movie review – Page 41 – The Magnificent 60s

Bitter Harvest (1963) ****

Anyone claiming to be gaslighted will have unwittingly invoked the memory of an English writer who died over 60 years ago. Alfred Hitchcock paid tribute to him in adapting his fiendish play, Rope (1948). Hangover Square (1945) starring Linda Darnell was another of his novels to hit the screen. In all there have been over 50 film and television adaptations of his works.

One of his most famous publications was a trilogy focusing on a London barman and a barmaid in love with him whom he casts aside. I had read it, as I had all of Patrick Hamilton’s novels, with enormous pleasure. The trilogy was published in 1935 under the title Twenty Thousand Streets under the Sky. So it was with some trepidation that I realized Bitter Harvest was based on the middle novel of the trilogy. The DVD had sat, unwatched, in my collection for a couple of years because I was put off by the title, the no-name cast and journeyman director, assuming some routine tale with a sad ending.

Now I’m kicking myself I ignored it for so long. It’s a little gem that packs a punch, climaxing with a stylistic twist, and held together by a virtuoso performance by Janet Munro, one-time Disney ingenue in pictures like Swiss Family Robinson (1960), as she twists the audience and her lover round her little finger. And all the way through, despite the self-imposed travails, she manages to evoke sympathy.

Virgin Jennie (Janet Munro) escapes humdrum life in Wales, running a small shop in a run-down village, looking after her ungrateful father, and about to be dumped as a full-time carer onto a pair of aunts, when she meets smooth salesman Andy (Terence Alexander). He gets her drunk on champagne, whisks her back to his flat where he rapes her. Shame prevents her going home. Friendly barman Bob (John Stride) takes pity on her when she reveals she’s pregnant and lets her sleep, untouched by him, in his bed. Naturally, the relationship progresses, though she makes no move to find a job. But she wants her “share” of the good things in life and a barman isn’t going to provide them.

Bob soon realizes she isn’t quite the docile waif delighted to be looked after. “When have I taken orders from you?” she snaps. He’s shocked when she reveals that her pregnancy was a ploy, and taken aback when she rejects his marriage proposal. Instead, she’s out on the town with actor neighbor Charles (Colin Gordon) who takes her to a showbiz bash where she wangles an introduction to impresario Karl (Alan Badel). “I’ve got something they want and they can have it and they’ll pay for it,” shows Bob which way the wind is blowing.

The movie begins with a drunken smartly dressed Jennie, long red hair cut in a more fashionable bob, returning to her upper mews apartment. She’s so sozzled she drops her handbag on the steps, only stopping to retrieve her keys before kicking the bag down the staircase. Opening the door, she tosses the key into the street. Inside, she sets about destroying the chintzy apartment, pours whisky over a photo of man later revealed as Karl, smashes bottles, upends furniture, tosses dresses out the window, scrawls something in lipstick on the mirror.

Then we’re into flashback telling the story I’ve just outlined. When she sets herself up to become Karl’s mistress, you think there’s a third act to come. But the movie cuts instead to the mews apartment and the by now dead Jennie.

What distinguishes it is the set-up. Jennie appears initially as the victim until she exerts control, using Bob, and presumably intending to work her way up. Quite how her life came to end in suicide is never revealed. But director Peter Graham Scott (Subterfuge, 1968) has the foresight to realize he doesn’t have to go into the degradation and shame, just show consequence.

And it’s framed with excellent performances. Bob, determined to improve himself, buys a book a month. Barmaid Ella (Anne Cunningham), in love with him, has to endure a scene where he tells her all about Jenny. Bob’s landlady isn’t going to get on a moral high horse about him having a woman in his room when she can rook him for increased rent. You can tell, even if Jenny ignores the obvious, what kind of life she will have as Karl’s mistress when in their first moment of intimacy he slaps her face and rips her expensive dress to make a bandage.

There’s another scene just as shocking and if it was not edited out by the censor at the time it still came as a surprise to see fleeting glimpse of a naked breast, a good year before the U.S. Production permitted similar in The Pawnbroker.

As I said, the transition of Janet Munro (Hide and Seek, 1964) from victim to predator is exceptionally well-done, her iron fist cleverly concealed for most of the film. And it’s admirable, too, that John Stride, whose career was mostly in television, doesn’t come across as a hapless suitor, though obviously he is gullible. Alan Badel (Arabesque, 1966) only has a couple of scenes but makes a huge impact. Barbara Ferris (Interlude, 1968) has a small part.

Highlight of Peter Graham Scott’s directorial career, well-paced, measured, drawing out good performances all round, especially in the boldness of the closure. Ted Willis (Flame in the Streets, 1961) does an excellent job of updating the novel, though one flaw is that while the early section is set in Wales there’s no sign of a Welsh accent.

Recommended.

Istanbul Express (1968) ***

Calling this a by-the-numbers spy thriller does this movie no disservice since numbers are crucial to the complicated plot. On the one hand it’s quite a simple set up. Suave high-living art dealer-cum-spy Michael London (Gene Barry) travels from Paris to Istanbul on the Orient Express to bid for secret papers in a secret auction. The complication: he must pick up the auction money from a bank in Istanbul using a code given to him along the way, each number by a different unknown person. On his side are train security chief Cheval (John Saxon), investigative journalist Leland McCord (Tom Simcox) and colleague Peggy (Mary Ann Mobley). Out to get him are Mila Darvos (Senta Berger) and Dr Lenz (Werner Peters).

The numbers business is an interesting addition to the usual spy picture formula of scenic location – Venice and the Eastern bloc as well as the other famous cities – violence and beautiful, sometimes deadly, women. You spend a good time guessing just how the numbers will be passed on and let me warn you it is sometime by inanimate means while the numbers themselves come with a twist.

There’s also a truth serum, bomb threat, a traitor and every obstacle possible put in London’s way to prevent him completing his mission. London is about the world’s worst passenger, always missing the train as it sets off on the next leg of its journey, and requiring alternative modes of transport to catch up. But it’s as much about quick thinking as action and ends with a couple of unexpected twists. And it’s darned clever at times where the numbers are concerned.

Admittedly, the plot is a tad over-complicated but it’s fun to see London wriggle his way out of situations and for Cheval and McCord to turn up unexpectedly to provide assistance.

Gene Barry (Maroc 7, 1967) is little more than his television alter ego from Burke’s Law but he has an easy screen presence, never flustered, tough but charming and a winning way with the ladies. John Saxon (The Appaloosa, 1966) is the surprise turn, on the side of the angels rather than a villain, and equally commanding on screen, and certainly given one of his better roles. Senta Berger (Major Dundee, 1965) is not given as much screen time as you would like – a long way from being set up as the normal espionage femme fatale – but is certainly a convincing adversary.

This was only a movie if you saw it outside of the United States. There it was shown on television. But it had high production values for a television movie and director Richard Irving, who directed the television feature that introduced Columbo (Prescription Murder, 1968), keeps it moving at a healthy clip. The numbers idea was probably a television device, allowing the opportunity for timed breaks in the action, Writers Richard Levinson and William Link were a class television act, creating Columbo, and prior to that the Jericho (1966-1967) and Mannix (1967-1975) television series.

Interestingly, Senta Berger, John Saxon, Gene Barry, Levinson/Link and Richard Irving were all at various points involved in the groundbreaking U.S. television series The Name of the Game (1968-1971).

I had not realized Istanbul Express was a made-for-TV picture until I had finished watching it and in that case found it a superior piece of television and a decent-enough rift on the spy movie.

It Ends With Us (2024) **** – Seen at the Cinema

Doubt if I’m the target audience for this little number. In truth, I snuck it in between the excellent Alien sequel and the execrable Trap in my weekly cinema outing. They don’t make them like this any more in part because the straightforward romantic drama was overtaken by the quirky rom-com at which the likes of Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts, and Hugh Grant excelled. In the Hollywood Golden Age, Clark Gable would hardly have fashioned a career had he not been teamed with a host of top female stars and Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

But come the 1960s the superstar as loner did away with that popular genre. Apart from The Thomas Crown Affair, Steve McQueen scarcely had a screen romance worth noting, nor did Paul Newman, Lee Marvin or Clint Eastwood and although Charles Bronson ensured wife Jill Ireland had a role in virtually all his movies, romance was rarely on his mind. But cast your mind back to The Way We Were (1973), the incredibly popular pairing of Barbra Streisand (billed first you might notice) and Robert Redford and you can see what, for one reason or another, Hollywood tossed away.

Domestic violence wasn’t on the menu back then and while it plays a part here, that’s not to detract from a solid romance with an excellent meet-cute, two hunks, some terrific dialog, and a sparkling supporting cast. This could be dismissed as upmarket Mills & Boon, especially given the three principals are, respectively, a florist, chef and neuro-surgeon, outside of a fireman just about the sexiest professions abounding in the world of fiction.

Florist Lily (Blake Lively) has to choose between commitment-phobic top doc Ryle (Julian Baldoni) and childhood sweetheart Atlas (Brandon Sklenar), now a successful chef. Her shop assistant Allysa (Jenny Slate) warns Lily about her lothario brother Ryle, but eventually he wears her down and they embark on a relationship that ends in marriage. But when Atlas pops up again, the perfect marriage begins to wear thin.

The return of Atlas brings back memories of her father who abused her mother and beat up Atlas after discovering him in Lily’s bed. The movie skips over Lily’s failure to stand up to her father and, although Atlas was hospitalized as a result of the encounter with her father, she allows her first proper boyfriend to drop out of her life. Luckily, he bears no grudges and sits on the sidelines offering tacit support should her marriage go sour. Unfortunately, she’s tucked his telephone number away in her mobile phone cover and on finding it the already simmering Ryle kicks off.

We open with a great scene with Lily, called upon to give the eulogy at the funeral of wealthy father (Kevin McKidd), walking out without finding anything good to say. There’s a clever visual, the piece of paper where supposedly she was to write down the five things she loves about the deceased, but all she’s written are the five numerals, and it’s as cleverly reprised later on.

The domestic violence is artfully done, so that, at first, we are inclined to believe that he strikes her on the face or throws her down the stairs by accident, partly from seeing the incidents from her confused point-of-view and partly a mind-set that doesn’t want to accept that her chosen mate may be the spitting image of her father. The bite on the tattoo on her neck accompanying attempted rape is a different story. While Ryle doesn’t per se have justification for his innate violence, his inhibition is partly explained by guilt over a devastating incident in his childhood.

The title comes from the final scene. Presenting baby to father, Lily asks Ryle what advice he would he would give his daughter should she ever confess she had been smacked around or thrown down the stairs. He’s shamefaced enough to give the correct answer and she’s smart enough to give him the boot. “It” meaning violence from men, “ends with us,” she whispers to the baby.

And although that’s the big supposed big takeaway from the movie, in reality it doesn’t pivot on that element, instead it’s a very satisfactory almost classical love triangle of the kind they used to make, with plenty good lines and packed with interesting scenes.

Blake Lively, as she proved in The Rhythm Section (2022), is very capable of carrying a picture but here she’s swamped by support. Justin Boldoni (Con Man, 2018) is in double-hyphenate form – he directed it (Clouds, 2020, his previous) – stepping up to the plate not just as a prospective candidate to become Hollywood’s next big male sex symbol but making an impressive movie, slow-burn to allow characters to find their feet and for the actors not to rush at scenes or bite off lines. Jenny Slate (I Want You Back, 2022) is superb. Christy Hall (Daddio, 2023) adapted the Colleen Hoover bestseller.

Thoroughly satisfying involving drama.

The Beckett Affair / L’Affare Beckett (1966) ***

More down’n’dirty Eurospy than the more pervasive high-gloss alternative and with some interesting directorial touches, especially in relation to POV, a narrative that leads you a merry dance but mostly down the road of grubby international politics, plus an eclectic score from Nora Orlandi. Even with actors I’d never heard of, and no idea how the DVD even ended up in my collection, it works well.

Opening Parisian sequence a standout. Gunman bursts through an office door, marches older occupant towards the exit. Outside, however, it’s the older man who emerges, climbs into a waiting car and again it’s he who comes out of that, leaving slit throats in his wake. The survivor, with a ramrod-stiff demeanor, turns out to be Col Segura (Gianni Solaro), wanted by the authorites for clandestine activites in Cuba in 1961 and for instigating too many apparent suicides.

Agent OS47 Cooper (Lang Jeffries), drafted in to track him down, does so by means of a letter supposedly written to his mistress Claire Beckett (hence the title) who is nowhere to be found. Next best thing is her secretary, blonde bombshell Helen (Nathalie Nort), who is already on Segura’s radar and is promptly kidnapped and then used to lure Cooper to a breaker’s yard where various tough guys want to beat him to death. Beckett, it transpires, ain’t going to be found unless you fancy digging graves.

The good guys are as villainous as the villains, torturing a suspect. As you might expect, there’s a heap of double-crossing, another agent as well as a cop in the pay of the opposition. Cooper’s sidekick Paulette (Krista Nell) is as tough as anyone, her beauty belying her fighting skills. The plot’s somewhat complicated and leads Cooper to being hired by Segura to assassinate a Nicaraguan leader, the notion of liberating Cuba just a front to mislead Segura’s pursuers.

Action sequences are more limited than the normal run of spy pictures, but when they come they pack a punch. The tussle in the breaker’s yard might appeal more than that in Mickey One (1965) for resisting the temptation to go down the existential or metaphorical route. Like the rest of the film it’s a down’n’dirty scrapyard. In the best action sequence, with an idea I’ve seen later stolen, the music playing that you assume to be the film’s score abruptly ends halfway through the fighters destroying an apartment, because they’ve trashed the object emitting the music. That takes a moment to digest so the sudden silence after the loud music strikes a stylistic note.

While Cooper isn’t as active sexually as James Bond, he does, like 007, get intimate with woman who might prove useful. Segura is good bit more normal than your usual espionage supervillain, with more flaws than you’d expect, especially after our introduction to him. There’s also unusual depth in subsidiary characters, Helen jealous of her boyfriend, secondary villains seeking social advancement and not always following orders, Paulette proving more than a second-potato character.

Theoretically set in France, Switzerland and South America, only the first locale appears authentic, with many outdoor shots, but not reliant on steeotypical tourist tapestry.

One of the alternative titles, The Spy Pit, better catches the tone of the picture, everyone caught in an espionage trap, and, ironically, given the constantly changing world of international politics, much of the background here has been superseded by real events. I’m putting the moodiness down as deliberate not just the state of the DVD.

Canadian Lang Jeffries (The Revolt of the Slaves, 1960) is a decent ersatz Sean Connery, Austrian Krista Nell (The Million Eyes of Sumuru, 1967) a capable sidekick, Gianni Solari (Seven Seas to Calais, 1962) comes across as efficient businessman rather than demented villain, Mali-born Nathalie Nort (Succubus, 1968) proves equal to an enlarged supporting role.

While you wouldn’t call it a directorial triumph, and it could do with some narrative clarification, Osvaldo Civirani (Return of Django) has more stylistic flourishes in his armory than you’d expect. Written by veteran Roberto Gianviti (Zorro and The Three Musketeers, 1963) who had over 100 movie credits.

Interesting take on the Eurospy subgenre.

The Crimson Cult / The Crimson Altar/ Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968) ***

Horror is a small world and at any moment you are likely to bump into stars of the caliber of Christopher Lee, Boris Karloff and Barbara Steele – or in this picture all three. Investigating his missing brother Peter sends antiques dealer Robert Manning (Mark Eden) to a remote country mansion where he encounters owner Morley (Christopher Lee), his seductive niece Eve (Virginia Weatherall), the wheelchair-bound authority on witchcraft Professor Marsh (Boris Karloff), deaf mute Elder (Michael Gough) and a centuries-old mystery.

Morley can legitimately deny that Peter has ever set foot on the premises since it was common for the brother to adopt an alias when seeking out significant antiques. By the time Robert amasses sufficient clues to challenge Morley on this particular issue, it appears that further ideas of more sinister goings-on may be illusory. On his first night Robert observes an annual celebration of the Black Witch but although an effigy is burned this festival appears to have more to do with the innocent consumption of alcohol and heady bouts of sex than satanism.

And after a while, Robert indulges in carnal delight with Eve. However, he is plagued by a nightmare that involves a grotesque trial by a jury wearing animal heads. Gradually, he learns Morley, meanwhile, is such a congenial host, and his niece delightful and sybaritic company, that the finger of suspicion points at Elder, who does take a pot shot at Robert, and the professor who has a collection of instruments of torture.

Were it not for veteran director Vernon Sewell (Urge to Kill, 1960) beginning proceedings with some kind of black mass complete with floggings and female sacrificial victim, the audience might have been kept in greater suspense. As it is, the non-violent annual celebration throws us off the scent as does the seduction of Eve and the prospect that Robert’s nightmare is little more than psychedelic hallucination. The denouement is something of a surprise. The ritualistic aspects of the picture are well done and given this is a Tigon film rather than Hammer you can expect harsher treatment of the S&M element, especially for the period.

The eerie atmosphere and well-staged witchcraft scenes are a plus, but, despite the involvement of a handful of horror gods, the movie’s reliance on lesser players to drive the narrative is a minus. Lee, Karloff and Steele (though in a more minor role) are all excellent as is the demented Michael Gough but Mark Eden (Attack on the Iron Coast, 1968) is too lightweight to carry the picture although Virginia Wetherall in her first big part suggests more promise. More of Lee, Karloff and Steele would have definitely added to the picture but since this type of film often requires the young and the innocent to take center stage that was not to be.

Directed by Vernon Sewell (The Blood Beast Terror, 1968) from a script by Dr Who writers Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln and Jerry Sohl (Die, Monster, Die, 1965).

Worth a watch.

Trap (2024) * – Seen at the Cinema

The nepo is in – resulting in an all-time calamitous vanity project. Not only has director M. Night Shyamalan chosen to devote a good 30 minutes of the running time to showcasing his daughter Saleka’s talents as a singer (and for I know she may be the next big thing) but has also decided that this movie would provide an ideal opportunity for her movie debut. On top of that, star Josh Hartnett has opted for a cartoonish portrayal of his character, all goggle eyes, wiggling eyebrows and over-the-top facial expression.

Having bored us to death for well over an hour, the director then opts to let fly with twist after nonsensical twist. Virtually every law enforcement person has uniform emblazoned with FBI, POLICE, or SWAT, but you might as well have branded them all as DUMBASS for all the sense they show. Despite theoretically having some kind of description of the serial killer known as The Butcher (top marks for originality), the cops proceed to pull out of a concert any number of people who bear no resemblance at all to each other.

The set-up, should you be remotely interested, sees Cooper (Josh Hartnett) taking teenage daughter Riley (Ariel Donoghue) to a sold-out concert by latest pop sensation Lady Raven (Saleka Night Shyamalen) only to discover the venue is crawling with cops and FBI hoping to ensnare said killer by the simple device of stopping all of the 3,000 male attendees as they leave unless in one of their random audience selections they happen upon the villain. Cooper is soon alert to the problem and finds clever ways to avoid detection, including convincing Saleka’s uncle (M. Night Shyamalen) whom he couldn’t know from Adam that his daughter has recovered from leukemia, the kind of sob story that will result in Riley being selected to join the singer on stage for one number.

Cooper then manages to nip out the back door by taking Lady Raven hostage. Though, wait for it, it turns out that the FBI have trained her about what to do in the event of such an occurrence, which is some psychobabble about behaving like his mother and telling him to stop being effectively (shades of Life of Brian) such a naughty boy. Turns out, too, his wife Rachel (Alison Pill) has harbored sufficient doubts about her husband that she’s alerted the police that the killer is going to be attending the concert, hence the manhunt, but not done the sensible thing of fully identifying him which, of course, would stop him killing anyone else and save the police the cost of putting a couple of hundred cops on duty at the concert hall (some people!). Nor with a kettle boiling has she the gumption to pour the boiling water over him.

Just when it looks as if clever Lady Raven has outwitted our thug and called on her social media cohort to track down his latest victim, we’re treated to a whole spree of idiotic twists, mostly of the catch-and-escape-catch-and-escape variety.

Mostly, I felt insulted. I’ve been loyal to M. Night Shyamalen over the past quarter of a century, even recently popping back to the cinema to view (and review) his classic The Sixth Sense (1999). After Unbreakable (2000) and Signs (2002), his output became variable, disastrous ventures like The Last Airbender (2010) and After Earth (2013) partly redeemed by Split (2016) and Glass (2019). He’s kept hmself in the game by independent production and low-budgets, his name retaining enough marquee pull to keep his pictures in profit.

But with Trap he’s just showing contempt for his audience. Will Smith I remember going down a similar route, demanding his offspring have major roles in some of his projects, but the whole nepo business is getting out of hand. Sure, you can’t blame kids for being born to parents who are global superstars nor for believing they are entitled tofollow suit. But Hollywood is littered with kids who were showered with praise or given unfair advantage only to find audiences held their efforts in little regard.

This might well have worked if we’d got to the twists quicker, lopped off a good 20 minutes of concert footage and stuck to the narrative. As it was, by the time we get to anything that could remotely be deemed thrilling, the audience has fallen asleep.

Josh Hartnett’s all-time worst performance. M. Night Shyamalan’s worst film. Hopefully, all this effort to build up his daughter’s singing career is worth it because I can’t be the only one who feels duped.

Avoid.

The Reivers (1969) **

Vanity project. Two words to strike fear into the heart of a studio executive. Generally means a star has got the worthy itch. Determined to attach himself to a movie of Shakespearian proportions. Something with literary heft. Wants to break clean away from the persona that made him a star.

Experienced studio honcho, scenting red ink a mile off, rejects the proposal, or agrees to it on the condition said star first makes two, maybe even three, of the studio’s more straightforward movies. (Warner Bros had Steve McQueen on a six-picture contract). On the other hand, out there, in the Hollywood hinterland, there’s always some less well-known producer willing to pony up an enormous fee as the price of making his name. Or, in this case, a nascent mini-major, the kind that thinks it will become an ”instant major” should it sign a contract with the biggest name on the planet after the rip-roaring box office of Bullitt (1968). Step forward Cinema Center, the movie arm of CBS television, desperate to make a Hollywood splash.

Am sure the pitch wasn’t: “comedy about a thief and a sex worker.” More likely the plus point was William Faulkner, America’s most famous living writer (along with John Steinbeck), winner of the biggest award in literature, the Nobel Prize, whose short story provided the source material. Faulkner also, as it happened, had a decent movie pedigree having adapted Bogart-Bacall vehicles To Have and Have Not (1944) and The Big Sleep (1946) while an adaptation of his short stories into The Long, Hot Summer (1958) hit the box office jackpot.

Admittedly, The Sound and the Fury (1959) and Sanctuary (1961) had been less successful, but Fox had also turned The Long, Hot Summer into a television series that ran for two seasons, so the author’s name would be fresh in the audience mind.

It’s always a worry when an actor changes his hair style. Means he’s going method or “acting.” Here, Boon (Steve McQueen) sports a bushy blond barnet. And spends most of the time in “aw shucks” mode, whirl-winding his arms, contorting his features, doing most of the things a decent director would have told any other actor to cut it out. It would take a lot more acting talent than Steve McQueen, pushing 40, can tap into to successfully convince as a guy in his 20s

At least, he’s acting enough to allow himself to be covered head-to-toe in mud, something a major star would generally avoid. The comedy is as broad as you can get and director Mark Rydell (The Fox, 1967) shows little aptitude for it, not least in knowing when to stop milking a scene.

Biggest problem is that Boon, in narrative terms, is not the star, merely the conduit. The story actually concerns 11-year-old Lucius (Mitch Vogel) growing up, as he’s lured into a scheme hatched by Boon to borrow his employer’s spanking new automobile (this is 1909, by the way) and head off for the local whorehouse. Along the way, the child becomes a jockey riding a race Boon must win.

Sex worker Corrie (Sharon Farrell) has the other major story strand and the biggest element here is the relationship between herself and the boy. When he brings out her mothering instincts, she is ashamed of her profession and she plans to quit. The boy sees a naked woman for the first time – a painting, not in person – loses his worship of Boon and doesn’t “quit” as if he’s in a hard-tack B picture.

Pretty much glossed over is the rape. You can’t have rape in a comedy, can you? But for various reasons Boon and his black buddy Ned (Rupert Crosse) and the ladies from the whorehouse have ended up in jail. Price of freedom is Corrie having sex with corrupt cop Butch (Clifton James). Corrie has the best scene, the look of humiliation on her face, when released from the cell to be raped by the cop. And this was a film sold as “a lark.”

And, of all things, Boon is purportedly in love with Corrie, but not so much that he doesn’t plan on having sex with one of the other girls, given he visits the whorehouse three times a week and Corrie, in a bit of a tizz, has turned him down.

Small wonder this has never been the subject of an anniversary revival. Hard to see how the attitudes reflected here would connect with the contemporary audience. Scarcely believable that McQueen could get himself involved, even for the privilege of being linked, at some remove, with William Faulkner.

Chances are what originated from the Faulkner pen as a more somber coming-of-age tale was altered by screenwriters Irving Ravetch (doubling up as producer) and Harriet Frank Jr (The Dark at the Top of the Stairs, 1960) to fit in with McQueen’s ambitions. The star had not wanted to make Bullitt, having an aversion to cops, and this looks like his attempt to make up for it.

Actually, it did well at the box office, Rupert Crosse and composer John Williams nominated for Oscars and McQueen and Mitch Vogel for Golden Globes.

A different McQueen, to be sure, but the subject matter is objectionable and the comedy is forced.

Privilege (1967) ****

Considerably more prescient than perceived at the time. Predicts the influence of pop stars – immeasurably magnified now through social media – and instant cancellation as a consequence of inappropriate action or remark, plus the way marketing tie-ins can boost product. Itemizes more succinctly the corporate pressure brought to bear on entertainers as well as the constant public exposure that denies performers any privacy. The radio in a watch was way ahead of its time and you could also argue that it predates A Clockwork Orange (1971) in identifying the attraction of violence and it touches on self-harm.

It’s both daft but realistic, overblown but intimate, mixing gibberish and brilliance so well it’s hard to know which side to come down on. All the obvious targets – Church, Government, big business, the dumb young – are here.

The story is set in a Big Brother style “near future” when control of the masses is the aspiration of Government. Steven Shorter (Paul Jones) is the messianic pop star trapped by fame. His stage act is quite stunning. Imprisoned in a cage, handcuffed, brutally beaten by warders, he sings of freedom to a young, mostly female, audience driven to tears by his ordeal, and occasionally on the point of rioting.

Paul Jones’s performance was criticized at the time because reviewers wanted performer more than puppet, but, at the distance of a half a century, it looks more like the actor has made the correct choice, entombed by the restrictions placed upon his life.There’s scarcely a rebellious pop/rock star alive who hasn’t been in the thrall of big business. Rebellion is the modern equivalent of “bread and circuses,” whatever keeps the young happy and limited to venting their own revolutionary tendencies in a contained situation, and in this case endorsed by the State. The history of music is littered with entertainers taken advantage of by big business and, just as likely, willingly signing a big deal they later regretted – Creedence Clearwater Revival, George Michael come to mind though Taylor Swift found a sweet way of taking financial revenge. And of decades of tours that appeared to benefit as much the sponsors as the entertainers.

While there’s a 1984 vibe here, that element of a single party in eternal control of Britain is as relevant now as then. Some would argue the world, through the dominance of social media, is more vacuous than before. Others, precisely because of social media, less vacuous. Entertainers might be willingly enrolled to sell a variety of products or promote political activity, any one of which could be interpreted as as harmless as being used to sell 600 million apples which will go to rot unless immediately consumed, which is the marketing task in hand here.

Critics at the time were less taken by the principals, the pop star Steven Shorter (Paul Jones) and potential love interest Vanessa (Jean Shrimpton), recruited to paint his portrait but, in effect, presented as a glorified groupie. They wanted the performer to be as charismatic offstage, in the manner of Mick Jagger or John Lennon, as on, as if stage antics could not be separated from reality. But I found the numbing down of Shorter more authentic. He had lost/sold his individuality, he went where his bosses dictated, and although not indicated you could as easily equate his offstage life to being stoned out of his mind, which would accord with the experience of lot more entertainers afterwards than at the time.

If he only comes alive through performance that, too, while taken to an extreme, would be in line with the experience of many performers whose personality only catches fire when performing. Many actors, for example, will insist that fulfillment comes from wearing a variety of stage or screen masks.

And Shorter’s inherent masochism, willingly accepting the blows delivering by his truncheoned guards on stage, his back covered in scars, resonates more strongly today when self-harm in an indicator of poor mental health. Yet, he can rebel, aware of the individual control he exerts, that he chooses to demonstrate almost contemptuously when at a grand dinner party he refuses wine and insists instead that everyone, even his supposed boss, partakes of hot chocolate.

The other notion touched upon, which resonates far more today than then, is the price fame exacts, most importantly loss of privacy. When Vanessa, not unexpectantly, falls for our hero, she declines to take their brief affair further, “we’d never be alone together, not really.” And it’s surely not unintentionally ironic that the theme of his main song is “set me free.”

Bob Dylan embracing the electric guitar, scandalizing his purist folk base, might have provided the impetus for the climactic scenes, when the messianic Steven turns his back on rebellion (“repents” in a brilliantly staged concert) and instead embraces traditional Christian values, providing an opportunity for surprisingly entertaining pop versions of Onward Christian Soldiers and Jerusalem.

I haven’t mentioned that this isn’t a straightforward candidate for the A Star Is Born sub-genre, reporting rise and fall in standard manner, but instead is presented as documentary, but of the kind that would be more easily appreciated today, seductive camera dominant rather than the intrusive presenter, with all subsidiary characters either justifying their behavior or being shown abusing their position.

Probably most relevant of all is that Shorter’s career comes to a close from inappropriate remark, triggering cancelation and loss of “privilege.”

I can see why director Peter Watkins chose someone who could sing for his main character – Paul Jones had been lead singer of Manfred Mann before going solo, in both guises releasing a string of hit singles – since that kind of veracity is virtually impossible to achieve from miming or imitation. Instead of delivering a poor performance, and elivening every moment with “charisma,” it appears to me that Paul Jones, in his movie debut, is instead correct to follow his intuition or inner truth that offstage an entertainer is a mere ghost of himself. I would hazard that model Jean Shrimpton wasn’t called upon to do much acting, but her own soft-spoken Engish rose personality with just a hint of steel suits her character well.

Watkins, too, resisted the temptation to litter the background with scene-stealing supporting actors, or those hoping for a career break, and of these only Jeremy Child (A Fish Called Wanda, 1988) might be instantly recognizable.

Watkins had made his name with what appeared at the time to be tougher-talking television docu dramas Culloden (1964) and The War Game (1966), the latter so graphically showing the effects of nuclear war it was promptly banned. While Privilege on initial release carried little of the power of the first two, in retrospect it has come into its own. The only screenplay by Norman Bogner, better known for television, from an idea by Johnny Speight (BBC’s Till Death Do Us Part, 1966-1975) which translated to the U.S. as All in the Family, 1971-1979).

Worth reviving.

The Union (2024) ****

Wahey! At long last Netflix gets it right (almost). Admittedly, the narrative depends on a very slippery MacGuffin, the kind that would take gold at the MacGuffin Olympics and still come back for more. That aside, it’s got pretty much what audiences are looking for in a fresh take on the hoary old espionage combo. Mark Wahlberg has been long under-rated, can do action (Planet of the Apes, 2001, Uncharted, 2022), caper (The Italian Job, 2003), comedy (Ted, 2012) and drama (Father Stu, 2022). Half the time he’s the driving force behind his projects, 44 credits as producer, which means he’s pretty independent and often turns in the type of picture you think he shouldn’t do or won’t work and sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t.

He’s wearing the producer’s jacket for this one and you’d be surprised how well it spins because this is a team effort, very much dependent on the chemistry created with Halle Berry, who you have to agree you wondered where the hell she had gone beyond the lead in the financially disastrous Moonfall (2022), supporting parts in the likes of John Wick 3: Parabellum (2019) and Kingsman: The Golden Circle (2017) and some worthy but ignored pictures.

*Netflix is pretty mean when it comes to posters so here’s another with Mark Wahlberg*
*that I reviewed before.*

Well, she’s back and yes she’s kicking ass, but that’s not what makes this movie tick any more than Mark Wahlberg punching and shooting. What makes it sizzle is their chemistry, every bit as solid as Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney in Anyone But You (2023). And if you recall, that worked because Powell and Sweeney bickered all the way through it. Maybe this is what contemporary romance has come to: a quarrelsome couple.

It certainly keeps this pair on their toes. There’s been any number of fish-out-of-water action scenarios that have sunk like a stone (Argylle, anyone?) because the director didn’t hit the correct tone. Here, English director Julian Farino, best known for television, strikes exactly the right tone between incipient romance, action and comedy.

Middle-aged Mike (Mark Wahlberg) isn’t exactly hero material or Brad Pitt. He goes for the cougars, and we first come upon him in the bed of his Seventh Grade school teacher while his mother (Lorraine Bracco) is always one step ahead of her cocky son. We meet secret agent Roxanne (Halle Berry) in the middle of a disastrous operation of which she’s the only survivor.

You have to pass over the logic of how ultra-secret Government agency The Union comes to recruit construction worker Mike, setting aside that Roxanne once had the hots for him. Anyway – MacGuffin alert – the Government has lost the biggest MacGuffin of All Time and have to get it back by way of lots of things that don’t make much sense, but we’ll let that go as well. Anyways, Mark gets trained up in a mighty peculiar and highly entertaining fashion and becomes her sidekick as they hit the MacGuffin trail which takes them to foreign spots.

*I was one of the few people who liked “Moonfall” with Hally Berry so I don’t mind giving it another plug.*

There’s supposedly a mole in the Union and the finger points at their boss Tom Brennan (J.K. Simmons) but there’s a whole bunch of other secrets and twists in the mix and not much time what with the frenetic action to work out what exactly is going on beyond said MacGuffin running riot.

But there are some terrific set pieces and Mike’s girder-balancing skills come in handy when there’s even a moment when the action stays relatively still because most of the time it’s hurtling all over the place, chase upon chase, and normally that would spell the kiss of death, as we discovered with Argylle et al, except somehow here, with the chemical interplay between the two leads and supporting characters more interesting than most – look out for Jackie Earle Haley and Jessica De Gouw – and some zingy lines, it’s just dandy.

The ending sets up a sequel so bring it on. Top marks to Mark Wahlberg in his producer’s capacity for seeing this over the line and also, as with Uncharted, not trying to hog the picture and happy to accept that even as the denoted hero he’s going to be outfought and outsmarted a good chunk of the time and better not think he’s ever going to get the better of the Halle Berry character.

Wahlberg is as good as I’ve seen him and this is Halle Berry back on top form, with a lot more to do than in previous action outings where her character got stuck in first gear. As I said, super chemistry between the pair. J.K. Simmons (Spider-Man: No Way Home, 2022) tones it down from his normal over-acting to splendid effect. Jessica De Gouw is one to watch. Joe Barton (Girl/Haji TV series, 2019) and David Guggenheim (Safe House, 2012), in places with their tongues firmly in their cheeks, knocked out the screenplay.

Highly entertaining, even if the MacGuffins are a bit rampant.

The Lion (1962) ***

For such a harmless picture The Lion raises a couple of troubling issues. The first concerns the titular beast. Doubt if you’d get the authorities these days to greenlight a movie where a pre-pubescent girl was in such close proximity to a full-grown lion. Having as a safety measure two sharpshooters on the sidelines out of camera range, as director Jack Cardiff did here, might not cut it.

Secondly, we’ve got censor double standard. I remember my shocked parents forbidding me from seeing Zulu (1964), a massive hit in Britain, on account of the toplessness of the indigenous females. The censor didn’t slap an X-certificate on that sequence on the assumption that such nudity, in the context of tribal tradition, wouldn’t apparently incite the lewd male gaze. Had this been white breasts on show, in whatever tradition, the censor would not have been so lenient, signifying an inherent racism. Here, surprisingly, we’ve also got female toplessness, somewhat more discreet than Zulu, but coming as a surprise to your reviewer.

Perhaps the oddest feature of the picture is the contradictory message: Africa is wonderful but it’s not the place to bring up a young girl. Certainly not one who embraces the wildness with considerably more conviction than a passing wildlife tourist. As the imdb stub puts it: the young girl Tina (Pamela Franklin) must be brought “back to civilization.”

And there’s a distinctly old-fashioned tint to a storyline that demands the appearance of her father Robert (William Holden), long divorced from wife Christine (Capucine), as the firm male hand required to drag his estranged daughter back to said civilization. Christine’s current partner John (Trevor Howard), grizzled poacher-turned-gamekeeper, former big game hunter now eking out a living as a game warden, appears more sanguine about the girl’s lifestyle but less welcoming to the visitor. Tina has raised the wild lion King from a cub and as their bond is intense she is reluctant to give him up.

Disney would have taken a different approach, buffing up the cuter aspects. That the studio could show adult and child perspective in tandem is instanced by Pollyanna (1960) and in the later The Jungle Book (1967) solved the problem of a young boy becoming too involved with his wild playmates by having an intriguing young girl tempt him away. Or a touch of the Born Free (1966) playbook might have seen Tina simply mutate from childhood to an adult job in the animal preservation business

Instead, playing out in almost literal fashion, are two human male beasts battling it out (though not physically, unfortunately) over the mother with the needs of the child seemingly swept to one side as the love triangle takes hold.

The best scenes concern Robert and Tina, especially her early disinterest in his presence, and her later delight at leading him a wild dance through the jungle and seeing how his terror of her lion pal equates with her complete lack of fear. While John’s role is to keep a grip on poaching, he’s not so friendly to the animals, almost determined to torment them by running his jeep recklessly at or around them to elicit maddened response and alarm the visitor with their wildness rather than their apparent, at a distance, docility.

Perhaps the lack of a punch-up ensures this movie never catches fire. There’s quite a perplexing sub-plot that dictates the outcome. The son of the local tribal chief has his eye on Tina and during the aforementioned tradition it’s clear the young girl wants to participate in the frenzied dance courtship ritual.

But this kind of tradition is at the polar opposite of civilization as is the tradition that an old man, succumbing to fatal illness, should be left out in the wild to die. Christine intervenes to save him. Meanwhile, believing his father dead, the son sets out to achieve manhood by killing the lion and in the ensuing tangle John kills both young man and lion. The tribal response to the death of their new chief goes unrecorded but Bullit’s action drives Tina towards her parents. With the lion dead, it’s a lot easier to winkle the girl away from Africa and back to civilization.

Plenty of wildlife for your buck, but plot and characters are not a patch on Hatari! (1962) or The Last Safari (1967). William Holden, whose yen for making movies as far away from the U.S. tax authorities as possible was destroying his career, is good value as the estranged father and if you are looking for smouldering then Trevor Howard (The Long Duel, 1967) is your man. Capucine would tee up with Holden – the pair had an affair – again in The 7^th Dawn (1964) but she was more effective in the later picture than here.

Jack Cardiff (Girl on a Motorcycle, 1968) directs from a script by Irene and Louis Kamp (The Sandpiper, 1965) based on the bestseller by Joseph Kessel (L’Armee des Ombres/Army of Shadows, 1969).

Might have preferred the Disney version.