Oct 041961
 
one reel

In 1815, Captain Adam Corbett (Rory Calhoun) joins with Colonel Jackson (Ian Hunter) and his daughter, Pauline (Patricia Bredin), in a quest for the treasure of Monte Cristo. They have one quarter of a map, and meet with three others, an honorable English sea captain, a greedy French gentleman, and a wealthy and treacherous Italian named Boldini, who hold the other portions.  Together, they plan to retrieve the treasure.

Made after the golden age of swashbucklers, The Secret of Monte Cristo lacks the elaborate look and witty dialog of the genre.  It is a western with a slight change of setting and swords in place of six-shooters.  The English “inn” could have come from a John Wayne flick.  The swordplay is slow, though it does improve for the climatic duel, but fist and knife fights are more common and could have come from any late ‘50s western.  The Secret of Monte Cristo comes complete with Mexican bandits (who are supposed to be Italian).

Rory Calhoun comes off as a diminished and squinting Stewart Granger.  He isn’t bad as the heroic swordsman, nor is he memorable. Pauline is a poorly written damsel, weak and bratty even by the standards of swashbuckler maidens.  She reaches new heights of uselessness.  The “evil” woman at least tries to do things, but Pauline stays still as our hero fights off multiple villains, and doesn’t even warn him when one sneaks up behind him.  Only when a female is going to shoot Carbett does she bother to shout.  Patricia Bredin is generic in the role, lacking the appeal of a Janet Leigh, Linda Darnell, or Olivia de Havilland.

The story has a few odd plot holes.  Who were the bandits that attack our heroes on the road?  It’s implied they are working for Boldini, but he’d have a far easier time getting the map once they arrive at his villa.  Why is the financially solvent Colonel Jackson so fanatical on reaching the treasure that he’s willing to die to allow others to go on?

The great treasure of Monte Cristo is pretty shabby.  The gold goblets in the single chest couldn’t pay a month’s rent on Boldini’s estate.

This isn’t a bad film, just a lackluster one.  It also goes by the title The Treasure of Monte Cristo.

Back to Swashbucklers

 Reviews, Swashbucklers Tagged with:
Oct 031961
 
four reels

When Sheriff Andy Taylor is forced by the town Scrooge, Ben Weaver (Will Wright), to hold a moonshiner in jail over Christmas, Andy (Andy Griffith), Barney (Don Knotts), Aunt Bee (Frances Bavier), Ellie (Elinor Donahue), and Opie (Ronny Howard) move their Christmas celebration to the jail.  25 min.

So many Christmas shows try for warmth and end up with sickening, artificial over-sentimentality.  Not here.  The Andy Griffith Show: Christmas Story is charming family fare.  There’s plenty of humor (much of it supplied by Don Knotts as the bumbling but good-natured deputy who so wants to play Santa Claus, even though he weighs around a hundred and fifty pounds), a good message for children and adults alike, and lots of Christmas cheer.  Elinor Donahue is beautiful, sweet, and defines adorable as Andy’s girlfriend, while the young Ron Howard, long before his directing days, is a child that is believable without being obnoxious.  Griffith is the story’s foundation as Andy Taylor, not only making sure that several families are together for the holiday, but extending the definition of family and working out what lonely Ben Weaver really needs.

While many Christmas episodes of TV series make sense only to repeat viewers of the show, that’s not true here.  This episode defines what The Andy Griffith Show was about in its early years, but it also has a story that anyone can jump right into.  The characters are clear without any pre-knowledge, as is the situation they find themselves in.

This is good, wholesome fun without the schmaltz.  Gather your own family together around the TV and enjoy the antics of the crew from Mayberry.

Oct 031961
 
3,5 reels

In New York city, two rival street gangs, The Jets, led by Riff (Russ Tamblyn) and The Sharks, led by Bernardo (George Chakiris) battle for territory.  When Jet alum Tony (Richard Beymer) meets Maria (Natalie Wood), the sister of The Shark leader, at a youth dance, they fall instantly in love.  Doomed as soon as it begins, the lovers have little chance once Tony attempts to stop a fight between the two gangs and ends up killing Bernardo.

A revelation for Broadway and cinema, West Side Story is a balletic tragedy that has little in common with the happy, light film-musicals that came before it.  Updating Romeo and Juliet and commenting on the racial issues of the day, it was a huge hit in 1961, was nominated for eleven Academy Awards, and won ten of them.  For such a publicly acclaimed film (though some critics were more dubious), its popularity has fallen sharply over the years.  But it is a remarkable picture, and if its failings are noticeable, so are its successes.

The Best Director Oscar was split, for the first and only time, between two individuals, Broadway choreographer Jerome Robbins and Hollywood workhorse Robert Wise.  Robbins brought his innovative sense of dance to bear on the project, but he had little interest in schedules and budgets, reshooting scenes over and over on 70mm film until he was satisfied.  Eventually the studio stepped in and producer Wise finish things off.  Robbins may have been ignorant of the business of filmmaking, but it is his artistry, and that of composer Leonard Bernstein and lyricist Steven Sondheim, that make West Side Story memorable.

Bernstein’s jazz-timed, Latin-influenced score is a thing of genius.  It is both “hummable” (a requirement for show tunes) and avant-garde.  Robbins stages dance numbers that match it in tone, particularly with the semi-ballet Prolog/Jet Song and Cool.  The film never falters as long as someone is dancing or singing, taking on operatic proportions.  What could come off as hokey becomes sincere and important during the stylized numbers.

But when the music stops, the ride becomes hard to buy into.  The street gangs have been sanitized for our protection.  These aren’t street toughs and it is laughable that they are supposed to represent angry youth.  The Jets are closer to the comedic Bowery Boys of the ’40s.  Chosen for their dancing skills, the supporting gang members aren’t up to the task of giving life to the awkward dialog.  Too often, they are on the line between funny and silly, and keep slipping one way and then the other.  The Sharks come off a little better, primarily because most of them don’t speak.

The leads are a mixed bag as well.  Wood was cast because she was adorable (and a momentarily hot property), not because she could either sing or dance.  Her singing was dubbed by Marni Nixon (who also sang for Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady), who has a pretty voice in a generic Broadway sense.  I’d have preferred Maria to sing with more character, but at least Nixon can hit the notes.  The lack of footwork skill is dealt with by having Maria only dance momentarily and simplistically.  Considering the leaps of the supporting cast, her lack of movement is noticeable.  Also noticeable is that she isn’t Puerto Rican, and her attempt at an accent doesn’t help.

It is harder to find any reason for Beymer to be in the picture.  He can’t dance.  His acting is limited.  And his singing is dubbed as well.  Plus, he looks like a typical movie-style ’50s college student, not the one-time organizer of a gang.  He belongs in a ’50s sitcom saying “swell,” not in an edgy production.  Only Chakiris and Rita Moreno (as Bernardo’s girl, Anita) display all the talents needed for their parts.  Both can sing, dance, and act with the dark intensity needed for a tragedy.  And both were rewarded with Oscars.
Still, more than just the musical segments work.  For two hours, only the songs carry emotional impact.  With the drama so flat and un-involving for so long, the climax is stunningly effective.  It rivals the finish of the best productions of Romeo and Juliet and should leave few viewers with dry eyes.  Wood, who never pulls off a happy Puerto Rican girl, suddenly is completely believable as an anguished and broken woman.

While West Side Story’s depiction of rebellious youth is embarrassing and out of touch, there’s far too much good in the film to ignore it.  Grab another soda and pop some corn when the characters chatter, and focus on the music, dance, and tragedy, and you won’t be disappointed.

Sep 191961
 
one reel

Miners discover a giant frozen reptilian tail and hunkiest miner sends it to Professor Marteen of the Copenhagen aquarium. Professor Marteen has two, hot, man-hungry daughters. It doesn’t matter for the story, but the film wants you to know just how male-crazed these two chicks are and how lucky any man is who they get their hands on or who gets his hands on them. I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be humor or if the Danish just dwell on hot daughters and midday sex with strangers. But then Professor Marteen meets the new female scientist and leaps into discussing what a babe she is, so maybe it isn’t just daughters.

After everyone recovers from the hotness and obsession of the women, the scientists bring in a dopy comic relief caretaker to
 Well, he doesn’t do anything, though he’s set up to be the idiot that releases the giant monster. Instead that’s Marteen’s sidekick scientist, who leaves the refrigerator door open, allowing the tail to defrost and then regenerate into a giant snake puppet. Later, the sidekick gets eaten so I guess we can’t get too upset with him.

Luckily the UN has sent in grumpy US general Mark Grayson. He’s always unhappy and sweaty, and apparently the hero even though he’s the worst general ever. He does cheer up by taking the babe scientist on a stock footage travelogue of beautiful Copenhagen, which is handy as the film doubles as a vacation planner. Of course he gets grumpy again when the Reptilicus (cute name) goes on a rampage. He’s there to order lots of bomb attacks on the monster that can regenerate from any lost tissue. You’d think we’d end up with tons of Reptilicuses by the end, but snake puppets are expensive.

Can the general, scientist and hunky minor save the day? And what is the hunky minor still doing there? Really, doesn’t he have a job or something?

“You’ll have to fire point blank. At very close range.”

Reptilicus was Denmark’s low-budget, lower-talented entry into the ‘60s giant monster craze. It was shot, poorly, in Denmark, but with the actors speaking English. Since that sounded as good as expected, their voices were dubbed, which also sounds as good as expected. At least the words generally fit the lip movements. A comedy song was also cut, along with many of the most egregiously awful effects sequences. But to make up for that, the snake puppet was given animated acid spit that splotches on the screen and never has any visible effect (though the voices on the radios do seem quite upset about it.

This is a terrible film on every level. The monster is a string-pulled puppet that just waves its head back and forth. There is nothing connecting the fleeing townsfolk to the monster as they run through actual streets (though in random directions) while Reptilicus is tugged over cardboard boxes. Most of the indoor scenes stick with an unmoving camera and the actors often line up in a row, facing forward, like the blocking of a middle school play.

However, with the right crowd, and the right amount of alcohol, Reptilcus might fit into the “so bad its good” category. There are plenty of spots to insert your own MST3K routine. It certainly has the “so bad” part down.

 Giant Monsters, Reviews Tagged with:
Apr 271961
 
two reels

Fake-adventurer and author Reggie Blake (Terry-Thomas) returns from a journey to Arabia a changed man, dressed as a Bedouin and telling his wife Fran (Janette Scott) to keep her place. He’s also given up on his adventure books and wants to publish his pompous, semi-religious tract. His publisher (Wilfrid Hyde-White) has little interest in his new book, and less in his new abrasive personality. To strike back, Fran beings to write a biography of her husband.

Battle of the sexes comedies were common in the ‘60s, and His and Hers follows the general structure. The man is more than commonly sexist and obnoxious for the time and pushes until the woman decides to fight back. He is stupid and jealous, and she is brighter though equally jealous. Things become farcical and degenerate rabidly into absurdity. How well specific examples work depends on the trade-off between sold jokes and annoyance. His and Hers certainly has funny moments, and it is often annoying.

Strangely after making the audience thoroughly hate Reggie and sympathize with Fran, and elevating the level of absurdity to epic proportions, it pulls back. We even leave the main characters for some common at-the-time beatnik bashing. After having put up with Reggie’s horrible behavior for so long, we need some kind of payoff—I did anyway—but there isn’t one. This is a battle of the sexes comedy that just calls off the battle.

Janette Scott is lovely; I wish she’d done more of these comedies. Terry-Thomas is one of the greats—probably the greatest of the second generation Post-War British Comedians. He specialized in cads of one sort or another and could make them a lot of fun. But they didn’t have enough to work with. It feels as if they started without a finished script and then when it ran out, just ad libbed a quick ending. None of the three writers had experience in these sorts of comedies nor did any of them go on to illustrious careers and the director worked almost exclusively in drama. Giving this even a 2 star rating is being overly generous, but the actors are worth that.

Janette Scott was also in the Post-War British Comedies Happy Is the Bride (1958) and School for Scoundrels (1960) and the Post-Apocalyptic The Day of the Triffids (1963).

Terry-Thomas’s other Post-War British Comedies are Private’s Progress (1956), The Green Man (1956), Blue Murder at St. Trinian’s (1957), Brothers in Law (1957), Lucky Jim (1957), The Naked Truth (1957), Happy Is the Bride (1958), I’m All Right Jack (1959), Carlton-Browne of the F.O. (1959), Too Many Crooks (1959), Make Mine Mink (1960), and School for Scoundrels (1960).

Mar 231961
 
one reel

Recent divorcĂ©e Roslyn Taber (Marilyn Monroe) and her divorce-enabling friend Isabelle Steers (Thelma Ritter) run into Gay Langland (Clark Gable), an aging and bitterly nostalgic he-man cowboy, and Guido (Eli Wallach), a lost widower. The men immediately start competing for her. Though neither of them exhibit any qualities she’s interested in, she moves in to Guido’s empty house with Gay. After numerous nights of drinking, they head to a rodeo, picking up Perce Howland (Montgomery Clift), a brain-damaged and alcoholic rodeo rider, along the way. The three men decide to work together on a scheme to capture wild mustangs and sell them for dog food. Since Roslyn has a strong dislike of murdering animals, and dying in general, their plan is not going to go over well with her.

Gable was drinking and smoking himself to death. John Huston was seeking death through all manner of vices, though the most visible during production was booze and gambling, And they were amateurs next to Clift and Monroe where depression, drugs, and alcohol had them already sliding into the grave. But the old men had a head start, so it was Gable who died first, less than two weeks after finishing the production. Monroe would follow in a year and a half without finishing another picture. Clift lasted five years when what Robert Lewis called the “longest suicide in history” finally took him out at age 45. Somehow Huston outlived them all, though as a sickly man filled with thoughts of mortality.

And I shouldn’t leave out screenwriter Arthur Miller. Death wasn’t calling to him, but he was immersed in anger (perhaps petty) as his marriage to Monroe fell apart. He had started writing the script for her, but changed it along the way to be an attack on her.

This isn’t random trivia about the making of The Misfits. This is the movie. It’s anger and loss and death. There are no characters, but simply actors acting as themselves. And the many messages are what those actors, and more, the writer and director, would rant about before passing out.

Gable realized he’d made few good movies in his career and put in few good performances (points for self knowledge) and thought this was his chance to act. But acting was never a skill he processed. His character comes off as exactly what Gable was: a fading star who’d survived on equally fading charisma, who was in poor health and looked older than he was. (Gable was in his late ‘50s, looked like he was in his late ‘60s, and was supposed to be playing a guy in his mid ‘40s). Monroe came in with hope and fear and ended with a better understanding of the film than Gable. She hated it and her performance, though she’s by far the best of the three top-billed cast members. Of course she also hated that Miller was plastering both her personal life, and his prejudiced view of her across the screen. Clift doesn’t act. He’d long lost the ability to even try to do that. Pain and pills, a broken face, and desperation was all he had, and that’s what he displayed. He didn’t play a character, just his very sad self.

Well, at least both Monroe’s and Clift’s deteriorated mental states fit the picture. And as kindred souls, they were also the only ones that unreservedly got along. Their scenes together are the best in the film, not because they show the characters, but because they record two real broken people trying to support each other, but with no illusions that things will work out.

Wallach and Ritter do their job as the only people involved who were coherent and functional.

I don’t know what happened on that set, but there are plenty of stories to choose from. Everyone bends the truth and sees with their own eyes. So, was Monroe hospitalized due to her excessive drug use and spiraling anxiety, or was it a ploy by Huston to give himself time to deal with the exorbitant gambling debts he’d built up? Was Gable a calm gentleman who was patient with both Monroe’s and Huston’s delaying shooting on a daily basis, or did that drive him into a frenzy that partly led to his heart attack? And did Gable respect and work well with Clift, or was the threat he was heard to make toward Clift more indicative of his feelings? Was Monroe happy to work with her old friend Wallach or was she trying to get his scenes cut so he wouldn’t upstage her? Did Gable and Wallach enjoy playful banter or were they constantly picking at each other? Did Gable and Huston compete to see who had the most testosterone, or
 There’s no “or” on that one; they were in a playground competition. What is certain is that behind the scenes it was a mess, and that mess is splattered all over the film stock.

Damn, it’s surprising the result isn’t worse.

It’s not that The Misfits is a bad film as much as it isn’t a film at all. It’s just broken people displaying their failings. The plot doesn’t make much sense, nor do the characters, nor does much of anything, if taken as a movie. As the document of deteriorating lives, it is successful.

Without wildly changing the whole story (something that wasn’t going to happen since Gable had final call on the script and he liked it as it was), the film was in bad shape even before the morbid cast was assembled. Miller wrote it as if for the stage, not the screen, and outside of the two scenes with horses, it could be transformed into a play changing almost nothing. The stilted lines are only occasionally part of conversations. Instead, each character caries out monologues, stating, over and over, their philosophies of life. Don’t look for subtlety. You want to know Gay’s thoughts on freedom or Guido’s on marriage or Roslyn’s on morality? Have no fear, each will have at least two speeches covering those topics. Strangely, with all that philosophizing, it all comes to nothing, or maybe not so surprising. The mustang roundup isn’t half bad if they’d just turned down the symbolism five or six notches and not have multiple characters explaining the message as if it wasn’t abundantly clear. The unearned ending muddies the waters even more. The studio and Huston wanted to do some needed reshoots when they saw what they had, but Gable said “no” and his contract backed him up.

Every character is annoying in some way, but then hanging with sick, lost people often is aggravating. And sick lost people saying the lines of an angry man is a rough way to spend two hours. For portions of the story (I assume written when Miller was still seeing Monroe as his goddess), Roslyn is a manic pixie dream girl, before that was a thing. She dances and hugs trees and brings life to those who see her, all in a way no real human would. I tend to think the film would have been better if it had swerved into this mode full time; at least the constant pontificating on life would have fit. But then she shifts to insecure, nagging, and neurotic. She’s easier to take than Gay, who whines and whines about manliness. “The rules had changed,” he must say a dozen times, and he just wants to be a he-man cowboy. Was this important to Miller? I don’t know, but it was important to Huston (and to some extent to Gable) who did see himself as a manly-man in a world where rules were stopping him from conquering the wilderness. I’ve heard people say they dislike Guido the most because he gets angry when the others don’t. I’ve also heard Guido most reflects Miller’s mental state. I can’t say. Eli Wallach is only acting, unlike his co-stars, but he’s full on method acting, so perhaps he’s too deep into his character as well.

Monroe is luminous, because she was luminous. Clift comes off as kind and noble, and also mangled and mentally damaged, because he was. The rest is best not to dwell on. There’s no narrative film here to watch, just a jumble or real world fears and a premonition of death. But that’s interesting in a different way. If you wish to study the decline and death of actual people, The Misfits is helpful source material.

Feb 191961
 
five reels

Author Paul Varjak (George Peppard) stumbles into the life of flamboyant escort Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn). Though kept by a wealthy, married woman (Patricia Neal), he falls for Holly and tries to win her affections. But Holly, who is intoxicating to all, is scared of anything that might tie her down, and spends her time searching for a rich sugar daddy, though what she needs is something to make life feel worthwhile, something metaphorically like Tiffany’s.

Audrey Hepburn is Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She dominates every scene she’s in, and the few she isn’t in only work due to anticipation of her return. And she’s amazing. I can’t look away from her. There’s many other aspects of the film that are top notch: the script—filled with witty neo-realistic dialog, the score by Henry Mancini, the cinematography, the art direction which is a love-letter to New York City, smart editing, and excellent supporting performances by Buddy Ebsen, Martin Balsam, and Patricia Neal, but it’s all about Hepburn. The image of her in that Givenchy black dress and long gloves is iconic.

Hepburn made Holly Golightly. Truman Capote created the character for his novel, but his version was a rough, crass woman, whose charm was always a fake. Hepburn’s Holly was still deeply troubled, but her elegance, while learned, were part of her. She wasn’t pretending to be alluring and glamorous; that was now her nature. She’s foolish and sometimes cruel, but bewitching. Partly that’s because that fit Hepburn, but more because it is what Hepburn wanted. Producers Martin Jurow & Richard Shepherd, screenwriter George Axelrod, and later director Blake Edwards shaped Holly to Hepburn, and then she did the rest. The result is one of the great screen characters. Some (particularly Capote) complain that they changed the ending from the novel, but they had to. The novel’s ending was built around the novel’s Holly, and the film’s Holly was a very different creature, with a very different fate.

I often see Breakfast at Tiffany’s labeled a romantic comedy, which it isn’t. It’s only partially a romance, and while it has comedic moments, it’s not a comedy. I can’t think of another film where the word “bittersweet” fits better. Our portal character may be Paul, but the film isn’t about him. It’s a drama about a girl finding a direction.

George Peppard’s performance has been criticized as bland, but I don’t see that as a flaw. Paul has to be plain and earthly, as a counter weight to the fireworks that is Holly. Peppard pushed to tone down the character’s vulnerability, making him more of a he-man (a kept he-man) and in doing so, also reduced his own appeal. No doubt his intention wasn’t to shine even more of a light on Hepburn/Holly, but that’s what he did, and it works.

But there is one flaw with the film, the horrible Asian stereotype played in yellow-face by Mickey Rooney (Edwards said he’d give anything to be able to recast the role). Besides being racist, the character doesn’t fit the rest of the film, doing slapstick pratfalls, and is never funny. It isn’t a fatal flaw mainly because of how little he’s in the film—only a few minutes. An easy edit could remove 90% of him without effecting anything (and should be done). A clever one could eliminate him altogether.

Ignoring Rooney (and I do my best to), Breakfast At Tiffany’s is a masterpiece. It’s emotional, thoughtful, and gorgeous, and elevated Hepburn from a good leading lady to one of cinema’s greatest stars.

 Miscellaneous, Reviews Tagged with:
Nov 101960
 
four reels

Töre (Max von Sydow) is a pious man and master of a medieval farm. His wife MĂ€reta delves into the fanatical, burning herself so she can feel Christ’s pain, but she dotes on their teenage daughter Karin (Birgitta Pettersson). The spoiled Karin is generally good natured, but thinks mainly of herself, and uses her beauty and charm to get what she wants from her parents as well as the local men. This has brought their pregnant and wild servant Ingeri to a boiling rage of jealousy. Karin, along with Ingeri, are sent on a journey through the woods to deliver candles to the church. What follows is rape, murder, more murder, and the intersession of two gods.

Based upon a folk ballad, The Virgin Spring is an art film, made by the ultimate art house director, Ingmar Bergman. Its legacy is the rape-&-revenge horror subgenre. Wes Craven updated it for The Last House on the Left, and several hundred films copied its barest outline, though none come close to it in quality. Is it a horror film? It was considered shocking when released, though considerably less so now. While its category is uncertain, much else about it is very clear: It is meticulously made, gorgeously shot, brilliantly edited, and perfectly acted. It is one of Bergman’s finest films, a simple story with a great deal to say.

Made to cash in on the success of The Seventh Seal, which also starred von Sydow, took place in the middle ages, and dealt with questions of religion, death, and meaning in life, The Virgin Spring is a calmer film. The Seventh Seal is filled with Bergman’s anger at finding no meaning in life supplied by a god. This film has that same message, but with greater acceptance. Some have focused on the film’s religious dichotomy, of Christianity vs. Paganism, with cruelty coming from the latter. But Bergman was an atheist by the time he made The Virgin Spring and was in no mood to celebrate Jesus. I guess you can’t make a film simple enough for some people. Our characters pray, but praying does no good. There’s no protection from God, nor from older gods. Good deeds do not lead toward good lives and bad ones are not necessarily punished. There’s no great meaning out there, no vast moral truth, and God has no plans for us, so it doesn’t matter if He exists or not. Things happen. Good things and bad things, and all we can do is muddle through, putting whatever significance makes us feel best to these events. Faith is a way of ordering our lives, perhaps a necessary way, but it is just something we make up.

And it’s in this theme that The Virgin Spring rises above its rape-&-revenge kindred. After the violation in those films, the revenge gives the viewer satisfaction, even when saying that the vengeance is wrong or self-destructive. But there’s no satisfaction in revenge here. Nor it is condemned. It is something that happens, something very human, and something with only the meaning we wish to give it.

After The Virgin Spring, Bergman moved away from period pieces and ethics, instead making meandering, modern, psychologically introspective films. For me, they never had the same power.

Oct 101960
 
four reels

In the small village of Midwich, every person  collapses, unconscious, for four hours.  Later, it’s found that every fertile woman in town became pregnant in those lost hours.  All give birth simultaneously to blond-haired babies with strange eyes.  As the children develop mental powers,   Gordon Zellaby (George Sanders), a scientist whose wife, Anthea (Barbara Shelley), bore one of them, argues that they must be taught to develop human morals while the military maintains they should be destroyed, while it is still possible.

Invasion films of the ’50s (and early ’60s) are not known for their impressive casts.  Most of the time you had wooden, incompetent C-actors.  In a few cases, the performers were competent.  Village of the Damned is the only case of a real A-talent, and it shows that actors are every bit as important as scripts and directors.  Luckily, the script and direction are good as well, but George Sanders elevates the project.  Happily, none of the other actors fall into the C category.

The movie is at its best in the first half, where the mystery of what has happened to the women is frightening to everyone.  It’s emotional as the virgin and the woman whose husband has been away for a year try to cope with their unexplained pregnancies.  The virgin birth concept was too much for the Catholic Legion of Decency, which caused MGM to delay the film and then move production to England.  It was handy that there were no fertile twelve or thirteen year-old girls in Midwich, but that would have been too much for British censors as well as American ones.

The picture plays back and forth between Zellaby as an overly analytical scientist trying to solve the mystery, and Zellaby as a concerned husband and man who is growing too old to have children.  His wife’s pregnancy was a miracle, but he thought just a metaphorical one.  He soon realizes that it’s an actual miracle, and the closest he’ll come to a child of his own is to teach this alien baby what he knows.

The second half of the movie gives us the creepy children who all look alike.  They’ve become cultural icons, and while the film becomes a bit muddled, it’s still fun.

Village of the Damned is another take on an Invasion of the Body Snatchers-type paranoia movie.  But this one doesn’t bring up images of communist cells all around us.  Yes, the attack is still from within, but from our children, presenting a metaphor for the generation gap, which was growing wider as the ’50s came to a close.  There’s also a Nazi undercurrent, with the blond kids the first step in the creation of a master race.  With several interpretations that avoid the whole McCarthy/Communist frenzy, Village of the Damned is an easier film to stomach than many of its contemporaries.

I do have questions about Zellaby’s scientific credentials.  At first he appears to be a physicist, but he studies plants and works with the doctor on the women’s pregnancies.  He’s also an agent of the military (they say he’s one of them at the beginning), has access to explosives, lives in a manor house, and is invited to high governmental meetings.  Yet not one word is said about what kind of scientist he is.

Village of the Damned is a transitional film.  The paranoid and simplistic cold war alien pictures were fading out.  Horror was headed toward psychological thrillers and demonic movies while science fiction was dispersing, no longer clinging to a single unifying theme.  Village of the Damned had “evil” children, a rarity before 1960, but much more common after.  As no explanation is ever given for their creation (the scientists assume aliens are involved), they could as easily have been the Devil’s spawn, which leads to Rosemary’s Baby six years later.

It was followed by Children of the Damned, and poorly remade as Village of the Damned (1995).

 Aliens, Reviews Tagged with:
Oct 091960
 
four reels

Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), a young, unhappy woman, steals $40,000 and leaves her old life behind, hoping the money can solve her boyfriend’s (John Gavin) financial problems, and maybe give her a future. During a storm, she stops at The Bates Motel, run by Norman (Anthony Perkins) for his invalid mother. Soon, Marion’s sister, Lila (Vera Miles), and Detective Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam) are looking for her.

If you haven’t seen Psycho and somehow managed to avoid its story and missed the many parodies of its key scenes, then find a copy and watch it now.  You won’t be able to keep that virginity and live in our society for long.  Watching Psycho without knowing its surprises is a thrill.  While it is a good movie any way you see it, it loses much of its impact if you know what’s coming.

What is coming? The first Slasher which also contained mystery, stylish frights, and music that replaces sound effects in a way that no one else has ever managed. It has the artistry and skill of the finest suspense director and one of the best director’s of any kind, Alfred Hitchcock. Janet Leigh gave layers to what could appear to be a straight forward part. You could see her doubt, her longing, and her fear in every frame. And, of course, she is gorgeous. Perkin is even better. This is a performance that ranks with the best put on film and more Slasher directors need to study it to see what their insignificant films are lacking.

Not all the acting is superb (even Hitchcock was unimpressed with John Gavin as the boyfriend) and the psychologist’s end speech goes on far too long, but those are minor problems in a film that changed horror.

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Oct 051960
 
one reel

Robin Hood (Richard Greene) and his gang, who loiter in Sherwood Forest, find a dying man escaping from the Sheriff’s guards.  He holds a clue to an evil conspiracy and The Sheriff of Nottingham (Peter Cushing) will do anything to keep it a secret.  Well, for awhile he will.  Then he goes off to do other things while Robin shoots at targets for fifteen minutes.  Eventually, Robin and some other characters the viewer will hardly know must make a stand against some traitorous nobles, most of whom have had little screen time till then.  Yeah, that’s the way to raise tension.

Richard Greene had a successful run as Robin on a British TV series, so Hammer Films, generally known for horror, put him into a big screen treatment and filled out the cast with Hammer regulars. The result might have been acceptable as a 45 minute episode of an ongoing show seen on a twelve inch black & white screen with occasional breaks to advertise Ovaltine, but it makes for a sad feature.  A few commercials for chocolaty beverages might be what’s missing.  It also might be talent, excitement, and a plot.

Greene plays Robin Hood as a guy from 1959 who wandered in off the street and put on a pair of tights. The standard ’50s haircut doesn’t help, nor does his absence of charisma.  But it is unfair to blame this drab little picture on him. He’s given nothing to work with.  I would be shocked to learn that the script was finished before shooting began.  The movie starts with a story about a secret held by a fatally wounded mystery man, and then drops that in favor of Robin proving his archery skill to a noble he randomly runs into.  It’s handy that the noble happens to be an important figure in the third act.

Sword of Sherwood Forest may be the only Robin Hood movie where Robin is irrelevant. A quick re-write could have removed him from the film. The conflict is between a group of nobles and the Chancellor of England (who fences so Robin isn’t needed to do the required swashing and buckling).  The Sheriff of Nottingham isn’t even after Robin.  As for all that helping the poor stuff—scrap it.  This Robin doesn’t seem to know anyone outside of the forest. Maid Marian spends her time trying to help the poor widow of a merry man, but that’s all the philanthropy on display.

You may find some entertainment in Oliver Reed’s portrayal of a stereotypically flaming henchman.  Or you might be offended by it.  Either way, it’s the only thing you’ll remember from this long eighty minute excursion into ineptitude.

Other Robin Hood Swashbucklers I’ve reviewed: The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), The Bandit of Sherwood Forest (1946), Rogues of Sherwood Forest (1950), Robin and Marian (1976), Robin Hood (1991), and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991).

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Oct 041960
 
one reel

Shy and  fashion-challenged Mabel (Kristy McNichol) accompanies her bathing-beauty friends to a beach-side pirate extravaganza where she’s hit on by a sword-swinging performer (Christopher Atkins).  Several mishaps leave her unconscious on a beach, dreaming of being a hot babe in the 1800s and of the performer being Frederic, a member of a pirate crew.  The dream, which is 95% of the film, follows far too loosely, the plot of The Pirates of Pinzanse, including musical numbers.  It also adds a plethitude of teen ballads that are as far from Gilbert and Sulivan as you are likely to find, but I digress.  Young Frederic has just turned 21, thus finishing his apprenticeship with the pirates and allowing him to honorably leave them to become a pirate hunter.  Somewhat affronted by his plans, The Pirate King (Ted Hamilton), tosses him overboard, but Frederic easily finds his way to shore and encounters sexy Mabel.  To win her, he must overcome her major-general father’s objections, the tradition that the youngest sister marry last, and the Pirate King.  Luckily, Mabel has a lot more on the ball than Frederic.

Just as when I first saw The Pirate Movie two decades ago, on my recent viewing, I was ready to hate this ’80s pop updating of The Pirates of Pinzanse.   And, just like so long ago, I was surprised at how good it was…and then surprised at how it steadily became more and more insipid until I did hate it.

An updating of the Gilbert & Sullivan classic had promise.  The Pirates of Penzance is a broad comic opera.  Worrying about keeping a production pure misses the point.  Anyway to get a laugh is good, as the original work often points out.  The Pirate Movie starts as if the writer and director understand that.  The addition of numerous double-entendres work exceptionally well, and even changing the occasional lyric of the classics I am a pirate king! and I am the very model of a modern Major-General by inserting topical references turns out to be inspired.  The jokes are rapid fire and could come from a stand up routine:

“pirates used to operate around here, raping and pillaging.”
“Gosh, I’d hate to be pillaged.”

Things are really on the right track with Ted Hamilton as the Pirate King.  He is flamboyant enough for any true Swashbuckler, adding in a sure touch with broad comedy.  Equally good is Kristy McNichol.  She gained popularity amongst the teen crowd with overly serious portraits of tomboys and was ready to show her sexy side.  Yes, she was certainly ready.  Anyone growing up in the ’70s and ’80s would have found the phrase “Kristy McNichol is hot” nearly incomprehensible, but she certainly is.  She’s also a fine comedian.  Add to those cast members attractive sets and reasonable action and The Pirate Movie gives every indication of being a winner.  Oh well.

So where do things fall apart?  The initial failing is visible from the start: Christopher Atkins.  Atkins is in full, boy-toy, tween, sex symbol mode.  He runs around without a shirt and occasionally in a loin cloth, and if you predilections run toward very white boys with afros, then he looks pretty good.  Unfortunately, his acting chops don’t match his appearance (think how scary that is if you’re not excited by his pecks).  Not only can’t he create a believable character, he has no comic timing.  Lines that should be hilarious lie like last week’s fish.

Then there are the added songs.  The first anemic pop number can be taken as a parody, but the banal things just keep coming: horrible ’80s kid-rock followed by horrible ’80s kid-rock.  And no, your children aren’t going to like them either.  Each song is worse than the last, or maybe it’s the cumulative effect.  Whatever the case, by the end, I wanted to strangle the song-writer (composer is far to dignified a title).

Perhaps screenwriter Trevor Farrant heard those songs before he had finished his work.  It would explain why he gave up.  The story doesn’t end, just fades away.  There’s no wrap up for the characters, only a pizza pie fight and an acknowledgment that it’s all a dream.  The humor slips as well, going from witty to asinine, including a “spoof” of Inspector Clouseau which elevates Steve Martin’s rendition to Oscar-worthy by comparison.

What irritates me isn’t that this is a bad film.  There are many bad films.  But rather, that it had the potential to be such a good one and fell so short.

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