movie review – Page 48 – The Magnificent 60s

Murder a la Mod (1968) ***

Take all the best elements of the Brian De Palma canon – conflicting perspective, stylish camerawork, complex narrative, diffuse sexuality, a sense of a director on the prowl, what you think you see not actually what is taking place. Take all the worst elements of the Brian De Palma oeuvre – conflicting perspective, stylish camerawork, complex narrative, diffuse sexuality, a sense of a director on the prowl, what you think you see not actually what is taking place. Yep, the very elements that make his movies work are usually what make them not work at all.

Here, in embryo, is the director of the future – the one whose understanding of cinema, excess, and willingness to take chances delivered such gems as Sisters (1972), Obsession (1976), Carrie (1976), Blow Out (1980), Dressed to Kill (1981), Scarface (1983) and The Untouchables (1987). And such misfires as The Fury (1978), Home Movies (1979), Body Double (1984), Bonfire of the Vanities (1990) and Femme Fatale (2002).

File this under “lost movie,” too self-conscious for arthouse, not enough narrative drive to be commercial, but sufficient experimentation to make it interesting. Setting aside the director’s penchant for showing off, this is as full of twists as many of his later films. As in Dressed to Kill the purported heroine is killed off, as in Body Double the narrative is on the sleazy side, extremely sleazy if you consider the snuff movie section, as in Blow Out we’re not sure who or what to believe, and in homage to Psycho (1960) the good girl turns bad in order to smooth out a relationship with a married man.

Ironically, the opening is an unintended ironic homage to Me Too as an off-camera director tries to get a succession of girls to take off their clothes – and perhaps someone will do a study of just how many starlets were led to the casting couch in this fashion or convinced that nudity was the only way to advance their career. Each of the women have but one line to speak, about only doing this to finance a divorce. For one unfortunate, this is the last screen test she’ll undertake as she is slashed to death.

*Yep, I couldn’t find any more posters of the movie I’m reviewing so I’m making do with something else from the De Palma back catalog.*

Karen (Margo Norton) discovers her lover Chris (Jared Martin), who she believed to be a widower, is in fact not only married but a director of sexploitation films and complicit in a peeping tom scam. He is only doing this, he says, to finance a divorce. She is so in love that, apparently in keeping with the times, she accepts being slapped around. And so in love that, to prevent him wasting his talent by demeaning himself on such shoddy goods, she steals cash from socialite pal Tracy (Ann Ankers) to fund the divorce.

After a fake attack by nutcase Otto (William Finley) with a prop ice-pick, Karen is done to death by a real assailant with a real ice-pick. So then the tale shifts into Rashomon territory as we follow the perspective of different characters in different time periods, each time uncovering a bit more of the truth – or perhaps the fiction, who knows.

It’s quite a bold statement of directorial confidence to play bait-and-switch with the narrative, as characters who seemed resolutely in the background lurch into the foreground and at times the camera jiggery-pokery gets in the way of the narrative jiggery-pokery.

But there’s enough going on to maintain audience interest, even if sometimes the novelty of direction seems an indulgence too far. Possibly, from the contemporary viewpoint, this is better viewed as a historical document, a condemnation of the lure of cinema, how the male hierarchy believed that females were so submissive that they could easily be persuaded, with the offer of very little in the way of a concrete career, to disrobe, and almost taking the attitude that should someone object it mattered little because there were plenty others willing to put ambition before principle.

One of the best scenes is a creepy ogling bank manager, the kind of ugly male who assumes that from his position of authority he is superior to a woman who is way out of his league and far wealthier than he’ll ever be. Though why she is dumb enough to leave her valuables in an unlocked car is anybody’s guess, except for narrative convenience and the opportunity to rack up some Hitchcockian tension when a cop suddenly appears and begins to interrogate the woman the audience knows is a thief.

There’s a DVD around somewhere plugging this as the “lost” De Palma movie, but you can catch it for nothing and judge just how indicative of De Palma’s talent it might be – and how much he was served later by hiring better actors – on Youtube.

The Ballad of Josie (1967) ***

What was viewed as an oddity by the star’s legion of fans has turned out to have considerable contemporary appeal, situating Doris Day as an unlikely feminist icon. It was almost the opposite of her current template. She didn’t sing and the narrative was not driven by romantic mishap. It didn’t endear director Andrew V. McLaglen to his fans either after the tough-guy heroics of Shenandoah (1965). And you might also ask the question – was the feminism watered down by slapstick in order to make it more acceptable to the general audience.

One issue extremely relevant today is pretty much skated over. Josie (Doris Day) kills her drunken husband after setting about him with a pool cue. His death was largely misadventure, he fell down the stairs escaping her intended blow rather than as the result of it. What’s the world coming to, muse the men of the town, if a woman could get away with defending herself against a brute of a husband in such a fashion, given it’s accepted that a wife needs knocked about once in a while.

That she gets off seems less to do with understanding than narrative convenience. It turns her into a widow, and deprived of her son (removed by the threat of legal action by her father-in-law) that means she will come in handy for married men fancying an affair. Unable to find respectable work, she has one catastrophic shift as a waitress. In narrative terms this is intended to act as the ultimate humiliation but in terms of screen treatment it’s convenient excuse for slapstick.

For some reason best known to screenwriter Harold Swanton (Rascal, 1969), she appears best placed to influence the female townspeople on a delicate political point. Whether such influence is due to her getting away with bumping off her husband is never made clear. Turns out that women in Wyoming have the vote and in their battle for statehood the men believe that will count against them and want Josie to get them to agree to drop that right. (History tells us that the good folks didn’t enforce that and allowed women to keep the vote, so three cheers for Josie.)

Those two elements – wife-beating and voting – would make a darn good movie right there but they seem to just dip in and out of proceedings unless in some lame humorous instance. What does take center stage though is Josie’s battle for independence, not wishing to “be taken care of” by some man. She argues that “you can’t kick under the rug that women are also people” and agin the notion that a woman is “a species of idiot kept in the back closet and spoon-fed three times a day.”

So she decides to become a cattle rancher. That inflames the ire in equal measure of suitor Jason (Peter Graves) and deadly enemy Arch (George Kennedy). And pretty much she is setting herself up for failure until she comes up with the notion of raising sheep rather than cows. The sheep vs. cows argument has been surprisingly well covered in the western – witness The Sheepman (1958), Heaven with a Gun (1969) and, in more recent times, 1923 (2022) – and here they decide the two animals are best kept apart by geographical divide. The sheep are really another narrative device, cue for more slapstick-style sequences, and as you know a sheepdog will tear the britches off anyone foolish enough to get in its way.

It’s somewhat astonishing that within this unwieldy set of confounding narratives that this works at all. And mostly that is down to Doris Day (With Six You Get Eggroll, 1968) junking her previous persona of feisty female willing to be wooed by ardent or cunning male. While her anger often comes over as more like petulance and you would never mistake her for an Elizabeth Taylor or Maureen O’Hara as a woman not to cross, she does comes out of this with some credit. Peter Graves (Sergeant Ryker, 1968) and George Kennedy (The Pink Jungle, 1968) are merely adequate. Andrew V. McLaglen doesn’t show much gift for comedy apart from the most obvious but presumably he’s to be thanked for even venturing into such difficult territory.

Whether it was, as I said, a deliberate attempt to bring feminist issues to the fore, or to sneak them in under the guise of comedy, is a moot point. The star always claimed she was duped into the role, finding her husband Martin Melcher had signed her up for it without her knowing.

Frankenstein Created Woman (1967) ***

Custom-made for a contemporary audience. How can you fail with a tale about a male brain taking over a female body. Male soul if you want to be strictly correct and metaphysical about it or if you are Martin Scorsese for whom discussion about whether the soul leaves the body after death and exists on some other plane was of the greatest interest. But, yes, so although our hero/villain Baron Frankenstein (Peter Cushing) does create a female instead of a male, and not just with the misogynistic purpose of supplying a monster with a mate, unfortunately in the act of creation the poor woman is saddled with the soul/brain of a man, and, even worse, one with bloody revenge on his mind.

These days for sure audiences would not have any trouble with female stars carving a swathe through any populace and nobody would require transplanting of male hormones-soul-brain-whatever to take off on a rampage. But, back in the day, before Hammer went full-tilt-boogie down the lesbian vampire route, it was rare, outside of film noir and exploitationer pictures, for a woman to be so savage. So her actions are viewed with regret rather than roars of approval. But, for once, nobody is taking a torch or axe to the good old Baron.

That’s not all that takes the audience by surprise. The use of a guillotine, ideal for a post-task dripping of blood, turns out to be widely used in central Europe in the 19^th century, hardly surprising since it was a German invention. The movie opens with a young boy, Hans, witnessing his father’s execution on such a device, a point that seems arbitrary but proves pivotal.

The grown-up Hans (Robert Morris) assists Dr Hertz (Thorley Walters) assisting the Baron in some kind of resurrection experiment, the guinea pig being Frankenstein himself. Naturally, for purely metaphysical purposes you understand, the Baron would like to experiment on as barely-dead a cadaver as possible to prove his theories. That this takes a good while to materialize is largely because the narrative has to go all around the houses.

Hans’s lover, disfigured and lame innkeeper’s daughter Christina (Susan Denberg), is taunted by a trio of young swells that results in Hans attacking them. Later, for no particular good reason, the toffs kill the innkeeper, but Hans gets the blame and is sentenced to death. After he is guillotined, Christina commits suicide by drowning. Both bodies turn up in Frankenstein’s lab at roughly the same time. Complication of course being that a guillotine doesn’t deliver a body intact. Quite how Frankenstein achieves his soul-body transplant is left up to your imagination – the scene promised in the poster is a marketing fiction.

And there’s a touch of Poor Things about the result as Christina wakes up minus scars and disfigurement but with no recollection of her past and needs to be taught who she is. Not that she requires much education in the feminine wiles department and is soon stalking the three young toffs, seducing them with hints of sexual promise before taking savage revenge.

There also a Curse of the Undead element when villagers discover her grave is empty. In fairness to the Baron, he soon realizes what fate had befallen her and tries to ensure that, once her revenge is complete, she can live a different life, although in the way of horror films a happy ending is rarely an option. And in fairness to the Baron the villagers aren’t queueing up to set him alight.

With various subplots to get through, this leaves the Baron out of the picture for considerable periods of time. From a contemporary perspective, there’s a freshness here that will appeal, especially the creation’s desire to discover her purpose in life, her not being bred to fulfil a romantic purpose, and the battle of the male-female will.

Peter Cushing (The Skull, 1965) is as usual splendid, Thorley Walters (Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace, 1962) presents as an inebriated and impecunious assistant while Austrian Susan Denberg (An American Dream, 1966) does well in the dual role.

Fourth outing in the Hammer series, directed with occasional verve by the reliable Terence Fisher (The Devil Rides Out, 1968) from a screenplay by Anthony Hinds (The Mummy’s Shroud, 1967).

Contemporary appeal and can never go wrong given that it is purportedly one of Martin Scorsese’s favorite films.

I’ll Never Forget Whatsisname (1967) ****

Director Michael Winner’s proudest moment – from a critical perspective. Rave reviews all round and hailed as a rising star of British cinema. Such adulation didn’t last long, of course, Hannibal Brooks (1968) and The Games (1970) elicited little critical reposnse and whatever kudos he achieved from a couple of westerns was soon blown away once he went down the Death Wish (1974) brutal revenge route. So this fits into the anomaly department in his canon and, although pretentious in spots, it does show a fine intelligence at work and a singular prophetic quality that should have contemporary reverberation.

For a start, he highlights the creativity of the advertising world that became the training ground for such British directorial talents as Ridley Scott (Alien, 1979), his brother Tony (Top Gun, 1986), Alan Parker (Midnight Express, 1978) and Adrian Lyne (Fatal Attraction, 1987) as well as producers in the vein of David Puttnam (Chariots of Fire, 1981). Perhaps more interesting are the ecological aspects, predicting the importance of waste both as an issue and a financial opportunity.

And although If… (1969) was viewed as the pre-eminent depiction of public school immorality, this provided a much shorter introduction to the prevalence of public school attitudes in society. You might also suggest, should you be so bold, that Winner envisioned the boom in reality televison, when the camera is not used to create illusion but to pick at the scabs of society. And we might also fast forward to Jaws (1975) whose meanest character shares the same surname as our hero here, whose personality defects are what drives the picture.

Within all this there’s a fair chunk of satire. And it’s rare for this director to so obviously poke fun at his heroes.

The narrative follows disillusioned advertising ace Quint (Oliver Reed) as he tries to extricate himself from various romantic entanglements in order to concentrate on first playing a more meaningful role via literary creativity and then, when that option is pulled out from under him, exposing the hypocrisy from which he has made his fortune.

The movie opens with a stunning image. Quint wielding an axe. Despite this being in the middle of London, he scarcely receives a second glance – as if this might be construed as typical English eccentricity – as he marches towards his posh headquarters, proceeds to smash his office and hand in his notice to boss Lute (Orson Welles). He finds work in a literary magazine with old school chum Nicholas (Norman Rodway) where, unfortunately given he already has a wife and several mistresses, he falls for virgin secretary Georgina (Carol White).

But despite his success he is tormented by his schooldays, which instead of toughening him up made him more vulnerable to abuse from a teacher and to bullying from fellow pupils led by entitled thug Maccabee (Harvey Hall). The nightmarish glimpses of school are sharply brought into focus when he encounters Maccabee again and witnesses the savage hounding of another innocent man.

Meanwhile, Lute keeps popping up, either to try and seduce Quint back to his job or to sabotage his existing one. When a fight breaks out at one of Lute’s parties he wants it stopped before another of his precious artworks is broken rather than before a participant ends up in hospital. Lute takes English eccentricity to the extreme, enjoying a massage while playing Scalextrix, the epitome of avuncular decency except that he’s twisting the rules.

Even with his diabolical childhood, it’s hard to sympathize with Quint. He’s little more than a charming lout, but I suspect his is a more universal condition, those who have so much easy wealth inclined to poke at the foundations of success, and seek a more worthwhile profession. The ending is contrived, but, then, the fun has to stop somewhere.

That said, Oliver Reed (The Assassination Bureau, 1969) presents a more rounded character than in many of his later films. From the confidence of his delivery you get the impression that Orson Welles (House of Cards, 1968) – top-billed ahead of Reed – improvised many of his lines. He’s certainly having some fun with his role, but then that is the seductive part of his character. Carol White (Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting, 1969) is the big surprise, bringing a genuine freshness to her role, before she conformed to the Hollywood dictat. And you won’t forget the malicious Harvey Hall (The Games, 1970).

The quite amazing cast includes Edward Fox (Day of the Jackal, 1973), Michael Hordern (Where Eagles Dare, 1968) as a demented headmaster, Marianne Faithfull (The Girl on a Motorcycle, 1968), Harry Andrews (The Long Duel, 1967) as a writer with a creepy hobby, Wendy Craig (TV series Not in Front of the Children, 1967-1973), Ann Lynn (Baby Love, 1969) and Frank Finlay (The Shoes of the Fisherman, 1968).

It’s entirely possible that it was pure coincidence that Winner covered so many topics relevant to today but I’m giving him the beenfit of the doubt. Written by Peter Draper (The System / The Girl-Getters, 1964).

Great – and meaningful – fun.

Our Mother’s House (1967) ***

Lord of the Flies set in a sprawling London Victorian mansion. At its best when kids give rein to vivid imagination, not so strong when melodrama intrudes.

After the death of her invalid mother and dreading being sent to an orphanage, eldest child Elsa (Margaret Brooks), who has been with the help of a maid running the house anyway, determines that she and the rest of the brood will pretend their mother is still alive. They bury the body in the garden, manage financially after Jimimee (Mark Lester) discovers an aptitude for forging their mother’s signature on the monthly cheques she receives from a trust fund, and hold séances in the shed to commune with the deceased one.

To maintain the pretence, they get rid of the nosey and querulous maid Mrs Quayle (Yootha Joyce) and come up with all sorts of reasons to explain their mother’s absence to school teachers and neighbors. Child fears run rampant as they visualize the terrible lives they would lead in an orphanage. But the generally tolerant community lifestyle is disturbed by the dictatorial rule of Elsa, determining that Gerty (Sarah Nicholls), for example, must have her long hair sheared off for innocently breaking a house rule and, in keeping with their mother’s fundamentalist beliefs, refuses to call a doctor when the girl falls ill. But the séance takes on a creepier aspect, Elsa the one in communion with her mother and therefore using the supposed other-worldy presence to enforce her will.

So far, so Lord of the Flies, and excellent in its depiction of a world ruled by children according to their fears and beliefs and without adult intercession. But it loses its grip when melodrama takes hold.

Their mother’s dissolute husband Charlie (Dirk Bogarde) returns, romancing Mrs Quayle, and, initially, spoiling the children, who are delighted to see him. He soon reverts to form, spending all their money, getting Charlie to forge his mother’s signature on the house deeds, planning to pocket the proceeds and dispatch the kids to an orphanage. Worse, he breaks the spell their seemingly devout mother had over their children, informing them that their mother’s conversion to religion only came after a life of debauchery and that, in fact, every single one of them is illegitimate and not his offspring. That’s too much for Diana (Pamela Franklin) who kills him with a poker.

Too many twists for sure and by diverting a fascinating dissertation of childhood into adult melodrama robs the film of much of its power.

Director Jack Clayton had been here before with The Innocents (1961) but, there, less was spelled out. Dirk Bogarde (Justine, 1969) is surprisingly good as the charming rough layabout with an eye to the main chance but it’s the children who captivate especially Pamela Franklin (And Soon the Darkness, 1970) and Mark Lester (Oliver!, 1968). The children’s innocence in any case would have been despoiled as they challenged Elsa’s rule and it would have been more satisfying to go down that route.

It was based on the bestseller by Julian Gloag and for anyone wondering what happened to Haya Harareet (Ben-Hur, 1959, and The Secret Partner, 1961) she married Clayton and is credited with the screenplay of this along with Jeremy Brooks.

Slow-burn that trips the wrong way.

Rocket to the Moon / Those Fantastic Flying Fools (1967) ***

The Jules Verne express grinds to a halt in part because the promise of outer space adventure fails to materialize and in part because the treatment is comedic in the manner of The Great Race (1965). A series of sketches with a shifting array of characters rarely works. Occasionally it hits the mark in a laugh out loud fashion but too often the jokes are labored although as a tribute to a maze of inventive invention it’s a treat.

Unusually for such an all-star cast venture, we are, long before the titular action and a race (of sorts) commences, treated to the greatest hits from the book of all-time failures. So we have electricity setting on fire the first country house, belonging to the Duke of Barset (Dennis Price), to be so illuminated; a new-fangled suspension bridge, courtesy of Sir Charles Dillworthy (Lionel Jeffries), that collapses when Queen Victoria cuts the ribbon; and a new type of explosive invented by German von Bulow (Gert Frobe) that proves a tad overpowering. Meanwhile, making possible the idea of sending a man to the moon is the arrival in Britain of the diminutive General Tom Thumb (Jimmy Clitheroe) accompanied by the bombastic and greedy Phineas T. Barnum (Burl Ives).

Combining the various scientific advances of propulsion and engineering have the flaw of not being able to bring a manned rocket back home. And sinister forces are at work, spies and fraudsters.

As with all these all-star comedies you spend half the time wondering how your favorite star is going to be worked into the equation and, having been squeezed into the narrative, justify their ongoing involvement. Daliah Lavi (Old Shatterhand, 1964), not particulary known for her comic gifts, is a case in point. On her wedding day she (as Madelaine) jilts French groom Henri (Edward de Souza) in favor of balloonist Gaylord (Troy Donohue) who has, literally, appeared on the horizon. Henri trying to down said balloon triggers an awful joke about a shotgun wedding.

To gain revenge, Henri funds the project on the basis of Gaylord being the moon pilot, and, in anticipation of the craft’s failure, that he will regain his bride. Madelaine, having been sidelined by all the developments, suddenly rushes back to center stage when she uncovers the devious plot and is shipped off to a home for wayward girls, run by the very wayward Angelica (Hermione Gingold). But that requires she escape and find her way back to her beloved, that aspect complicated because she loves both men (it transpires).

As the script is in the invidious position of having to place the participants into similar frying pans in order to effect similar rescues it’s as much a game of ping-pong as a movie. But there are some nice gags, a rocket attached to a helmet, the ruination of a teleprinter and the criminally-inclined Washington-Smythe (Terry-Thomas) who rooks billiard players with a magnet. And there’s a very contemporary financial element in that large wagers are placed on failure rather than success, the equivalent of betting on stocks going down rather than up (short selling in the modern idiom)

The rocket is launched, with rather a different crew than originally anticipated following further skullduggery, and although it’s something of a cosmic joke that it only gets as far as Russia it’s rather a disappointing ending for fans of Verne who anticipated a more rigorous approach. Verne’s novel From the Earth to the Moon was surprisingly accurate in imagining how a projectile would achieve its aims. The novel had even more of a contemporary feel since it left the crew floating in space, a daringly artistically inconclusive climax, leaving the way open – again the contemporary flair – for sequel Around the Moon that explained their fate.

Oddly enough, Daliah Lavi, as the bride who can’t make up her mind, has one of the better parts, more fleshed out than most of the other flimsy characterizations. The likes of Troy Donohue, caught between heroism and doing nothing much at all, often looks flummoxed. Terry-Thomas (How To Murder Your Wife, 1965) in wily mode is the pick of the rest.

Director Don Sharp (The Brides of Fu Manchu, 1966) proves that comedy is not his metier. Screenplay by Dave Freeman (British TV sitcom writer making his movie debut) after Harry Alan Towers (Five Golden Dragons, 1967) altered the author’s original premise. While it could be skewered for taking such liberties with the august author, it is far better than you might expect, but not as good as it could, or should, be.

Lepke (1975) ***

Gangsters are just the same as you and I. They want to be loved, they want a family, they want the kind of respect that isn’t achieved by just pointing a gun at someone. The Godfather (1972) led the way in subtly reminding us that gangsters were human beings even if it was more seductive in making us believe we should excuse their criminal tendencies. Lepke spends as long on romance and trying to win the approval of the bride’s father as it does on the character’s perfidy. The idea that marriage cannot so much absolve you of your sins but provide an oasis of calm inside a murderous world is one only a true romantic would consider pursuing. As is the notion that a wife would forgive you your sins because her love would outweigh your actions, in the same way as the wife-beaten wife (as shown in Love Lies Bleeding) still loves her husband no matter how brutal the treatment meted out.

Lepke has got reason to be sore with the world. He was left out of the gangster chronicles. An important part of the Murder Inc operation, he was ignored when Hollywood passed judgement on such criminal enterprises. And you get the sneaky feeling his life story was only revived because after the Coppola epic his was one of the few tales untold in the gangster chronicles.

“If there’s any good in him, that’s the part I’ve got,” says wife Berenice (Anjanette Comer), “If I was a whore I could leave him.” And you can see the part she adores, not only respectful to the point of being obsequious to her upstanding father Mr Meyer (Milton Berle), but charming and romantic with her and he’s clearly able to separate business from romance, turning into an exemplary family man (but then so, too, did Don Corleone).

Which is just as well because Lepke (Tony Curtis) is a dreaded Mafia enforcer, forming a murder syndicate with Dutch Schulz (John Durren) and Lucky Luciano (Vic Tayback) that takes responsibility for knocking off anyone who steps out of line away from the big bosses. There’s some standard gangster stuff, machine guns in violin cases, bombs in the spaghetti, but also some interesting touches, a shoot-out on a carousel, and of course the last person a gangster can trust is the one he places his truth with. Double-dealing is the order of the day.

Like all the top gangsters, Lepke is an entrepreneur, expanding out of the killing racket into dope, extortion and trade unions. New York D.A. Thomas E. Dewey is on the Murder Inc case and his assassination is only prevented by the intercession of Lepke. But he’s tackled as much by Robert Kane (Michael Callan), friend to Berenice who works in narcotics along with Dewey.

Dewey’s not the only real-life character making an entrance. Legendary journalist Walter Winchell (Vaughn Meader) plays a significant role. Most of the picture involves Lepke being nefarious by day and loving at night and the gang are only tripped up when witnesses need to be eliminated and as the cops work a similar kind of dodge to the one that snared Al Capone. Instead of tax evasion it’s anti-trust issues.

Covering the period from 1923, Lepke’s emergence as a ruthless street rat, and his development of the narcotics business by sourcing product direct for the Far East, to his execution in 1944, it pays only cursory attention to the period. Most of the time, Lepke is fighting for his life one way or other, suspicious of colleagues, walking a knife-edge between actions that could inavertently lead to his demise, and trying to remain the best part of himself that remains appealing to his wife.

That any of this works other than being a standard depiction of the rise and fall of a gangster is down to Tony Curtis (The Boston Strangler, 1968) who delivers one of his best later performances while maintaining a difficult balancing act, clearly believing that he can separate the two sides of his personality, and that the murderous part is really just a performance. The documentary-style rendition helps as this can be complicated stuff, especially with so many disparate traitors.

Anjanette Comer (Guns for San Sebastian, 1968) is always watchable. Menahem Golan, of Golan-Globus and Cannon fame, perhaps taking a cue from The Godfather, takes considerable care with the family elements and is rewarded with a better picture than the elements might suggest.

This pretty much rounds out my Hollywood History of the Gangster.

Three into Two Won’t Go (1969) ***

Unhappily married and childless salesman Steve (Rod Steiger) begins an affair with kooky promiscuous hitchhiker Ella (Judy Geeson). A free spirit in control of her life – no VD and on the Pill – and happy to drift from mundane job to mundane job, Ella ranks her many lovers on their sexual performance. Steve has just moved into a new house on a dreary new estate, perhaps in the hope of revitalizing his staid marriage to Frances (Claire Bloom).

While Steve is away on business, Ella turns up at his home where, revealing, without implicating Steve, that she is pregnant, she convinces Frances to let her stay the night. Naturally, it is Steve’s baby, but Ella plans an abortion. Steve wants the baby and so, too, still unaware of the father, does Frances, seeing adoption as the solution to their marital woes. And so a love triangle, or more correctly a baby triangle, plays out, with a few unexpected twists.

Like most of the marital dramas of the 1960s, especially in the wake of the no-holds-barred Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966), this is riddled with outspoken protagonists who have no idea how to find real happiness. Based on the book by Andrea Newman and adapted by Edna O’Brien, who both have previously marked out this kind of territory, the picture shifts sympathy from one character to the next. While no one is entirely culpable, none are blameless either. Yet there is an innocence about Steve and Frances in the way they fling themselves in the direction of unlikely salvation. They are not the first couple to find themselves in a marital cul de sac, nor the first to do nothing about it, hoping that somehow through a new house or job promotion things will right themselves.

Audiences, accustomed to seeing Steiger (In the Heat of the Night, 1967) in morose roles, might have been shocked to see him happy and he manages to present a more rounded character than in some previous screen incarnations. In burying herself in domesticity, Claire Bloom (Charly, 1968) essays a far from fragile character, whose resilience and pragmatic character will always find a way forward. Geeson is the surprise package, at once knowing and in charge, and at other times completely out of her depth, and to some extent enjoying the chaos she sparks. The exuberant screen personality she presents here is almost a grown-up more calculating version of the character she portrays in Hammerhead (1968).

Director Peter Hall (Work is a Four-Letter Word, 1968) generates more universal appeal by ensuring the movie is not so obviously grounded in the 1960s that it would quickly become outdated and the snatching at last-minute fantasy to avert marital disharmony will still strike a note. The performances are all excellent, including a turn by Peggy Ashcroft (Secret Ceremony, 1968) and bit parts from British character actors Paul Rogers (Stolen Hours, 1963) and Elizabeth Spriggs in her second movie.

Complex but not hard work.

Two Weeks in September (1967) ***

Soubriquets were not common currency in Hollywood. Names might be shortened to a Christian name or a surname, as in Marilyn or Garbo, and occasionally a reporter might suggest an unlikely familiarity by referring to a star as “Coop” and for sure Bogie must have been desperate for people to call him anything other than Humphrey, hardly a name that spun off the tongue for a supposedly hardbitten hero eschewing his middle-class origins. But the world swung on its axis when simple use of the star’s initials were enough to guarantee universal acceptance.

BB was born on a wave of controversy. After And God Created Woman (1956) broke box office records all over the world, a star was born. But one who seemed to live as much on the pages of newspapers as on the screen. She could forever be guaranteed to provide a revealing photograph to spice up the more puritan newspapers.

But BB’s global fame didn’t translate into worldwide box office in part because her movies were mostly X-certificate in the U.K. and, being made generally by foreign companies, slipping past the Production Code in the U.S. and therefore into arthouses or shady emporiums in both countries rather than mainstream houses.

This isn’t the best introduction to her canon, but in many senses it’s pretty typical. The camera adores BB and shuns anyone else in her presence. There’s not much story here – bored wife dashes off to a model assignment in London and has an affair and can’t decide whether he’s ready for divorce.

To fill in the time we get plenty Carnaby St fashion shoots, certainly put into the shade by the likes of Blow-Up (1966), but of the kind that used to be so common, beautiful women in outlandish clothes against backdrops like zoo animals or suits of armor and all the while flirting with photographers and being chatted up in night clubs by all and sundry. As you might expec, red buses and mini cars are common, though the chances of a cop on horseback at night seems to stretch it a bit.

Cecile (Brigitte Bardot) seems too lively for staid husband Philippe (Jean Rochefort) and burdens him with ensuring her happiness. But he seems, I guess unusually for the time for such a wealthy character, to be happy for her to continue in her profession. She’s never been unfaithful unlike model buddy Patricia (Georgina Ward). But all this cavorting brings out the lech in photographer Dickinson (Mike Sarne) and while she flirts with him she fancies for no apparent reason the doe-eyed Vincent (Laurent Terzieff) although his doe-eyed dog is livelier.

Anyway, off they go to Scotland for a romantic idyll since every filmmaker in the world has been duped by Scottish Tourist Board fantasies of sunshine, tartan, heather and miles of unspoiled beaches (unaware they are empty because the natives have more sense than to go diving into icy water in freezing temperatures). Mostly, what they get is damp streets and grey skies, though if you have BB romping in the water then nobody’s really going to notice the awful weather. And, naturally, the highways and byways are filled with tartan-clad gents so Brigadoon rides again.

*Not quite sure how “To Their Heart’s Content” – clumsy in translation as it is –*
*is turned into the dull “Two Weeks in September.”* *Though she hardly seems happy in the poster.*

In any case, by the time September comes round, the sun has already packed up for the winter in Scotland, so there’s your get-out-of-jail-card in the title. Not much happens in Scotland either, mostly soulful camera work, soulful BB and dull-as-ditchwater Vincent. There’s a contrived ending.

What impresses most is how little BB you need to make a picture work, even one as patchy as this. It is almost the same template as an Elvis picture minus the songs. Just like BB, Elvis scarcely required a working script, just any excuse to get him on screen. Some stars possess screen charisman that it’s impossible to shift. Shame it was left to Serge Bourguignon (The Picasso Summer, 1969) to get more out of the faint storyline because he was never that bothered with narrative and inclined just to get by on close-ups and scenery. With BB she was as much scenery as audiences ever seemed to require.

Hardly falls into the recommended bracket but nonetheless an interesting example of how Bardot could get away with the mildest of trifles.

The Wackiest Ship in the Army (1960) ***

A more misleading title would be hard to find – and that goes for the posters too. This is a misfit movie – a bunch of raw recruits knocked into shape by an unwilling captain tasked with sailing a ship into a South Pacific war zone in WWII. Admittedly, Jack Lemmon is in exasperated double-take default in the opening section, but it quickly shifts from comedy to drama as Lemmon shepherds his inexperienced crew into a more compact team.

Screenwriter Frank Murphy has an exceptionally good portfolio – Panic in the Streets (1950), The Desert Rats (1953), Broken Lance (1954) and Compulsion (1959) – but brings less to the table as a director, this only his second – and final – outing in that capacity. But given he is directing from his own screenplay, he must take the blame for the incongruous hybrid. Add in an unnecessary tune from Ricky Nelson and the briefest of brief romances and no wonder it’s hard to make head or tail of the movie until it does eventually head out to sea.

Once Lemmon is given more to do than shake or scratch his head the picture moves into more satisfactory territory. Instead of dismissing the crew as idiots, he takes command and shows dramatic chops that are a hint of things to come (Days of Wine and Roses just two pictures away) when he sloughed off comedy for more serious undertakings.

Reason for Lemmon being assigned this motorized sailing ship rather than something more obviously U.S. Navy is that he is in the last chance saloon. Once under sail, setting aside some dodgy process work, and it becomes clear they are heading into harm’s way rather than simply delivering the boat to General MacArthur in more harmless waters, the story switches into perilous wartime perilous adventure with decent battle, a couple of twists and some dramatic confrontation.

Lemmon is always watchable, and I always thought he could have done with more self-belief when it came to tackling more dramatic parts. When he goes ramrod-stiff and starts barking out orders and has to out-maneuver superiors and enemy, he is entirely convincing, as, too, safeguarding his charges or rescuing them and leading them in battle. Setting aside the need for Nelson to register his credentials as a singer, he is not bad either, as an ensign making his way, an ingenue role that suits this ingenue.

Veteran John Lund (My Friend Irma) appears as a crusty, wide admiral and Chips Rafferty, the only Australian actor anybody had ever heard of at that point outside of Rod Taylor, has a cameo. Irishwoman Patricia O’Driscoll manages a passable Aussie accent as the brief romancer, her role mostly confined to looks of longing while Lemmon is at sea. Raspy-voiced Mike Kellin as an out-of-his-depth chief mate turned up in the television series based on the picture. If ever there was a film of two halves (well, one-third and two-thirds) it’s this, but the second section passes muster.

Not quite shipshape but getting there.