nudity – Page 10 – The Magnificent 60s

Negatives (1968) ***

Role play wasn’t the sub-culture it is now. Though fashion had injected more of a sense of dressing up what with Russian furs courtesy of Doctor Zhivago (1965) and snazzy berets from Bonnie and Clyde (1967), the idea of people living out their lives in costume had not taken hold. So consider this a precursor – and maybe a warning – as to what can go wrong if taken too far.

Obscurity to the point of obfuscation was an arthouse default especially prevalent in more commercial ventures like Blow-Up (1966) and In Search of Gregory (1969) so no need to bother yourself with hunting out motivation or background.

The erotic subtext – voyeurism too – here takes on a disturbing quality as it touches on the notion of male justified in using violence in response to female provocation. Drama centers on a clash of role model sensibilities with a weak male shifting from interpreting a murderous villain to imitating a heroic pilot.

Antiques dealer Theo (Peter McEnery) spices up his stale marriage to Vivien (Glenda Jackson) by dressing up as serial killer Dr Crippen. She invests in the role of his complaisant lover Ethel. Play-acting, at her behest it appears, doesn’t prevent her verbally tearing into him. Into this unconventional nest arrives German photographer Reingard (Diane Cilento) who has been spying on him for several weeks. She has her own fantasy and soon has him rigged out as World War One flying ace Baron von Richtofen, complete with ancient biplane. He responds to the militaristic characteristics of the pilot, entering more into the spirit of the game than the famed killer.

Naturally, Vivien doesn’t take kindly to this intrusion, not least because she realizes she isn’t the only one who can manipulate her malleable husband and violence and tragedy ensue. It’s not entirely clear why either female character indulges in such fantasies and does give rise to the cliche notion, and redolent of the times, of the female wishing to give in to the dominant male, even when the man shows little sign of being a dominant personality.

Apart from Theo visiting his father (Maurice Denham) who appears to be dying in hospital, the picture doesn’t shift much from its three-cornered narrative. The idea of the ongoing masquerade is emphasized by a sequence set in Madame Tussaud’s. Given the censorship of the times, the eroticism is largely of the discreet variety, rather than going down the full-blown sexual fantasy of The Girl on a Motorcycle (1969).

Glenda Jackson both plays a character right up her street and brings far more to the role than either Peter McEnery (The Moonspinners, 1964) or Diane Cilento (The Third Secret, 1964) who give the appearance of slumming it in a low-budget production in the hope it might bring career kudos.

Unwilling to dig any deeper into the characters, director Peter Medak (The Ruling Class, 1972), in his debut, merely toys with technique, elaborate shots following a character round a room or unusual compositions.

With the trendy crowd parading down King’s Road with all the latest hip gear including military uniforms and Victorian garb, this might have seemed to fit right in, except that the main characters have little in common with the “Youthquake” of the era.

On the one hand a true oddity with McEnery and Cilento well out of their comfort zones, on the other proof of what Jackson and Medak had to offer.

Might appeal to the role-playing crowd, more likely to those interested in early Glenda Jackson.

Castle Keep (1969) ****

A bit more directorial bombast and this could have matched Apocalypse Now (1979) in the surrealist war stakes. Never mind the odd incidents surrounding a small unit of G.I.s taking over a magnificent Belgian castle towards the end of World War II prior to what turned out to be the Battle of the Bulge, this has on occasion such a dreamlike quality you wonder if it is all a figment of the imagination of one of the characters, wannabe writer Private Benjamin (Al Freeman Jr.). Throw in a stunning image, for the beleaguered soldiers at the start, of a horsewoman charging by in a yellow cloak, so out of place that it carries as much visual impact as the unicorn in Blade Runner (1982), and we are in definite cult territory.

One of the unusual elements is that, in this unexpected respite from battle, the soldiers are defined by character traits rather than dialogue or bravery as would be the norm. This ranges from baker Sergeant Rossi (Peter Falk) taking over the boulangerie and bedding the baker’s wife (Olga Bisera), mechanic Corporal Clearboy (Scott Wilson) diving into a lake to rescue a Volkswagen and the troops receiving a lecture on art history from Captain Beckman (Patrick O’Neal).

Commander Major Falconer (Burt Lancaster) is not only brilliant in the art of war, but calmly mentors Beckman through a firefight with an enemy airplane, teaches local sex workers how to make Molotov cocktails and, evoking ancient aristocratic tradition, enjoys conjugal relations with the conquered countess (Astrid Heeren), whose impotent husband (Jean-Pierre Aumont) encourages the relationship since the castle needs an heir.

There is wistful revelation, Beckman clearly hankering after his turn with the countess, a minister who wishes he had the courage to join the boys in the brothel, the young soldiers there being treated as children rather than customers. And there are juvenile pranks – moustaches are painted on statues, wine bottles used for ten-pin bowling practice.

But the surreal moments keep mounting up. The Volkwagen, though riddled with bullets, refuses to sink in the lake, a hidden German reveals himself by playing the same tune on a flute as one of the soldiers. The countess often appears as an ethereal vision.

Through it all is rank realism. Falconer knows a German previously shared the countess’s bed. The count will do anything to safeguard his castle and maintain the family line, even to the extent of incest, since his wife is actually his niece. But above all, while his troops believe the war is at an end and enjoy the pleasures at hand, Major Falconer prepares for rearguard action by the Germans, filling the moat with gasoline, planning to pull up the drawbridge and control the high ground.

The battle, when it comes, is vivid and brutal, the initial skirmish a hand-to-hand battle in the village before the Germans begin their siege of the castle.

Burt Lancaster (The Swimmer, 1968) is superb, far removed from his normal aggressive or athletic persona, slipping with pragmatic ease from the countess’s bed to battle stations. War films in the 1960s were full of great individual conflicts often won on a twist of ingenious strategy but seldom have we encountered a soldier like Falconer who knows every detail of war, from where and how the enemy will approach, to the details of the range of weaponry, and knows that shooting dead four soldiers from a German scouting mission still leaves one man unaccounted for.

Patrick O’Neal (Alvarez Kelly, 1966) also leaves behind his usual steely-eyed screen persona, here essaying a somewhat timid and thoughtful character. Peter Falk’s (Machine Gun McCain, 1969) baker is a beauty, a man who abandons war, if only temporarily, for a second “home,” baking bread, adopting a wife and child. In a rare major Hollywood outing French actor Jean-Pierre Aumont (Five Miles to Midnight, 1962) carries off a difficult role as a count willing to accept the humiliation of being cuckolded if it improves his chances of an heir. In one of only four screen appearances German actress Astrid Heeren (The Thomas Crown Affair, 1968) makes the transition from a woman going to bed with whoever offers the greatest chance of saving the beloved castle to one gently falling in love.

There is an excellent supporting cast. Bruce Dern (Support Your Local Sheriff, 1969) makes the most of a standout role as a conscientious objector. You will also find Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood, 1967), Al Freeman Jr. (The Detective, 1968), future director Tony Bill (Ice Station Zebra, 1968) and Michael Conrad (Sol Madrid / The Heroin Gang, 1968).

Two top-name writers converted William Eastlake’s novel into a screenplay – Oscar-winning Daniel Taradash (Hawaii, 1966) and newcomer David Rayfiel who would work with Lancaster again on Valdez Is Coming (1971) and with Pollack on Three Days of the Condor (1973) and Havana (1990)

Sydney Pollack (This Property Is Condemned, 1966), who had teamed up with Lancaster on western The Scalphunters, 1968), does a terrific job of marshalling the material, casting an hypnotic spell in pulling this tantalising picture together, giving characters space and producing some wonderful images, but more especially for having the courage to leave it all hanging between fantasy and reality.

Expressions like “we have been here before,” “once upon a time,” “the supernatural” and “a thousand years old” take solid root as the narrative develops and will likely keep spinning in your mind as you try to work out what it’s all about.

Sweeney! (1977) ****

The two-fisted trigger-happy cops that had changed the Hollywood landscape since Clint Eastwood burst onto the scene hadn’t found much correlation in the small-screen. Television producers were particularly averse to violence and even a new generation of sleuths were only a tad above the cosy crime of previous decades. Since James Bond easily covered the random killing aspect in British movies, there seemed little room for anyone else.

Sweeney! (1977), a speedy spin-off from a successful British independent television series, proved them wrong, the movie censor permitting considerably more leeway on the violence front. These cops are just itching to lay a hand on gangsters and, as if transplanted from Chicago, bring baseball bats and pistols to a fight.

The action only slows down when the subplot gets mired in delivering a political message about big business and corruption or when one of the characters has to take time out to explain the meaning of the title. Turns out there’s a sneaky high-end operator Elliott McQueen (Barry Foster) who runs a string of high-class sex workers to hook politicians like Charles Baker (Ian Bannen). When Baker’s girlfriend Janice (Lynda Bellingham) ends up in the mortuary – suicide the official verdict – McQueen applies pressure to get an oil deal done.

Baker’s gals are expert in what these days would be known as providing the “Girlfriend Experience” though the blokes they service aren’t the ones paying. But a police informant, soft on Janice, believes she was murdered and calls in Detective Inspector Jack Regan (John Thaw) to informally investigate.

When Regan treads on McQueen’s toes it triggers a spate of violence. First the informant is blown away by a machine gun from thugs disguised as coppers. Then a nosy journalist (Colin Welland) is blown up. Then Regan is stitched up and suspended from duty. Naturally, Regan persists with a surreptitious investigation. But the thugs aren’t so covert and he interrupts a gangland hit on Bianca (Diane Keen), another of the “girlfriends” who knows too much.

Not much detection required, really, when the criminals are so open about their criminality and even the most high-ranking politician or sanctimonious cop is going to find it hard to let machine-gun-toting gangsters roam through London. So there’s plenty bloody action and quite a clever pay-off.

The rampant violence in British cinema earlier in the decade had been confined to the gangsters of Get Carter (1970) and Villain (1971) and to pictures wrapped in halos of critical protection such as A Clockwork Orange (1971) and Straw Dogs (1971). Sweeney! ushered in a new era, when cops could adopt the same methods as criminals.

Regan was the rumpled cop, his sidekick Det Sgt Carter (Dennis Waterman) theoretically the more handsome, except his boss had as much success with women. What both were best at was riling superiors and arguing with everyone. You’d need a good grasp of the various policing departments to keep up – here we have Special Branch and The Flying Squad (The Sweeney) and ordinary coppers.

The predilection for selective use of Cockney rhyming slang was a feature of the British crime picture. Flying Squad translated as Sweeney Todd and was then truncated to The Sweeney. Oddly enough there was no rhyme for Special Branch and Scotland Yard, despite the advent of The Shard, has not made its way onto the rhyming dictionary.

British studios had increasingly turned to television as production levels tumbled, but generally in the comedy genre, Up Pompeii (1971), On the Buses (1971) and Steptoe and Son (1972), plus vaious sequels, registering the biggest box office.

John Thaw and sidekick Dennis Waterman proved to be long-term stalwarts of British television, the former heading up Redcap (1964), The Sweeney (1975-1978), Inspector Morse (1987-2000) and Kavanagh QC (1995-2001), the latter following The Sweeney with Minder (1979-1989) and New Tricks (2003-2015). Diane Keen starred in The Feathered Serpent (1976-1978), The Cuckoo Waltz (1975-1980), Rings on their Fingers (1978-1980), Foxy Lady (1982-1984), You Must Be the Husband (1987-1988) and various others. Lynda Bellingham, in a bit part as a naked corpse, would become a favorite through a long-running commercial.

By this time Britain had also produced a core of strong supporting actors, not of the quality of the previous generation of Laurence Olivier or John Gielgud, but with a considerable portfolio behind them, Barry Foster second-billed in Frenzy (1972), Ian Bannen Oscar-nominated in The Flight of the Phoenix (1966).

Directed with huge enjoyment by David Wickes in his movie debut from a screenplay by Ranald Graham (Shanks, 1974) and Ian Kennedy Martin (Mitchell, 1975).

Gotcha!

Die Hard (1988) ***** – Seen at the Cinema

Kiss goodbye to your suicidal small town banker helped by a passing angel who had dominated the Xmas reissue horizon for half a century. There’s a new Xmas sheriff in town and he doesn’t play by any merry rules. Some marketing whiz has hit upon the notion that an action picture with a pretty vague Xmas background would be a better bet for the contemporary audience than James Stewart in the snowbound It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) that owed a great deal of its popularity to the fact that it was out of copyright and could be played on extremely inexpensive terms – a better Xmas present a cinema owner could not expect.

This is one of these moves that cries out to be revisited on the big screen. I saw it on Monday this week and was astonished to find that it had attracted a full house. You forget how much of a revelation this was, a complete rethink of the action hero. Sure, it owed something to the muscular heroics of Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger, but they always seemed like they were looking for trouble. Albeit that he’s a cop, Bruce Willis was a throwback to the kind of movie where a relatively innocent character gets caught up in mischief.

And it’s surprisingly contemporary in its attitude to romance, New York cop John McClane (Bruce Willis) left behind by careerist wife Holly (Bonnie Bedelia), who reverted to her maiden name when she headed out to Los Angeles with the kids. He’s made the trip to try and stitch back their marriage, but only comes to terms with his failings as a careerist cop once he’s battered and bloodied in the Nakatomi tower where his wife and 30 other employees are being held hostage by heist merchant Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman), posing as a terrorist in order to steal 600 million bucks from one of the most secure vaults in the world.

This isn’t one of those robberies where we’re told in advance of the plans, instead as the strategy takes shape we can only marvel at Gruber’s brilliance and ruthlessness. He’s not, as would be the norm, trying to hijack cash on the quiet, but instead needs the “assistance” of the FBI to complete his program.

Bruce Willis had been struggling to establish a big screen persona that took him away from the smirking quip-slinger of Moonlighting (1985-1989). Blake Edwards romantic comedy Blind Date (1987) and the same director’s Hollywood drama Sunset (1988) had signally failed to advance his marquee credentials. Donning a vest, losing his shoes, picking glass from his feet, blasting away at all and sundry, and using brains as much as bullets to outwit the robbers, set him on a new career path.

Director John McTiernan was a rising star having helmed Predator (1987) but this was a different kind of actioner to the Schwarzenegger sci-fi malarkey. There’s nothing trim about the timing – it comes in a just under two-and-a-quarter hours – but that allows not just for a proper three-act set-up and several twists, but, more importantly, through a series of clever devices, permits the character to breathe. Through intermittent contact with street cop Sgt Powell (Reginald VelJohnson), we learn a good deal more about McClane and, critically, his change of heart about his marriage.

Unusually, for an action picture it’s riddled with interesting characters, not just bureaucratic nincompoops and FBI gunslingers fully conversant with acceptable collateral damage, but two kings of smugness, one a television reporter (William Atherton), the other a high-ranking executive who has his eye on Holly.

And that’s before we come to the villains. For Gruber, British actor Alan Rickman was drafted in from the stage, no movie credentials at all, and created a silky supervillain every bit as memorable as those who challenged James Bond. In fact, in other circumstances his sidekick, former ballet dancer Alexander Gudonov, should have stolen the show as he had threatened to in Witness (1985). Perhaps the most surprising casting was Bonnie Bedelia. She’d been a female lead or top billed (The Stranger, 1987) for more than a decade, and what she brings to the role is the quiet skill of not over-acting.

If you weren’t particularly interested in the well-drawn characters, you would be more than happy with the extensive action sequences which set new highs for the genre. This should have revived Frank Sinatra’s career since he had first dibs on the character, a sequel to The Detective (1968). And Clint Eastwood for a time had the rights. Screenplay by Jeb Stuart (The Fugitive, 1993) and Steven E. de Souza (48 Hrs, 1982) from the novel by Roderick Thorp.

But yippee-ki-yay, it sure made a star out of Willis.

Top notch.

Beat Girl / Wild for Kicks (1960) **

More social document than drama, but that aspect somewhat diluted by the moviemakers’ attempts at exposing rebellious youth while taking for granted more sordid adult behavior. Narrative flow is interrupted now and then to showcase Adam Faith’s singing and to accommodate a few striptease acts. Probably more interesting is the array of new talent on show.

Spoiled teenager Jennifer (Gillian Hill) heads for the wild side of town to experience the beatnik lifestyle in Soho coffee shops and cellars. That there are no drugs involved, and that alcohol is considered “square” – as for that matter is violence – may come as a surprise to students of the period. Apart from one episode of road-racing and playing “chicken” along a railway track, most of the time the gang listen to music or dance until Jennifer gets it into her head that ejoining a striptease show might give her life the thrill it is missing.

This is prompted by the discovery that her new too-young stepmother Nichole (Noelle Adams) has been a stripper and most likely a sex worker in Paris before marrying wealthy architect Paul (David Farrar), cueing a round-robin of confrontations. Strangely enough, from the narrative perspective, none of the young bucks appear romantically interested in the provocatively dressed Jennifer and so it is left to creepy club owner Kenny (Christopher Lee) to make a move.

The gaping hole left by lack of narrative drive is not offset by immersion in the beatnik or striptease scene. Back in the day the British censors took the editing scissors to the striptease but although restored versions available now contain nudity you are left wishing that there was some lost element to the beatnik sections that would have given the picture the energy it required.

Gillian Hill (Les Liaisions Dangereuses, 1959), comes over as a cross between Brigitte Bardot and Diana Dors without having an ounce of the sex appeal of either. All pout and flounce, she is unable to inject any heart into her two-dimensional character, although given her youth and inexperience this was hardly surprising. Former British star David Farrar (Black Narcissus, 1947) was coming to the end of his career and in a thankless role as a frustrated father could do little to rescue the project.

French actress Noelle Gordon (Sergeant X of the Foreign Legion, 1960) could have been Jennifer’s mother given her own tendencies towards wiggle and pout but at least she makes a stab at trying to overcome her step-daughter’s hostility.

In the main, the picture’s delight is bringing to the fore a whole chorus of new faces. Pick of the supporting cast is Shirley Anne Field (Kings of the Sun, 1963) who doesn’t just have a knowing look but looks as if she knows what’s she doing acting-wise. Making his movie debut was teen pop idol Adam Faith, who had made his name playing in coffee bars. He had already notched up a couple of number one singles, but doesn’t quite set the screen on fire. Peter McEnery (The Fighting Prince of Donegal, 1966) plays his inebriated pal.

You can also spot Oliver Reed (Women in Love, 1969), Julie Christie (Doctor Zhivago, 1965), Claire Gordon (Cool It, Carol, 1970) and Nigel Green (Jason and the Argonauts, 1963).

Perhaps the most important debut belonged to composer John Barry. He had already been working with Adam Faith. Barry’s music for the film was the first British soundtrack album ever released, reaching number eleven on the charts, and opening the doors for future soundtrack albums, not least of which was the rich vein of theme tunes produced by Barry in the next few years.

French director Edmond T. Greville, who brought little panache to the subject matter, would redeem himself with his next picture The Hands of Orlac (1960).

This doesn’t fall into the “so-bad-it’s-good” category, nor has it been unfairly overlooked, and probably is better known as an example of the kind of exploitation B-picture that the Americans do so much better and a reminder that, except on rare occasions such as The Wild One (1953), older moviemakers seem incapable of capturing the essence of youth.

The Mephisto Waltz (1971) ****

Jacqueline Bisset’s good looks often got in the way of her acting. Or, more correctly, in the way of producer perception about what she could do. Too often she was the female lead that simply hung on the arm of the male lead. But, here, to my surprise, she is not only the narrative fulcrum, but steals the show from Alan Alda, mostly remembered these days for TV’s M*A*S*H (1972-1983) but at the start of the 1970s being heralded in Hollywood as the next big thing and top-billed.

Alda’s character here is little more than his screen persona in embryo – glib, wise-cracking, cocky. In an earlier Hollywood he would have been the smooth-talking gangster beefing up B-pictures.

Appearing between the demonic high-spots of Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Omen (1976), director Paul Wendkos (Cannon for Cordoba, 1970) escapes his journeyman roots to suffuse the picture with nightmarish scenes, and clever use of the fish-eye lens, treating Satanism with the most subtle of brushes, restricted to a mark daubed in a forehead and a pentagram on the floor but minus any chorus of witches or warning from priests or sundry other holy persons.

Myles (Alan Alda), piano prodigy who never made the cut, now a journalist, is encouraged by interviewee, concert pianist Duncan Ely (Curt Jurgens), to take it up again. Under the older man’s tutelage, he thrives, promising career beckons, plus an entrée into quite a heady world of parties, sex and wealth. Wife Paula (Jacqueline Bisset) is more sceptical especially once Duncan and his buddies start buying up everything in sight in her new antiques emporium. She’s especially perturbed to see Duncan sharing an intimate kiss with his married daughter Roxanne (Barbara Parkins) never mind wondering whether her husband is going to fall prey to the daughter’s seductive technique.

Just what’s going on is never entirely obvious, making the audience work rather than bombarding them with shock scenes. I’m not sure what you’d call it in demonic terms, some kind of transference, body and soul. Once Duncan dies, Myles’s life is transformed, not just thanks to an extremely generous bequest in the old man’s will, but a dramatic increase in his piano-playing prowess, plus, almost as a bonus, the increased attentions of Roxanne.

True scares are limited, mostly a huge drooling black mastiff who may or may not be a killer, and so the tale remains more subtle and eventually boils down to whether Paula will follow her husband on his satanic journey or lose him to the wiles of Roxanne and, perhaps more importantly, never enjoy him as the personality he once was.

We all know that, where money and career is concerned, Myles has a cynical bone in his body and has already demonstrated a capacity for the finer things in life, whether they be animate or inanimate. So his character carries little dramatic tension. And so Paula carries the dramatic burden and she bears that, too, with surprising subtlety.

There’s almost a reverse Gaslight vibe to the whole exercise, Paula convincing herself that she must take this step into what would otherwise be considered madness. It’s worth noting that nobody’s pushing her. She makes the decision herself, although takes you a while (that subtlety again) before you cotton on to consequence. And while we’re on the subject of subtlety, full marks to Wendkos for treating two scenes in particular of Bisset nudity with commendable restraint.

Quite where Satan’s apparent mission to bring classical music to the masses fits into his plans for global domination is never made clear, leanings of such an esoteric nature rarely a prerequisite of the evil mastermind.

Still, a much classier feast than I was expecting, Bisset (The Sweet Ride, 1968) the standout. Her performance served to give Hollywood notice of a classier star than merely the barely seen girlfriend of Steve McQueen in Bullitt (1968). From here on in she would catch the eye of a better grade of director, including Francois Truffaut in Day for Night (1974) though it can be arguedthat it was her looks that sent her into the stratosphere after the wet t-shirt modelling in The Deep (1977).

Alda, meanwhile, jumped straight into M*A*S*H and didn’t resurface as a creditable movie marquee name until California Suite (1978) and The Seduction of Joe Tynan (1979). Curt Jurgens (Psyche ’59) as ever is good value, Barbara Parkins (Puppet on a Chain, 1970) his rather slinky associate and Bradford Dillman (The Bridge at Remagen, 1969) also pops up.

Wendkos in top gear. Screenplay by Ben Maddow (The Way West, 1967) from the Fred Mustard Stewart bestseller. Excellent Jerry Goldsmith score.

Well worth a look.

The Detective (1968) ****

Perhaps the boldest aspect of this raw look at the seamier side of life as a New York cop is that perennial screen loverboy Frank Sinatra plays a cuckold. Prior to what is always considered the more hard-hitting cop pictures of the 1970s – Dirty Harry (1971), The French Connection (1971), Serpico (1973) – this touched upon just about every element of society’s underbelly. Despite an old-school treatment, more a police procedural than anything else, homosexuality, nymphomania, corruption, police brutality, and a system that ensured poverty remained endemic all fell into its maw. And, for the times, several of these issues were dealt with in often sympathetic fashion.

Joe Leland (Frank Sinatra), an ambitious but principled detective gunning for promotion, investigates the murder of a prominent homosexual while dealing with the disintegration of marriage to Karen (Lee Remick) and colleagues on the take. When other cops want to beat confessions out of suspects or strip them naked to humiliate them, Leland intervenes to prevent further brutality. He is not just highly moral, but takes a soft approach to criminals, not just playing the “good cop” part of a good cop/bad cop double-act but genuinely showing sympathy. Not only does Leland leap to the defense of those he feels unfairly treated, but he trades punches with those meting out unfair treatment. In addition, he clearly feels guilt over sending to the electric chair a man he believes should be treated in a mental institution.

Although at first glance this appears a homophobic picture, it is anything but, Leland showing tremendous sympathy towards homosexual suspect Felix (Tony Musante) – whom his colleagues clearly despise – to the extent of holding his hand and gently cajoling him through an interview. Later, rather than condemn a bisexual the film shows empathy for his torment. Certainly, some of the attitudes will appear dated, especially the idea of sexual expression as a brand of deviancy, but the film takes a genuinely even-handed approach. Through the medium of Leland’s perspective, it is clearly demonstrated that it is other police officers who have the warped notions.

Having solved the first murder, Leland takes up the case of an apparent suicide at the behest of widow Norma McIver (Jacqueline Bisset), only for this to lead not only to civic corruption on a large scale but back to the original investigation. Leland also has a wider social perspective than most cops and there is a terrific scene where he berates civic authorities for creating a system that perpetuates poverty. The ending, too, casts new light on Leland’s character.

By this point, most screen cops were defined by their alcoholism and ruined domestic lives, but this is altogether a more tender portrait of an honest cop. Leland’s relationship with Karen is exceptionally well done. Normally, of course, it is the man who strays. This reversal in the infidelity stakes adds a new element. Karen has more in common with an independent woman like the Faye Dunaway character in The Arrangement (1969).

While playing the good cop would come relatively easy to an actor like Sinatra, carrying off the role of the hurt husband is a much tougher ask. Coupled with his sensitive approach to criminals, this is acting of some distinction. This is the last great Hollywood role by Lee Remick (No Way to Treat a Lady, 1968) and she brilliantly portrays a woman trapped by her self-destructive desires.

Jacqueline Bisset leads an excellent supporting cast that includes Jack Klugman (The Split, 1968), Ralph Meeker (The Dirty Dozen, 1967), Robert Duvall (The Godfather, 1972), Lloyd Bochner (Point Blank, 1967) and Al Freeman Jr. (Dutchman, 1966).

While Gordon Douglas (Claudelle Inglish, 1961) was viewed very much as a journeyman director, he brings an inventive approach and some surprising subtleties to the picture. He opens with a very audacious shot. It looks like you are seeing skyscrapers upside down, as if a Christopher Nolan sensibility had entered a time warp, until you realize it is the city reflected off a car roof. There are some bold compositions, often with Sinatra appearing below Remick’s sightline, rather than the normal notion that the star must be taller or at least the same height as everyone else.

Oscar-winning Abby Mann (The Judgement at Nuremberg, 1961) adapted the bestseller by Roderick Thorp who achieved greater fame much later for writing the source novel for Die Hard (1988). Nothing Lasts Forever was a sequel to The Detective. For the Bruce Willis film Joe Leland became John McClane. Sinatra, although 73 at the time, was offered that role first as part of his original contract for The Detective.

Sinatra’s wife Mia Farrow was initially contracted to play the part of Norma McIver but pulled out when Rosemary’s Baby (1968) overshot its schedule. Partly in revenge, Sinatra sued her for divorce.

We Live in Time (2024) ****

Approached this with some trepidation as I’m not a huge fan of either star and since, frankly, I was only there because I go to the pictures every Monday and this was all that was on. In fact, I adored the acting. An intelligent adult movie to sit nicely alongside this year’s Conclave, Juror #2 and It Ends with Us without the artsy-fartsy frills that have put me off so many similar. Kept me absorbed even as I noted in passing the several flaws that should have brought me up short. And you should know it’s narrative as mosaic, not an admittedly complicated one, but a series of vignettes over a few timeframes and backstory chucked in at various points.

But there’s no grandstanding, no auteur forcing an annoying style down your throat, no desperately cute scenes, and none of that will-they-won’t-they that’s virtually impossible to achieve these days outside of Anyone But You (2023). The main characters are ordinary people, stranded loveless in their mid-30s, driven chef Almut (Florence Pugh) out of choice, Tobias (Andrew Garfield) dumped by a more ambitious wife and now living out of cardboard boxes with his widowed father.

There’s major illness brewing but it doesn’t go down the sickly route, nor, despite the couple agreeing to make the most of life, is it a whirl of bucket list activities. In fact, the main source of friction is that that she ignores family duties in favor of entering an upmarket Strictly Come Cooking competition.

But, as I said, the pleasures are all in the acting. The twists are in the dialog. She doesn’t respond to his sudden declaration of love, as she would, gushing like billy-o, in any other picture. He doesn’t have a marriage proposal off pat but has to refer to notes. He’s pretty damn staid, she’s, as you’d expect in an imaginative chef, more free-wheeling. And I did learn the correct three-bowl method to crack eggs, the rest of the cookery malarkey thankfully not entering the angst-ridden territory of The Bear or The Boiling Point or the she-made-it cock-strutting of so many movies about a woman battling her way to the top.

There are a heck of a number of grace notes of infinite shades. Tobias is absolutely delighted, not resentful, that his father (Douglas Hodge) cuts his hair. An asleep cancer patient has her wig adjusted by a nurse to cover her bald patch. A woman giving Tobias the thumbs-up signs constantly through a job interview is never seen again – wife/lover perhaps? A guy at a dinner party looks sour but we never learn why. Almut keeps from Tobias and everyone else that she was a world-class amateur ice skater in her earlier life, giving it up when her father died, unable to continue in the absence of his presence. We could almost have dispensed with how Tobias won Almut back after initial rejection because we know he must have done somehow otherwise we wouldn’t be where we are in the story.

The very ordinariness grounds this. The couple eat Jaffa Cakes in the bath – from a giant-sized packet – and miniature chocolate bars from one of those selections you used to just get at Xmas. And then compare what they selected – he goes for Twix, she Bounty.

Some bits don’t work so well. The meet-cute has been robbed of originality by Australian television comedy Colin from Accounts. I’m not sure if we were meant to laugh at the birth scene. But the sequence you saw in the trailer when Tobias whacks two parked cars in order to get out of a tight parking spot actually has deeper meaning. Tobias, remember, is the kind of guy who takes notes, who examines himself in front of a mirror not out of vanity but to make sure there’s nothing wrong with his attire, a guy, in other words, roughly in command of his emotions, and this is one of the few scenes where that characteristic slips.

Nor are we in for a wheen of sibling rivalry or parental displeasure, so it’s not tumbled-full of repressed anger, but there’s still time for snippets of Tobias standing like an idiot in a roomful of her more excitable friends at a party, something holding him back from even trying to join in.

There was a great ending that was ignored: Almut waving in the distance to husband-and-daughter. The ending chosen luckily worked as well, proving that Tobias, in his lifelong note-taking fashion was a good learner, and was determined to fulfil a promise.

This could have fallen down on some narrative choices, the illness trope or the cooking, but generally these are incorporated into the story in a character-led way. But mostly it works because it is not highwire sturm und drang nor a will-they-won’t-they approach, and especially because their bucket list appears to extend only so far as a trip to a carnival ride. Everyone holds back. No over-playing at all.

I had recently praised Nicholas Hoult in Juror #2 for using his eyes rather than his entire face to express his feeling and Andrew Garfield (Spiderman to you) here works along the same lines. Florence Pugh (Oppenheimer, 2023) is every bit as good, a quiet inner grit, forthright when required without biting your head off. Douglas Hodge (Joker, 2019) and Adam Jones (Wicked, 2024) have nice turns.

I have to confess I wasn’t too keen on director John Crowley’s previous outings – Brooklyn (2015) and The Goldfinch (2019) – but here he has the sense to stand back and let the actors act. Written by Nick Payne (The Last Letter From Your Lover, 2021).

Worth a punt. A good piece of counter-programming.

Three (1969) **

More interesting for the personalities involved – Sam Waterston, Charlotte Rampling, an ex-fighter pilot, an Australian pop star and a model – than the film itself, which presents a European arthouse take on youngsters freewheeling around Europe looking for their share of the free love purportedly available everywhere.

There’s not really any story, mostly it’s scenery, and whatever tension there is rarely rises to the point of drama. However, it is refreshing to see a picture not steeped in angst that reflects the normality of life rather than superficially-imposed heightened confrontation. On a tour of Italy, American college buddies Taylor (Sam Waterston), the shy, gawky one, and Bert (Robie Porter), the better-looking confident one, take up with British girl Marty (Charlotte Rampling). The guys make a pact not to compete for the girl’s attentions, but that idea doesn’t last long. The title suggests she might end up with one – or both. In trying to sell the film, the marketeers felt obliged to make that idea more implicit.

The guys make plays for other girls they meet but seem to find little genuine action and in that sense it is more true to life than other films of the period which suggested sex was there for the asking. But none of the characters are particularly interesting and while that is also more realistic it diminishes enjoyment. The highlight is a naked Taylor attempting to save a girl from drowning in the sea, but in keeping with the film’s tone he is beaten to it by a boat.

There’s not much sign here of the intense dramatic style Oscar nominee Sam Waterston would later bring to the movies. This was his third film after small parts in The Plastic Dome of Norma Jean (1966) and Dick Van Dyke vehicle Fitzwilly (1967) and he wouldn’t hit his stride until The Great Gatsby (1974).

Perhaps the oddest movie fate befell Charlotte Rampling, also a later Oscar nominee. How else to explain that she followed up this picture with Luchino Visconti’s The Damned (1969) and preceded it with Roger Corman’s Target: Harry (1969). With a career that at this point appeared to follow no particular pattern, after making an impact in Georgy Girl (1966) as a libidinous flatmate, she took a small role in The Long Duel (1967) before reaching leading lady status opposite Franco Nero in Italian thriller Sequestro di Persona (1968). Her languid screen persona was turned on its head with The Night Porter (1974). And then she was swept up in Alistair MacLean thriller Caravan to Vaccares (1974).

Who was Robie Porter you might very well ask and why did he only make two pictures, the other being The Carey Treatment (1972)? He was an Australian pop star, specializing in instrumentals on a steel guitar, with a series of hits including two at number one. He chanced his arm in Britain, without repeating that success, then moved to the U.S. and landed parts in television series Daniel Boone and Mannix. After Three, he returned to the music business, as part-owner of record label Sparmac and producing for the band Daddy Cool.

Other names in Three, in bit parts only, none making any discernible impact in the picture, included model Edina Ronay, daughter of celebrated food critic Egon Ronay, who had appeared in A Study in Terror (1965) and Prehistoric Women (1967). Equally as celebrated, if for other reasons, was Gillian Hill, best known as one of the girls cavorting naked with photographer David Hemmings in Blow Up (1966).

Writer-director James Salter was a genuine Hollywood curiosity. He hit a peak of cinematic activity in 1969, with two screenplays filmed – Downhill Racer (1969) and The Appointment (1969). This is pretty much a companion piece to Downhill Racer (1969) which has a bunch of professional skiers on a similar scenic tour and often sitting around with not much to do although that film builds in confrontation and more standard love affair.

Generally considered a “writer’s writer” – i.e. adored by his peers more than the public – his first novel The Hunters (1958), based on his Air Force experiences, was turned into a movie starring Robert Mitchum. He dabbled in documentary film-making, whose impact can be seen in his feature films, but was better known for a short erotic novel A Sport and a Pastime set in Europe. None of his 1969 trio were hits, he ended up in Hollywood limbo, and he didn’t reappear on the movie credits list until Richard Pearce’s sci-fi Threshold (1981) starring Donald Sutherland.

Doctors Wives (1971) ***

Five-star so-bad-it’s-good. Every now and then, especially approaching the annual touting of earnest films for Oscar consideration, we need reminded of just how good Hollywood is at producing hugely enjoyable baloney. Excepting the proliferation of recent MCU disasters, cinematic train wrecks don’t come along nearly often enough. Such botched jobs are always better if they are stuffed full of the worthy – Oscar recipients or nominees. Gene Hackman, Dyan Cannon, Rachel Roberts, Ralph Bellamy and screenwriter Daniel Taradash fulfil that requirement here.

A cross between Sex and the City and ER, with a third act that takes off like a rabbit desperately seizing on any convenient narrative hole. And a first act that pulls the old Psycho number of killing off the star before the picture really gets going. That old murder MacGuffin works every time.

“I’m horny” is about the third line in the movie, announced by sex-mad Lorrie (Dyan Cannon) to a tableful of over-refreshed doctors wives playing sedate poker in a country club at one table while at another table where you would expect the doctor husbands to be telling dirty jokes and whispering inuendoes they are boring each other with shop talk.

Unable to get the others to engage in revealing snippets about their sex lives, Lorrie rounds off the evening by informing the ladies that she plans to have sex with all their husbands to tell them where they are all going wrong, meanwhile gaily proclaiming she’s halfway there already. Which, of course, sets off a round of suspicion and accusations from wives to husbands.

Just to keep you straight on the who’s who: Lorrie is married to Dr Mort Dellman (John Colicos), Dr Peter Brennan (Richard Crenna) to Amy (Janice Rule), Dr Dave Randolph (Gene Hackman) to Della (Rachel Roberts), and Dr Paul McGill (George Gaymes) to Elaine (Marian McCargo) while Dr Joe Gray (Carroll O’Connor) and his ex- Maggie (Cara Williams) still hang around with the group.

As you might expect, every marriage is already in trouble, except, apparently, Lorrie’s because her husband, equally sex-mad Mort, appears to indulge his wife’s whims. Except, he’s not so easy-going, given he puts a bullet in her back when he discovers her making love to one of his colleagues.

Exactly which one remains a mystery for just long enough for the wives to rack up the suspicion level, and all the audience has to go on is the naked arm waving limply trapped under the naked dead weight of the corpse.

You might think, what with Dyan Cannon’s name being top-billed and she quite the rising star after an Oscar nomination for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969), that we’re going to flip into a series of flashbacks to accord her more screen time. But, no, all we get is that opening risqué scene and her naked corpse.

Before ER’s creator Michael Crichton came calling a couple of decades later, the surgical profession was mostly represented in formulaic soap opera of the Dr Kildare small screen or The Interns (1962) big screen variety. But author Frank G. Slaughter, himself a practising physician, had made his name with a series of bestsellers that went into the intricacies of surgery and involved genuine medical jargon. So, before the identity of the illicit lover can be revealed, his life has got to be saved – after all he’s got a bullet in his heart. Cue even bloodier surgical shenanigans than kept fans of Mash (1970) hooked.

By the time we discover the victim was Dr McGill any chance of his wife stomping around in a huff at his infidelity is already off the menu because she’s been dallying with an intern.

I won’t go into all the all-round marital strife – triggered by alcoholism, drug addiction, infertility, ambition – that allows Oscar winners and nominees to try and act their way out of trouble because this picture has another absolute zinger to throw at you.

The murderer blackmails all four doctor pals for having a fling with his wife. To that cool $100,000 he adds quarter of a million from Lorrie’s wealthy dad Jake (Ralph Bellamy) for agreeing to make no claim on his wife’s estate. You kind of wonder what the heck use is all this dosh going to be in the slammer or Death Row. But that’s before you consider the zinger.

Mort’s a specialist and there happens to be a young patient desperate for his surgical skills. Young lad is son to head operating nurse Helen (Diana Sands) who is having an affair with Dr Brennan. So, a deal is done – you can’t wait for this humdinger, can you – wherein the D.A. is agreeable to release Mort from custody so he can perform this emergency operation while Dr Brennan and Jake – wait for it – agree to help him escape abroad.

As everyone knows you can’t tell one masked surgeon from another, so the first part of the plans works and while the cops keep a close eye on the fake Mort as he emerges from the operating theater the real Mort escapes in a parked car with the keys in the ignition. Except Jake isn’t quite a dumb or gullible as Dr Brennan and removes the keys so the killer can’t escape. Which was a shame because this picture could have gone on for another bonkers 20 minutes or so watching Mort outwit the cops.

As it is, there’s more than enough to fill in the time. Amy, something of a clothes horse with an extraordinary array of clothes and especially hats, goes all slinky in what looks like day-glo leggings to perform a bizarre seduction on her husband. Which elicits the movie’s best line, Nurse Helen complaining, “I don’t appreciate you sleeping with your wife.”

Unbeknownst to her, Lorrie has a female disciple who seduces every male in sight for research purposes, tape-recording every moment of the activity, so her victims are pretty much always in the coitus interruptus position.

And I can’t let you go without mentioning that Lorrie was also bisexual and counted among her conquests Della.

Except for the unlikely success of The French Connection later in the year which offered a different route in top-billing, Gene Hackman, had he continued taking on roles like this, might have ended up a perennial third potato. Bear in mind he already had two best supporting actor nominations in the bank when, third-billed, he took this on. Maybe he never read the whole script. Maybe this was the best offer going.

He’s not even the best thing in it. Too earnest for a start. Husband-and-wife murderer-victim tag team John Colicos (Anne of the Thousand Days, 1969) and Dyan Cannon take the honors. Directed by George Schaefer (Pendulum, 1969) and scripted by Daniel Taradash (Castle Keep, 1969). .

An absolute hoot.