The Last of the Mohicans (1964)

D. Peter Potinstoff
Colour

Something I’ve rarely touched upon so far is how good an actor Elvis was. Okay, I can see you rolling your eyes and smirking, but let me finish. Clearly he wasn’t allowed to be a great actor, the material just wasn’t there for him to demonstrate that even if he’d had the talent. But often the material isn’t there for him to show himself to be a good actor either, and yet somehow Elvis mostly manages to turn in a good performance. And by good I don’t mean simply adequate, I mean he truly inhabits his character within the context of the world around him. That’s different from creating a fully rounded, living and breathing character – as most Elvis films would have been deeply unsettled by having a fully rounded, living and breathing character in their midst – but in the light and fluffy world that most Elvis movies inhabit, Elvis fills his role with aplomb. He never embarrasses himself, and even when he’s clearly bored by the music, his acting performance retains masses of grace and soul. Elvis was never allowed to be a great actor, but then he was rarely given the material to shine as a truly good actor, yet he nearly always showed himself to be inherently gifted and as a man who could have had a proper career in the cinema if he’d been given the chance.

That’s my really long winded prelude to saying that despite all of that, ‘The Last of the Mohicans’ stinks.

And Elvis is fucking terrible in it!

Even I’m not going to try and defend this one.

Actually casting Elvis as Hawkeye is a fantastic idea. After all Elvis was often reputed to have Native American heritage and he has the skin tone, the eyes and the cheekbones to pull it off. He also has a certain stillness about him on the screen, and stillness is a quality that American movies loved to use for braves and chiefs (seriously, why aren’t there any jittery and nervous Native Americans on the big screen?) In practice though Elvis has no idea what to do with the part and is deeply and obviously uncomfortable within it. I think as a young boy Elvis always wanted to be a cowboy rather than an Indian and it shows in every stilted movement. Many scenes go by with him standing arms crossed in his headdress, looking like one of those old statues – creating a lifeless immobility that is at times so convincing it surprises you when he speaks. His dialogue is no help at all though, it’s supposed to be wise aphorisms in pigeon-English but he actually comes across like a less convincing Yoda: “Speak English, proper, he cannot”. Okay, the character comes more alive in the stunt scenes, but that’s more to do with an enthusiastic stuntman than anything else.

‘Harum Scarum’ and this are the Elvis films that suffer most from being shot entirely within the confines of the studio, with a few leaves and unconvincing shrubs at Paramount unable to replicate the great American wilderness. And the supporting cast of Shelley Fabares (later seen again with Elvis in ‘Spinout’), and Deforest Kelly (looking stunned at the absurdity around him, and this is a man who managed to act like he believed in William Shatner’s toupee) don’t manage to lift things any higher. This is a strange misfiring film, where everything goes wrong and one can only be amazed that every copy of it wasn’t dramatically hurled off some waterfall in North Carolina.

Nickleby (1963)

D. Randall MacDougall
Colour

So, once again I find myself defending an Elvis adaptation of a classic which gets more than its share of stick. Complaints I’ve read include that it’s all done without leaving the studio, that all the songs are boringly old fashioned and that it’s ridiculously hard to follow. And individually it’s difficult to make an argument against any of those points. They’re pretty much all on the nose, flaws that have to be acknowledged before any defence of ‘Nickleby’ can be made. But just picking out those individual faults ignores that a lot of this film actually works, and that casting Elvis Presley as sensitive, earnest, idealistic school teacher Nicholas Nickleby isn’t the irredeemably dumb idea many would expect.


For starters, handing Dickens’ long and sprawling novel to a fillet-happy butcher was a brilliant stroke. I said that casting Elvis as a sensitive, earnest, idealistic school teacher isn’t as stupid as one might expect, but actually the whole school teacher thing is only really alluded to. There is no Dotheboys and no Wackford Squeers. Some may see this as a bowdlerisation of the worse kind – but I think it’s bloody genius. It means that the focus is Nicholas’s time with the Crummles and their theatrical troupe – and if there’s ever a place where Elvis is going to feel at home, it’s near the bright lights of the stage, occasionally getting up to belt out numbers.


Okay, the songs aren’t great, but even so it’s never going to be dull to watch the King of Rock’n’Roll take on ‘Goodbye, Dolly Gray’, ‘I’m Henry the Eighth, I am’ and ‘The Man who Broke the Bank of Monte Carlo’. The choice of predominantly English music-hall songs is an interesting one, as the setting is Victorian New York, not Victorian London, which at least it removes the need for Elvis to attempt any kind of accent. If there’s one thing we’ve observed from these Elvis adaptations of classic novels, it’s that the boy really doesn’t like accents.


Elsewhere we have Nicholas’s virtuous and beautiful cousin Kate, for whom Nicholas holds a torch; there’s his villainous uncle Ralph (Harry Morgan, who later showed up in a more friendly role in ‘Frankie & Johnny’); and his slow witted sidekick, Smike. And that’s the real problem with this film, even with the Smithfield-esque butchering there is still so much plot and context needed to make the story works and no place to put it beyond clunking dialogue and clumsy asides. (“Ah, Mr Nickleby. I saw your Uncle Ralph the other day in his counting-house and a less pleasant cove I have scarcely glimpsed” is an actual piece of dialogue.) As the film progresses it becomes truly hard to work out why X hates Y, or what the history is between A and B, or why F is behaving in quite that way to G (and who the fuck is G anyway?) Indeed in an adaptation this confused and liberal, knowing the book becomes a positive disadvantage – as plot, character and relations are all gleefully subverted for ease, simplicity and sometimes just plain perversity. For example, we have Nicholas’s rather queasy love for his own sheltered cousin, Kate. Although given that that character is his sister in the book, it was possible for the film makers to embark on an altogether more troubling exploration of incest.


So, yes it’s flawed and yes Elvis is not playing Nicholas Nickleby – in looks, temperament or the fact he keeps belting out tunes – in any way that Dickens would recognise. And yes it’s hard to follow just what the hell is going on. But that’s to ignore that for most of the film Elvis is having a great time. This is the best Elvis ‘putting on a show’ movie ever made, and to hark on about its problems is just to close your eyes and ears to how damned entertaining it is.

The Great Gatsby (1962)

D. Randal MacDougall
Colour


I don’t care what anyone says, Elvis Presley as Jay Gatsby works!


This is a movie which gets a lot of stick, even from Elvis fans. Yes that’s right, even those ultra-defensive individuals who’ll fervently make the case that EVERY SINGLE FUCKING THING the man did was brilliant to every semiquaver, will slag off this film. Complaints I’ve read include that the period detail looks unconvincing, that the supporting case is painfully uncharismatic and that the songs are crap. That last one is particularly odd, as the songs really aren’t that bad, if you slog your way through Elvis soundtrack album after Elvis soundtrack album (I don’t recommend this as a leisure activity by the way) you will find dozens of worse examples. Other complaints are that the script doesn’t really capture the book, that it’s poorly paced and that – really – ‘The Great Gatsby’ shouldn’t come with a quasi-happy ending.


And I’ll be honest, a lot of that is true. The period trappings are a little staid with any detail coming from stock footage and fake backdrops. Obviously the more contemporary setting of ‘Wuthering Heights’ was better, but the 1920s – if we’re honest – is not so far away from Elvis’s milieu as to be ridiculous. Michael Landon as Nick Carroway and Linda Evans as Daisy Buchanan are both bland as hell, clearly miscast and losing all their television charisma on the big screen. As for the songs, yes there are some turgid examples, but then there are a couple of catchy ones – the Leiber & Stoller ‘Money, Money, Money’ (clearly no relation to the Abba track) is a particular foot stamper. And really, we’re going to criticise an Elvis adaptation of a classic novel because it doesn’t show sufficient fidelity? It’s an Elvis adaptation of a classic novel - Different Rules Apply!


It seems to me though that all these criticisms miss the point of the enterprise, as this entire film – more than ‘Loving You’, more than any of the concert movies – is a film all about Elvis. This is a movie, this a character, that Elvis Presley just owns! Think about it: the tale of a self-made man who comes from nothing to live the life of opulence; the story of a man who dared to dream big and had all those dreams come true; a man who achieved so much from so little and so must have felt a stranger in his own skin. This could be the Elvis Presley story. Elvis is Jay Gatsby in a way that he is never any other part. In a way that completely negates later interpretations by Robert Redford or Leonardo DiCaprio. On screen this is him at his best, pure and undistilled. This is a magnetic performance of sheer dynamism, a brilliant showing which truly captures the highs and lows of not only the story, but Elvis’s whole career.


Apparently Elvis was disappointed not to get an Oscar nomination, I can truly see why.


Those naysayers are wrong as even though there are plenty of flaws, those flaws all melt away in the face of Elvis’s performance. Yes, in isolation it’s hard to imagine Linda Evans inspiring anybody’s eternal passion, but Elvis manages to convince that this is the case; just as he makes it believable that he’d take Michael Landon as a friend (and not just someone to pelt with wet toilet roll whenever he saw him); or that Jay Gatsby could and should come out somewhere on top. Okay, the ending is contentious and I would find it ridiculously dubious in any other adaptation, but here the near happy ending is one all Elvis fans should root for. As this isn’t F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’, this is Elvis Presley’s. And who wouldn’t want to see a happier ending to ‘The Great Presley’?

Wuthering Heights (1961)

D. Don Siegel
B&W


This is called learning from your mistakes. This is called poring over the smouldering wreckage of what went before, having the humility to admit that that particular journey was started with the brake wires cut and a rubber toy in place of the steering wheel, and then correcting those massive errors going forward. This is called not crashing the same car into the same wall all over again; or more appropriately this is called not just churning out any old crap for a cheap buck. This is the way things should have been.


Yes, Elvis in ‘Wuthering Heights’ is fantastic!


As an Elvis obsessed little boy who became an Elvis obsessed man, I take great pleasure in bringing these neglected gems of his much maligned film-work forward. And it gives me particular joy to polish up, buff until its gloriously shiny and then present this gem – with a wide soup-bowl shaped grin on my face – for your perusal. The last time Elvis tackled a classic, you might remember, it was ‘Hamlet’ and the results can be politely described as not good. There was Elvis in a doublet and hose, trying to master iambic pentameter with that Memphis drawl and singing whole soliloquies whilst ridiculous ghostly bongo players kept rhythm over his shoulder.


There is nothing so ludicrous on display here, this one is playing to Elvis’s strengths. I have no idea whether there was ever a plan to set this in Victorian Yorkshire, with Elvis giving us his best “Ecky thump, it be right perishing out moor”; but if there was, then it was thankfully scrapped. (Seeing Elvis trying to speak like Sean Bean is no more appetising than imagining Sean Bean quiffed up and trying to play Elvis.) Instead the action of this film is set in Wuthering Heights, a suburb of Nashville.


It’s a brilliant conceit. Here we have the cute as several dozen buttons Tuesday Weld as Cathy (the same year in which she met Elvis in the far less inspiring, and indeed wild, ‘Wild in The Country’), an aspiring and truly headstrong country and western singer who has got herself engaged to a Pat Boone-esque crooner, Edward Litton (played with appropriate lack of charisma by someone called Dave Fellows – quite, me neither), but who’s that smouldering his way back into town? Why it’s Elvis as Heathcliff , the boy she grew up with and the great romance of her life.


Even for a modern day version of the story, it’s one which deserves the description ‘inspired by’ rather than ‘adapted from’ Emily Bronte’s novel. Indeed it can be more accurately described as a musical remake of the Laurence Olivier/Merle Oberon version – as both films leave out the second and more interesting part of the book. But in the end fidelity doesn’t matter, as this is brilliant. Siegel (helming Elvis for the second rime) shoots for and gets a beautiful, noir soaked black & white; Elvis’s role requires little more than to just show up and be broody and soulful, and he does more of that with one look than most actors can manage in a career; and Weld is suitably intense and passionate, as well as utterly convincing as a lifelong object of desire. While if Fellows is as uninteresting as a sheep farmer in 1800’s Yorkshire, well he’s supposed to be.


Okay, if the film was perfect the songs would be a lot better – such numbers as ‘The Boy Heathcliff (Back in Town)’, ‘Don’t Run Away, Cathy’ and ‘It Ain’t the Wind That’s Wuthering;’ are never going to show up  on any Elvis ‘best of’, no matter how many volumes it stretches to. But then this is the rare thing, a musical where the music isn’t that important. No, ‘Wuthering Heights’ isn’t about the songs, it’s about sheer sex appeal, it’s about pouting and rebellious youth, it’s about giving up everything for passion, it’s about personifying cool – and in that regard it succeeds on every measure.

Tarzan in Madrid (1960)

D. Miguel Ferrera
Colour

Exhibit A in the case that satire does not work in the hands of fascists.

I’m not as well versed in the history of Spanish cinema as I should be, though I’m aware that even under Franco’s dictatorship various films were made which looked at the way society actually worked. Even within the system there were films which picked up and examined (even poked fun at) the system.

This is decidedly not one of them.

To say that ‘Tarzan in Madrid’ is heavy handed is to put it mildly. It is a jack booted, full-on, completely blinkered, pro-government, anti-everything else but the proper authorities, screed. The Tarzan tale is of course one highly malleable and can be used in so many different ways – which is odd, as unlike Robin Hood, say, it’s generally used in the same way. Here, as normal, Tarzan (Edson de Nascimento, a Portuguese actor and a good looking charisma void) is found by explorers in the jungle and brought to civilisation. Normally when Tarzan makes that journey he heads to England or New York. Here though he goes to Spain, and not just some crappy package holiday to the Costa Del Sol, instead he gets to wow and wonder at the marvel of Franco’s Madrid.

But – and here is where if I was the barrister for the prosecution, I’d speak in my firmest voice – this is where things get decidedly strange. Rather than just marvelling at tall buildings and cars and indoor plumbing, none of which this noble savage has never seen, Tarzan instead goes to war against a socialist cell which is determined to bring down Spain. True, he does briefly flirt with their message, but after a stiff telling off from Juana (the Jane of the story), he becomes righteously pro-government and charges across the city dealing out fists and lectures, before tying up the insurgents with vine he always keeps around his person. Subtly is nowhere in the production’s vocabulary.

The message of this movie is that by even a primitive-like Tarzan can see that communists are evil cretins. Tarzan is forever referred to as ‘The Primitive’, to the point even he looks tired of it. There is also a running joke that everybody he speaks to thinks he sounds French (despite the actor clearly having a Portuguese accent) and apparently sounding French is a sign of mental negligibility. So this primitive from the deepest, darkest jungle, who speaks like a Frenchman for crying out loud, is able to see how ridiculous and against everybody’s interest communism is.

And if Tarzan can see it, certainly someone as bright as YOU can see it.

That’s not the end of the message though. The satire (if that's the right word) takes a further broad turn when a kidnapped Cheetah finds himself elected leader of the communist cell.

So the great hero Tarzan sees off the communists and rescues Spain and is feted as a hero at the end. And one has to wonder what the point of all this is. Clearly there’s an element of warning the audience against the dangers of socialism/communism (the two terms were interchangeable in the subtitles of the version I saw), but then the socialists/communists on screen are made to appear so ridiculous that they find themselves led by a chimpanzee. Their characters are never developed, their ideas are set up to be easily mocked and totally ridiculous, and of course it’s nonsense that anyone would ever follow them. Communism/socialism is bad and evil and everyone of the left is a complete idiot who deserves either a smack from a jungle ‘primitive’ or for a chimpanzee to fart in their face.

Except, of course, that all this overkill inevitably leads to another reading: one which suggests that a totalitarian government will see fit to hire any muscled, bully boy (even when he wears a loin cloth and supposedly sounds French) to throw his weight around and give beatings to those who disagree with it.

 

I think that second reading is entirely accidental however, but it makes me smile that it doesn’t stretch too much of the imagination to find it there.

Apparently Franco loved this film and laughed his head off each time he saw it. So at least ‘Tarzan in Madrid’ appealed to its target audience.

Hamlet (1960)

D. Joseph L. Mankiewicz

B&W

It’s frequently forgotten that every year of his cinematic career, Elvis turned out his version of a literary classic. As the biographies tell us, they were an attempt to keep up his pretence of being a serious actor, and – because they were made so cheaply and all Elvis product made money – were not a bad little investment. However, much like everything else in the realm of Graceland at this time, ‘quality control’ was an unknown phrase and an alien concept. As such these adaptations reside in an odd place even in fans’ minds. They generally aren’t good enough to stand earnestly in their own right, but lack the brio and campy sunshine of Elvis’s best films. Indeed, some of them are downright awful. As such they stand apart as neglected orphans.

 

This blog exists to put its arm around neglected orphans.

 

First off, remove that sneer from your face and ask yourself: is Elvis as The Prince of Denmark such a terrible idea? At the time he had the requisite youth and callowness for the part, looked striking in doublet and hose and was guaranteed to attack the role with great sincerity. What’s more, a few years’ earlier another very American performer, Marlon Brando, had given us his Shakespeare for the same director in ‘Julius Caesar’. And yet, from the moment Elvis’s Memphis drawl drags out his first line: “The air bites shrewdly, Horatio, and it is mighty cold” a sinking feeling will seize at the spine of even the truest believer.

 

It’s Elvis’s inability (or unwillingness, apparently) to even stab at the accent which makes for a truly jarring viewing experience. Whereas John Gielgud (Claudius), Deborah Kerr (Gertrude) and Claire Bloom (Ophelia) lead the audience to believe that the Danes of Elsinore speak in a very received pronunciation, BBC way; the presence of Elvis makes us wonder where on Earth The Prince went to University to pick up that accent. I love Elvis, but even I find it a tortuous experience. Imagine some enthusiastic American teen on stage at the RSC, making no effort to marry his performance to that of the great English actor next to him, or grasp the rhythm of cadences of the language, or understand that when performing Shakespeare you’re supposed to have some kind of idea as to what these lines actually mean. Whether you’re thinking of Elvis as Hamlet or, say, Justin Bieber as Hal next to Michael Gambon’s Falstaff in some mad hypothetical production – none of it works together, none of it gels, none of it makes any sense whilst sober.

 

And that’s before we get to the fact that no Elvis film can exist without a musical number. To be fair, when Mankiewicz had his brainwave and decided that the way to deal with this need for songs was to insert them organically, it probably seemed like the best available idea. However, when watching Elvis deliver ‘To Be or Not To Be’ staccato while wiggling his hips to a salsa beat, the average viewer begins to wonder whether there are such things as good ideas. Although this may be unique in Hamlet adaptations in introducing a second ghost, as surely that spectral bongo player who appears behind Elvis’s left shoulder as he sings isn’t in Shakespeare’s text.

So what we have is a film Elvis felt embarrassed by, and rightly so. Everyone connected with this film should feel embarrassed. Those who watch it certainly do. And yet it’s a film in which you can see Elvis trying, a gifted performer struggling against his own limitations and the wrong-headed ideas of those around him. To see the wide eyed, full of repressed hurt, way he delivers: “O! that this too solid flesh would melt; Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew; Or that the Everlasting had not fixed his canon against self-slaughter!” one can only wish that someone had taken the care and time to make this whole mad enterprise – somehow and against all probability – actually work.