Shirley Anne Field – The Magnificent 60s

The Damned / These Are The Damned (1963) ****

Nihilism was at a peak in the 1960s. The threat of nuclear war and/or the fallout from radiation was as genuine a fear as the leak of a man-made disease is today. This was a precursor, though initially ignored, of the spate of nuke movies like Fail Safe (1964), Dr Strangelove (1964) and The Bedford Incident (1965) which made the argument not to leave nuclear accessibility in the hands of trigger-happy politicians, scientists and the military.

The idea that scientists for experimental reasons might welcome radiation was not a notion easily embraced. The Damned (not to be confused with the earlier Village of the Damned, 1960, and later Children of the Damned, 1964, or, for that matter, Luchino Visconti’s The Damned in 1969) presents a more ruthless scientific approach than audiences might expect.

Three tales eventually dovetail. In a very contemporary nod to English society, tearaways known as “teddy boys” terrorise a seaside town. Led by the snappily-dressed umbrella-wielding King (Oliver Reed) when not causing general mayhem they take pleasure in beating up any male who happens to be enticed by his glamorous sister Joan (Shirley Anne Field). One such unfortunate is Simon (MacDonald Carey), an American tired of the rat race. Joan decides she has had enough of being used as sexual bait and boards Simon’s yacht to apologise, at which point unlikely romance ensues. Not that romantic initially, as Simon assumes she is easy pickings, and comes on a shade too strong. Her thwarted brother sends his gang to spy on the couple.

Scientist Bernard (Alexander Knox) welcomes the arrival of his sculptor girlfriend Freya (Viveca Lindfors) who has a studio in a cottage on the cliffs. Underneath the cliffs is a secret project involving a group of obedient 11-year-old children who appear to have lived there from birth, with whom Bernard communicates via closed circuit television.

Joan and Simon enjoy an evening idyll in the empty cottage until chased out by the gang. Escape leads them down the cliffside where the children offer them a hiding place. The kids think Joan and Simon are their parents coming to the rescue. They believe they are on a spaceship headed to planets unknown. They are as baffled that the incomers have warm skin as the escapees that they have cold skin. Eventually, they are joined by King, rescued from drowning by one of the children.

Eventually, too, all are trapped by Bernard and his men. King, with his violent skills honed, is able to take on the guards and fashion an escape. Bernard allows the couple to leave on Simon’s yacht, knowing they will die of radiation poisoning before too long, a helicopter hovering overhead should they decide to land anywhere.

When Freya discovers the truth, Bernard kills her. The children lived through a radiation leak and are being groomed by Bernard to survive the inevitable future nuclear war in the hope, presumably, that they might breed and create a generation invulnerable to radiation. All that upsets the scientist of this incident is that the children now know they are prisoners.

Small wonder Hammer didn’t know what to do with such downbeat fare. Ruthless scientists like Bernard were usually put in their place by intrepid civilians like Simon and Joan or outsiders like King. The imprisoned always escaped. Humans, never mind children, were not treated as lab rats. A more cynical contemporary audience would not be remotely surprised at the conspiracies of scientists and governments.

If you think The Wicker Man (1973) took an age to achieve cultdom, this took forever, in part because of the later artistic recognition of director Joseph Losey, this scarcely fitting into an oeuvre that contained The Servant (1964) and The Go-Between (1971). Recognition was negated by poor initial distribution, the American version heavily edited, and it wasn’t really until this century that its worth was vindicated.

It’s a brilliantly bold construct, especially as, in retrospect, other characters are imprisoned one way or another. King scarcely lets Joan out of his sight, and while forcing her to strut her stuff to entice men that he can mug is revulsed at the notion of her embracing another man. Freya, too, although she doesn’t realise it, can only enjoy a relationship with Bernard in which he has complete control. The teddy boys, who think they can wreak havoc, are easy pickings for the might of the military.

Some scenes are just superb. Joan picking up Simon. King’s relish of violence. Bernard in avuncular tones addressing the children, who could all be in the running for cute Disney roles. Joan’s shock at the coldness of the children. The children’s innate obedience turning to rebellion at their betrayal. A camera tracking a room to the sound of heavy footsteps, those revealed to belong to a man in a Hazchem outfit. Bernard’s cold-blooded elimination of his lover. Finally, the cries of the children too distant to be heard by tourists on a beach.

Oliver Reed (Hannibal Brooks, 1968), working hard on his steely stare and his breathless tones, is the pick here, but Alexander Knox (Accident, 1967) runs him close. Sultry-eyed Shirley Anne Field (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, 1960) does better than B-film regular MacDonald Carey who appears out of his acting depth.

Genuine cult material.

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. Sold under the exploitation banner – “this could be your teenage daughter” – 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 Hills) heads for the wild side of town to experience the beatnik lifestyle in Soho coffee shops and cellars. That there’s 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 go dancing until Jennifer gets it into her head that joining 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 Hills (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.

*Father and headache of a daughter – David Farrar and Gillian Hills.*

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 (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, 1960) 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.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960) ***

Minus an understanding of the context and setting aside the compelling charm of Albert Finney in his debut, it would be hard to find any sympathy for as unlikeable character as Arthur Seaton.

He belonged to what was called the “Angry Young Men” who sprang up as figments of the collective imagination of a new group of writers like Alan Sillitoe, who wrote this novel, David Storey (This Sporting Life), Keith Waterhouse (Billy Liar) and John Osborne (Look Back in Anger). They were angry at circumstance, at growing up in a time when the working classes knew their place, and were consistently reminded of it, and work was generally a hard, monotonous grind.

It is hard to see what Seaton is angry about. He has sex on tap with an older married woman, a girl his own age on the side, enough money to spend on his own pleasures which mostly consist of drinking and sex, gets his dinner put on the table the minute he comes through the door and even though the teapot is sitting next to his hand still will call on his mother to pour it out. He is an inveterate liar, a bully, injures one woman and frightens the life out of another, and refuses to face up to his responsibilities. He does not want promotion, despises those who do, and equally holds in contempt fellow workers organised into a union.

What he does actually want is never made clear. He just doesn’t want the life on which he is set.

One of the curiosities of the movies made out of these books and plays was that the writers came from that working-class background they described so well while the directors belonged to the privileged classes. Writers and directors alike subscribed to the notion that the working man was exploited by the bosses and that everyone who used their own money to invest in a company and provide employment was a rotter. This was a Britain on the verge of a cultural revolution that would explode a few years later in fashion, music and politics.

That said, the film is an excellent portrayal of the period, the first time a proper working factory was depicted on screen, where employees were paid by piecemeal, i.e. remunerated for what they individually produced rather than whether they produced anything or not, rewarded for their own endeavors rather than as a collective. The bicycle was the chief means of locomotion and life consisted of meals in cramped kitchens, living with your parents, trying (mostly vainly) to get sex and drinking so hard you were apt to fall down the stairs.

In a star-making turn, Finney is superb, charisma oozing from the screen, a manly, brawny fellow, unlike the bulk of British actors, and speaking with his own accent, unlike the bulk of British actors. Likewise, Rachel Roberts as his mistress, is equally good and Shirley Anne Field makes a strong impression as his girlfriend. The women are all particularly good in a world where no matter how forward-thinking they might be their role will inevitably be long-suffering to the males who inevitably get away with murder. It’s an assured debut from Czech director Karel Reisz.

A rare interview with Albert Finney will appear on July 19, 2020.