movie review – Page 63 – The Magnificent 60s

Daleks’ Invasion Earth 2150 A.D. (1966) ***

Sequels being all the rage – James Bond, Matt Helm, Derek Flint, The Pink Panther, The Magnificent Seven – in the 1960s it was no surprise that the success of Dr Who and the Daleks (20^th top film at the British box office in 1965) suggested that a second go-round might be as profitable. As was standard, a recurring formula was the key.

In this case, Dr Who (Peter Cushing) and grand-daughter Susan (Roberta Tovey) repeated their previous roles though another grand-daughter Barbara (Jennie Linden) was replaced by a niece Louise (Jill Curzon) and hapless passenger Ian (comedian Roy Castle) was ousted in favour of hapless London cop Tom (comedian Bernard Cribbins). But returning director Gordon Flemyng (The Split, 1968) upped the ante. Instead of waiting ages for the dreaded mechanical monsters with their electronic catchphrase (“Exterminate”) to appear, they turn up virtually in the first reel.

As if to emphasise the versatility of the Tardis, this time instead of space travel it’s time travel, Dr Who turning up in a blitzed London virtually two centuries ahead only to discover his nemesis rules the planet. It being set in a familiar locale, nobody is loaded down with information dumps, a tedious feature of the first picture, and it doesn’t take as long to get going, and our heroes, in various configurations, and while befriending the rebels – leader Wyler (Andrew Keir) and David (Ray Brooks) – endure a cycle of trap and escape while the good doctor tries to work out what brought the daleks to his home planet.

I’m giving this the benefit of the doubt and suggesting that the first appearance of the daleks is a homage to Dr No (1962) although one of the creatures emerging from the River Thames is hardly a patch in the sexy-entrance stakes as a bikini-clad Ursula Andress. Amidst all the mayhem, there are a couple of standout sequences, the best of which is a comedy skit involving Tom, disguised as a leather-clad member of the brainwashed automatons. This reminded me of Bob Hoskins in the first Super Mario Bros (1993 vintage) being trapped in an elevator with the Goombas. Tom is just too human to fit into this gang, constantly out of step with their actions.

Naturally, the Dr Who team are split up, allowing the action to move into two converging directions. The daleks plan to turn the planet into a giant spacecraft it can tow around, that storyline somehow involving a mining operation outside London while there’s some clever sci fi tomfoolery using the Earth’s magnetic poles to destroy the enemy.

Oops, I’ve given away the climax. Not that anybody cares that much, the main fun being the escaping formula – the daleks even use this as a plot twist, commending the intelligence of any human who can manage to escape – and watching the doctor outwit the enemy. Actually, the main fun is the dastardly daleks. Every time they appear you can imagine yourself back in a cinema crammed with thousands of kids yelling “Exteminate! Exterminate!”

The plot keeps rolling along, no time to draw breath. And we’re not having to bother with any of the boring MCU claptrap intent on giving the super-villains a backstory or expiating their evil brains. The daleks represent alien domination, and they’re not here to give lectures on inhumanity or peace. In their determination to kill, they could almost be contemporary, given the number of serial killers and/or madmen clogging up cinema screens.

If not conspicuously inventive, Gordon Flemyng’s management of a large cast and a variety of action brought him to Hollywood attention. Given the storied career of Peter Cushing (The Skull, 1965) storied career, his performances as the doctor are generally overlooked, which is a pity, because he is certainly among the best to essay this character. Carry On regular Bernard Cribbins livens up proceedings without needing to resort to slapstick in the Roy Castle mode. This must have seemed a bit of a come down for Ray Brooks after unexpected hit The Knack (1965) but he always seemed more at home on the small screen (although Flemyng hired him again for The Last Grenade, 1970).

The series ended here after the movie flopped on home territory. The original had bombed in the States, so the producers were heavily dependent on British box office. I guess just getting U.S. audiences aware there was such a thing in Britain as a “police box” would have been harder to grasp than the fact that it housed a time machine, and that the interplanetary craft was just there without a whole story about how it had come into being.

Made on a miserly budget by anybody’s standards, the sfx was never going to come up to scratch. But who cares.

“Exterminate! Exterminate!”

https://amzn.to/3FkXVJa

Arabesque (1966) ***

By this point in the 1960s, Gregory Peck’s career was pretty much at a standstill. Prestige had not saved Behold a Pale Horse (1964) from commercial disaster, thriller Mirage (1965) went the same way, other projects – The Martian Chronicles, Ice Station Zebra – failed to get off the ground or like The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-Ling-a-Ling were abandoned once filming began. So, he was the main beneficiary of Cary Grant’s decision to retire.

Stanley Donen had Grant, with whom he had made the highly successful thriller Charade (1963), in mind for the role of the hieroglyphics professor caught in in a web of intrigue in Arabesque. In some ways Peck was an adequate replacement but lacked the older actor’s gift for comedy and failed to master the art of the double-take. Arabesque was almost a counterpoint to Charade. In the earlier movie Audrey Hepburn is continually suspicious of Cary Grant. The new movie sees a gender reversal, Peck constantly puzzled as to where Sophia Loren’s loyalties lie.

The story itself is quite simple. A code has been put inside a hieroglyphic and a variety of people are trying to get hold of it either to decipher the secret within or to stop someone else finding out what it contains. When the scientist who has the code is killed, the man who ordered the killing, the sinister Beshraavi (Alan Badel), approaches Prof Pollock (Gregory Peck) to unravel the code, but is turned down. The professor is then kidnapped by Arab prime minster Hassan Jena (Carl Duering), whom he admires, to ask him to take up the job. Beshraavi’s provocatively-dressed wife Yazmin (Sophia Loren), flirting outrageously with Pollock, is also after the code.

There follows more twists and double-crosses than you could shake a stick at, leaving the amenable Pollock mightily confused. “What is it about you,” he asks Yazmin at one point, “that makes you so hard to believe?” It looks like director Donen is playing a variation of the famous Raymond Chandler maxim, that when a plot begins to flag, “have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.” Sometimes, there is actually a gun or similar weapon, but mostly it’s just another twist. If Pollock doesn’t know what the hell is going on, then the audience is in the same boat.

But it is stylish, set in appealing parts of Britain (antique university, Ascot), Yazmin decked out in glamorous Dior outfits and even Pollock gets to wear a morning suit. Drop in a couple of action sequences, Hitchcock-style chases in a zoo and pursuit by a combine harvester, Pollock nearly run over by horses in a race, and the pair of them having strayed into a builder’s yard facing demolition by the British equivalent of a wrecking ball. But the standout scene is when Yazmin hides the professor in her shower (curtain drawn) while being interrogated by her suspicious husband and then steps in naked and then they play footsie with dropped soap. And she proceeds to expound, “If I was standing stark naked in front of Mr Pollock, he’d probably yawn.”

Beshraavi’s jealousy over his wife’s flirtation with Pollock adds another element of tension. Beshraavi is a very sinuous, sensuous bad guy, who can turn a harmless massage into a matter of life and death. He also has a pet falcon with a habit of ripping people’s cheeks. But even in the face of obvious threats, Pollock holds his own. In one scene as Beshraaavi attempts to retrieve what he believes is the code from Pollock’s dinner plate, where it has fallen from the hiding place in the professor’s clothing, Pollock taps the man’s invading fingers with the sharp tines of his fork.

And there is some accomplished dialogue. When Pollock offers the falcon a date and is brusquely told the bird of prey only eats meat, he responds, “I thought he looked at it rather wistfully.” Beshraavi retorts, sharply, “It must have been your fingers.”

Donen had not made a film in the three years since Charade, so there was some critical feeling that he was a bit rusty and used experimentation – big close-ups, odd camera angles – to cover this up. He was living in London by this point and had been for nearly a decade. But there was very little that fazed him in any genre, and he had switched from musicals like Singing in’ the Rain (1952) to romantic drama (Indiscreet, 1958) and comedy (The Grass Is Greener, 1960). And though there is no question the film would have been better with Cary Grant, Peck proves a reasonable substitute.

The movie’s main drawback is the lack of romance since falling in love with someone you believe is either a traitor or a compulsive liar is a hard trick to pull off. But if you like the idea of pitting your wits against the screenwriters – Peter Stone (Charade), Julian Mitchell (Another Country, 1984) and Stanley Price (Gold, 1974), the latter pair in their movie debuts – then this is one for you.

The Flight of the Phoenix (1965) ****

Take twelve condemned men, drop them in the desert hundreds of miles from safety with only enough water to last two weeks, and nothing to eat but dates, and make them work together to effect salvation from their predicament. Not exactly the premise for The Dirty Dozen (1967) but not far off. The Flight of the Phoenix appears a dummy run for director Robert Aldrich’s more ambitious war picture, not least because in terms of structure it is only eight minutes shorter. There are no women in the picture (except those appearing in a mirage) and the men, of all different types, must come together or die in the savage heat.

You might argue that the audience for this kind of picture no longer exists. In the 1960s there was a big market for the Nevil Shute/Hammond Innes/Elleston Trevor type of novel which contained a lot of practical detail at a time when heavy industry – mining, shipbuilding, oil, car manufacture – was a massive employer and the ordinary man had an easy understanding of – and was often fascinated by – the principles of engineering. Bear in mind that this was the era of space rockets and there was excitement about man’s planned flight to the moon.

During a sandstorm a small twin-engined plane carrying passengers from an oil field crash lands in the Sahara. James Stewart as the pilot was a casting trick. In a previous aerial adventure No Highway (1951), Stewart was the ordinary joe challenging authority. Here he is the authority figure, pilot Frank Towns, challenged and part of the film’s guile is the way he has to concede that authority to the one person on board everyone hates, arrogant German aircraft designer Dorfmann (Hardy Kruger).

The global job lot of passengers includes: two soldiers, martinet Capt Harris (Peter Finch) and his mutinous Sgt Watson (Ronald Fraser); alcoholic navigator Moran (Richard Attenborough); oil worker Cobb (Ernest Borgnine) on the brink of insanity; sarcastic Scots troublemaker Crow (Ian Bannen); French Dr Renaud (Christian Marquand0; company accountant Standish (Dan Duryea); Italian Gabriele (Gabriele Tinti); Bellamy (George Kennedy) and Carlos (Alex Montoya); plus a monkey of no fixed abode. The monkey, incidentally, is cleverly utilised. He’s not a sentimental or cute device, there to soften a hard guy or for comic relief, but Aldrich often cuts to his squeals or his face when there is imminent danger.

Two passengers are already dead, one is seriously injured. They have been blown so far off-course they will be impossible to locate. There is only enough water for ten or eleven days. It is a given in such circumstances that tempers will explode and hidden secrets surface. Were they guaranteed rescue those two pegs would be enough to hang a movie on. Since there is no such guarantee, this becomes a picture about survival. The obvious maneuver comes into play on the fifth day. Capt Harris determines to walk to safety, over 100 miles in deadly heat. But it’s not a trek picture either, the engineers present know the risks. Mountains will cause false compass readings and those going will walk around in circles.

*Trevor Dudley-Smith wrote under nine other pseudonyms including Elleston Trevor and Adam Hall for the “Quiller” spy series.*

What? I can get that magnetism in the mountains can affect a compass but where does the walking round in circles enter the equation? Because, explains Moran patiently, a person does not automatically walk in a straight line if there is no actual road. If right-handed then you’ll walk in a left-hand direction because the right leg is more developed than the other and takes a longer stride and there’s nothing you can do about it. This doesn’t matter if you are walking along an actual path but in the desert with no road markings it’s lethal. And this is the beginning of a bag of what would otherwise be deemed trivia except that such facts are a matter of life and death. This is a movie about reality in a way that no other realistic or authentic picture has or will be. Physics is the dominant force, not imagination.

Finch’s sergeant fakes an injury to avoid going. The mad Cobb, originally prevented from leaving, sneaks away in the night. Towns, in courageous mode, goes after him. While he is away, Dorfmann carries out a character assassination. And continues on his return – “the only thing outstanding about you is your stupidity.” By now though, Moran has warmed to Dorfmann’s insane idea of building a single-engined plane out of the wreck of the twin-engined one. And that becomes the crux of the story. Can they build this weird contraption? Will they manage it before they die of thirst? Will rising tensions prevent completion? Are they fit enough after days in the boiling heat to manage the herculean tasks involved?

Aldrich keeps psychological tension at fever pitch, helped along by the pessimistic Towns and the wildly pessimistic Crow, needling everyone in sight, who delivers lines like “how I stopped smoking in three days.” Towns and Moran have to come to terms with the parts they played in the plane crashing, Sgt Watson with his cowardice. Issues arise over leadership and water theft.

I won’t spoil it for you by mentioning the incident that threatens to demolish the entire project. But the finale is truly thrilling, edge-of-the-seat stuff and the skeletal monstrosity being constructed looks hardly capable of carrying the monkey let alone a full complement of passengers. Aldrich is a master of the group shot with unerring composition and often movement within the frame or just a simple bit of business by an actor, for example George Kennedy at one point tapping his hand against his leg, ensuring that the film does not solely focus on a couple of characters. Sometimes all Aldrich needs to make his points are reaction shots.

Terrific performances all round with Ian Bannen Oscar-nominated. Aldrich called on Lukas Heller for the screenplay, based on Elleston Trevor’s novel, having worked with him on Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962) and Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte (1964). Aldrich’s son William and son-in-law Peter Bravos had bit parts, killed off during the crash.

Flight of the Phoenix virtually invented the self-help rescue genre that relied on ingenious mechanical ideas – rather than more simplistic notions – such as later absorbed in movies like Apollo 13 (1995) and The Martian (2015). Aldrich’s mastery of group dynamics would stand in him in good stead for The Dirty Dozen.

The 2004 remake isn’t a patch on the original.

A terrific movie and well worth seeing.

Turning the novel by Elleston Trevor into a movie is illustrative of the process by which the screenwriter eliminates, changes and adds. The Flight of the Phoenix (published in 1964) was a lean 80,000 words, a far cry from the blockbuster airport reads like Exodus by Leon Uris and James Michener’s Hawaii. But its length made it an ideal subject for a film, the shorter novel tending to stick close to the main story. The author’s speciality was authentic detail, an early career as a racing driver and flight engineer inspiring in him a love for all things mechanical.

He knew what made things work and gaps in his knowledge were filled by assiduous research. He was an assiduous man, with 36 books since 1943 under ten pseudonyms, one being Adam Hall whose bestselling spy tale The Berlin Memorandum would be filmed as The Quiller Memorandum. He had tackled aviation before, most prominently in Squadron Airborne (1955).

The film follows the book’s structure with only a couple of deviations. The main one was changing the nationality of the aircraft designer from British to German. Originally named Stringer he was a testy young individual prone to taking offence and going off in big sulks. There was a German in the Trevor version, Kepel, a young man who is injured in the crash. But there was no handy doctor on board and fewer different nationalities.

To build up James Stewart as the heroic pilot and as a consequence to add meat to his clash with German designer Hardy Kruger, in the film he bravely goes out into the desert to find one of the passengers, but that does not occur in the book. Other changes were minor – in the book the passengers are occasionally able to supplement their drinking rations by scraping night frost off the plane and at a later point in the book they drain the blood from a dead camel in order to dilute their drinking water.

While there is an encounter with Arab nomads in both book and film, the book’s approach to this incident is much more straightforward, ignoring some of the detail supplied in the book.

Of course, a novel allows for the inclusion of far greater detail. And while that provides the skeleton for story development, Trevor gives greater insight into the characters than can be achieved on screen. The author allows each character an internal monologue, through which device we discover their motivations, history and fears.

This approach combines the present with the past, presenting a more rounded cast of characters. While the inherent tension of the situation drives the story along, the author switches between characters to keep the reader fully engaged. The cowardly sergeant (played by Ronald Fraser in the film) is the biggest beneficiary, portrayed as a more sympathetic person than in the film.

The book is a stand-alone enjoyment, Trevor’s writing skills, his grasp of character, creation of tension and his engineering knowledge (bear in mind he invented the idea of building another plane out of the wrecked one) make the novel every bit as enthralling as the film.

Shameless Plug: “1960s Movies Redux Volume Two.”

When I started investigating the movies of the 1960s one of the shocks was coming to understand how little critical attention had been paid to many of these pictures. I had imagined, in my ignorance, that the highly-touted critics of the era, whose names attached to quotes you would often see adorning posters, had been allocated considerable space in newspapers or magazines for their reviews, and was astonished to discover that in most instances this was not the case.

A movie critic was allotted no more than a couple of hundred words once a week and that space might have to cover three or even four movies. Although movie production was slowing down, they were still making a lot more films than they do today. The bulk of the words would be devoted to whatever movie the critic had decided was the picture of the week. And what with many critics determined to educate their readership on what they considered the superior works coming in from abroad, some notable American movies often got the short end of the stick.

It wasn’t unusual for a picture to be dismissed in a grand total of thirty or forty words, or not mentioned at all. And once academics piled in and decided which movies future students of films should be concentrating on, then a mountain of movies were just ignored over the following decades. So, in part, my purpose has been an attempt at correction, to give every picture of the decade a lengthy review, and bring into sharper focus many movies that, in critical terms, had disappeared from view. In part, I aim to readdress the era, placing more emphasis on the films available to the general public rather than those whose remit was the arthouse. And, in part, it is also to provide a more representative idea of the era.

But, of course, in the main it’s fun, the opportunity to delve into a decade that through my many books I have grown to love. Oddly enough, I grew up in towns that lacked cinemas, and it was only when I attended university at the beginning of the 1970s that I had ready access to movies, so I had a lot of catching-up to do. I was first at the door for any reissue and combed the television listings and subsequently built up a huge library of VHS/DVD. And I was very glad of that investment, which often seemed an indulgence at the time, because trying to find older films on streamers is exceedingly difficult, and the only way of accessing certain titles is through DVD.

And part of the fun is being able to reassess certain performers. In this volume, in particular, I have come to appreciate much more the acting talent of George Peppard through such films as Pendulum, Rough Night in Jericho and P.J. / New Face in Hell. I’ve been watching with renewed interest Ann-Margret switch from lighter movies to more serious films like Once A Thief, Stagecoach and Bus Riley’s Back in Town. I saw a different side to Dean Martin, who had spent most of the decade in lighter fare, when he moved into westerns like Five Card Stud and turned his screen persona on its head with a vicious role in Rough Night in Jericho.

David Janssen, too, deserves reconsideration in my book after Warning Shot and Where It’s At. Angie Dickinson displays a wider range via Jessica, The Sins of Rachel Cade and I’ll Give My Life / The Unfinished Task, a movie of which I had previously been unaware.

I came across plenty films that appeared to have passed everyone by. Fade In, virtually disowned by star Burt Reynolds, being one, The Picasso Summer with Albert Finney and Yvette Mimieux, denied release at the time, and Vendetta for the Saint starring Roger Moore. I took a look at others rightfully disdained like The Maltese Bippy starring Rowan & Martin from the popular television series, Lock Up Your Daughters with Christopher Plummer as you’ve never seen him before – and wouldn’t want to again – and Orgy for the Dead.

And in trawling through the vaults, I came across many a movie that was sorely under-rated. Into that category I would place Terence Young’s Mayerling with Omar Sharif and Catherine Deneuve; Suzy Kendall as a German spy in Fraulein Doktor; James Corburn in the tricky Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round and for that matter the almost existential Hard Contract; and the aforementioned Five Card Stud and Rough Night in Jericho. I would urge you to take a second look at The Scalphunters, and The Shoes of the Fisherman and the tight thriller that turned Charles Bronson into a star, Farewell Friend / Adieu L’Ami, in which he went toe-to-toe with established French idol Alain Delon, and first made his mark as a genuine marquee attraction, albeit initially only in France.

Naturally, I’m hoping that reading these reviews might point you back to the movies I’ve mentioned. I have rated the movies out of five. The films are presented in alphabetical order.

One of the reasons for producing this book is that the first volume was so successful. And when I did a bit of research, I discovered that reading over 100 reviews on Kindle or in a book was a lot easier than reading than reading them online.

In this Volume I’ve also added illustrations.

There will be many more volumes to come as I’ve taken it upon myself to see as many movies of the 1960s as possible – I’ve already passed the 1,000-mark – so as to provide a better idea of the era’s output.

Available on Kindle (at $2.99/£2.48) and via Amazon in paperback and hardback.

MOVIES REVIEWED IN VOLUME TWO

The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders (1965)

Baby Love (1969)

The Battle for the Villa Florita (1965)

Beat Girl / Wild for Kicks (1960)

Beau Geste (1966)

The Biggest Bundle of Them All (1968)

Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice (1969)

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

The Brotherhood (1968)

Bus Riley’s Back in Town (1965)

Can-Can (1960)

Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humpe and Find True Happiness (1969)

Castle Keep (1969)

Catacombs / The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die (1965)

The Counterfeit Traitor (1962)

A Dandy in Aspic (1968)

Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round (1966)

Deadlier than the Male (1967)

The Detective (1968)

The Devil’s Brigade (1968)

The Devil Rides Out (1968)

Dr Who and the Daleks (1965)

Experiment in Terror / The Grip of Fear (1962)

Fade In (1968)

Farewell Friend / Adieu L’Ami (1968)

Fate Is the Hunter (1964)

Five Card Stud (1968)

4 for Texas (1963)

Fraulein Doktor (1969)

Go Naked in the World (1961)

Hard Contract (1969)

Hercules and the Captive Women / Hercules Conquers Atlantis (1961)

A High Wind in Jamaica (1965)

A Home of Your Own (1965)

A House Is Not a Home (1965)

Ice Station Zebra (1968)

I’ll Give My Life / The Unfinished Task (1960)

It Started in Naples (1960)

Jason and the Argonauts (1963)

Jessica (1962)

King of the Roaring 20s (1961)

Kisses for My President (1964)

Lady in Cement (1968)

The Learning Tree (1969)

The Lion in Winter (1968)

Lock Up Your Daughters! (1969)

The Maltese Bippy (1969)

Mayerling (1968)

Medium Cool (1969)

The Mind Benders (1963)

Mirage (1965)

The Moon-Spinners (1964)

Murder Inc. (1960)

Night after Night after Night (1969)

Night of the Following Day (1968)

Once a Thief (1965)

Operation Kid Brother / O.K. Connery (1969)

Orgy for the Dead (1965)

Pendulum (1969)

Penelope (1966)

The Penthouse (1967)

Petulia (1968)

The Picasso Summer (1969)

P.J. / New Face in Hell (1968)

A Place for Lovers (1968)

The Pleasure Seekers (1964)

The Rare Breed (1965)

The Road to Corinth / Who’s Got the Black Box? (1967)

Rough Night in Jericho (1967)

Sanctuary (1961)

Sands of the Kalahari (1965)

The Satan Bug (1965)

Sebastian (1968)

The Scalphunters (1968)

The Scorpio Letters (1968)

Secret Ceremony (1968)

The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968)

Seven Seas to Calais (1961)

The 7^th Dawn (1964)

Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace (1962)

The Shoes of the Fisherman (1968)

The Sins of Rachel Cade (1961)

Sisters (1969)

The Sleeping Car Murder / Compartiment Tueurs (1965)

The Slender Thread (1965)

Sol Madrid / The Heroin Gang (1968)

Some Girls Do (1969)

The Spy with My Face (1965)

Stagecoach (1966)

Station Six Sahara (1963)

A Study in Terror (1965)

The St Valentine’s Day Massacre (1967)

Sumuru, Queen of Femina / The Girl from Rio / Mothers of America (1969)

Tamahine (1963)

Texas Across the River (1966)

Three (1969)

Topkapi (1964)

A Twist of Sand (1968)

Uptight (1968)

The Valley of Gwangi (1968)

Vendetta for the Saint (1969)

Viva Las Vegas! (1964)

Warning Shot (1968)

The Way West (1967)

When Comedy Was King (1960)

The Whip and the Body (1963)

Where It’s At (1969)

Wild Angels (1966)

Woman of Straw (1964)

As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been trying to master the art of linking movies I’ve reviewed to DVDs on Amazon. I tried this before and failed and a week past tried again used “Site Stripe.” Despite following instructions to the letter, I had no better success so, in the absence of a working link, I would need you just to make your own way to Amazon.

Stranger in the House / Cop-Out (1967) ***

Standout performance by James Mason (Age of Consent, 1969) holds together this curiosity. Based on a novel by Georges Simenon from 1951, it is updated to the Swinging Sixties and transposed from France to the English provincial town of Winchester (possibly chosen thanks to the hit single the previous year). While featuring an investigation, but minus Maigret, it’s essentially a character study.

Given John Sawyer (James Mason) is a depressed, divorced, retired lawyer, it could easily have sunk under the weight of cliché. Realistic portrayals of depression, except amongst those confined to institutions, were rare in this era. The bulk of the audience would probably view him just as a grumpy old man.

Sawyer is not only estranged from everyone, distancing himself from daughter Angela (Geraldine Chaplin), but sliding into oblivion and even when offered potential redemption can scarcely lift his head above a parapet of boredom, almost catatonic in his attitude, overwhelmed by the loss of wife and, presumably, the esteem that came with his career. A member of the upper middle-class, he shows surprising sensitivity to the underprivileged, outsiders, especially migrants, usually dismissed with a racist epithet, and sex workers whom he treats as victims rather than a corrupting influence.

When the corpse of young American ship’s steward Barney (Bobby Darin) is found in his disused attic, suspicion falls on his daughter’s unemployed Greek boyfriend Jo (Paul Bertoya). Turns out Barney is a nasty piece of work, blackmailing Angels and her friends for trespassing on his ship.

As well as being put up initially in an empty warehouse by Desmond (Ian Ogilvy) whose father, a department store magnate who owns the building, a former cinema, and later in Sawyer’s attic, Barney extracts cash and sexually humiliates his victims. Attempted rape of Angela comes with his conviction that she’ll “thank me for it.”

Eventually, Sawyer is convinced to take on the case and is up against his daughter’s pompous employer and his wife’s lover Hawkins (Bryan Stanion). Maigret would have solved this in a trice but the joy of this is Sawyer’s indifference to the police procedural. He spends most of the time during the trial attempting to make a necklace out of paper clips, asks virtually no questions of witnesses, and makes no pretence of interest in the proceedings.

Among his unusual techniques are summoning up references to Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Unusually, the pay-off doesn’t come in a courtroom but at the twenty-first birthday celebration of the entitled Desmond when to attract attention Sawyer whips off a tablecloth, sending glasses and crockery crashing, and introduces a woman in red.

Estrangement from his daughter could easily be his fault, too wrapped up in a high-flying career to pay the child much heed, but that indifference might as easily be ascribed to the possibility, as his wife taunts him, that the girl is not his.

There’s much to admire in the observations of ordinariness, loneliness, a class system filled with puffed-up mediocrities revelling in the slightest sliver of power, female advancement often requiring dispensing sexual favors to predatory employers or some form of begging.

There’s a brief appearance by Eric Burdon and the Animals, a modelling assignment using the cathedral as backdrop, and drugs. Difficult to imagine though that the pistol holstered by a carnival booth operator could be the real thing.

James Mason’s employment of a limp (result of a war wound) probably went against any genuine assessment of the subtlety of his performance. Geraldine Chaplin (The Hawaiians, 1970) builds up her character with action rather than dialog, showing tenderness where you might expect anger. Bobby Darin (Pressure Point, 1962) essays another creepy thug.

Paul Bertoya (Che!, 1969) is underused. Ian Ogilvy (The Sorcerers, 1967) is so smug you want to thump him. Look out for Pippa Steel (The Vampire Lovers, 1970), Moira Lister (The Double Man, 1967) and Yootha Joyce (Our Mother’s House, 1967).

In his sole directorial assignment Frenchman Pierre Louve, who wrote the screenplay, has better luck dissecting English mores than finding the essence of Simenon, whose non-Maigret novels generally concentrated on a man under pressure. While Mason delivers a fine performance, and his depression is obvious, there’s no sense of him teetering on the edge, more a general decline. In fact it’s the opposite, returning to the legal fray provides him with redemption.

Breathless / A Bout de Souffle (1960) ****

I’m conscious of puncturing a sacred arthouse cow. While applauding the cinematic bravura of Jean-Luc Godard’s debut feature that launched the French New Wave, what are we to make of a leading man who is a sexist pig? Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) refers to women repeatedly as “dogs”, complains about their driving skills, accuses them of cowardice, steals from them, forbids them to see other men, chases after them in the street to lift their dresses, constantly gropes his sometime girlfriend Patricia (Jean Seberg), and boasts of other sexual conquests.

While attempting to ape hero Humphrey Bogart, he hasn’t a shred of that star’s romantic inclination, all his energy directed towards getting sex from the nearest available female with nary a notion of love. He’s not just hard-boiled, he’s hard work, as close to the despicable males of Guide for a Married Man (1967) as you could get.

I’m no proponent of woke, but I guess audiences these days who happily accept him as thief and murderer will draw the line at his attitude to women. I found myself squirming at times at being asked to swallow this amoral character in what was otherwise a homage to the Hollywood B-picture. And it says a lot about the directorial skills that he ends up with any audience sympathy at all. And part of that certainly comes from his proximity to the more existential-minded arty Patricia. Not for the first time are we asked to re-examine our instinctive reaction to a charming thug because a sympathetic woman in either loving him or appearing to offer him understanding provides a conduit between audience and character, asking us to see him from her less judgemental perspective, no matter how misguided that might be.

You can see the connection between the Cecile of Bonjour Tristesse (1958) and Patricia here but it’s hardly as clear-cut as Godard suggests. Patricia has qualms not just a nice comfort blanket of guilt. She’s not, as Michel wishes, some kind of sidekick or accomplice. He fails to unlock her criminal tendency as Clyde would later in the decade with Bonnie in Arthur Penn’s gangster picture. But, just as Cecile rids herself of a rival in Bonjour Tristesse, Patricia finds it relatively straightforward to turn in to the police a man for whom she has no feelings and who would prove, without the parachute of love, an irritation in her life.

Certainly, Michel is the quintessential bad guy but with entitlement issues. He wants it all, or nothing. If Santa came knocking, top of his wish list would be death. He’s a dab hand at stealing cars, can whack anybody over the head, and not above rifling through a girlfriend’s purse. But, essentially, he’s the delinquent who never grew up and Patricia is one of the many saps he’ll try to con throughout his life.

But, in fact, if you were making this today, the angle would be different. It would be the vengeful woman, as epitomized by Jenna Coleman in television mini-series Wilderness, relishing the prospect of being tagged a “bunny boiler” or predatory wolf. Much as Patricia is happy to spend some time with Michel while working out her feelings towards him, given that he is the father of her unborn child, she is far from the soft touch he imagines, betrayal in her genes.

I’m guessing budget issues contributed to much of the cinematic bravura. It’s much cheaper to eliminate close-ups, and to film outdoors where light is less of an issue than indoors, and where nobody’s bothering to seek civic approval to shoot. So, there’s certainly a freshness, a boldness, the kick in the pants that stuffy Hollywood with its insistence on certain procedures required.

The camera is restless, not just in the tracking shots (especially the famous final one), but in bobbing around, as if questioning just what was the Hollywood obsession with nailing everything down, keeping it fixed, as if the camera was merely a tool rather than a means of directorial expression. And Godard does bring to exceptional life characters who would otherwise be passersby, dreamers who are more likely to fail than succeed, who try to provide themselves with codes as if that will assuage inner doubt.

Except for her self-preservation instincts and urge for independence, there’s every chance that Patricia would end up the dissatisfied housewife, especially with baby in tow. Michel is a dumb criminal, not the heist genius of so many other movies. Cocking a snook at authority might be the only true freedom he ever attains.

I’m not sure this was part of Godard’s thinking, but it’s plain to me that Michel’s biggest problem is crossing over into the real world. The minute he comes up against a woman who lives an ordinary life, albeit with elevated expectation, he comes a cropper because she doesn’t subscribe to his limited world-view. It’s not exactly a clash of cultures, because, in reality, she’s every bit as vicious as him. If she loved him, it might be a different story. But as with Jenna Coleman in Wilderness, fail to safeguard that love and it’s curtains.

Without doubt a singular earthquake of cinematic proportions, freeing up a generation to filmmakers to challenge the hierarchy, but requiring reassessment in view of its dubious attitude to women.

Behind the Scenes: “Bonjour Tristesse” (1958)

Otto Preminger was initially beaten to the punch, rights to Francoise Sagan’s 1954 bestseller already sold to Ray Ventura, forcing the director to ante up $150,000 a year later to retrieve them. The director started working on the script with S.N. Behrman (Quo Vadis, 1951) but, dissatisfied with the result, turned to Arthur Laurents (Rope, 1948), who was permitted to complete his screenplay without any interference.

Shooting began in July 1957 in Paris and locations included Maxim’s and jazz club La Hachette where Preminger filmed Juliette Greco singing the title song. The main locale, a villa in Le Lavandou in the South of France, was rented from French publisher Pierre Lazareff.

By casting Deborah Kerr (The Night of the Iguana, 1964) and David Niven, who had starred in The Moon Is Blue (1953) as principals, it was officially turned into a British production, providing access to Eady Levy monies, although it was shot with a French crew who proved largely hostile to the director’s personality and went on strike on the second day. Due to a scheduling misunderstanding, Niven and Preminger got off on the wrong foot.

But the chief victim of the director’s ire was Jean Seberg, star of his previous effort – and substantial flop – Saint Joan (1957). While not entirely happy with the neophyte’s performance in her debut, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “I refused to believe that I was so wrong and the critics so right, that this girl was so completely devoid of talent,” he complained, offering her a second chance. “He showed a faith in me nobody expected him to show,” commented a grateful (at the time) Seberg.

But Preminger soon regretted his decision. “I don’t like the way you talk, walk or dress,” he told her. Unable to get a better performance from her after four or five takes he would just give up. At one point, she was drenched with buckets of water for a scene where she was emerging from the sea. However, that scene only took seven takes, something of a triumph for Seberg. And it’s worth noting that seven takes was nothing for Preminger if he really wanted to make an actor suffer.

If you think the movie takes a very melodramatic turn, the screenplay toned down much of the book’s melodrama and especially its more serious overtones. Preminger stuck to the script. He invented camera movement and blocking during the day’s rehearsals rather than arriving at the studio with fixed ideas. To allow the camera to move more freely, the floor of the set was treated with gelatin. He relied on only a few takes, expecting the actors to deliver what he wanted, so in some respects it was no surprise he reacted badly when Seberg failed to follow his instructions, although as a last resort he knew he could always cut to another actor.

Niven and Kerr both braced the director about his treatment of Seberg, telling him “to lay off this girl, because she’s had it, and if you continue, we don’t want to keep working. ”

The movie was completed at Shepperton Studios in England. The last shot of the film took an entire day to shoot, Cecile removing her makeup with cold cream in front of the mirror and tears form. Preminger wanted “the face to remain a child’s face.” Two days of flashback shoots had to be re-done as they had by mistake been processed in color rather than black-and-white

Preminger should have been a happy man. He was falling in love with costume coordinator Hope Bryce, a model who had worked with Givenchy, and in due course she became his third wife. Ditto, Seberg, who had fallen for lawyer and nobleman Count Francois Moreuil – a relationship that also ended in marriage – and as a result of the romance grew more relaxed on the set and “didn’t let Preminger’s demands bother her.”

Opinions differ regarding Seberg. Arthur Laurents deemed her “a shrewd cookie, I don’t care what they say about her.” Deborah Kerr averred: “I think any other woman would have collapsed in tears or walked out, but she took calmly all the berating and achieved a very interesting and true Sagan-type heroine.” Co-star Mylene Demongeot said, “For a while she had everything in her hands to have a successful career.” From Seberg’s perspective she viewed Preminger as a father figure, with the attendant hate that often comes with that.

Demongeot, however, fought fire with fire, calmly warning the director he would get a heart attack if he kept on yelling at her. Standing up to him and occasionally dissolving into fits of laughter at his instructions kept him at bay. She saw a different side of the director, although tagging him as “ a nasty man,” she also recalled him as “a very funny, intelligent man…and he could even be charming…outside of work.” Seberg and Demongeot had become friends after the American had stayed with the French actress and her husband in order to learn the lines of French required for her role.

After filming ended, Preminger’s current wife Mary Gardner sued for divorce and Twentieth Century Fox threatened to take him to court for repayment of $60,000 for a film bever made. Preminger sold Seberg’s contract to Columbia. “He used me like a Kleenex and threw me away,” said Seberg. But, interestingly, it was only after that relationship ended that she took acting lessons.

In truth Seberg’s Hollywood career never recovered although she enjoyed a brief mainstream revival a decade later through Paint Your Wagon (1969) and Airport (1970). Hollywood has its revenge on Preminger. After the failure of Skidoo (1968), Paramount chief Charles Bluhdorn exacted “a very slow death” on the director.

NOTE: There’s an update to this called Part Two which is published on Oct 19, 2023. When I did this original article I didn’t have my normal online access which permits me to check through trade magazines. Because I received a query about box office I decided, once the online issue had been cleared up, to check that issue and in the process I uncovered so much fascinating information I took a second stab at it.

SOURCES: Chris Fujiwara, The World and Its Double, The Life and Works of Otto Preminger (Faber and Faber, 2008) pp210-217; Eric Braun, Deborah Kerr ( W.H. Allen , 1977) pp164-165; Garry McGee, Jean Seberg, Breathless, Her True Story, (2017) pp42-48.

Bonjour Tristesse (1958)*** – Seen at the Cinema at the Bradford Widescreen Weekend

You might be forgiven for wondering why Otto Preminger, a past master at film noir, did not simply adapt the source novel by Francoise Sagan by tilting the material in that direction. After all, Preminger had helped create the genre with Laura (1944) and followed up with noir trilogy Whirlpool (1950), Where the Sidewalk Ends (1951) and Angel Face (1952).

The purported saving grace of the Sagan novel is the main character’s guilt at the disaster she triggers, although, from another perspective that could be viewed as author cunning, employing acceptance of culpability to render her more sympathetic. In other words, she gets away with it, and that’s a completely different twist.

Whereas, in another world, she would be doing jail time or at least undergoing psychiatric care, her action appears to make her even more independent, discarding men at whim, turning into the character whom Jean-Luc Godard would use as the inspiration for Breathless (1960).

The tale is told in flashback, allowing a peppering of grief into what otherwise would be a straightforward story of spoiled little rich girl Cecile (Jean Seberg) plotting to rid herself of interloper Anne (Deborah Kerr) who has disrupted the perfect life she shares with doting father Raymond (David Niven).

In some respects it applies a coming-of-age template to all the main characters, adults as well as young required to adjust to the consequences of love and alter their behavior. It’s not just the teenage Cecile who’s spoiled – nothing to do but laze in the sun, swim in the sea and attend parties and night clubs – but Raymond, a charming philanderer/perfect cad, new girlfriend on tap, the beauty of current one, Elsa (Mylene Demongeot), undercut by her propensity to blister under the sun and despite her overall shallowness a mathematical whiz in the casino, a skill which would probably allow her to dispense with her apparent dependence on an older rich lover.

Into this cosy set-up arrives, by an accident of timing, old flame Anne, a successful couturier, whose mental fragility is disguised by an outwardly strong character. Her presence is accepted until Elsa is sent packing and Raymond proposes marriage. Anne makes the fatal mistake of overdoing the maternal, seeking to rein in Cecile, instructing her to chuck her boyfriend Philippe (Geoffrey Horne) and spend her time studying. It says a lot about Anne’s character that she couldn’t have more seriously miscalculated not just Cecile’s character but that of Philippe, who, intending to become a lawyer, seems a sensible choice for a boyfriend.

So, Cecile hatches a plan to bring Elsa back into Raymond’s orbit knowing that fidelity is scarcely his strong suit. Oddly enough, this kind of plotting, especially given the South of France atmosphere, would play better as a standard rom-com ploy, daughter trying to push father in the direction of preferred lover.

Instead, it exposes the cracks in Anne’s psyche and drives her to suicide. But since no one is aware, and Elsa too dumb ostensibly to recognize the part she plays, of the machinations, Cecile gets off scot-free, and in reality using the guilt to make her appear more sympathetic. This probably worked better in the Sagan novel which, with a first-person narrative, allows the author to form the other characters in a manner that makes Cecile’s actions more understandable or at least acceptable, nudging the reader towards sympathy rather than repulsion.

Whatever way the story is pitched, it doesn’t really work. All the characters, save Elsa, are exposed as inherently fragile, unable to accept change and/or reality. The suicide seems a mundane narrative ploy. Raymond is never presented as the love of Anne’s life and her death seems an incredible over-reaction, intended to give the story a more dramatic climax.

However, the characters are all well-drawn and the vivacity of the French lifestyle brings the picture to life, but hardly suited to Preminger who, by this stage, had a tendency to look for a bigger issue to chew over.

Jean Seberg (Moment to Moment, 1966) never managed a successful Hollywood career but this film was a big hit with emerging French filmmakers, and she was a far bigger box office attraction in France. The iconic short haircut and Givenchy attire seemed to present her as a latter-day Audrey Hepburn, but it was her screen independence that appealed more. Deborah Kerr (Prudence and the Pill, 1968), portraying a complex character, would be the pick of the actors except David Niven (Prudence and the Pill) exerts effortless charm and in terms of screen splash you could scarcely fault the effervescent Mylene Demongeot (The Singer not the Song, 1961).

Preminger, as ever, toys with convention. It’s the present day that’s shot in black-and-white rather than the past. Just as he rid John Wayne of his trick of breaking sentences in two in In Harm’s Way (1965), here Deborah Kerr is revealed without make-up, her freckled face providing her with an innocence. He had some fun with the house servants, apt to glug champagne, literally, behind their employer’s back. Arthur Laurents (Rope, 1948) wrote the screenplay.

Not quite sure how it ended up at the Bradford Widescreen Weekend since although it is in Cinemascope it was not one of that process’s more outstanding champions. Nor why it was introduced as Deborah Kerr’s movie when as far as the public was concerned the star was Jean Seberg. Nor even why Kerr was deemed a “Queen of Scope” since you could apply that term to virtually every female star who appeared in the 1950s in Cinemascope (20^th Century Fox), VistaVision (Paramount) or Panavision (MGM).

If this were made now, there would be a scene at the end where Cecile tips the wink to the audience and enjoys rather than feels guilty about her clever ploy.

The Young Girls of Rocheforte / Les Damoiselles de Rochefort (1967) **** – Seen at the Cinema at Bradford Widescreen Weekend

In effervescence and color palette a close cousin to Barbie (2023) with the bonus of being able to call on one of Hollywood’s greatest hoofers, Gene Kelly, in a surprise cameo. He swoops and sways like he was Singin’ in the Sun. And he’s just the icing on the cake in this exuberant throwback to 1950s Cinemascope but with the sensibility of a 1940s musical in which dreams are delivered after a few minor setbacks.

Throw in a long-lost love, an affair that literally went south, an artist who has painted his ideal woman, a couple of literal-minded running French jokes – a woman called Madame Dame and a young sailor whose departure is immi-Nantes – and given the overall light-hearted treatment you would have to treat the presence of a sadistic murderer as being in the comedy vein.

Twins blonde Delphine (Catherine Deneuve) and brunette Solange (Francoise Dorleac) make a living running a music class. Delphine dreams of meeting the ideal man, having already rejected gallery owner Guillaume (Jacques Riberolles) and not too keen on itinerant carney (George Chakiris), while Solange wants a career as a composer, befriending music shop owner Simon (Michel Piccoli) who can put her in touch with old buddy and now renowned pianist Andy (Gene Kelly).

As you might expect the narrative is driven by misunderstandings and meetings choreographed by the minute to fail. This is the kind of film where an actor playing the role of a piano player is not expected to learn to play the piano, just stare into space as though channeling an internal muse or glancing at the sheet music.

There are songs by the dozen – possibly too many (27 singing or dancing sequences), more like a continuous ballet than a traditional musical – but none we’re still humming today, not like tunes from West Side Story (1961), The Sound of Music (1968) or Funny Girl (1968) – though “The Twins Song” probably comes closest. That’s not to put down Michel Legrand’s inventive score, but perhaps to suggest a cultural/language divide. Outside of Danielle Darrieux (Loss of Innocence / The Greengage Summer, 1961) , the singing voices were dubbed, even that of Gene Kelly who lacked the range for the material.

And probably you don’t need to worry about the quality of individual songs as you’ll be swept along by Jacques Demy’s infectious direction. Most of the dancing style reflects West Side Story but with a lighter edge. And it takes little or nothing for characters to burst into song or dance, sometimes that activity going on spontaneously in the background of another scene.

Set in the real seaside town of Rochefort in France and making use of genuine locations, the action kicks off on an unique type of bridge as the carnival comes to town. While not strictly a feminist endeavour, men are mostly put in their place, overtures rejected, marriage offers turned down and bad employers shown the door.

The appearance of Gene Kelly, who hadn’t worn his dancing shoes in more than a decade, gives this an enormous fillip as his classic style shows the others just how it’s done. But it’s the lightness of touch, as well as being able to plumb a well of emotion, that gives this film its grounding, Deneuve and Dorleac as well as Darrieux carrying the movie. George Chakiris (Diamond Head, 1962) looks more at home here than in any film other than West Side Story.

Jacques Demy and Michel Legrand had teamed up previously for The Umbrellas of Cherbourg / Les Parapluies de Cherbourg (1964). Catherine Deneuve (Mayerling, 1969) and Francoise Dorleac (Genghis Khan, 1965) were sisters. Tragically, Dorleac was killed in a road accident prior to the film opening.

But the whole enterprise is so effortless and appealing you can’t help being drawn in.

Love Is A Ball (1963) ***

Three main characters playing against type and a feisty, independent, woman are the main pleasures of this conspiratorial rom-com that takes a while to get going. The main obstacle is the subplot involving the education of a klutz, impoverished French Duke Gaspard (Ricardo Montalban), who needs brought up to speed on the niceties of fine dining, horse-riding and dancing in order to represent a decent catch for American heiress Millie (Hope Lange).

So that keeps ex-racing driver John (Glenn Ford), fallen on such hard times he’ll accept a job as chauffeur, confined to the background for the first third of the movie. That is, until he works out that his employer Etienne (Charles Boyer) is a professional matchmaker who makes a living marrying off poverty-stricken aristocrats to wealthy women. However, he poses as a charmer who happens through his connections to put women in contact with eligible men without letting on that he takes a hefty commission or that his clientele is financially illiterate.

But the cunning Etienne realizes that in order to get close to Millie he has to exploit the weakness of her over-protective uncle Dr Gump (Telly Savalas) for gourmet food. All these complications create delay in getting on with the will-they-won’t-they romance of Millie and John.

Millie, channeling the adventurous spirit of the likes of Amelia Earhart, is car mechanic, wannabe racing driver and neophyte ballet dancer, so not quite the hapless rom-com female. And she’s pretty good at putting John in his place when he lacks the necessary subservience, giving him a tight deadline to wash her family’s huge fleet of cars, and forcing him to wear a despised chauffeur’s cap.

Meanwhile, Gaspard is causing problems of his own, not just by his complete ineptitude, but by falling for Etienne’s secretary Janine (Ulla Jacobson). So it’s hitches all round especially as Millie and John spend all their time upsetting each other, so much so that, determined to get married to please her grandmother, she’s on the brink of marrying the next clod in Etienne’s line-up.

To be honest, the script is a bit of a mess and in sticking to it director David Swift (The Interns, 1962) hasn’t quite been able to play to the movie’s strengths – and making more of them – rather than trying for what amounts to not much more than an ensemble piece. What lifts the movie is watching the usually steadfast and take-charge Glenn Ford (Rage, 1966) being put through the wringer by the heiress and forced to swallow humble pie any time he has had more than enough.

Next up is Telly Savalas (The Scalphunters, 1968) who totally switches his mean if not downright villainous screen persona to portray a character who dithers over epicurean delights and turns into a happy individual as long as his appetite is sated. A Jolly Telly is indeed a sight to be savoured.

Lastly, we have Ricardo Montalban (Sol Madrid, 1968), again an actor who errs on the tough-guy side, another of the take-charge fraternity, who always appears completely in command. It’s a bold career move for him to chuck that persona into the mixer and let it spin round a hundred times a minute till he comes out looking frazzled.

Hope Lange (A Pocketful of Miracles, 1961), who had a sporadic career as a female lead, and was at the time involved in an affair with Ford, is excellent as the adventurous headstrong spirit clad in overalls but less convincing as the glamorous heiress especially when simpering.

The screenplay, based on the novel The Grand Duke and Mr Pimm, looks as if it wanted to head in too many heads directions at once, was by Swift and Frank Waldman (Inspector Clouseau, 1968). Farce, at which Waldmann later excelled (he wrote the trio of 1970s Pink Panther films), seems is not a good fit for rom-com.

Worth seeing for Glenn Ford, Telly Savalas and Ricardo Montalban all thumbing a nose at their screen personas.