris, clever interchange of personnel in cars and on motorcycle, hounding target Mahmoud through the streets. Eventually, Antoine (Victor Belmondo) has him trapped. But in the first of a series of bizarre twists the criminal gets away. How? Well, it’s simple. It’s down to bureaucracy. Instead of putting a bullet through a guy armed with a gun, presumably a crime in itself, Mahmoud effectively reminds Antoine that he doesn’t want to be seen shooting an armed man in public.

What? Double what? Mahmoud might not be resisting arrest but he’s clearly armed and dangerous. But of course there’s another reason Mahmoud can’t be arrested. Because the cops don’t have evidence to link him to criminals – the tracking is in the hope he’ll lead them to the bad guys. However true that may be, at the moment of this confrontation Mahmoud is clearly committing a criminal act, unless he’s got a license to carry a gun in public.

Then it gets even dopier. The top cop is furious because the chase has generated complaints from the good citizens of the French capital. Ooh la la! Then Antoine gets busted because – wait for it – he put in hospital three guys who ambushed him. Guilty apparently of using excessive force. That seems a tad unhinged. Is there any way to combat an attack by three thugs without putting at least a couple of them out of action?

This might have been redeemed had Antoine capitalized on his early edginess. He’s in the illegal business himself, but only to the extent of participating in underground bare-knuckle boxing matches. At one point he takes a hell of a beating – we’re talking Clint Eastwood territory – so that should have set him up for the rest of the picture.

But instead he reverts to completely dull as six months later, having been shifted to another unit, he returns to, unofficially, investigate the deaths of two members of his original squad and the disappearance of a third, Richard (Soufiane Guerrab), who has gone loopy – possibly after reading the script – but then disappeared from a psychiatric clinic.

Antoine has various leads to follow and occasionally, in case the plot is too difficult for us to follow, we pop into the lives of the other cops involved so we know full well they are up to something dodgy. Meanwhile, as with the best cop pictures, there’s a cover-up, which may be because the top brass is implicated or because it would just harm public relations if the public were to even think (perish the thought!) that there could be corruption in the police force.

This just drags on and on. It could easily do with losing a good 30 minutes. But even then it would sag. None of the actors involved take it by the scruff, the way they used to in the good old days, not even when they are presented as an old-fashioned hard-drinking hard-smoking gang. You used to be able to rely of supporting actors to steal scenes, just for the hell of it if they were older and to put down a marker for the future if they were younger, but that doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone here.

There’s an ironic twist at the end, the kind you used to get in the paranoia thrillers of the 1970s. Cracking start, good ending, but not very much to hook you in between.

Written and directed by ex-cop ex-actor Olivier Marchal from the book by Michel Tourscher.

Goes through the motions without hitting the spot.

Hombre (1967) ****

Shock beginning, shock ending. In between, while a rift on Stagecoach (1939/1966) – disparate bunch of passengers threatened by renegades – takes a revisionist slant on the western, with a tougher look at the corruption and flaws of the American Government’s policy to Native Americans. Helps, of course, if you have an actor as sensitive as Paul Newman making all your points.

The theme of the adopted or indigenous child raised by Native Americans peaked early on with John Ford’s The Searchers (1956) but John Huston made a play for similar territory in The Unforgiven (1960) and, somewhat unexpectedly, Andrew V. McLaglen makes it an important element of The Undefeated (1969).

This begins with a close-up of a very tanned (think George Hamilton) Paul Newman complete with long hair and bedecked in Native American costume. Apache-raised John Russell (Paul Newman) returns to his roots to claim an inheritance – a boarding house – after the death of his white father. That Russell is a pretty smart dude is shown in the opening sequence where he traps a herd of wild horses after tempting them to drink at a pool. He decides to sell the boarding house to buy more wild horses.

That puts him on a stagecoach with six other passengers – Jessie (Diane Cilento), the now out-of-work manager of the boarding house, retired Indian Agent Professor Favor (Fredric March) and haughty wife Audra (Barbara Rush), unhappily married youngsters Billy Lee (Peter Lazer) and Doris (Margaret Blye), and loud-mouthed cowboy Cicero (Richard Boone). Driving the coach is Mexican Henry (Martin Balsam).

Getting wind that outlaws might be on their trail, Henry takes a different route. But the cowboys still catch up and turns out Cicero is their leader. He takes Audra hostage, though she appears quite willing having tired of her much older husband, steals the thousands of dollars that the corrupt Favor has stolen from the Native Americans, and, also taking much of the available water, leaves the stranded passengers to die in the wilderness.

The passengers might have lucked out given Russell is acquainted with the terrain but they’ve upset the Apache by their overt racism, insisting he ride up with the driver rather than contaminate the coach interior. And the outlaws, having snatched the loot, and Cicero his female prize, should have galloped off into the distance and left it to lawmen to chase after them.

But Russell, faster on the uptake than anyone expects, manages to separate the gangsters from the money, forcing them to come after it. Russell wants the cash to alleviate the plight of starving Native Americans as was originally intended, but he has little interest in doing the “decent thing” and shepherding the others to safety. Ruthless to the point of callous, he nonetheless takes time out from surviving to educate the entitled passengers to the plight of his adopted people.

A fair chunk of the dialog is devoted to Russell explaining why he’s not going to do the decent thing and giving chapter and verse on the indignities inflicted on his people, and that alone would have given the picture narrative heft, especially as the corrupt Favor is more interesting in retrieving the money than his wife.

But in true western fashion, Russell is also a natural tactician and manages to pick off the outlaws when they come calling, impervious to the cries of Audra staked out in the blazing sun as bait. Eventually, against his better judgement, Russell gives in to the entreaties of Jessie and attempts to rescue the stricken women only to be cut down by the gunmen. I certainly didn’t expect that.

So, it’s both action and character-led drama. Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963) is superb (though not favored by an Oscar nod), especially his clipped diction, and oozing contempt with every glance, and the whiplash of his actions which is countered by shrewd judgement of circumstances. But Diane Cilento (Negatives, 1968) is also better than I’ve seen her, playing the foil to Newman, sassy enough to deal with him on a male-female level, but with sufficient depth to challenge his philosophy. Strike one, too, for Martin Balsam (Tora! Tora! Tora!, 1970) in a lower-keyed performance than was his norm. Richard Boone (Rio Conchos, 1964) and the oily Fredric March (Inherit the Wind, 1960) are too obvious as the bad guys. Representing the more calculating side of the female are Barbara Rush (The Bramble Bush, 1960) and movie debutant Margaret Blye.

The solid acting is matched by the direction of Martin Ritt (The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, 1965). Prone to preferring to make picture that make a point, he has his hands full here. But the intelligent screenplay by Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr. (Hud, 1963), adapting the Elmore Leonard novel, make the task easier, offsetting the potentially heavy tone with some salty dialog about sex and married life.

Thought-provoking without skimping on the action.

Out of the Fog / Fog for a Killer (1962) ***

Unusual and unusually effective entry into the low-budget British B-film crime category. Teeters for a time on the bittersweet before plunking for ending on a more realistic sour note. Surprising, too, in being issue-driven – the problem of the rehabilitation of criminals, or the way such efforts are blocked by the general populace wanting nothing to do with thieves and villains, especially when it comes to employment or romance.

On release from prison, George (David Sumner) is given the chance of a new life from do-gooder Tom Daniels (James Hayter) who runs a halfway house for ex-cons. George isn’t particularly grateful, since he sees life stacked up against him. But he’s making an effort and turns down the chance to join the other residents in setting up an illegal scheme. Instead, Tom finds him work as a driver for a furnishings manufacturer where he meets Muriel (Mela White). But their nascent romance is scuppered when the cops come calling, investigating a murder on the “Flats”, an area of wildland close to both the factory where he works and the pub he frequents.

When the killer strikes again, and again, the cops Det Supt Chadwick (John Arnatt) and Sgt Tracey (Jack Watson) realize the murderer is striking at the full moon. Luckily, neither of the detectives is apt to go down the werewolf route, especially as the killer tends to strike when a full moon would be of little assistance because the “Flats” are covered in thick fog (for no apparent reason except the script says so).

George becomes the chief suspect and the cops decide to set up Sgt June Lock (Susan Travers) as bait – odd how often this became a trope in these B-pictures. She’s to befriend George and, come the full moon, prevent herself being killed (the cops are keeping tabs on her) long enough to trap George as the killer.

There’s generally little time to waste in these running-time-conscious thrillers (this only lasts 68 minutes) on any characterization beyond the obvious but here we discover George has been disowned by his mother, a rather well-off character who lives in a good-sized house in middle-class Chiswick. When he asks to be allowed home, she turns him away and when the cops come calling her first words are, “I don’t have a son.” She’s a cold fish for sure, and hardly the entire reason he’s turned to crime, but it would go some way to explain his general bitterness.

George also appears to have an artistic bent and June encourages him, going so far as lining him up for some work. Before we get to the finale, there are other treats in store, the shrewish mother Mrs Foster (Hilda Fenemore) of the sulking Lily (Coral Morphew) who escaped attack by the killer. The other occupants of the house are also well-drawn, with a villainous hierarchy in operation, and clearly much more likely than George to re-offend.

The cops, too, are more ready than usual to admit defeat. Clues are non-existent what with the fog and any attempt at forensics limited to wondering why George cleaned his shoes so assiduously, the obvious deduction being the existence of mud or grass would have put him close to the crime scene.

In truth, there’s not much to the detection, but at least, as I said, nobody falls for the werewolf line and the idea of the date bait seems to come too easily to the cops.

As it stands, it’s mostly a character study, of a young man who can’t get a break, of society’s attitude to criminals, the lack of redemption available and little chance of a second chance once your past is discovered. I’m not sure how much this was an issue at the time but George exhibits a more understandable seam of bitterness than the likes of the surly Arthur Seaton in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960). The movie only scratches the surface of the affect of a child on the lack of a mother’s love, and since we don’t know what triggered George’s first crime it’s hard to go any deeper.

There’s the chance of a happy ending. June is clearly smitten with George and determined to prove him innocent rather than, as her superiors require, guilty. But bitterness wins out in the end.

Directed by Montgomery Tully (The Terrornauts, 1967) who had a hand in the screenplay along with producer Maurice J. Wilson (Master Spy, 1963) based on the novel by Bruce Graeme.

David Sumner (The Long Duel, 1967) gets his teeth into a peach of a part. Career-wise Jack Watson (The Hill, 1965) fared best though Susan Travers (Peeping Tom, 1960) had a running role in TV series Van der Valk (1972-1973)

Interesting twist on the genre.

Jessica (1962) ***

Roman Holiday (1953), Three Coins in a Fountain (1956) and Boy on a Dolphin (1956) had set a high bar for Hollywood romances set in Italy. Since Jean Negulesco had directed the last two, he was expected to sprinkle box office magic on this slight tale of young American midwife Jessica Brown Visconti (Angie Dickinson) adrift in a rustic village in Sicily.

She’s the kind of beauty who’s going to raise male temperatures except Jessica, having been widowed on her wedding day, is not romantically inclined. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop the entire male population becoming so entranced that their wives become so enraged that led by Maria (Agnes Moorehead) they embark on a sex strike, assuming that without any pregnancies (contraception being frowned upon in a Catholic domain) to deal with Jessica will become redundant and go away. And that so annoys Jessica, who is doing a good job as a midwife, that she turns on the flirting to get back at her female tormentors. Luckily, there’s a reclusive landowner (Gabriele Ferzetti) who happens to be a widower, although romance takes a while to stir. There’s also a priest (Maurice Chevalier), in part acting as narrator, who turns to song every now and then.

So it’s a surprise that this unlikely concoction works at all. It’s charming in the obvious ways, the lush scenery, a traditional wedding, gentle comedy. But it’s a decade too late in taking an innocent view of sex. There’s no crudeness, of course; it doesn’t fall victim to the 1960s need to sexualize in an obvious manner. And not every husband is continuously ogling Jessica so Nunzia (Sylva Koscina) and young bride Nicolina (Danielle De Metz) are in the awkward situation of potentially betraying the sisterhood.

But in resolving the central issue the story develops too many subplots and introduces too many characters, often leaving Jessica rather redundant in terms of the plot, with not much to do, especially when her prospective suitor is absent for a long period going fishing.

Angie Dickinson is delightful as the Vespa-riding innocent turned mischievous. However, in some way though this seemed a backward step for Dickinson, a rising star in the Lana Turner/Elizabeth Taylor mold after being John Wayne’s squeeze in Rio Bravo (1959) and Frank Sinatra’s estranged wife in Ocean’s Eleven (1960) and after a meaty supporting role in A Fever in the Blood (1961) elevated to top billing in The Sins of Rachel Cade (1961). It seemed like Hollywood could not make up its mind whether it wanted her to be like Gidget or be given free rein to express her sexuality.

A charmer like Maurice Chevalier (A Breath of Scandal, 1960) was ideal for what was in effect a whimsical part. The singing probably met audience expectation. Perhaps like Sean Connery’s perennial Scottish accent, nobody ever asked Chevalier to drop his pronounced French accent even to play an Italian. But the picture is whimsical enough without him.

There’s a surprisingly strong supporting cast in four-time Oscar nominee Agnes Moorehead (Pollyanna, 1960), Gabriele Ferzetti (Once Upon a Time in the West, 1969) and French actor (and sometime writer-director) Noel-Noel. Yugoslavian Sylva Koscina (Deadlier Than the Male, 1967), Frenchwoman Kerima (Outcast of the Islands, 1951) and Danielle De Metz (The Scorpio Letters, 1967) all make a splash. Screenplay by Edith Sommer (This Property Is Condemned, 1966) from the bestseller by Flora Sandstrom.

Terrific turn from Angie Dickinson.

Hard Contract (1969) ***

A hitman movie that verges on the existential is always going to be intriguing. Stone cold killer John Cunningham (James Coburn) manages to keep the world at a distance until he runs into the vibrant Sheila (Lee Remick) in Spain. The film is a curiosity of an admittedly small genre dominated by such disparate offerings as The Killers (1946 and 1964), Yojimbo (1961), Le Samourai (1967) and Stiletto (1969) in that although Cunningham does bump people off you never see the violence. We’ve come to expect hitmen to be introspective, but there’s never been anyone as closed-off as Cunningham. No romance in his life, only hookers, no apparent depth, in fact we learn very little about him.

He only runs into Sheila because for a laugh she pretends to be a sex worker. In reality she’s a wealthy divorced socialite running with a fast set that include Adrianne (Lili Palmer) and ex-Nazi Alexi (Patrick Magee) whom she loves to taunt but whose contacts allow Cunningham to be effectively stalked. And as unsavoury that might be from today’s perspective, it sheds light both on her power and whimsicality.

There’s an unusual background. Amid the extensive jet-setting in Torremolinos, Madrid and Tangiers, there are reality counterpoints, reflecting the issues of the decade – violent demonstrations with police using water cannon to control the crowds, the American elections and discussions about God, world hunger, terrorism and population growth.

No doubt the script is wordy, but there’s hardly a word that doesn’t challenge convention. It’s steeped in amorality – a touchstone of the decade – good only occurs “when evil takes a rest” and the world is “immune to murder.” And you certainly get the impression that the rich can confront anything because, not having to live in the ordinary world, they can get away with it. Conversely, this is also one of those films where you wonder who did the wardrobe (Gladys de Segonzac, since you ask, who ran fashion house Schiaparelli in the 1950s) because not only does Sheila sport clothes that would have delighted Audrey Hepburn but Cunningham gets away with wearing a white jacket.

And if Korean vet Cunningham is enigmatic, the insomniac Sheila is cut from a similar cloth, and while a potential source for redemption is as likely to have sex with a casual pickup in a filthy alley. The story does not go quite the way you would expect – Cunningham’s growing dissatisfaction with his profession revealed when he can’t perform in a Brussels brothel. And his mindset allows him to consider mass murder as a solution to an emotional problem he cannot solve.

At core, of course, is whether once Cunningham’s emotional defenses are breached he can continue as a hitman, and whether Sheila can accept his profession. The stakes rise when it transpires that (like Stiletto made the same year) retirement is not an option.

And for all the seriousness on show, there are some imaginative moments of hilarity – Cunningham’s idea of a love song is “To the Shores of Tripoli” and Adrianne proves determinedly indiscreet. In keeping with the paranoia cycle that was about to explode, you never find out why people are being murdered, or even who they are, far less the group which his boss Ramsay (Burgess Meredith) is fronting.

Far removed from the Derek Flint persona that had turned him into a star, James Coburn delved deeper into the amoral territory he had previously explored in Waterhole 3 (1967). Lee Remick (The Detective, 1968) is sheer madcap delight even when espousing her odd takes on philosophy. Lili Palmer (The Counterfeit Traitor, 1962), who by this point in her career was usually the wife or girlfriend, creates a very original character. Veteran Sterling Hayden had only made one film (Dr Strangelove, 1964) during the decade and is excellent as a contemplative retired hitman. Patrick Magee (The Skull, 1965) gives another of his tight-lipped performances. Karen Black (Easy Rider, 1969) has a small role as does Sabine Sun (The Sicilian Clan, 1969).

This marked both the debut and the demise of the directorial career of S. Lee Pogostin, best known at this point as the screenwriter of Pressure Point (1962) and Synanon (1965). In terms of argument over issues it stands comparison with Pressure Point but without that film’s intensity.

I remember being baffled by the picture when it came out and I was a teenager because the action I believed I had been promised never materialized but otherwise I could remember little about it so now it appears as an interesting antidote to the mindless action pictures.

The Silencers (1966) ****

An absolute delight. Have to confess though I had been pretty sniffy about even deigning to watch what I always had been led to believe was an ill-judged spoof of the Bond phenomenon especially with a middle-aged Dean Martin with scarcely a muscle to crease his stylish attire.

Full of witty repartee, and even a whole jukebox of snippets from the Dean Martin repertoire (plus an aural joke at the expense of Frank Sinatra) and a daft take on the Bond gadget paraphernalia. The spoofometer doesn’t go anywhere near 10 and the whole enterprise not only works but damn near sizzles. No wonder it led to another three.

Called out of retirement – hence cleverly swatting away any jibes about his age – Matt Helm (Dean Martin) resists becoming re-involved in the espionage malarkey until his life is saved by former colleague Tina (Daliah Lavi) as he falls for the seductive technique of an enemy agent. Back in harness with ICE (Intelligence and Counter Espionage), Helm is called upon a thwart a dastardly scheme by the Big O organization headed by Tung-Tze (Victor Buono) to stage a nuclear explosion.

Some malarkey about a secret computer brings into Helm’s sphere the klutzy Gail (Stella Stevens) whom he initially treats with suspicion. Gail and Tina end up as rivals for Helm’s afections.

But you could have invented any number of stories and they would still have worked because it’s the rest of narrative that makes the whole thing zing. We could start with the massive effort that goes into ensuring that the private parts of naked men (and women) are concealed by a wide variety of objects, a kind of bait-and-switch that paid homage to the James Bond legend while casually taking it apart. Since Helm now operates legitimately as a fashion photographer it makes sense that his most deadly gadget is a camera that fires miniature knives.

And knowing how much delight villains take in despatching secret service agents in the most gleeful fashion, wouldn’t it make sense to kill said agent with his own gun? Who could resist such a notion? Until it, literally, backfires and the bad guy is shot by a gun that shoots a reversible bullet – two bullets if you’re so dumb you can’t believe that’s what’s happening and you shoot yourself twice.

And what about the laser? Another famed Bond device. Why not have that go haywire?

But there’s also a playful Heath Robinson aspect to those gadgets whose purpose is pure labor-saving. Helm can automate his circular bed so he doesn’t have to get out of it to answer the phone and to save him walking a few steps into the bath the bed is programmed to jerk upwards and tip him in.

“Treasure hunt,” remarks Helm, slyly, as he spies a string of discarded female clothing. But making love to a strange woman feels rude so Helm is impelled to complain they haven’t been introduced. “You’re Matt Helm,” says the stranger. “Good enough,” replies Helm.

And that’s before we come to the joy of Gail, who has been taking lessons from Mrs Malaprop, and, despite lurching into Helm at every opportunity, giving him the mistaken impression that she’s keen to get to know him better, Gail actually is wary. So wary that in a thunderstorm she tries to escape their cosy nest of a car (equipped with separate sleeping arrangements, don’t you know) only to end up slipping and sliding through the mud.

While Daliah Lavi (The Demon, 1963) isn’t exactly called upon to act her socks off, she at least is afforded a believable character, but she can’t hold candle to Stella Stevens (Rage, 1966) when the blonde one decides to go full-tilt boogie into comedy slapstick. Sure, Stevens relies overly on other occasions on a pop-eyed look, but the thunderstorm sequence reveals a deft, and willing, knack for physical comedy.

Dean Martin (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967) struck a solid seam with his interpretation of Helm, slick enough to get away with Bond-style lothario, laid-back enough for no one to take it seriously.

Nancy Kovack (Tarzan and the Valley of Gold, 1967), Cyd Charisse (Maroc 7, 1967) and Beverley Adams (Hammerhead, 1968) up the glamor quotient.

Director Phil Karlson (The Secret Ways, 1961) and screenwriter Oscar Saul (Major Dundee, 1965), adapting the Donald Hamilton bestseller, provide the basic template but Dean Martin makes it work.

Great fun.