movie review – Page 67 – The Magnificent 60s

55 Days at Peking (1963) ***

Imperialism is hard to stomach these days but at the start of the twentieth century it was rampant and not restricted to the main culprit, the British. China was Imperialism Central, round about a dozen nations including the USA and Russia claiming control of sections of the country or its produce. So they had all set up diplomatic shop in Peking. And the film begins with an early morning roll call of national anthems before this domination by outside interests is shattered by rebellion.

Just as hard to stomach, of course, was the movie mainstream notion in those days that all rebellions must perforce be put down regardless of how put-upon the peasant classes were. Audiences had to rally round people in other circumstances they would naturally hate. So one of the problems of 55 Days at Peking is to cast the rebels (known as Boxers) and the complicit Chinese government in a bad light while ensuring that those under siege are not seen as cast-iron saints. There’s no getting round the fact that the rebels are shown as prone to butchery and slaughter while the Chinese rulers are considered ineffective and traitorous.

So it’s left to the likes of Major Mark Lewis (Charlton Heston) heading up the U.S. Marines stationed in the city to bring some balance to proceedings. “Don’t get the idea you’re better than these people because they can’t speak English,” he expounds. British Consul Sir David Robertson (David Niven) tries to keep this particular league of nations onside while negotiating with one hand tied behind his back – “we must play this game by Chinese rules” – with the Chinese Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi (Flora Robson) while knowingly endangering his wife Lady Sarah (Elizabeth Sellars) and two children. Unscrupulous Russian baroness Natalie Ivanoff (Ava Gardner) exhibits little loyalty to her home country.

The picture is one-part action, one-part politics and one-part domesticity, if you include in the last section the major’s romance with the baroness, the consul’s guilt when his son is wounded in an attack and Lewis’s conflict over a young native girl fathered by one of his own men who is then killed. Two of the best scenes are these men coping with parental obligation, Sir Arthur managing a wounded son, Lewis finding it impossible to offer succor to the child.

The action is extremely well-handled. The siege goes on longer than expected when the expected troops fail to arrive, tension rising as casualties mount and supplies fall low. As with the best battle pictures, clever maneuvers save the day. Two sections are outstanding. The first has Lewis marshalling artillery to prevent the Chinese gaining the high ground. The second is a daring raid – Sir Arthur’s idea, actually – through the city’s sewers to the enemy’s ammunition dump. Personal heroism is limited – Lewis volunteers to go 70 miles through enemy territory to get help but has to turn back when his men are wounded or killed.

There’s a fair bit of stiff upper lip but while Lewis, in familiar chest-baring mode, has the baroness to distract him, Sir Arthur is both clever, constantly having to outwit the opposition and hold the other diplomats together, and humane, drawn into desperation at the prospect of his comatose son dying without ever having visited England. The baroness moves from seducer to sly traitorous devil to angel of mercy, wapping glamorous outfits for a nurse’s uniform, at the same time as changing her outlook from selfish to unselfish.

Charlton Heston (Diamond Head, 1962), David Niven (Eye of the Devil, 1966) and Ava Gardner (The Angel Wore Red, 1960) acquit themselves well as does Flora Robson (Eye of the Devil) in a thankless role. In supporting roles are John Ireland (The Swiss Conspiracy, 1976), Harry Andrews (The Charge of the Light Brigade, 1968) and Leo Genn (Ten Little Indians, 1965).

This was the third of maverick producer Samuel Bronston’s big-budget epics after King of Kings (1961) and El Cid (1961) with a script as usual from Philip Yordan – sharing the credit with Robert Hamer (Kind Hearts and Coronets, 1949) and Bernard Gordon (Custer of the West, 1967) – and directed by Nicholas Ray (King of Kings) who also had assistance from Guy Green (Diamond Head).and Andrew Marton (Africa: Texas Style, 1967)

All in all it is a decent film and does not get bogged down in politics and the characters do come alive but at the back of your mind you can’t help thinking this is the wrong mindset, in retrospect, for the basis of a picture.

Age of Consent (1969) ***

Reputations were made and broken on this tale of a jaded artist returning to his homeland to rediscover his mojo. Director Michael Powell had, in tandem with partner Emeric Pressburger, created some of the most acclaimed films of the 1940s – A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947) and The Red Shoes (1948) – but the partnership had ended the next decade. Powell’s solo effort Peeping Tom (1960) was greeted with a revulsion from which his career never recovered. Age of Consent was his penultimate picture but the extensive nudity and the age gap between the principals left critics shaking their heads.

For Helen Mirren, on the other hand, it was a triumphant start to a career that has now spanned over half a century, one Oscar and three nominations. She was a burgeoning theatrical talent at the Royal Shakespeare Company when she made her movie debut as Mason’s muse. It should also be pointed out that when it came to scene-stealing she had a rival in the pooch Godfrey.

You would rightly be concerned that there was some grooming going on. Although 24 at the time of the film’s release, Cora (Helen Mirren), an under-age nymph, spends a great deal of time innocently cavorting naked in the sea off the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. But there are a couple of provisos. In the first place, Cora was not swimming for pleasure, she was diving for seafood to augment her impoverished lifestyle. In the second place, she was so poor she would hardly have afforded a bikini and was the kind of free spirit anyway who might have shucked one off.

Thirdly, and more importantly, artist Bradley Morahan (James Mason) wasn’t interested. He wasn’t the kind of painter who needed to perve on young girls. An early scene showed him in bed with a girlfriend and it was clear that he was an object of lust elsewhere. Morahan, fit and tanned, obsessed like any other artist about his talent, and was in this remote stretch not to hunt for young naked girls but to find inspiration. As well as eventually painting Cora, he also transforms the shack he rents into something of beauty.

Morahan is vital to Cora’s self-development. The money he pays her for modelling goes towards her escape fund. Her mother being a useless thieving alcoholic, she has little in the way of role model. And the world of seafood supply is competitive. She is lost in paradise and the scene of her buying a tacky handbag demonstrates the extent of her initial ambition. Although her physical attributes attract male attention, it is only on forming a relationship with the painter that Cora begins to believe in herself. There’s not much more to the central story than the artist rediscovering his creative spark and helping Cora’s personal development along the way.

Morahan is a believable character. He is not an impoverished artist. Far from being self-deluded, he is a questing individual, turning his back on easy money and the temptations of big city life in order to reinvent himself. He isn’t going to starve and he has no problems with women. And he is perfectly capable of looking after himself. A more rounded artist would be hard to find. Precisely because there is no sexual relationship with Cora, the movie, as a film about character development, is ideally balanced.

The movie is gorgeously filmed, with many aerial shots of the reef and underwater photography by Ron and Valerie Taylor.

What does let the show down is a proliferation of cliched characters who over-act. Nat Kelly (Jack McGowran), sponging friend, ruthless seducer and thief, leads that list closely followed by Cora’s grandmother (Neva Carr-Glynn) who looks like a reject from a Dickens novel. There’s also a dumb and dumber cop and a neighbor so bent on sex that she falls for Kelly. It’s not the first time that comedy has got in the way of art, but it’s a shame it had to interrupt so often what is otherwise a touching film.

At its heart is a portrait of the artist as an older man and his sensitive relationship with a young girl. In later years, Powell married film editor Thelma Schoonmaker and after his death she oversaw the restoration of Age of Consent, with eight minutes added and the Stanley Myers score replaced by the original by Peter Sculthorpe.

Unusually sensitive screenplay from Peter Yeldham who, as my readers will know, is more usually associated with Harry Alan Towers productions like Bang! Bang! You’re Dead / Our Man in Marrakesh (1966), based on the novel by Norman Lindsay.

Intriguing, occasionally moving, superb debut from Mirren plus it works.

The Magic Sword (1962) ***

Where’s Ray Harryhausen when you need him? Not much wrong in this fun low-budget adventure that a few doses of Dynamation wouldn’t fix. While it means the monsters don’t cut it – man in mask with a dodgy perm playing an ogre, two-headed dragon whose flames appear superimposed – the rest of it is as up to scratch as you might expect from a genre that relies on exploiting old myths.

And we do get a look at Gary Lockwood (The Model Shop, 1969) in embryo and Basil Rathbone (The Comedy of Terrors, 1963) having a whale of a time as a villain who somehow (point plot not explained) has lost his magic ring. That means he’s going to strike a deal with loathsome knight Sir Branton (Liam Sullivan) – who happened across it (plot point unexplained) – to kidnap Princess Helene (Anne Helm). He’s somewhat hindered in explaining his plans because his voice is often drowned out by the thunder he can summon just by lifting his arms.

But it’s magic vs. magic as the pair come up against sorceress Sybil’s (Estelle Winwood) adopted son Sir George (Gary Lockwood) who’s stolen a set of enchanted artefacts including the titular sword, armor, a shield and the fastest horse in the world and heads off to rescue fair maiden from the castle of Lodac (Basil Rathbone) where the aforementioned dragon is on a steady diet of consuming a human being (or two, if twins or sisters are to hand) once a week.

Sybil, who seems to exist in some kind of darkroom, constantly lit by red, is a hoot, when not turning herself into a cat, unable to recall spells, not surprising since her memory has to span 300 years. Her coterie includes a chimp who does nothing (what’s the point of that, you might wonder, though perhaps magic is involved in just getting it to sit still) and a two-headed man, both faces speaking the same words at the same time.

There’s a tilt at a magnificent seven scenario as Sir George brings to life six sidekicks, a multi-cultural melange if ever, or a stab at attracting audiences from six different countries if you like. You need to be mob-handed at this game because the bunch, assisted or sabotaged by the accompanying Sir Branton, need to overcome The Seven Curses of Ladoc (the film’s alternative title in various parts), including the ogre and a malodorous swamp, and sure enough those dangers soon cut the motley band down to size.

Meanwhile, the imprisoned princess has watched the dragon eat, and is tormented by dwarves (though the caged elves turn out to be friendlier). There’s going to be two showdowns, not one, since Lodac has no intention of allowing Sir Branton the glory of rescuing said princess and therefore winning her hand in marriage. He is hell-bent on revenge, since the king’s father had burned his sister at the stake as a witch.

The meet-cute if you like is princess and potential rescuer facing each other across a dungeon while tethered by rope to stakes. Sybil does try to help but damned if she can remember the final words of her spell.

Gary Lockwood, in his first leading role, takes the whole thing seriously, and only made two more films before something in this role and It Happened at the World’s Fair (1963) and Firecreek (1967) tipped off Stanley Kubrick that here was a star in the making for 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). So it does show that no part, however preposterous, is worth turning down.

Basil Rathbone would steal the show – as he should being top-billed – were it not for the fun-loving Estelle Winwood (Games, 1967) as the dotty aunt kind of sorceress. What Hollywood dictat I wonder determined that leading actresses often made their entrance swimming naked in a pool. Anne Helm (The Interns, 1962) doesn’t have much to do except look scared. You might spot Danielle De Metz (The Scorpio Letters, 1967).

With Sybil to dupe, all the curses to overcome and deal with the duplicitous Sir Branton, the pace never lets up. And it’s short (just 80 minutes) so no time for dawdling.

Director Bert I. Gordon (The Amazing Colossal Man, 1957) has been here before with the special effects that appear dodgy to the contemporary eye but were ground-breaking at the time when SFX did not command multi-million-dollar budgets. Screenplay by Gordon and Oscar-nominated Bernard C. Schoenfeld (13 West Street, 1962).

While Harryhausen tales were always redeemed by the special effects, this is perfectly acceptable late-night entertainment when the critical guard is down.

Model Shop (1969) ***

Surprising number of similarities to The Appointment (1969), including the aura of seediness, but lacking that film’s inherent tension or style. Lola (Anouk Aimee) is another model pursued by a another man who catches a glimpse of her in the street as in the Lumet affair. But it turns out a “model shop” is a tacky dive where men pay to take photographs of semi-naked women rather than anything to do with haute couture.

Lola is as depressed as Carla in The Appointment and for the same reason, abandoned by her boyfriend, who has gone off to gamble in Las Vegas. But new lover George (Gary Lockwood) is the antithesis of the successful Omar Sharif. You are inclined to give him a free pass because he’s got the draft hanging over him.

If he was disaffected, that could explain it. But he’s just bone idle, sponging off everyone in sight, musician friends and more ambitious girlfriend Gloria (Alexandra Hay), an actual model, though more in the commercial line than high fashion, but bringing in enough to pay his bills.

You might feel sorry for him that “the man” is trying to repossess his car until you see it’s an MG coupe that an unemployed guy could not afford and that when he does get enough cash to pay the outstanding payment he comes up with another excuse rather than parting with the money. He studied architecture but hasn’t the gumption to make his way in the adult world whereas Gloria accepts she might have to sit in a bathtub naked for a potential client if she wants to get on.

He won’t marry Gloria or give her a child so she’s full of empty threats to leave him but doesn’t carry that out until she discovers photos of Lola that he’s left lying around. There’s not much going on. It’s certainly a downmarket world. George and Gloria lived in a rundown suburb of Los Angeles with a pumpjack drilling for oil outside their front door.

A good chunk of time is spent on the road, not “out along the highway looking for adventure” as in Easy Rider (1969) and not in the great outdoors, but mindless drifting, or tailing Lola, around L.A.. There’s some kind of deadline on their romance – she’s headed home to France, his call-up is immediately imminent so unless there’s some expose of the seedier side of the city going on there’s not much else, just two people who lost their way finding brief solace in each other.

Anyone attracted by Anouk Aimee’s top billing is going to be disappointed, not in her performance, which reveals a markedly vulnerable gal beneath the glam (though she does dress haute couture). But Gary Lockwood (They Came to Rob Las Vegas, 1968) is front and central; she doesn’t turn up until about a third of the way through and only has a handful of scenes thereafter. So it’s that kind of slice-of-life movie, what the British used to term a “kitchen sink” picture, and takes place over a short time-span.

Gary Lockwood is excellent but he’s not asked to do very much, and you kind of get the impression he’s just being his charming self. Aimee seems to have cornered the market in playing “degrading” women, accused of being a sex worker in The Appointment and loaned out to high-class friends of her husband in Justine (1969). In some senses, bringing out the character behind the tawdry image appears her forte. Alexandra Hay (Skidoo, 1968) is equally good, the grit behind the glam, not just a pretty face.

But just nothing happens. The background – the draft, potential Vietnam peace talks, the occasional joint – is scarcely a visceral snapshot of America at the time. European director looks at America and doesn’t much like what he sees, but less obviously a commentary on society along the lines of Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point the following year or even the home-grown Medium Cool (1969).

And lacking the style of Demy’s previous outing, the exuberant musical The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967) and you keep on expecting – hoping – the characters are going to burst into song. Oddly enough, it suffers from an unexpected culture clash. Relocate the same characters and the same story to Paris, speaking French with subtitles, and it would have worked better no matter how slight the story because it would automatically be infected by Gallic charm and even the poorer streets there would be interesting.

Carole Eastman (Five Easy Pieces, 1970) a.k.a. Adrien Joyce contributed to Demy’s screenplay. Members of rock band Spirit appear in the film and provide several tracks but there was no soundtrack album to take advantage of their involvement.

You might be interested to know that Harrison Ford was at one time up to play the lead. Hay was a starlet under contract to Columbia who financed the film. Equally oddly, it was not sufficiently arthouse to appeal to the cognoscenti and it was little surprise that the studio eventually chose to promote the seedier aspects in the marketing.

The Appointment (1969) ****

You can see why MGM dumped this. Just as easily as you can see its attraction for star Omar Sharif, his boldest-ever role, completely against type, burying the romantic hero in one fell swoop. It wasn’t just the arthouse pretensions – the absurdly long, by Hollywood standards, long shots held for an insanely long time and the greatest aerial shot, almost to the moon and back, ever devised – that made the studio cut and run faced with the impossibility of selling Omar Sharif as a creepy, repressed guy who drives his wife to suicide.

Luxuriant moustache trimmed to look like a ramrod British colonel, often bespectacled, unmarried middle-aged lawyer Federico (Omar Sharif) takes a fancy to the withdrawn Carla (Anouk Aimee), fiancée of legal buddy Renzo (Fausto Tozzi). She works as a model in a high-class fashion house.

So Federico is shocked to discover that Renzo has dumped her after discovering evidence, somewhat circumstantial it has to be said, that she moonlights as an equally high-class sex worker who takes occasional assignments from antiques dealer Emma (Lotte Lenya). Now that Carla is unencumbered in the marital stakes, Federico undertakes to discover whether the accusation is indeed correct. If not, then he reckons, she might well fall for him, if only on the rebound, after all he is very successful and, despite the geeky haircut and moustache, a handsome dude.

It’s left to your imagination whether Federico actually has sex with the young woman – who “could pass for 17” and arrives clutching schoolbooks – for whom he pays 100,000 lire (around $1,000) but my guess is he does, getting her to pretend he’s her Latin schoolmaster. So that’s the Omar Sharif romantic persona killed off right there and from then on it’s hard to muster any sympathy for the character, every bit as obsessive, say, as James Stewart in Vertigo (1958).

This has a Hitchcockian aura, an atmosphere of stealth and secrecy and chill. He ends up marrying her, turns into a control freak, refuses to let her go out to work, complains about her make-up, asks where she’s been. He gets it into his head that she’s back to her old tricks and rekindles the investigation. She becomes more withdrawn and eventually commits suicide. The ideal ending, the arthouse ending, would have left Federico forever puzzled, not knowing whether he had married a hooker or not, whether, for all his caution, he had been duped. But that’s not the way with what you would otherwise describe as a psychological thriller – calling it a big-budget arthouse picture from a major studio by a relatively unacclaimed (outside of The Pawnbroker, 1964) mainstream director would not be an option – so we get a twist at the end.

This isn’t your usual Italy either, it’s not set in a sun-drenched land with impeccable beaches and ladies wandering around with cleavage abounding. This is the Italy of traffic jams and rain and wind and huge brown waves battering the shore and buttoned-up women.

And audiences have rarely been presented with such a depressing insecure female character. You get the impression she wears fabulous clothes to hide, not glorify, her body. She might come across as playing with Federico, pretending to be asleep when he comes to bed during a romantic weekend on a remote island, the woman way out of his league who wants to keep him at a distance while she makes up her mind. But that interpretation would only be from Federico’s perspective. Otherwise, an attendant viewer would note that she doesn’t seem at all comfortable with life, and that abandoned by one lover without finding out why she can’t risk losing her heart to another.

Had this been made by Visconti or Antonioni (Blow-Up, 1966, went down a similar suspicious route) it might have been acceptable as a distribution vehicle for MGM (after all, they did pump millions into Zabriskie Point, 1970). The odd thing was, the arthouse mob didn’t like it either, showing disdain in the most publicly humiliating manner possible, audiences at Cannes booing it off the screen.

But once you accept the odd premise and equally fall in with the seedy character depicted by Omar Sharif, you begin to feel its power. The daring camerawork is exceptional, some of the scenes in extreme long shot contain as their essence elements of intimacy, and the world’s greatest aerial shot pulls away from the picture’s most romantic scene, as if giving indication of what is not well, rather than enveloping the characters with the usual background of nature at its most rapturous. And it’s pretty much silent, a John Barry theme dips in and out, but scarcely swells when it does, on a rare occasion, appear, so this plays out without much in the way of musical nods to the audience.

Outside of Lawrence of Arabia (1962), this is easily Omar Sharif’s greatest performance. His gamble in parlaying his box office marquee and universal romantic appeal (he appeared in Mayerling, the ultimate romantic tale, the same year) to take on this unappealing role showed a commitment to expanding his screen persona that went unrewarded. Anouk Aimee, anointed one of the screen’s biggest female romantic leads after the unexpected success of A Man and a Woman (1966), is also playing against type.

Sidney Lumet went through a distinctly lean period between The Pawnbroker and his 1970s output – The Anderson Tapes (1971), Serpico (1973), Dog Day Afternoon (1975) – and while The Pawnbroker presented an equally disaffected character he was crying out for your sympathy. You could almost view The Appointment as an exercise in style and the director trying to see, in terms of narrative and character, what he could get away with, and to become the director stars would trust when they wanted to shake up their screen persona – witness Sean Connery as a criminal and Al Pacino as a gay bank-robber.

Critics have avoided this like the plague – three reviews on imdb, only one on Rotten Tomatoes – so if that’s not a sign of being under-rated I don’t know what is.

It’s different for sure but that doesn’t make it any less worth seeing. And it would certainly fit in with the expectations of a contemporary audience.

Goodbye Charlie (1964) ***

Gender switch comedies were a rarity in Hollywood at this point though of course Billy Wilder had scored big with Some Like it Hot (1959) and I’m guessing the possibility of Tony Curtis repeating his drag act was an audience lure for this one. Alas, that wasn’t to be. This goes the other way. Or several other ways. A woman playing a man who is a woman. That would be catnip these days were it a transgender thing, but it ain’t.

Confused? So sex predator Charlie (a male) drowns while escaping enraged husband Sir Leopold (Walter Matthau) only to reappear, re-born or reincarnated (as the producers decide after googling it, sorry, after they look it up in a book) as a naked woman walking along the highway, rescued by the wealthy Bruce (Pat Boone) and delivered to the nearest house, Charlie’s own pad, now occupied by old buddy George (Tony Curtis).

There’s some light comedy as George tries to safely manhandle the unknown woman, clad only in Bruce’s coat (necessitating his later return of course) and gradually the surroundings seem over-familiar to the woman and then, shazam, George works out from what she knows about him that actually she must have returned as a man, also called Charlie (Debbie Reynolds).

A cosmic joke, in other words. The man who preyed upon women returning as a woman. See how he likes it to be on the receiving end of misogyny. But, mostly, he/she lolls around with legs spread like a man, gulps down whisky and is a dab hand at cards. But that’s not where the humor lies, apparently, because the movie moves on quickly from the woman acting the man and into the man-woman discovering all the female tricks of the trade, visiting a beauty parlor and the hairdresser. Charlie discovers it’s not the same fun slapping a woman’s backside – what a revelation – if you’re a woman.

But, basically, the female Charlie decides to become a female version of the male Charlie, the predator, ripping off friends, chasing the big money, trying to seduce Bruce. So, mostly, it’s one odd plot device after another.

But the sizzle is Debbie Reynolds, not so much the man-woman stuff, but turning into a mean Bette Davis character before your eyes, all hard-edge and shifty moves. There’s sexual tension as well, George initially resisting the woman he knows is or was a man, before finding the attraction too much, and the same going for Bruce. There’s a fair whack of sexual confusion, as the newborn Charlie still finds herself ogling women.

In those far more innocent times, it doesn’t know what it wants to say and lacks the narrative to say it. Audiences had terrific fun with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot, but that narrative ploy was bang on, and Lemmon enjoying dressing up as a woman and Curtis having to keep his male instincts at bay while ogling Marilyn Monroe was pure catnip.

Here, Curtis is mostly the foil for Debbie Reynolds and by the time it looks as though they might get it together she is way past behaving like a man and is most definitely a desirable woman so it’s kind of difficult to make this work romantically or humorously.

Perhaps the oddest element is that the signs were already there that it wouldn’t work that well. It started as a Broadway play written by George Axelrod (The Seven Year Itch, which was a Broadway smash) but it barely lasted a dozen weeks on stage. By that time, though, Twentieth Century Fox had splashed out $150,000 for the rights. Still, bigger sums have been buried in the annual accounts.

And I guess when Vincente Minelli (Two Weeks in Another Town, 1962) came on board with a pretty decent cast it seemed at least doable. Like many a lightweight comedy from the decade – Dear Brigitte (1965) for example – it’s keep afloat by a terrific performance by the principal star, in this case Debbie Reynolds (Divorce American Style, 1967). You might spot Ellen Burstyn (The Exorcist, 1973) in an early role.

Take away Debbie Reynolds and it would limp along.

The Pink Jungle (1968) ***

Near miss rather than the spectacular crash dive the poor box office returns suggested. Though it’s scarcely surfaced in five decades. Espionage adventure-cum-treasure hunt is slightly undone by knowing winks to the camera and it won’t take an eagle eye to spot that most of the action doesn’t take place in the jungle at all, although the title is explained in a clever twist at the end.

Shame the script goes AWOL and you might be left lamenting what might have been had it been a hit and the boost it could have given the careers of George Kennedy (Cool Hand Luke, 1967), playing ebulliently against type, and Eva Renzi (A Taste of Excitement, 1967) who proved to have lot more screen charisma than her ensuing roles suggested. Not to mention James Garner (Duel at Diablo, 1966), marquee value taking a hit after a string of flops.

However, if you can accept James Garner as a fashion photographer, and a gag that sees all three male principals decked in out varying shades of lipstick, and shut out the noise of Garner’s character offering commentary on what is about to happen, it’s a pleasant, non-demanding ride, with a believable central romance.

And I learned diamond arithmetic: five carats equals one gram, 28 grams is one ounce so you’re talking a phenomenal amount for a diamond weighing a few ounces never mind a 20lb haul which is where the endless MacGuffins lead. And if Ann-Margret can elect to shoot a fashion spread against the backdrop of motocross (C.C. and Company, 1970), choosing the South American jungle as the ideal spot for a lipstick advert is scarcely a stretch.

The long-winded tale begins with photographer Ben (James Garner) having his consignment of lipstick confiscated by police chief Ortega (Michael Ansara) who suspects they conceal hidden microfilm from the C.I.A. for rebel insurgents. When model Alison (Eva Renzi) arrives by helicopter that’s promptly stolen by South African illegal diamond dealer Ryderbeit (George Kennedy). The stranded couple repair to the nearest town, followed by the cops and by a pair of thugs, where Ryderbeit connects them to Englishman Capt Stopes (George Rose) who boasts a map leading to the lost diamond haul.

There’s no great reason for Ben to get involved, and the script offers nothing compelling, but let’s go for the ride, so suitably prepared (cigars and whisky essentials apparently) they set off with mules into the desert (yep, no jungle) where the model demonstrates her rodeo skills. There, they encounter Australian McClune (Nigel Green), the supposed deceased partner of Stopes, but he dupes them, leaving them stranded without water or mules, in the desert and heads off to find the loot himself. Of course, that does mean he has to come back the same way so the inevitable shootout, compounded by villains and cops, ensues.

Though determinedly sluggish in parts and the introduction of McClune adding little to the scenario, for the most part, although treading a thin line between cliches, it’s enjoyable enough. Ben is surprisingly handy with his fists, Alison has unusual depths and Ryderbeit is an engaging conman.

For a time there’s a bit of a tussle over Alison, as she’s clearly at times more attracted to the “masterful” adventurer Ryderbeit, a cool dude especially when he demonstrates his dance moves, than the cynical Ben. McClune takes a more predatory interest in Alison. But the growing romance between Ben and Alison is gentle stuff and almost required acting of the highest caliber given that the two actors hated each other according to the scuttlebutt.

Guilty of over-plotting and trying hard not to take the scenario seriously enough, even when it’s clear it won’t work unless that does occur, and that as a previous Garner episode proved, as in A Man Could Get Killed (1966), you can easily skirt around dense narrative and espionage malarkey without getting too bogged down. Over-populated, though, with characters and accents vary.

I’m used to Garner’s schtick by now, but Eva Renzi and George Kennedy were revelations, as was Nigel Green (Fraulein Doktor, 1969) also having a ball as a duplicitous character far removed from his usual ramrod-straight persona.

Oscar-winning director Delbert Mann (Mister Buddwing / Buddwing, 1966) does his best but he could have moved it on a bit for the pace seriously slackens at times. Charles Williams (Joy House, 1964) contributed the screenplay based on the novel by namesake Alan Williams.

Far more enjoyable than I expected and worth it for Renzi and Kennedy.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: James Garner in Cash McCall (1960), The Wheeler Dealers (1963), Move Over, Darling (1963), The Americanization of Emily (1964), 36 Hours (1965), The Art of Love (1965), A Man Could Get Killed (1966), Duel at Diablo (1966), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Grand Prix (1967), Hour of the Gun (1967), Marlowe (1969); Eva Renzi in Taste of Excitement (1969); George Kennedy in Lonely Are the Brave (1962); Charade (1963), In Harm’s Way (1965), Mirage (1965), Shenandoah (1965), The Sons of Katie Elder (1965), The Flight of the Phoenix (1965), Hurry Sundown (1967), Cool Hand Luke (1967), Bandolero! (1968), Guns of the Magnificent Seven (1969); Delbert Mann directed A Gathering of Eagles (1963), Buddwing/Mister Buddwing (1966), Fitzwilly/Fitzwilly Strikes Back (1967).

C.C. and Company (1970) *

Just terrible. Not even the presence of Ann-Margret (The Swinger, 1966) can save this. Scarcely a single redeeming feature and nothing that might lend itself to shift it into the So Bad It’s Good category. In fact, you would probably put it in a lower class, the So Bad It’s Worse Than You Can Possibly Imagine strata. Little seen for over half a century, and small wonder.

And, boy, did Ann-Margret need a hit after a three-year self-imposed exile in Italy, where she earned big bucks for pictures that hardly got a sniff on the U.S. release circuit, putting an almighty dent in her marquee value. In theory, she should have returned home with a bang, as female lead in a Stanley Kramer production, R.P.M. (1970), the most prestigious picture she had ever been associated with, and easily the best director. But that, riding the counter-culture wave, was a big flop.

This was her second attempt at counter-culture. Motorbike sagas were bankable after the success of Easy Rider (1969) and even as B-pictures had attracted decent audiences for the likes of The Wild Angels (1967) and Run, Angel, Run (1969).

But this was saddled with a terrible star in Joe Namath, and a terrible script by Roger Smith (The First Time, 1969), Ann-Margret’s husband-manager, that puts the wild boys of the highways in a motocross competition, swapping their high-powered bikes for the much smaller Kawasaki engines used in that sport.

If you were American, Joe Namath was a god. If you were foreign, he was a nobody. One of the country’s greatest American football (not soccer!) players, he had made his movie debut in another flop, Norwood (1969). My guess is Ann-Margret was there to help out her husband, also the producer, and beef up the marquee.

But C.C. Ryder (Joe Namath) looks more like an overgrown schoolboy, hulking though he is, than a Hell’s Angel. For the lack of believability he invests in the role you would have done as well with pop star Fabian (Ten Little Indians, 1965).

Anyway, on with the barmy story. So, fashion director Ann (Ann-Margret) has the bright idea, as fashion directors did in those days, of setting up a shoot against the backdrop of a motocross event, kind of like Zabriskie Point (1970) but with bikes. On the way, her car breaks down. The two passing bikers who come to her rescue have something else in mind and she is only saved from rape by the intervention of Ryder.

He belongs to a biking troupe headed by Moon (William Smith), the misogynist’s misogynist, who slaps his women around and sends them out to prostitute themselves on the highways because unlike the enterprising chaps from Easy Rider he’s not got the brains to set up a drugs operation. Then he gets the inspired notion of picking up easy money by sending his guys to compete in the motocross competition because, surely, them being serious motorbike freaks they can beat the hell out of any professional motocross rider who does this for a living.

No doubt audiences will be rooting for the amateurs the way they do for the young kids in other movies that need to put on their own show to save an orphanage or the like.

Naturally, Ryder falls for Ann. Equally naturally, Moon doesn’t like that one bit. And so kidnaps Ann, ensuring Ryder comes to the rescue. Cue a showdown. No doubt we’ll see an almighty battle with chains and wrenches and surely there will be a flashing blade or two as this pair roll around in the dust.

Nope! Let’s just find a handy football stadium and race round the athletic dirt track. That’s bound to be more exciting. You would get more excitement watching goldfish in a bowl.

Theoretically, the combination of Namath and Ann-Margret should have reached the incendiary levels of football star Jim Brown’s sexual tussle with Raquel Welch in 100 Rifles (1969). Nope. Namath has all the screen charisma of a beetle and there’s nothing Ann-Margret can do to help that. You couldn’t have wasted her first nude scene on someone less deserving.

As you might expect, Ann-Margret does get to dance, but for some reason the camera is more focused on Namath who is lacking in the shake-your-booty department.

There is one decent scene and one interesting shot. Unfortunately, the only good scene is the opener, giving a false sense that this might be an interesting picture. It involves Namath “grazing” his way round a supermarket, making up a sandwich from easily available ingredients, even stealing a tissue from a box to wipe his lips. What a rascal, no wonder everyone would be terrified of such a biker. And in the climactic race one of the bikers hits a fence that collapses concertina style.

But that’s it, a 94-minute vanity project that killed off Namath’s movie career and nearly put the kibosh on Ann-Margret’s. You can’t really blame television director Seymour Robbie (Marco, 1973) for failing to improve the material or the stars.

Sometimes being a completist (in this case following Ann-Marget’s career) has its down side.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Ann-Margret in State Fair (1962), Viva Las Vegas (1964), Kitten with a Whip (1964), The Pleasure Seekers (1964), Bus Riley’s Back in Town (1965), Once a Thief (1965), The Cincinnati Kid (1965), Made in Paris (1966), The Swinger (1966), Stagecoach (1966), Appointment in Beirut/Rebus (1968), Criminal Affair/Criminal Symphony (1968).

Counterpoint (1968) ****

Absorbing duel of minds between two autocrats obsessed with their own glory and needs and dealing with dissension in the ranks. That it takes place during the Battle of the Bulge turns out to be less of a dramatic hindrance though you maybe have to suspend disbelief in the notion that any resistance fighters might take time out from trying to sabotage Germans to help rescue a bunch of whining, pampered non-combatants with no strategic value whatsoever.

Once you accept that the U.S.O. would deem a classical orchestra the best way to entertain the troops rather than Betty Grable or Bob Hope then you’re halfway there.

*Poster that misleadingly apes “The Great Escape” and “The Dirty Dozen”. Naturally, no woman would attempt such an escape without giving everyone a glimpse of cleavage.*

Anyway, the Germans launching an offensive in December 1944 by accident capture the classical orchestra led by world-famous conductor Lionel Evans (Charlton Heston). The Germans are under orders to take no prisoners so as not to divert vital troops during this last-stage effort to extend the war, so under the direction of Colonel Arndt (Anton Diffring) the musicians face a firing squad until General Schiller (Maximilian Schell) happens to pop his head out of his window and recognize his hero, Evans.

Death is temporarily averted while Schiller purrs over his captive. But Evans, still high on principle and arrogance, refuses to comply with Schiller’s request to play a concert for him during a delay in the battle as, the Germans, hit by fuel shortage, are unable to continue their campaign and therefore have time on their hands. There ensues the aforesaid duel of minds plus various demonstrations of disloyalty and ruthlessness.

The joy here is the dialog because there’s not much else going on, beyond a half-hearted attempt to escape, and the tension doesn’t rachet up until Evans realizes Schiller is only keeping them alive until the concert, after which they will be turned over to the trigger-happy Arndt, who lacking any subtlety, has already begun to dig a mass grave in full view of the trapped self-proclaimed neutrals.

*Teamed up in Britain with the long-lost “The Pink Jungle”, which, as it happens, I’m reviewing shortly.*

It’s almost a parade of bon mots as each of the leaders tries to top the other’s sentences, and not in merely a clever manner, but with full-blown fascinating argument, in part about the different outlooks of each country, but also about their contradictions, and it’s a rare movie that can hold your attention just through dialog unless it’s set in a courtroom. But, here, Evans isn’t so much arguing for the suspension of a death penalty, for example, but in a remote high-mindedness complaining that, well, there’s no other word for it, that it’s just “unfair” as if the Geneva Convention has a special clause regarding classical musicians.

Maybe it does, given these are Americans, though not in uniform, which might be a point in their favor. But any commander would be correct in assuming they could, through courageous action, perform an act of sabotage or at the very least, as I mentioned, tie up vital resources.

Matters are complicated because Arndt, less self-indulgent than his superior, goes behind Schiller’s back to rat him out to HQ in Berlin while nameless persons within the orchestra are clearly in cahoots with the Germans. And you can’t blame them either. Arndt believes Schiller’s actions could compromise the attack, the orchestra traitors that Evans’ defiance will get them all killed. Evans is quite happy to sacrifice former lover Annabelle (Kathryn Hays) to keep the German commander, who has taken a fancy to her, happy.

Matters are complicated by the presence in the orchestra ranks of two U.S. soldiers in uniform, who feel duty bound to find a way out, so there’s a bit of the kind of action you’d get in a heist movie where an audience listens to classical music while above them a cat burglar is divesting them of their jewels. Here, the two soldiers are clambering up the innards of a church to the roof to scope out the territory and then attempt escape using a home-made rope made up of scarves and nylons etc.

As it becomes obvious that there is no point in Evans playing for time, the tension and turmoil does increase as that unfilled mass grave beckons. Doesn’t play out the way you’d expect, a couple of neat twists keeping cliché at bay.

But, as I said, the primary interest is the verbal battle between two refined minds convinced they are the most important people on the planet. The only standout scenes not involving Evans concern Schiller’s “seduction” of Annabelle and the playing of the American national anthem by one of the soldiers, planted in the orchestra, who Arndt suspects, from his age (too young to be in such august company unless a musical prodigy), doesn’t fit in.

Charlton Heston (Number One, 1969) and Maximilian Schell (Topkapi, 1964) are both superb as flawed characters. There’s a rare movie appearance for Kathryn Hays (Ride Beyond Vengeance, 1966) and another chance to see Leslie Nielsen (Beau Geste, 1966) before he became comedy catnip.

But it’s the script by James Lee (Banning, 1967) and Joel Oliansky (The Todd Killings, 1971), that really delivers, although I’m guessing that the best lines came directly from the source novel, The General by Alan Sillitoe (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning). Directed by Ralph Nelson (Once a Thief, 1965).

Rare to get a movie that relies so much on script and actors on such top form.

Underrated gem.

PREVIOUSLY REVIEWED IN THE BLOG: Charlton Heston in Diamond Head (1962), 55 Days at Peking (1963), Major Dundee (1965), The War Lord (1965), Khartoum (1966), Planet of the Apes (1968), Number One (1969); Maximilian Schell in Judgement at Nuremberg (1961), Topkapi (1964), Fate is the Hunter (1964), Father Goose (1964), Return from the Ashes (1965), The Deadly Affair (1967), Krakatoa -East of Java (1968); Ralph Nelson directed Soldier in the Rain (1963), Once a Thief (1965), Duel at Diablo (1966) and Soldier Blue (1970).

A Lovely Way To Go / A Lovely Way To Die (1968) ****

Woefully neglected detective thriller with a sparkling script and sexy leading stars exuding screen charisma. Like the celebrated William Goldman-scripted opening to Paul Newman private eye picture Harper (1966), the credit sequence here is at least as innovative in that it appears to be little short of a trailer, a highlights reel showing the audience what lies in store.

Schuyler (Kirk Douglas) is a womanizing cop too handy with his fists, half his arrests making an unexpected detour to hospital. Rena (Sylva Koscina) is the bored young wife of an older millionaire whose idea of fun is to chuck an expensive scarf out of a speeding car forcing her husband to pull up and go back and fetch. When her husband is shot, suspicion falls on Rena, inclined to dress in revealing outfits for the media, and her playboy boyfriend.

At the behest of attorney Fredericks (Eli Wallach) sporting a rich Southern accent and a with knack for speaking in parables, Schuyler, having resigned from the force one step ahead of being fired, is sent in to provide security and find out whether her alibi stacks up. He soon finds out it doesn’t but by this time he has fallen under her spell. Witnesses disappear, intruders are dealt with, attempts are made on the detective’s life, and the twists come thick and fast. Rena is the arch femme fatale who is a past master in the twisting department – twisting every male within a 50-mile radius round her little finger.

Harper was a throwback to The Maltese Falcon/The Big Sleep but A Lovely Way To Die knocks that shamus tradition on the head. For a start, Schuyler is a high-living high-rolling character who doesn’t take prisoners. The second time we meet him he has dumped the girl he took to the races for someone he has met when picking up his winnings. Seducing gorgeous women and dumping them is second nature. This is Douglas as a glorious charmer, a part of his screen persona lost after a glut of more serious pictures like Seven Days in May (1964) and Cast a Giant Shadow (1966). Yugoslavian actress Koscina, often little more than eye candy for most of the decade, had vaulted into the higher echelons after a turn as Paul Newman’s squeeze in The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968).

An inherent part of the attraction of this picture is how deftly Rena keeps Schuyler at bay. Scriptwriter A. J. Russell (Stiletto, 1969) and director David Lowell Rich (Madame X, 1966) deliver the goods in maintaining the tension in their relationship. There is a wonderful scene where the expectant Schuyler follows her up the stairs of her fabulous mansion and three times he ignores the import of her unmistakable “Goodnight,” his uber-confidence taking him to her door – which she shuts in his face.

Sure, in some ways it is slick, but it is also taut and realistic, Schuyler does not win all his fights and he eats with the rest of the help at the mansion. And he does some terrific detection so it doesn’t fall short in that department. He is definitely helped by some choice lines – “police methods are sometimes difficult for an amateur to understand” he tells Rena after he brutally deals with an intruder.

Koscina is in her element as the sexy, wealthy suspect, and especially in her banter with Douglas – her main aim to disarm his cockiness. Eli Wallach (The Moon-Spinners, 1964) is also superb, given just enough ham to hang himself, but matching Douglas in arrogance and outgunning the D.A. with his courtroom gymnastics. A couple of the subsidiary characters are well-drawn, a housekeeper who plays the markets.

For some reason this sank like a stone on its initial outing, audiences perhaps being more attuned to the Bogart-style sleuth, but I found it highly enjoyable and this could be seen as a taster for anyone familiar with the antics of the star’s son Michael Douglas who found himself in similar territory in Basic Instinct (1992).

Complex tale high on intrigue and sex, well worth a watch.

REVIEWED PREVIOUSLY IN THE BLOG: Kirk Douglas in Strangers When We Meet (1960), Lonely Are the Brave (1962), Two Weeks in Another Town (1962), For Love or Money (1963), Seven Days in May (1964), In Harm’s Way (1965), The Heroes of Telemark (1965), Cast a Giant Shadow (1966), Is Paris Burning? (1966), The Way West (1967), The Brotherhood (1968), The Arrangement (1969); Sylva Koscina in Jessica (1962), Hot Enough for June (1963), Deadlier than the Male (1967), The Secret War of Harry Frigg (1968); Eli Wallach in Seven Thieves (1960), The Misfits (1961), Act One (1963), The Moon-spinners (1964), Kisses for My President (1965), Lord Jim (1965), Genghis Khan (1965), How to Steal a Million (1966).