nudity – Page 13 – The Magnificent 60s

In Search of Gregory (1969) ***

Off-beat examination of the fantasy vs. reality conundrum with an ever-watchable Julie Christie as the woman on the titular hunt. The only film of acclaimed British theater director Peter Wood is a more whimsical cousin to the more deliberately obscure works of Alain Resnais (Last Year at Marienbad, 1961) and Michelangelo Antonioni (Blow-Up, 1966) which pivoted upon the question of whether events presented actually occur or exist only in the head of the leading character.

Catherine (Julie Christie) is enticed to Geneva by her father (Adolfo Celi) for his latest wedding on the basis that she will meet the impossibly handsome Gregory (Michael Sarrazin). On arrival she discovers the agoraphobia of younger brother Daniel (John Hurt) has been temporarily lifted by Gregory. Catherine appears set to meet Gregory on a number of occasions, but either he does not turn up (the wedding) or somehow, they miss each other, even at one point occupying adjoining phone booths. And it would have been a pretty dull picture if that was all that was going on. But whether the result of reality or Catherine’s imagination, the Gregory we see is a vivid screen presence. The world the characters inhabit is unusual to say the least, so unique that it is either obviously real or fake, but virtually impossible to determine which.

The best Gregory sequence, of which Steve McQueen would be proud, involves the character moving by means of the windscreen from one side to the other of a car driven at high speed. In another scene Gregory plays the equally perilous game of Autoball, a kind of polo with stock cars. As convincing is Gregory’s avant-garde orchestra consisting of two guitars, bottles, a bicycle wheel, a waste bin and coins in a glass.

The detail is so extraordinary that it must be real. The brother seems real enough, too real if anything, close to enjoying (or pining for) an incestuous relationship with his sister. But for every moment that appears questionable – did she really witness Gregory making love to her future mother-in-law – there are others where doubts are immediately quelled (an address which appears non-existent is not). And long before anybody came up with the idea of selling bottled water, Gregory is apparently in the business of selling tinned Alpine air. Other moments she does not witness – Daniel riding a Lambretta/Vespa with feet on the handlebars – add to the prospect of genuine reality.

Catherine might even have met Gregory except that in going to bed with the man who looks very much like what we believe Gregory to look like she determines that he shall remain anonymous. So it’s anybody’s guess whether Gregory is a figment or phantom of her imagination. And why, of course, should such invention be necessary? Does it mean that her father and brother do not exist either?

It’s an entertaining mystery. There’s no great angst. Antonioni had the sense or cunning to ensure that consequence mattered in Blow-Up – a murderer escaping justice. But there’s no such tension here. While Catherine is tabbed a nympho by her brother (who never questions her father’s predilection for multiple marriages), the suggestion that she’d fly from Rome (where she lives with her boyfriend) to Geneva is the hope of a hook-up seems too far-fetched.

Despite the presence of Julie Christie – who can certainly carry even as slight a picture as this – and a quixotic turn from John Hurt (Sinful Davy, 1969) it’s neither obscure enough to be arthouse nor sufficiently plot-driven to be mainstream and remains an oddity. If you are going to be irritated beyond belief that will occur in the first fifteen minutes or so, but if you stay the course, you may find it a worthwhile watch rather than a cinematic car crash. Written by Bonnie Golightly (her only screenplay), Oscar-nominated Tonino Guerra (Blow-Up, 1966), and Lucile Laks (The Black Belly of the Tarantula, 1971).

La Belle Noiseuse (1991) ****

I’m taking the Jacques Rivette test. Aka the bum-on-seat test. How easily can you sit through a four-hour intimate epic is often seen as the true test of your credentials as a critic. I have to confess I’ve failed this test once. Twice, to be truthful. I walked out – twice – of Celine and Julie Go Boating Go Boating (1974). But as I’m partial to tales of creative endeavor, a sucker for any story about an artist, this seemed more promising.

This director does something so clever you wonder why the idea wasn’t applied before. Maybe it was, but nobody fessed up. The star of this show in many ways is neither Michel Piccoli (Topaz, 1968) as artist Frenhofer nor Emmanuelle Beart (Mission: Impossible, 1996) as model Marianne but the real-life painter Bernard Dufour. We never see Dufour’s face, only his hands. For it’s he who sketches and paints, not the actor. So we don’t have any of that nonsense where an actor purportedly spent a year preparing for the role, learning to play an instrument or whatever and then showing all too obviously that he/she is doing something by rote rather than inhabiting the skin of a true artist.

But that does also mean we don’t have to skate over a lifetime’s worth of painting or music or whatever to get to the painting or piece of music for which the character became famous and we don’t need to dwell on background or career development or any other issue that might have hindered /affected/ charged their progress.

This is, beyond a couple of introductory scenes, the story of how an artist paints and his relationship with the model and how that changes both of them. Rivette, having given himself all the time in the world, takes all the time in the world, so we go from initial sketches, ink on crackling paper, to an outline of an idea, to the false steps, wrong steps and true steps.

The awkwardness between artist and model is cleverly captured. Marianne feels she has been traded. Her boyfriend Nicolas (David Bursztein), a rising artist, hopes to win favor with the established artist by pushing her into the project without first asking her approval. Quite what makes her accept the (unpaid) job is unclear but then there are no academic studies on amateur models to provide clarification beyond a sense of excitement at being asked.

She takes in her stride the perfunctory reality that she will be naked virtually the whole time. That aspect of the film might have been viewed as somewhat prurient, but, in fact, it sheds light on just what a model does, what is asked of her, and why, and the idea is killed off right away that an artist always has a clear idea of his composition before he embarks on a painting.

Here, Frenhofer spends as much time trying to get to the heart and soul of his subject, to understand the shape and lines of her body, as he does on the actual picture. He wants to combine her characteristics with whatever he has in his head. There’s another element to the story. He tried to paint a similar picture a decade before, with his wife Liz (Jane Birkin) as the model. For reasons unstated, he abandoned the painting.

Although there’s a twist at the end, there’s not much more to the story than a painting being created from start to finish, including all the finicky bits like deciding on the pose and the size and shape of the canvas and the colors etc.

Yes, it’s incredibly long and not long in the way of Christopher Nolan or Martin Scorsese or Ridley Scott where length is the result of trying to cram in too much, characters, details, storylines, complications or visualisations a director could not resist. But it’s endlessly fascinating and for many the best movie ever made about the creative process, all the more so because although documentary in style it’s not documentary in execution.

Both actors are superb, not least for the concentration this must have taken, since development would have taken place in minute detail.

I think I passed the Rivette test. Celine and Julie….hmmm, still not so sure.

Well worth four hours of your time.

Stiletto (1969) ***

The bursting of the B-movie bubble dealt a death blow to the careers of the two stars here. In the past, rising talent who failed to make the marquee grade could find almost a lifetime of contentment in low-budget westerns, neo-noir thrillers and down’n’dirty exploitationers with the hope of an occasional supporting role in a bigger picture to ease their path. By the end of the decade, just about the only option were Roger Corman biker flicks or spaghetti westerns. Especially if they had gone down the tough guy route, B-pictures might have provided an exemplary move for both Alex Cord and Patrick O’Neal. As it was, this was their last shot at the big time. And it was lean pickings.

Retirement can be a tough call any time for a high-flying businessman. But when you’re at the top of your profession in the Mafia, loosening such ties can prove problematic. Count Cesare (Alex Cord) is a part-time assassin, spending the rest of his time as a fun-loving playboy with a string of women, fast cars and racehorses. Only problem is, he wants to retire from the Family – and not in normal fashion, weighted down by a block of cement. Unfortunately, his dilemma doesn’t solicit sympathy from boss Matteo (Joseph Wiseman).

Adding to his problems is tough cop Baker (Patrick O’Neal) on his tail who fastens onto illegal immigrant Illeana (Britt Ekland), Cesare’s girlfriend when he’s not pursuing Ann (Barbara McNair). A strictly by-the-numbers thriller it’s enlivened by two underrated tough screen hombres. Alex Cord (The Brotherhood, 1968) isn’t given enough of a character here to tug at audience heartstrings although elsewhere he had proved better-than-expected value. If anything, he’s an existential kind of hero.

Cord made a brief splash as an action hero in the monosyllabic Clint Eastwood/Charles Bronson mold after debuting in the John Wayne role of the Ringo Kid in the remake of Stagecoach (1966) and didn’t have more than half a dozen stabs at making his name on the big screen before disappearing into the television hinterlands. So he’s something of an acquired taste, maybe the small output enough to qualify him for cult status. Here, he’s a decent fit for the violence but saddled with a role that makes little sense.

Patrick O’Neal (El Condor, 1970) followed a similar career trajectory, swapping television with the occasional movie and even managing a screen persona as a snarky type of villain/supporting character. A few more tough-guy roles and he might well have built a stronger footing in the business.

This is another thankless role for Britt Ekland (Machine Gun McCain, 1969), there to add glamor, but, surprisingly, she manages to bring pathos to the part. Barbara McNair (If He Hollers Let Him Go, 1968), always worth watching and who had made an auspicious debut the year before, hardly gets any screen time.

Director Bernard L. Kowalski (Krakatoa, East of Java, 1968) proves better at the action than the characterization, though, luckily nobody needs to be anything other than tough. Three scenes, in particular, are well handled – the opening murder in a casino, a shoot-out a penthouse and the climax on a deserted island which has more than a hint of a spaghetti western. Joseph Wiseman (Dr No, 1962) rustles up another interesting performance and collectors of trivia might note Roy Scheider (Jaws, 1975) putting in an appearance.

This old-style tough-guy thriller would have been better off had the Cord vs. O’Neal set-up taken center stage, with the assassin on murderous overkill hunted down by the zealous cop. As it is, it’s a missed opportunity for Cord to develop an Eastwood/Bronson persona and enter the action star hall of fame.

Based on a thin Harold Robbins bestseller, the screenplay by W.R. Burnett (The Great Escape, 1963) and A.J. Russell (A Lovely Way to Die, 1968) doesn’t take any prisoners.

Doesn’t quite deliver what it says on the tin, but interesting to see Cord and O’Neal battle it out.

The Sicilian Clan / Le Clan des Siciliens (1969) *****

Absolutely cracking, brilliantly structured, gangster thriller featuring two fabulous heists and three legendary French stars in Jean Gabin, Alain Delon and Lino Ventura. Roger Sartet (Delon) is a trigger-happy robber whose terrific prison escape is organized for a hefty fee by French-based Mafia chieftain Vittorio Manalese (Gabin). Le Goff (Ventura) is the rugged cop hunting down the escapee which brings him into the orbit of Manalese, about whose existence he is completely unaware, the gangster having kept an extremely low profile, never engaging in violence, hiding behind the legitimate front of a pinball machine business. Veteran French director Henri Verneuil (Guns for San Sebastian, 1968) dukes between the twin storylines with ease.

Sartet brings Manalese the opportunity to pull off the most audacious jewel robbery in history, even though the older man despises Sartet’s penchant for violence and sex. We often see Manalese at family gatherings, head of the dinner table, the family watching television together, frowning on one son’s liking for alcohol, playing with his grandson. He is not just a calm and clever businessman, but very quick-thinking, his sharp mind in a couple of instances preventing disaster. Sartet, on the other hand, will happily endanger his life and freedom by consorting with prostitutes and breaking an unspoken code of honor in an affair with Manalese’s son’s wife (Irina Demick).

The result combines dogged detective work by Le Goff and the inspired planning and execution of the jewel robbery until the two worlds collide. The investigation alone would have made this an outstanding picture. Le Goff, always seen with an unlit cigarette in his mouth although he is trying to give up smoking, concentrating initially on Sartet, sets up surveillance on the thief’s innocent sister and begins an involved – and engrossing – process of tracking down every potential lead and when at last he has Sartet in his sights it brings him up close to Manalese.

Le Goff’s professionalism is matched by that of Manalese and the picture develops into an absorbing battle of wits and the latter’s family values and moral compass puts him at odds with loner Sartet. There is some brilliant invention, the sacrificial watch, for example, and the unexpected appearance of a faithful British wife, although you do guess just how long Le Goff will go before lighting his ever-tempting cigarette.

The ultra-cool Alain Delon (Once a Thief, 1965) excels in this kind of amoral part, but Jean Gabin (Any Number Can Win, 1963) and Lino Ventura (Army of Shadows, 1969) as old-style gangster and cop, respectively, steal the show. Irina Demick (Prudence and the Pill, 1968) thrives as the bored wife of a dull gangster who is attracted by the violent Delon, at one point deliberately putting herself in the line of his potential fire for the thrill. Actually, it’s the jewel heist that steals the show. Unlike other heist pictures where you have fair idea in advance of the details of the theft, here the audience is kept completely in the dark. Just as important in any heist is that the thieves get away with their plunder and the plan in this instance is breath-taking.

As proved by The Burglars (1971) director Henri Verneuil has the nose for a heist, but this tops that for sheer audacity and elan. Verneuil, Delon and Gabin had worked together on Any Number Can Play. Written by Verneuil and Jose Giovanni (Rififi in Tokyo, 1963) from the novel by Auguste Le Breton (Rififi, 1965).

Preceding The Godfather (1972) in its exploration of family and Mafia code of conduct, it offers plenty in the humanity department while dazzling with ingenuity in the criminality stakes.

Unmissable.

Murder a la Mod (1968) ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great – and meaningful – fun.

Three into Two Won’t Go (1969) ***

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

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

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

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

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

Complex but not hard work.

Two Weeks in September (1967) ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love Lies Bleeding (2024) *** – Seen at the Cinema

This year’s Saltburn. An ethereal mix of noir, exploitation, wife beating, body building, carpetbagging, blackmail, steroids, bug snacking, daddy issues, such a long string of coincidence it could run a marathon, topped off with a healthy dose of surrealism. I guess going with the flow brings reward. Not sure it made much of being set in 1989, no signs of movie theater marquees promoting Batman or Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade though the principals might have got a buzz out of Lethal Weapon.

You do have to wonder though at choice. Was this all that Kirsten Stewart was offered or has she aligned herself as the kind of arthouse darling whose attachment makes such an unwieldy project feasible? But an actress who can switch from Seberg (2019) to Charlie’s Angels (2019) and back again to Crimes of the Future (2022) demonstrates the kind of versatility that can sit easily on both sides of the Hollywood fence. But it’s a step too far for martial artist Katy O’Brian (Ant Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, 2023).

Coincidence can only get you so far though generally you can rely on a screenwriter to attempt to magnify relationships by ensuring that nobody gets through a movie without having some difficult relationship. That guy on the corner, let’s make him an uncle. The kid who appears once, let’s make him a drug addict who’s addicted to heroin because he blames himself for his mum dying in childbirth. Coincidence overload has found a true champion here.

So hitchhiker Jackie (Katy O’Brian) has sex in the car of JJ (Dave Franco) on the understanding that he’ll find her a job on a shooting range owned by Lou (Ed Harris) who happens to be the father and shares the same name as Lou (Kirsten Stewart) a gym manager who falls for Jackie’s swelling pecs and who happens also to be JJ’s brother-in-law. Lady Lou happens to have a sometime girlfriend Daisy (Anna Baryshnikov) who happens upon Jackie driving Lady Lou’s car after Jackie’s s murdered JJ. And Lady Lou’s only happened upon the murder because – you can see where this going.

Luckily Lady Lou is experienced in getting rid of a corpse – and luckily there are plenty of good-sized rugs to spare because she has to lug out a total of three dead bodies. Her dad’s a gun-runner and corrupter of cops so he’s immune to pretty much everything unless his daughter decides to rat him out, which might be a complication for her, given that earlier she was running in his slipstream.

There’s plenty lowlife mixed in with high end angst, Lady Lou falling out with Jackie once she cottons on to the fact that she quite enjoys bisexuality and has no objection to swapping sex for a job, not even with an odious wife-beating brother-in-law. And then Lou has to come to terms with the fact that after committing murder Jackie’s only concern is in high-tailing it down to Vegas for a body building competition.

So really way too much narrative and subplot for this thin gruel. But in passing there are some memorable moments. For a start, this is the first time I can remember seeing anyone at a shooting range who isn’t a cop of the Dirty Harry persuasion or a spy. To see ordinary folks happily popping off at targets and enjoying a beer afterwards goes a long way to explain the country’s obsession with ownership of weaponry.

And the face of the victim of the wife-beating was truly shocking as was what was left of JJ’s jaw once Jackie had smashed it into a table. Then we have the surreality – a full-grown Lady Lou pops out of JJ’s mouth covered in birth residue, Jackie’s muscles audibly crack almost every time she takes a breath and when she goes into full-blown Incredible Hulk mode her tee-shirt splits in half, plus she turns into a giant to pin down Daddy Lou.

By the time you get to the end, there’s been so many changes of tempo and mood that you’re grateful that after all this is really a romantic comedy complete with making up on a tennis court and a corpse coming to life in the back of a car. It’s a good few tunes short of a decent picnic, but once you realize this is more of a cartoon than a genuine noir thriller and go with the flow it has rewarding moments. There’s a decent amount of nihilism and almost anytime anyone makes a declaration of love you can be sure they’re going to blow the loved one’s brains out or do something to totally contradict their statement.

As directed by Rose Glass (Saint Maud, 2019), it might have been better if the surrealism had infused the entire movie rather than being reseved, as if the icing on the cake, for the final segments.

As I said, this year’s Saltburn.

Candy (1968) **

Ode to the male gaze. Once a cult vehicle, this will struggle to find favor these days what with its backward attitudes. Virtually impossible to excuse the rampant self-undulgence. The sexually exploited naïve Ewa Aulin in the title role didn’t even have the benefit of being turned into a star. The satire is executed with all the finesse of a blunderbuss. And while, theoretically, picking off a wild range of targets, if this movie has anything to say it’s to point out how easy it is for men to deify themselves at the slightest opportunity.

Not much of a narrative more a series of sketches slung together with the slightest connecting thread. Most its appeal lies in watching huge marquee names make fools of themselves. Or, if you’re that way inclined, seeing how much nudity will be imposed on the star, intimacy rarely consensual, clothes usually whipped off her.

Teenager Candy (Ewa Aulin) has father issues, daddy (Jack Austin) being a dumb angst-ridden teacher. Randy poet McPhisto (Richard Burton) drives a class of schoolgirls into a frenzy with his lusty reading, inveigles Candy into his chauffeur-driven car, ends up in her basement drunkenly humping a mannequin while Mexican gardener (Ringo Starr) with an accent as coruscating as that of Manuel from Fawlty Towers assaults her on pool table. Scandalized father packs her off to his twin brother in New York, that notoriously safe haven for nymphettes, while on the way to the airport they are almost driven off the road by the gardener’s vengeful biker sisters (Florinda Balkan et al).

For no apparent reason she is hitching a lift on a military plane commanded by randy Brigadier Smight (Walter Matthau) who, on the grounds that he hasn’t had sex for six years, commands her to remove her clothes for the good of the nation. In the Big Apple, rock star surgeon Dr Krankheir (James Coburn), entering the operating theater to the same kind of waves of acclaim as McPhisto, finds an excuse to have her undress and submit to him, this just after she’s managed to avoid the attentions of her randy uncle. It should come as no surprise that Krankheit treats women as his personal property to the extent of branding them like cattle.

In due course, she encounters a gang of mobsters, an underground movie director and a hunchback (Charles Aznavour) who, in return for her showing pity for his condition, proceeds to rape her. She is arrested. Guess who wants to frisk her. Naturally, when she escapes she runs into a bunch of drag queens.

Then she finds sanctuary in a semi-trailer truck, home to guru Grindl (Marlon Brando). He’d be convincing enough as a mystic except he, too, finds an excuse to rip her clothes off. There are more cops to contend with and another guru, facial features obscured by white clay. If they’re going to have sex then naturally it must be in a Hindu temple. Turns out the latest person to take advantage of her is her father but he’s been handed a get-out-of-jail-free card because by now he’s brain damaged.

This might all be a dream/nightmare. Candy might even be an alien. It’s dressed up in enough psychedelia to sink a battleship and its highly likely that any lass as gullible as Candy will find herself at the mercy of any man, so in that context it carries a powerful message. I’m sure many beautiful young girls will attest to the truth that men feel they have the right to paw anyone who comes their way without asking permission. And the other message is just as powerful – how many young actresses have been seduced by thoughts of fame to disport themselves in this fashion only to find that all the industry wants is their nudity not their acting talent.

You might say that the target is so obvious it hardly needs pointing out but the MeToo campaign will beg to differ and you would hope that Hollywood has wised up. It’s just a shame that the satire is so heavy-handed. The military and the medical profession are sorely in need to answering tough questions. Unfortunately, this picture doesn’t ask any. It’s like an endless casting couch.

Directed by Christian Marquand (Of Flesh and Blood, 1963) in, thankfully, his final picture, from a screenplay by Buck Henry (The Graduate, 1967) and Terry Southern (Dr Strangelove, 1962) based on the novel by Southern and Mason Hoffenberg. Nobody comes out of this well and it’s rammed full of cameos from the likes of Elsa Martinelli (The Belle Starr Story, 1968), John Huston (Myra Breckenridge, 1970), Anita Pallenberg (Performance, 1970), Marilu Tolo (Bluebeard, 1972) and boxer Sugar Ray Robinson.

Ewa Aulin (Start the Revolution Without Me, 1971) isn’t given much of chance, her character whimsical, pallid and submissive and she didn’t become a major marquee name.

A mess.