Trio (1984)

D. Anthony de La Sewell
Colour

This one is going to be like a dog whistle to bad movie lovers.

Here we have Patsi Kensit, Elizabeth Hurley and Lysette Anthony as a female pop group/super spies saving the world whilst also filming a music video and trying to get to Top of the Pops on time. Yes, I’ll say those names again Patsy Kensit, Elizabeth Hurley and Lysette Anthony, three beautiful but limited actresses who scream the 1980s to Britons of a certain age. As with all deference to George Orwell, this is the most 1984 movie ever made. There’s the cast, the music, the hair, the shoulder pads, the cultural references which were supposed to make it hip and with it, but must have actually made it look aged and past it by January the First, 1985. You see the group here are clearly supposed to be Bananarama. In fact I’d be totally stunned if this wasn’t written with Bananarama in mind. Not only is there the sassy all good trio, adored stars of the British music scene, but the fact that when they perform the singing is actually Bananarama’s – taking on songs from the bottom of the Stock, Aitken & Waterman slush pile (and when you hear them you’ll realise that these songs must have been pressed right to the floorboards they were so far down). Why Bananarama themselves weren’t cast is open to debate. One can only guess that it’s because they weren’t really actors. Although when you see the performances Hurley, Anthony and Kensit give, you’ll realise that can’t possibly be the reason.

The plot starts in Thailand (for the music video shoot) before returning to London (for the Top of the Pops appearance), but in-between the wearing swimsuits and leggings and miming, the girls find that the spy agency they work for has been compromised and a list of agents is now in the wrong hands. It’s up to our mighty trio (the group is actually called ‘Trio’, such is the lack of inspiration) to juggle their priorities and get them back. Gradually the prime suspect emerges as former agent and 1970s pop superstar, Magdalena de Faith – and Trio have to stop her before she carries out the final part of her dastardly plan.


(Interestingly this would all seem to be much the same plot as Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, so I guess that is an unofficial remake of this. That’s a film I’ve never managed to watch all the way through, as it’s awful. This is awful too, but in a more fun and haphazard way; Charlie’s Angels is awful in the most corporate, soulless way possible.)


Joanna Lumley plays Magdalena de Faith and is fantastic as the haughty European has-been, and thus totally wasted in this movie. Kensit is bad, Anthony equally so, but both look Rada trained next to Hurley, who can barely walk convincingly, let alone deliver lines. The songs are awful, the plot is obvious (with zero sense of pacing) and even though the crew was clearly flown out to Thailand for exteriors, the interiors couldn’t be any more shot on a cheap sitcom set in Elstree if Mrs Slocambe marched into shot. In short this is a bit of a disaster, but I’d thoroughly recommend it.

Wilde in Paris (1980)

D. Pierre de Franc
Colour

Michael Caine recently stated that he chose his movies on two criteria: whether it was going to make him a lot of money, or whether it was likely to win him an Oscar. So who the fuck knows what the explanation is for him appearing in the 1979 drugged up, fantasy thriller? As no sane observer would ever look at this and think it had Oscar glory etched right through it. So maybe French cinema in the early 1980s was bizarrely well remunerated, or perhaps it just suited Caine for tax purposes to hang out in Paris for a few months. Then again maybe he just read the script and thought it’d be a great wheeze to play Oscar Wilde.

Yes, here is Michael Caine as Oscar Wilde. An Oscar Wilde after the disgrace, who is now living in Paris and drinking too much and doing too many drugs, but his mind is still sharp and he has a murder mystery to solve.

For you see, as well as being a playwright, poet, novelist, raconteur and the world acknowledged wittiest man alive, Oscar Wilde was apparently also the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. So, get your bon mots and deer stalker ready, as this is Oscar Wilde, dipso great detective.

To be fair Caine does acquit himself admirably as Wilde. Wilde was a big man and so Caine immediately looks the part, but adds a certain prissy delicacy of tone. His voice manages to stay neutral accent-wise and that’s great as it would have been a cockney calamity if some Smithfield Market had slipped in. Christopher Plummer has the thankless Watson role as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, assisting Wilde in his investigation, but being Christopher Plummer does a genius job with it; and Liza Minnelli does a good Liza Minnelli as the Moulin Rouge dancer who loves Wilde too tragically.

So the performances are good and the idea is certainly no worse than any other, so it’s frustrating how bad a film this is. Having a hero who is self-medicating is one thing, using it as an excuse to OD on addled weirdness is quite another. Animated angels appear to Welles and give him important clues before then seeming to perform fellatio on him off camera; our heroes hire a horse and cart, where the horse is driving and the man – naked with bridle jammed into his mouth – is pulling; while in a fake reveal the killer is revealed to be Wilde himself, which does let Michael Caine face off against Michael Caine – both of them absolutely astonished. Most surreally though, at the Moulin Rouge we get – for no apparent reason – to watch frock-coat wearing Bee-Gees performing a slowed down ‘Islands in the Stream’, while Pans People writhe in front of them. All of that makes it sound more fun than it actually is, as this an ill focused and frustrating film - to the point where having watched it I even now have no idea who the killer is.

So the question remains and it's probably a mystery the great Oscar Wilde himself couldn't solve, why did Sir Michael Caine make this movie?

Jack Malibu (1988)

D. Corey Dickshield
Colour

Jack the Ripper haunts the public imagination like no other killer. He is all mist, frightened women and a mystery which never ends (DNA discoveries will prove easy to ignore, mark my words). He’s a supernatural figure, one who lives inside the London fog and attacks like a knife wielding ghost. Yeah, his name might turn out to be Aaron Kosminski or he might be the dissolute son of a high-born family – it doesn’t matter. The mystique and odd romance of this (let’s not forget) particularly brutal killer will continue for centuries to come.

That’s how you can take the idea out of London and put it in a whole other geographic locale, as we understand how the Ripper works. Similarly you can set the tale nearly a hundred years after the events, as again we all understand how the Ripper works. You can even throw rock ballads in and make it a musical. Ah no, that might just be pushing things a little too far.

Here’s a genuine oddity. A musical set amongst affluent beach front property on the California coast, starring two Celtic singers, and centred around the return of England’s most famous serial killer.

Yes, this is Jack Malibu.

Bonnie Tyler (for it is she) is a Welsh-American singing star who now lives in a big house on the Coast and is at the height of her career. But she’s also the descendent of Jack the Ripper’s last victim and the ghost of that killer is coming back to wrap up unfinished business. A fog (borrowed from the occasion from John Carpenter) rolls in from the Pacific and suddenly there’s a dead prostitute lying on the patio of Bonnie’s house. Called in to investigate is Scottish-America detective, Sheena Eastern (for it is she), who also has a connection to the original Ripper case. And as the fog rolls in again, the two women try to work out what the hell is going on – all the while singing their lungs out.

The songs are over-blow 80s numbers, full of synths and echoing drums, but bizarrely all have titles stolen from great standards: so that ‘Strangers in the Night’ is nowhere near what you’d imagine it to be; neither is ‘Foggy Day’; nor ‘The Lady is a Tramp’. All have terrible tunes with lyrics seemingly scribbled out by a collective of sub-literate, goth obsessed, teenage boys. ‘Excruciating’ is the best word, and the only soundtrack albums bought were surely used to torture terrorists.

The hair is big, the shoulder pads could balance scaffolding, the acting is ludicrously bad (with the accents making some lines unintelligible even to a fellow Brit – and a fellow Welshie at that), the plot is ridiculous and the ending is just too Scooby Doo for words. It’s worth watching though as a ludicrous camp spectacular and the saving grace that at least they realised that if Jack was going to be scary he couldn’t be made to bloody sing.

The Jazzman of Alcatraz (1962)

D. Quentin Hofstetter
B&W

White corporate America’s ability to either sanitise or remake everything in its own image always astounds me. Here we get a double jackpot, with a bleached and cleaned up version not just of the hardest nastiest prison in the United States; but much more than that, the absolute whitest version of jazz music human eyes and ears have ever had the misfortune to endure.

The altogether much too clean-cut and distinctly unblemished Robert Vaughan plays an incarcerated jazz musician. It’s hinted that he’s the victim of a miscarriage of justice and I can believe that, as a more honest, decent, grown up boy-scout boring, sickeningly saintly character one couldn’t possibly meet. Whilst enjoying a stint in Alcatraz he starts to write a piece in his head based on the sounds of life, laughter and love drifting across the bay from San Francisco. This isn’t a bad idea for a story, in the right hands those sounds of freedom would surely be both an inspiration and an exquisite torture. However the not bad idea at the centre is decidedly hamstrung by the fact that this is a film which wants to do nothing to upset middle America. And things which might upset middle America clearly include both jazz and Alcatraz.

I actually went to Alcatraz recently and if ever a film fails to capture the grim bleakness of it, it's ‘The Jazzman of Alcatraz’. There are moments when the director and designer seem to trying to make it look grim, but not wanting to scare off the punters means it mostly comes across as homely. It’s like a hotel that you would never want to stay in again, but still actually a three star hotel. There's a nice autumnal light to the cellblock, helpful and articulate fellow prisoners and guards who are not only courteous but actually encouraging. In fact the version in the film seems a great place to pursue an artistic endeavour, as a writer myself I almost wanted to check in there.

More alarmingly though, Robert Vaughan is the nicest, sweetest, most upstanding – non-drinking, non-smoking (absolutely no drugs!) – jazz musician to ever grace the silver screen. Even his prison uniform looks freshly starched and laundered each morning. Given the actual history of jazz music, he is painfully white and so his casting feels amazingly anachronistic in what is a contemporary film. Remember that unfortunate scene in ‘Back to the Future’ where Marty McFly inadvertently inspired Chuck Berry? Well imagine that cultural appropriation spread out to eighty three minutes of length and you have ‘The Jazzman of Alcatraz’.

Except not quite.

Vaughan broods about his quite nice cellblock playing jazzman (playing rather than being, it’s an important distinction), he stares moodily out while composing in his head, but what we get here is nowhere near ‘Johnny B Goode’. It's not really a surprise that after all the inspired looks and beauty struck words he uses to describe his opus, on unveiling it is so lacklustre and insipid that to describe it as elevator music would be far too kind.

Mrs Davenport (1949)

D. Curtis Bernhardt
B&W


A great big melodramatic musical of the kind nobody makes anymore, or made that often even in the 1940s. A musical which isn’t about dancing in front of exotic sights, or sexy and exciting show folks singing warmly to each other; but instead ordinary people in a big house facing crises in their relationships. Even small stories can be made big if you give them the right attention, and this is a small story made epic and spectacular. It centres on a bored housewife, Olivia De Havilland, who is fed up of her travelling businessman husband, George Sanders, and so flirting with waif-like hunk up the street, Farley Granger. When Granger breaks his leg she seizes her chance for perhaps something more and moves him in with her to recuperate. But, maybe sensing something wrong, Sanders decides to take a sabbatical from work to return to the house full time and become a doting husband. The scene is set for high passion, jealousy, arguments, tears, swoons and finally revelation after revelation of crippling childhood secrets. It’s the stuff of high musical drama, of emotive songs in an over-wrought style. Except if you put ‘Mrs Davenport’ on with a view to tapping your feet along to some soaring tunes, then I should apologise now, as this isn’t actually a musical at all.


Why am I being mischievous? Why am I lying? Well, because if ever a film looks like it’s crying out to be a musical it’s ‘Mrs Davenport’. So many times throughout the film an emotional crescendo is reached, the score starts to swell, and one thinks this is it: we’re going to have a big heartfelt number. But frustratingly it never actually happens. Yet still the film, in its ever so earnest melodramatic pomp, keeps leading us to believe that a musical is going to break out. The last time I watched this movie, a friend of mine and I played a drinking game wherein you had to swig at every point you thought a song was going to happen. We both ended up so, so pissed. At first I thought it was the self-serious score leading the audience to feel like this, but actually the whole thing is staged as if it really is a musical. At the end of every argument, revelation, tearful reconciliation, the camera lingers that little bit too long on our leads’ faces with the result that you expect something else to happen. When it then cuts away to the next talky scene, it’s like something has been chopped out. As if some bitter projectionist who can’t hold a tune has made this film his own personal plaything.


De Havilland, as always, is lovely and radiant and wonderful (I will never hear a word said against Olivia De Havilland); Sanders knows how to deliver snide remarks and present a wounded yet carefree façade like no other actor; while Granger looks the part of sensitive young soul, even if – as always – he looks ridiculously gauche on camera. But for a simple human drama, set in a ramshackle old house, it’s incredibly bombastic and in love with its own seriousness and importance in a way it doesn’t need to be. I don’t know if Tennessee Williams ever saw ‘Mrs Davenport’, but even he’d have thought that the characters just need to shut the fuck up and get over themselves. However if Warner Bros had taken the time to throw in something an audience could sing, well perhaps Mrs Davenport would have lived longer in the cultural memory as the great, spectacular, camp classic it is crying out to be.

Shakin’ Around the Christmas Tree (1984)

D. Davey Rice
Colour


Shakin Stevens, the leading Welsh Elvis throwback entertainer of the 1980s (or indeed, if we’re fair, any decade), is a good man. We can see that in the opening shots of this film, where on Christmas Eve, Shaky – as he’s known to his fans – is seen carrying his guitar into the children’s ward of the local hospital and serenading angelic blonde haired, sick kids with carols. There is a sincerity to his performance, a caring in his eyes, which shows what a decent person is. Yes, like a proto-Noel Edmonds (or a latter day Jesus, take your pick), Shaky is determined to give up his Christmas pleasure to help out people less fortunate than himself. And he just keeps on giving, as after visiting the hospital, his manager calls him to tell him that he will be playing a gig for veterans that very evening – right until the chimes of midnight themselves. The problem is that Shaky is currently in Cardiff, while the gig is hundreds of miles away in Newcastle. The race is on.


History is a distorting lens. Just because they were cool we remember bands of the 1980s who achieved moderate commercial success, but don’t recall the biggest selling British male star of that decade with the same clarity. Shakin Stevens was that man, for a few years a never ending hit factory which made him much bigger than say The Clash, The Specials or The Human League. You would never believe that from the amount which is written about them these days, but the chart placings don’t lie. You’ll also find it difficult to believe from this film, released at the height of his commercial success, designed to cement his place in the pantheon and reap the rewards, but maybe starting his soon to be unstoppable downward slide. Essentially it should have been a perfect vehicle, string together specially filmed footage of Shaky singing his greatest hits – ‘This Old House’; ‘Green Door’, ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ (which actually came from this film’s soundtrack) – wrap it up in a bit of plot and the money should just roll in. The problem is that the songs are ones we’ve heard before and, in the MTV/Top of the Pops age, have seen before too. And in Shakin Stevens we really do not have any kind of leading man. Much like Clint Eastwood, Shaky seems to have decided that he’s much better at staring than at dialogue. That however is the only comparison it’s ever going to be possible to make between Shaky and Clint. Shaky has no charisma, clearly hates every line he’s given and moves through the film as if waiting for it to end. It’s a sensation the audience well knows.


And that’s before we get to the comic relief.


If we take The Krankies at face value, then for some reason Shaky’s Scottish tour manager, Ian, has decided to bring along his young son, Jimmy, to help organise the gig. Even though it’s Christmas Eve, Jimmy is still inexplicably dressed in his school uniform. More detrimental is that Jimmy clearly does not know how to behave and cheeks everyone he comes in contact with and causes a great deal of mischief. Obviously Jimmy is an asbo waiting to happen, but in 1984 terms that translates to Jimmy needs a clip around the ear. Of course, if we take them as what they actually are, then Ian has brought his wife, Jeanette, along and she has decided to pretend to be one of the naughtiest ten year old boys in the world. Why she is doing this is never explained. What’s clear though is that their broad comic slapstick provides some of the most excruciating moments ever seen in cinema. Yes, even more excruciating than watching Shaky act.


So a lumped together film starring people who were starting to look stale in 1984 and which has very little in the way of redeeming features. Why then am I bothering with it? Well, because in the part of Neville, the Shaky super fan who uses every available form of public transport to follow his hero all the way from Cardiff to Newcastle, we have Daniel Day-Lewis. Yes, that Daniel Day-Lewis – only a year or two before he became a proper leading man himself. And he’s brilliant at it, carrying off the over-eager smile and the looks of slightly unhinged adoration - all adding up to full-on worship of his idol. it’s totally brilliant and totally unbalances the film to the point where it pretty much capsizes, but it’s a shining and distinctly creepy light in this otherwise turgid sea of crap and mediocrity.


Merry Christmas, Everyone indeed!

Liberace!!! (1955)

D. George Sidney
Colour

One of the three Robert Mitchum/Jane Russell musicals made by Columbia in the 1950s, but the one that really demands to be taken as a screaming camp classic. A biopic (although I’m aware that’s totally the wrong word) of ‘Lee’ Liberace and Tallulah: “the woman he loved and lost”.

Cole Porter also had a film made in his lifetime where he was portrayed as heterosexual and Hollywood conventional, but then while Cole Porter’s tunes were known, there was no real public persona. Liberace was a whole other matter. When this film was made Liberace was a very public presence, his TV show was still on air and he was a favourite of magazines. Later that year he would make his own film debut (also in a heterosexual role) in ‘Sincerely Yours’. It’s therefore particularly bizarre to watch him impersonated (again that’s totally the wrong word) by Robert Mitchum – a man who had his own very public, and truly different, persona. The results, as you can well imagine, are hilarious.

Mitchum makes no effort to pretend to be Liberace, merely adopting the coiffered hairstyle and the sparkly jackets, but giving no hint of anything which could be summed up as “deadly, winking, sniggering, snuggling, chromium-plated, scent-impregnated, luminous, quivering, giggling, fruit-flavoured, mincing, ice-covered heap of mother love” – a description of Liberace which appeared this very same year (although he did sue). This Liberace is a young man with a gift for the piano, who works his way up through the clubs, always dedicated to his craft. The ladies like him, but he’s shy and so just concentrates on tickling the ivories. Then one day he meets Tallulah, a chanteuse who blows him away. They begin a torrid affair which throws passion into both of their acts. Eventually though they can take it no longer and tearfully part, Liberace moving on to dedicate his life to his fans.

What we have then is utter fiction, and if the film was about a made up character named Ken Kiperace, one that would be utterly forgettable. However the lights, the glamour, the candelabras and the fact that this is supposed to be about the Liberace, just makes the whole thing a riot. Mitchum doesn’t even pretend to play the piano and just sings in his normal drawling tone. He obviously knows this is nonsense and so has determined to just get through it and pick up his pay cheque – which one imagines must have been sizeable. Russell however (in what is, to be fair, a completely fictional role) is a thirty foot high sex goddess, dancing and swinging her hips and showing her legs at every opportunity. Rarely did she sizzle more radiantly on the screen and – even with him being particularly languid and laid-back (to the point you wonder what kind of cigarettes he’s actually smoking) – the sparks are luminous in this Mitchum/Russell combination. It’s great viewing, all that heat and passion and lust, and then you remember this film is supposedly about Liberace.

Really, do such song titles as: “You’re the Woman for Me”; “Married in the Morning, Divorced by Noon”; and “The Best Looking Girl in Kansas” really have a place in a film purportedly about Lee Liberace?

I think, on balance, probably not.

Obviously it suffers in comparison to Michael Douglas in ‘Behind the Candelabra’, and is based on fact in the same way that ‘Star Wars’ is based on fact; but on its own giddy, eye popping terms, it’s a real treat.