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?
Showing posts with label murder-mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label murder-mystery. Show all posts
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
Wednesday, 26 November 2014
Mummy in Manhattan (1936)
D. Raoul Walsh
B&W
It made sense in 1936 to cast Jimmy Cagney as a tough hitting private detective. It meant that Cagney could do all the things he was good at, but actually do it on the right side of the law. So he could intimidate guys by yelling at them, as long as they were bad guys; he could slap guys about and shoot them with aplomb, as long as the guys with bruises and bullet wounds were bad; and he could cuddle up with dodgy dames, as long as he led them on the path to redemption rather than further down the rocky road to badness. What’s more he got to live at the end of the movie and the audience could cheer him as a hero. Yes, Cagney could be the same wild and violent and dangerous Cagney we all loved as long as he was being wild, violent and dangerous for the powers of truth and justice. It’s the American way.
Of course having gone down the road of making Cagney a big bad, but actually virtuous and good, detective in New York City, there’s no real explanation as why on Earth his antagonist is a long dead Egyptian Pharaoh.
Welcome to ‘Mummy in Manhattan’!
This is the kind of genre mesh-up which is common today but must have been like splitting the viewer’s skull open and stirring the contents around with a spoon back in the 1936 – a hard-hitting detective, supernatural horror movie, with some broad comedy thrown in just in case anyone felt short changed.
When the adopted daughter of the Egyptian ambassador disappears, Cagney is called into investigate. At first he thinks it’s her ex-boyfriend, but gradually his investigation leads him to the Museum of Natural History where a special exhibition is taken place – a tomb of the evil boy king “Totem-Munara’ has recently been discovered in Egypt and now the artefacts have made it to New York City. But it seems that old Totem is not as lifeless or as harmless as the smug museum administrators imagine.
It looks like noir in its shadowy black and white, but it’s also clearly channelling Boris Karloff in a way which must have had the lawyers at Universal twitching. (Although the fact that both were leaping on the recent discovery of Tutankhamun meant they didn’t have an artful hieroglyphic leg to stand on.) The film is stagey as hell with all the shocks signposted, but Cagney is having an absolute ball. It’s great to watch him sneer at his adversary, as who else would have the guts and gall to sneer: “Come on, bandage boy, you think you’re tough but I can take you down with scissors, see”?
At first glance this would look to take Cagney out of his comfort zone, but what makes it so brilliant is that Cagney just makes it his comfort zone.
B&W
It made sense in 1936 to cast Jimmy Cagney as a tough hitting private detective. It meant that Cagney could do all the things he was good at, but actually do it on the right side of the law. So he could intimidate guys by yelling at them, as long as they were bad guys; he could slap guys about and shoot them with aplomb, as long as the guys with bruises and bullet wounds were bad; and he could cuddle up with dodgy dames, as long as he led them on the path to redemption rather than further down the rocky road to badness. What’s more he got to live at the end of the movie and the audience could cheer him as a hero. Yes, Cagney could be the same wild and violent and dangerous Cagney we all loved as long as he was being wild, violent and dangerous for the powers of truth and justice. It’s the American way.
Of course having gone down the road of making Cagney a big bad, but actually virtuous and good, detective in New York City, there’s no real explanation as why on Earth his antagonist is a long dead Egyptian Pharaoh.
Welcome to ‘Mummy in Manhattan’!
This is the kind of genre mesh-up which is common today but must have been like splitting the viewer’s skull open and stirring the contents around with a spoon back in the 1936 – a hard-hitting detective, supernatural horror movie, with some broad comedy thrown in just in case anyone felt short changed.
When the adopted daughter of the Egyptian ambassador disappears, Cagney is called into investigate. At first he thinks it’s her ex-boyfriend, but gradually his investigation leads him to the Museum of Natural History where a special exhibition is taken place – a tomb of the evil boy king “Totem-Munara’ has recently been discovered in Egypt and now the artefacts have made it to New York City. But it seems that old Totem is not as lifeless or as harmless as the smug museum administrators imagine.
It looks like noir in its shadowy black and white, but it’s also clearly channelling Boris Karloff in a way which must have had the lawyers at Universal twitching. (Although the fact that both were leaping on the recent discovery of Tutankhamun meant they didn’t have an artful hieroglyphic leg to stand on.) The film is stagey as hell with all the shocks signposted, but Cagney is having an absolute ball. It’s great to watch him sneer at his adversary, as who else would have the guts and gall to sneer: “Come on, bandage boy, you think you’re tough but I can take you down with scissors, see”?
At first glance this would look to take Cagney out of his comfort zone, but what makes it so brilliant is that Cagney just makes it his comfort zone.
Sunday, 23 November 2014
The Sexy Goth Girl in the Lake (2004)
D. Otto Van De Mille
Colour (although the sex scenes are in black & white, so we can pretend they’re art)
The first Sexy Goth Detective film was like an episode of ‘Columbo’, but the second one is like the weirdest episode of ‘Murder, She Wrote’ you’ll ever see. There’s the small town where everyone knows each other, the dramatic discovery of a body, a cavalcade of suspects, and one lone woman who is prying into everyone’s lives, rustling feathers and generally making sure she’s irritating as hell in her quest for the truth. But what differentiates this from Jessica Fletcher (or Jane Marple) is that this film screams modern.
And sexy.
Sexy and wild in a way that Jessica Fletcher never ever was.
(Well, maybe in her younger days).
The corpse of a 22 year old goth girl is pulled from the lake in the charmingly named town of Girdle. She was an outsider so her death isn’t investigated as thoroughly as it might be by the chief of police, but she has a friend driving to town determined that justice must be done. Enter Liddy D’Eath as the sexy goth detective – there to turn heads and cause discomfort in every way she can.
It really is a tour de force for both her and Von De Mille’s dialogue. All those scenes we’ve seen so many times before: the tense interrogation in the booth of a cafeteria; the leaning on a post office counter to interrogate a witness who is cagy as hell; the car chase on the dark country lanes outside the town; the screaming confrontation with the relative of the deceased who doesn’t think the detective is doing her right. All of that is here and all of it crackles. It of course helps that Liddy has gone full on goth for this, with every harsh line of make-up and elegantly torn piece of clothing screaming that she is part of an alternative culture.
Okay, this may sound tame as hell. “What happened to the edgy promise of the original sexy goth girls film?” you may ask. Well, to counter balance the softness we do have a small town femme fatale who Liddy falls hard for her and goes skinny dipping in the lake with before a long soft-focus sex scene. Those expecting a movie to watch over their cocoa will no doubt choke on their marshmallows at this point. It sticks out as much as a full blown S&M scene would in the middle of Cabot Cove. I’ve always said De Mille would be happier making porn and now he has.
The other characters aren’t well drawn and the plot has not only run away from the director by the end, but gone and hidden, yet thanks to a classy performance by the heroine this is a much watch.
Colour (although the sex scenes are in black & white, so we can pretend they’re art)
The first Sexy Goth Detective film was like an episode of ‘Columbo’, but the second one is like the weirdest episode of ‘Murder, She Wrote’ you’ll ever see. There’s the small town where everyone knows each other, the dramatic discovery of a body, a cavalcade of suspects, and one lone woman who is prying into everyone’s lives, rustling feathers and generally making sure she’s irritating as hell in her quest for the truth. But what differentiates this from Jessica Fletcher (or Jane Marple) is that this film screams modern.
And sexy.
Sexy and wild in a way that Jessica Fletcher never ever was.
(Well, maybe in her younger days).
The corpse of a 22 year old goth girl is pulled from the lake in the charmingly named town of Girdle. She was an outsider so her death isn’t investigated as thoroughly as it might be by the chief of police, but she has a friend driving to town determined that justice must be done. Enter Liddy D’Eath as the sexy goth detective – there to turn heads and cause discomfort in every way she can.
It really is a tour de force for both her and Von De Mille’s dialogue. All those scenes we’ve seen so many times before: the tense interrogation in the booth of a cafeteria; the leaning on a post office counter to interrogate a witness who is cagy as hell; the car chase on the dark country lanes outside the town; the screaming confrontation with the relative of the deceased who doesn’t think the detective is doing her right. All of that is here and all of it crackles. It of course helps that Liddy has gone full on goth for this, with every harsh line of make-up and elegantly torn piece of clothing screaming that she is part of an alternative culture.
Okay, this may sound tame as hell. “What happened to the edgy promise of the original sexy goth girls film?” you may ask. Well, to counter balance the softness we do have a small town femme fatale who Liddy falls hard for her and goes skinny dipping in the lake with before a long soft-focus sex scene. Those expecting a movie to watch over their cocoa will no doubt choke on their marshmallows at this point. It sticks out as much as a full blown S&M scene would in the middle of Cabot Cove. I’ve always said De Mille would be happier making porn and now he has.
The other characters aren’t well drawn and the plot has not only run away from the director by the end, but gone and hidden, yet thanks to a classy performance by the heroine this is a much watch.
Sunday, 16 November 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 2 November 2014
Bonfire Burns (2006)
D. Simon Olson
Colour
As I sit here and type with the bangs and whizzes of early fireworks rattling and screeching through my study window, I can’t help thinking that surely Ray Winstone could make a good enough crust out of just appearing in big budget Hollywood movies. I know this seems a strange thought to be randomly popping into my head, but please bear with me. In the last few years alone, East London’s favourite big grizzly bear has popped up again and again in lavish stateside productions. I can think of ‘Noah’, ‘Edge of Darkness’ and ‘The Departed’ off the top of my head, all of which boasted the prominent Winstone scowl. But no, it seems any opportunity he gets Winstone will slot into some British film made for tuppence ha’penny with a script that knows gritty violence sells. Which brings me onto today’s subject, this Ray Winstone starring, undeniably British, Bonfire Night-set murder mystery. My thoughts are making a kind of sense now, aren’t they?
A burnt out detective inspector is called to investigate two murders at the start of Bonfire Night. As the darkness falls and the bonfires start up, the cop finds himself alone in a suburban wilderness, without back-up or a walkie-talkie, battling a serial killer who is like a tabby with a rodent. Around him are dead eyed Bonfire Night revellers, many dressed in scary masks and costumes, who offer him no help, aid or solace whatsoever.
Without a shadow of a doubt it’s cinematic. Normal film whodunnits involve a lot of sitting in rooms with people talking. Yes these scenes of people sat in rooms talking can be shot with great tension and skill, they can even be interspersed with car chases, but the modus operandi remains the same. Here however the whodunit takes place in the nightmare bleakness of suburbia, with most of the scenes illuminated by the flickering orange glow of nearby bonfires, thus giving them a savage dream-like quality. In the background there is the savage whizz and explosions of rockets and Catherine wheels, the dark sky suddenly illuminated by screaming lines of fire. It’s no surprise then that Winstone’s character is soon looking so woozy and disorientated, as the whole does look like some dreadful acid trip.
There’s a strange melding of Halloween and Bonfire Night here. Even though the film is truly and obviously British, there does seem to be misinformation about what Bonfire Night is actually like. I’ve not really partaken in awhile, but when I think of Bonfire Nights as a kid I remember huddling in the backgarden watching the fireworks my dad purchased from the newsagent, holding sparklers and eating cheesy jacket potatoes. We never dressed up in monster movie outfits, we never wore scary masks and aiding lunatic serial killers was scarcely ever on our agenda.
But then I guess the international markets wouldn’t know what Bonfire Night was, Halloween is international, they’re near each other – so why not add two to two and come up with the kind of scary Bonfire Night nobody in their right mind would ever want to take part in?
The chase at the end involving a London bus is a tad ridiculous as nobody ever tries to outrun anything on a London bus, but this is, despite the darkness and dialogue muffled by pops and fizzles, a roaring London thriller which – much like bonfire night itself – is not as good as you want it to be.
Colour
As I sit here and type with the bangs and whizzes of early fireworks rattling and screeching through my study window, I can’t help thinking that surely Ray Winstone could make a good enough crust out of just appearing in big budget Hollywood movies. I know this seems a strange thought to be randomly popping into my head, but please bear with me. In the last few years alone, East London’s favourite big grizzly bear has popped up again and again in lavish stateside productions. I can think of ‘Noah’, ‘Edge of Darkness’ and ‘The Departed’ off the top of my head, all of which boasted the prominent Winstone scowl. But no, it seems any opportunity he gets Winstone will slot into some British film made for tuppence ha’penny with a script that knows gritty violence sells. Which brings me onto today’s subject, this Ray Winstone starring, undeniably British, Bonfire Night-set murder mystery. My thoughts are making a kind of sense now, aren’t they?
A burnt out detective inspector is called to investigate two murders at the start of Bonfire Night. As the darkness falls and the bonfires start up, the cop finds himself alone in a suburban wilderness, without back-up or a walkie-talkie, battling a serial killer who is like a tabby with a rodent. Around him are dead eyed Bonfire Night revellers, many dressed in scary masks and costumes, who offer him no help, aid or solace whatsoever.
Without a shadow of a doubt it’s cinematic. Normal film whodunnits involve a lot of sitting in rooms with people talking. Yes these scenes of people sat in rooms talking can be shot with great tension and skill, they can even be interspersed with car chases, but the modus operandi remains the same. Here however the whodunit takes place in the nightmare bleakness of suburbia, with most of the scenes illuminated by the flickering orange glow of nearby bonfires, thus giving them a savage dream-like quality. In the background there is the savage whizz and explosions of rockets and Catherine wheels, the dark sky suddenly illuminated by screaming lines of fire. It’s no surprise then that Winstone’s character is soon looking so woozy and disorientated, as the whole does look like some dreadful acid trip.
There’s a strange melding of Halloween and Bonfire Night here. Even though the film is truly and obviously British, there does seem to be misinformation about what Bonfire Night is actually like. I’ve not really partaken in awhile, but when I think of Bonfire Nights as a kid I remember huddling in the backgarden watching the fireworks my dad purchased from the newsagent, holding sparklers and eating cheesy jacket potatoes. We never dressed up in monster movie outfits, we never wore scary masks and aiding lunatic serial killers was scarcely ever on our agenda.
But then I guess the international markets wouldn’t know what Bonfire Night was, Halloween is international, they’re near each other – so why not add two to two and come up with the kind of scary Bonfire Night nobody in their right mind would ever want to take part in?
The chase at the end involving a London bus is a tad ridiculous as nobody ever tries to outrun anything on a London bus, but this is, despite the darkness and dialogue muffled by pops and fizzles, a roaring London thriller which – much like bonfire night itself – is not as good as you want it to be.
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
Sixpence a Cornet (1961)
D. Carol Reed
B&W
Like all right minded people, I love Alec Guinness to bloody pieces. Clearly he was one of the greatest actors Britain ever produced, with a body of cinematic work unmatched by any of his similarly titled peers. One can appreciate why he'd get so phenomenally stroppy with idiot ‘Star Wars’ fans, as – really – who wants such a glorious career boiled down to "Use the force, Luke"? But I can also see that there was something incredible diffident about Alec Guinness. There was, even through his brilliance, an unbreachable reserve. That’s part of the reason why one can’t imagine him successfully playing the lead in a love story (even though he did more than once play the lead in a love story), but it’s also the reason why he actually makes an incredibly good movie serial killer.
Alec Guinness was superb in most roles, but charming, polite but ultimately ruthless killer is clearly one that makes him lick his lips with real relish.
In this blacker than the blackest black British black comedy, we have him as Walter Witkins, an ice cream man who drives his cart from seaside town to seaside town and when he gets the opportunity bumps off young ladies he meets, His murders are ridiculously creepy in their politeness and deference. Walter is so solicitous to make sure that he isn't hurting his victims or causing them discomfort, sometimes even beyond the point he has his hands around their throat and is choking the sheer life out of them. (There’s something fantastically creepy about your killer telling you: “Don’t worry, this will all work out fine. I promise it will all be over in a moment.” as your windpipe is crushed and your eyes roll back in your head.) When we meet him he's had a successful summer with lots of ice creams sold and a fair number of young ladies murdered and the Old Bill – as far as we can tell – nowhere to be seen. Then in one particularly sunny and busy seaside resort he runs into Hayley Mills. She’s all sweetness and innocence, golden curls and childhood purity. But she is not only much older than she looks, she has the habit of knocking off lascivious middle-aged men.
The stage is set for a deliciously deadly duel.
Released the year after ‘Psycho’, this movie is the equivalent of Norman Bates meeting a Marian Crane who is travelling the highways with a dead body in her boot. What’s more, it contains a scene the equivalent of Norman Bates bursting into the shower to find it empty and then starting to wonder why that glass of milk he had earlier tasted so funny. In many ways then this is a more disturbing film than ‘Psycho’, as in the Hitchcock classic we know even on first viewing that Norman is going to be caught. Here we don't know who will come out on top, who will die, who will be captured, or whether the two of them will overcome their differences and set up a magnificent murderous home together. We just get the strange beauty of an old killer and a young killer staring at each other with deadly adoration before doing some genuinely creepy flirting over ice cream cones.
B&W
Like all right minded people, I love Alec Guinness to bloody pieces. Clearly he was one of the greatest actors Britain ever produced, with a body of cinematic work unmatched by any of his similarly titled peers. One can appreciate why he'd get so phenomenally stroppy with idiot ‘Star Wars’ fans, as – really – who wants such a glorious career boiled down to "Use the force, Luke"? But I can also see that there was something incredible diffident about Alec Guinness. There was, even through his brilliance, an unbreachable reserve. That’s part of the reason why one can’t imagine him successfully playing the lead in a love story (even though he did more than once play the lead in a love story), but it’s also the reason why he actually makes an incredibly good movie serial killer.
Alec Guinness was superb in most roles, but charming, polite but ultimately ruthless killer is clearly one that makes him lick his lips with real relish.
In this blacker than the blackest black British black comedy, we have him as Walter Witkins, an ice cream man who drives his cart from seaside town to seaside town and when he gets the opportunity bumps off young ladies he meets, His murders are ridiculously creepy in their politeness and deference. Walter is so solicitous to make sure that he isn't hurting his victims or causing them discomfort, sometimes even beyond the point he has his hands around their throat and is choking the sheer life out of them. (There’s something fantastically creepy about your killer telling you: “Don’t worry, this will all work out fine. I promise it will all be over in a moment.” as your windpipe is crushed and your eyes roll back in your head.) When we meet him he's had a successful summer with lots of ice creams sold and a fair number of young ladies murdered and the Old Bill – as far as we can tell – nowhere to be seen. Then in one particularly sunny and busy seaside resort he runs into Hayley Mills. She’s all sweetness and innocence, golden curls and childhood purity. But she is not only much older than she looks, she has the habit of knocking off lascivious middle-aged men.
The stage is set for a deliciously deadly duel.
Released the year after ‘Psycho’, this movie is the equivalent of Norman Bates meeting a Marian Crane who is travelling the highways with a dead body in her boot. What’s more, it contains a scene the equivalent of Norman Bates bursting into the shower to find it empty and then starting to wonder why that glass of milk he had earlier tasted so funny. In many ways then this is a more disturbing film than ‘Psycho’, as in the Hitchcock classic we know even on first viewing that Norman is going to be caught. Here we don't know who will come out on top, who will die, who will be captured, or whether the two of them will overcome their differences and set up a magnificent murderous home together. We just get the strange beauty of an old killer and a young killer staring at each other with deadly adoration before doing some genuinely creepy flirting over ice cream cones.
Wednesday, 1 October 2014
The Trials and Tribulations of Mister Henry Church (1984)
D. Russ Maybery
Colour
1984 seems as good a time as any to hire Simon MacCorkindale to appear in a blatant rip-off of ‘The Saint’. MacCorkindale was definitely up to the task; he more than had the charm and arrogance to pull off the role and if given a proper chance would have been a Simon Templar to match Roger Moore (or a James Bond for that matter). MacCorkindale’s other US foray was a legendary mess named ‘Manimal’. This, for the uninitiated, saw him play a doctor who could shape-shift into any animal of prey and who used his talents to help police with their investigations. Sounds brilliant, doesn’t it? Actually it was wildly mocked, but I’ll be honest I always rather enjoyed it as a small child. As such he needed a chance to get his career back on track, and it’s a shame it went nowhere as this is a role which fits him like a burglar’s glove.
The thing is though, MacCorkindale isn’t actually playing Simon Templar. Maybe there was a rights issue, or maybe Ian Ogilvy’s agent threw the mother of all hissy fits, but here MacCorkindale is Henry Church – a master thief, adventurer, charmer, a man about town and one of the most famous men of his age.
Except he isn’t in his age anymore, as well as all his other achievements, he’s become an inadvertent time traveller.
One can only guess that Adam Ant’s success as an international popstar was enough for the producers to throw the premise of Sixties time travel show ‘Adam Adamant Lives’ in there as well. Or perhaps no one could think of any reason for a dashing 1930s English adventurer type to suddenly appear in 1980s LA, unless he was some kind of nostalgia fetishist – and nostalgia fetishists are hardly likely to appeal to that key demographic: the kids. So we have a prologue where Church fights his main adversary The Hood (a prologue so stuffed with terrible expositional dialogue that you wonder if the script is credited to one G. Lucas) before Church falls into a tank of dry ice where he’s frozen for nearly fifty years. Then one day Henry Church awakes in the 1980s, a curious place where even his unflappable English charm will be put sorely to the test.
There’s a lot of promise in this scenario, essentially a dapper English gentleman with self-assurance beyond anything that modern man can reach makes his way in the modern world. He hooks up with investigative reporter. Erin Gray, and the sparks do fly between him and this 1980s girl. (Gray I also watched as a small child in ‘Buck Rogers’, where she introduced me to the whole concept of withering looks – she really does have a fine selection of them). But the fact that this is a back-door pilot means that a lot of what’s promising about this scenario is lost in handling a case of the week. So we see Henry Church amazed by big TV sets and dealing with skinheads in leather jackets who play their music too loud on huge speakers, but most of what makes this so promising is lost among the tropes of a generic American detective show.
A promising and intriguing idea then, but a waste of talent and effort – and the first part of that sentence is more than could be said about ‘Manimal’ at least.
Colour
1984 seems as good a time as any to hire Simon MacCorkindale to appear in a blatant rip-off of ‘The Saint’. MacCorkindale was definitely up to the task; he more than had the charm and arrogance to pull off the role and if given a proper chance would have been a Simon Templar to match Roger Moore (or a James Bond for that matter). MacCorkindale’s other US foray was a legendary mess named ‘Manimal’. This, for the uninitiated, saw him play a doctor who could shape-shift into any animal of prey and who used his talents to help police with their investigations. Sounds brilliant, doesn’t it? Actually it was wildly mocked, but I’ll be honest I always rather enjoyed it as a small child. As such he needed a chance to get his career back on track, and it’s a shame it went nowhere as this is a role which fits him like a burglar’s glove.
The thing is though, MacCorkindale isn’t actually playing Simon Templar. Maybe there was a rights issue, or maybe Ian Ogilvy’s agent threw the mother of all hissy fits, but here MacCorkindale is Henry Church – a master thief, adventurer, charmer, a man about town and one of the most famous men of his age.
Except he isn’t in his age anymore, as well as all his other achievements, he’s become an inadvertent time traveller.
One can only guess that Adam Ant’s success as an international popstar was enough for the producers to throw the premise of Sixties time travel show ‘Adam Adamant Lives’ in there as well. Or perhaps no one could think of any reason for a dashing 1930s English adventurer type to suddenly appear in 1980s LA, unless he was some kind of nostalgia fetishist – and nostalgia fetishists are hardly likely to appeal to that key demographic: the kids. So we have a prologue where Church fights his main adversary The Hood (a prologue so stuffed with terrible expositional dialogue that you wonder if the script is credited to one G. Lucas) before Church falls into a tank of dry ice where he’s frozen for nearly fifty years. Then one day Henry Church awakes in the 1980s, a curious place where even his unflappable English charm will be put sorely to the test.
There’s a lot of promise in this scenario, essentially a dapper English gentleman with self-assurance beyond anything that modern man can reach makes his way in the modern world. He hooks up with investigative reporter. Erin Gray, and the sparks do fly between him and this 1980s girl. (Gray I also watched as a small child in ‘Buck Rogers’, where she introduced me to the whole concept of withering looks – she really does have a fine selection of them). But the fact that this is a back-door pilot means that a lot of what’s promising about this scenario is lost in handling a case of the week. So we see Henry Church amazed by big TV sets and dealing with skinheads in leather jackets who play their music too loud on huge speakers, but most of what makes this so promising is lost among the tropes of a generic American detective show.
A promising and intriguing idea then, but a waste of talent and effort – and the first part of that sentence is more than could be said about ‘Manimal’ at least.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
The Playboy (1968)
D. Harry Reilly
Colour
One of Roger Moore’s first stabs at big screen stardom, sees him never stray far from his established persona asRoger Moore The Saint on the TV, which was of course the same persona he later made famous as Roger Moore James Bond.
Despite a long career, acting was never Roger Moore’s strong point and so you’d expect him to bring nothing else but his normal bag of tricks. Yet, even though Roger Moore is still so clearly playing Roger Moore, if you actually watch the film, you’ll see that incredibly he’s both wheeling out his normal debonair persona, but also subverting it at every level. Here his charm, suavity and effortless English cool aren’t the products of excellent breeding and inherent style, they’re just a façade which hides something far darker and more disturbing.
For in ‘The Playboy’, Roger Moore isn’t a gentleman thief or a gentleman spy, he’s a screwed up would-be gentleman and genuine mummy’s boy who likes nothing better than to little murder old ladies.
It’s 1968 in swinging London and Roger Moore cruises the streets in a second hand jaguar looking to meet ladies of a certain age he can woo and charm. Like a much hornier Max Bialystock, Moore is adept at making these women feel special; romancing them, wining & dining them, looking so happy to be on their arm. But the moment the dear old thing’s will is changed to reflect her new found infatuation, she’s ushered to bed by her handsome young suitor and takes a long sleep from which she’ll never awake. Irene Handl is suitably charmed, Joan Hickson is equally charmed, even visiting American former cabaret artiste Shelley Winters finds it impossible to resist. All fall asleep so full of love and passion that they never wake up to realise their mistake. It isn’t long though before the trail of corpses arouses suspicion and Detective Alex McGowan (playing essentially the same character he later did in Hitchcock’s ‘Frenzy’, but without the stilted marital bickering), starts to track his man.
Released the same year as ‘Alfie’, in many ways this serves as a darker version of that film: both being about Londoners with a taste for the ladies (including Shelley Winters, for whom 1968 was clearly a randy year around London). Yet even though the murders give it a far darker edge than ‘Alfie’, it still feels like a far older and more conservative film.
From a 1968 perspective (actually from a 2014 perspective too), Michael Caine is better cast as a modern man than his near contemporary Roger Moore. Roger Moore reeks of public school, the good tailor, the brogues. He doesn’t feel like a 1960s man, more a throwback to the 1950s, who’s only cool and young in the way Frank Sinatra was still trying to be cool and young. If ‘The Playboy’ had been released ten years earlier, its blithe mixture of that charm and murder would have made this a disturbing and genuinely memorable British film. As it was, it feels like a strange anachronism wrapped in an un-hip suit and stinking of Brylcreem.
Although watching his performance, clearly Roger Moore had more murder in his soul than he was ever encouraged to show as James Bond – and the fact he never got to use it is a dying shame. By the end of his tenure, Lois Maxwell’s Miss Moneypenny was very much the right age group for this film’s version of Roger Moore. So it’s genuinely disappointing that she just disappeared from the screen, rather than being gently ushered to sleep by an OO7 gone very, very rogue.
Now, wouldn’t THAT have been a hell of an ending to ‘A View to a Kill’?
Colour
One of Roger Moore’s first stabs at big screen stardom, sees him never stray far from his established persona as
Despite a long career, acting was never Roger Moore’s strong point and so you’d expect him to bring nothing else but his normal bag of tricks. Yet, even though Roger Moore is still so clearly playing Roger Moore, if you actually watch the film, you’ll see that incredibly he’s both wheeling out his normal debonair persona, but also subverting it at every level. Here his charm, suavity and effortless English cool aren’t the products of excellent breeding and inherent style, they’re just a façade which hides something far darker and more disturbing.
For in ‘The Playboy’, Roger Moore isn’t a gentleman thief or a gentleman spy, he’s a screwed up would-be gentleman and genuine mummy’s boy who likes nothing better than to little murder old ladies.
It’s 1968 in swinging London and Roger Moore cruises the streets in a second hand jaguar looking to meet ladies of a certain age he can woo and charm. Like a much hornier Max Bialystock, Moore is adept at making these women feel special; romancing them, wining & dining them, looking so happy to be on their arm. But the moment the dear old thing’s will is changed to reflect her new found infatuation, she’s ushered to bed by her handsome young suitor and takes a long sleep from which she’ll never awake. Irene Handl is suitably charmed, Joan Hickson is equally charmed, even visiting American former cabaret artiste Shelley Winters finds it impossible to resist. All fall asleep so full of love and passion that they never wake up to realise their mistake. It isn’t long though before the trail of corpses arouses suspicion and Detective Alex McGowan (playing essentially the same character he later did in Hitchcock’s ‘Frenzy’, but without the stilted marital bickering), starts to track his man.
Released the same year as ‘Alfie’, in many ways this serves as a darker version of that film: both being about Londoners with a taste for the ladies (including Shelley Winters, for whom 1968 was clearly a randy year around London). Yet even though the murders give it a far darker edge than ‘Alfie’, it still feels like a far older and more conservative film.
From a 1968 perspective (actually from a 2014 perspective too), Michael Caine is better cast as a modern man than his near contemporary Roger Moore. Roger Moore reeks of public school, the good tailor, the brogues. He doesn’t feel like a 1960s man, more a throwback to the 1950s, who’s only cool and young in the way Frank Sinatra was still trying to be cool and young. If ‘The Playboy’ had been released ten years earlier, its blithe mixture of that charm and murder would have made this a disturbing and genuinely memorable British film. As it was, it feels like a strange anachronism wrapped in an un-hip suit and stinking of Brylcreem.
Although watching his performance, clearly Roger Moore had more murder in his soul than he was ever encouraged to show as James Bond – and the fact he never got to use it is a dying shame. By the end of his tenure, Lois Maxwell’s Miss Moneypenny was very much the right age group for this film’s version of Roger Moore. So it’s genuinely disappointing that she just disappeared from the screen, rather than being gently ushered to sleep by an OO7 gone very, very rogue.
Now, wouldn’t THAT have been a hell of an ending to ‘A View to a Kill’?
Sunday, 24 August 2014
The Sexy Goth Detective (2003)
D. Otto Van De Mille
Colour
Liddy D’eath could undoubtedly scrub off that dark make-up, take out those intimidating piercings and sling on some loose fitting pastels, then leave all this sexy goth girl stuff behind forever. But really that would make her just another pretty girl in an entertainment industry full of pretty girls – all of whom are looking for that one break. So there’s no point her doing that, she has her niche and it’s a good niche, even if it isn’t that big a niche. And to help her exploit it she always seems to have Otto Van De Mille on hand, like some kind of faithful, salivating lap-dog with a viewfinder.
Rarely has such an enduring cinematic relationship been created by two such uneven talents. At his best Van De Mille looks like he’s directing adverts, he has a way of capturing the sharp, memorable, but ultimately meaningless image. At his worst though, he’s basically a porn director, voyeuristic with an alarming lack of subtlety. (Although, to be fair, the same criticisms could be made of Michael Bay, but at least he knows how to blow shit up). Whereas Liddy D’Eath can be a brilliant and transcendent and often darkly erotic actress, Van De Mille films her in such a way that at his best makes the actress look striking and incredible and you want whatever she’s selling; but at his worst it’s like she’s just going to hump whoever else happens to be in the room with her.
Fortunately Van De Mille’s skills with dialogue haven’t yet deserted him. And it’s double, roll-over fortunate that this time they seem to have been married to an actual grasp of plot (as if he’d spent the last two years sat at home reading a book entitled ‘How to Plot Your Way out of a Paper Bag’), making this movie their best since the first sexy goth girls film.
How best to describe what we have here? Well, think of ‘Columbo’, with the killer all smug as he commits the perfect crime and then high-handedly underestimates the shabby, trench-coated detective. Now think of a ‘Columbo’ with the same kind of recognisable guest villain (Eric Roberts, if you’re interested), but instead of a shabby cop investigating him, it’s a “goth, lesbian bitch with bad PMT.” And there you have ‘Sexy Goth Detective’.
Clearly Von De Mille is going for the mainstream, a lot of this film couldn’t be any more pitched at easy Sunday night viewing if John Nettles showed up as a put upon senior detective. But in his leading lady, he has a presence – which no matter how much he wants to sanitise it – remains spectacularly dark, weird and off-kilter. D’Eath dominates this film and even though she’s the heroine, she makes every scene she is in much more tense and scary than it ever need be. It’s a disturbing and fascinating performance which truly upsets Van De Mille’s stabs for some kind of respectability and creates a disturbing and fascinating movie.
Colour
Liddy D’eath could undoubtedly scrub off that dark make-up, take out those intimidating piercings and sling on some loose fitting pastels, then leave all this sexy goth girl stuff behind forever. But really that would make her just another pretty girl in an entertainment industry full of pretty girls – all of whom are looking for that one break. So there’s no point her doing that, she has her niche and it’s a good niche, even if it isn’t that big a niche. And to help her exploit it she always seems to have Otto Van De Mille on hand, like some kind of faithful, salivating lap-dog with a viewfinder.
Rarely has such an enduring cinematic relationship been created by two such uneven talents. At his best Van De Mille looks like he’s directing adverts, he has a way of capturing the sharp, memorable, but ultimately meaningless image. At his worst though, he’s basically a porn director, voyeuristic with an alarming lack of subtlety. (Although, to be fair, the same criticisms could be made of Michael Bay, but at least he knows how to blow shit up). Whereas Liddy D’Eath can be a brilliant and transcendent and often darkly erotic actress, Van De Mille films her in such a way that at his best makes the actress look striking and incredible and you want whatever she’s selling; but at his worst it’s like she’s just going to hump whoever else happens to be in the room with her.
Fortunately Van De Mille’s skills with dialogue haven’t yet deserted him. And it’s double, roll-over fortunate that this time they seem to have been married to an actual grasp of plot (as if he’d spent the last two years sat at home reading a book entitled ‘How to Plot Your Way out of a Paper Bag’), making this movie their best since the first sexy goth girls film.
How best to describe what we have here? Well, think of ‘Columbo’, with the killer all smug as he commits the perfect crime and then high-handedly underestimates the shabby, trench-coated detective. Now think of a ‘Columbo’ with the same kind of recognisable guest villain (Eric Roberts, if you’re interested), but instead of a shabby cop investigating him, it’s a “goth, lesbian bitch with bad PMT.” And there you have ‘Sexy Goth Detective’.
Clearly Von De Mille is going for the mainstream, a lot of this film couldn’t be any more pitched at easy Sunday night viewing if John Nettles showed up as a put upon senior detective. But in his leading lady, he has a presence – which no matter how much he wants to sanitise it – remains spectacularly dark, weird and off-kilter. D’Eath dominates this film and even though she’s the heroine, she makes every scene she is in much more tense and scary than it ever need be. It’s a disturbing and fascinating performance which truly upsets Van De Mille’s stabs for some kind of respectability and creates a disturbing and fascinating movie.
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Honeymoon of Horrors (1945)
D. Jack van Dougel
B&W
‘Honeymoon of Horrors’ is a dark comedy of the type that you just feel Cary Grant wished he did more of. Obviously he knew his image and was fond of his image as it paid for him to be, well, Cary Grant, but there was always something about him that strained to be darker than that image. You can see it in the films he made with Alfred Hitchcock; you see it in the films he made with Howard Hawks. But this is one of those rare movies where he just really goes for it. From talking of the horrendous fate meted out to Archibald Leach in ‘His Girl Friday’, to murderous aunts in ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’, to bloody honeymoons here: this, my friends, is the dark side of Cary Grant.
Upping the tempo of his normal screen persona, this is Grant as full-on frazzled. The most famous example of a frazzled Cary Grant is of course ‘North by Northwest’, but there he’s a proto James Bond, which you have to admit is pretty damn suave. ‘Honeymoon of Horrors’ though is an increasingly macabre comedy, where laughs and deaths are piled on top of each other in frantic and haphazard fashion, and Grant is frazzled to the max. At points he doesn’t even look like Cary Grant: his face is grubby, that normally pristine hair finds itself ruffled and spiked, and his eyes are well and truly bulging. This is a Cary Grant lost in a situation he can’t control, as a newly-wed husband who starts to believe that his wife is a mass murderer.
The fact that the wife is played by Joan Fontaine makes this a delicious spin on Hitchcock’s ‘Suspicion’. In that film Joan plays a newlywed who starts to be suspicious about the murderous intentions of her husband, Cary Grant, suspicions which build to a disappointing ending. Here it’s Joan Fontaine as the suspected murderess, but it still builds to a disappointing ending. It’s much like Karl Marx said: good Hollywood ideas repeat themselves, first as suspense and then as farce.
Starting out as what looks like a blissful Hollywood romance, the two drive to the beautiful country hotel they’re staying in for their honeymoon, all loved up and with dreams of their future. They check in with the charming receptionist, kiss as they go up to their hotel room and everything looks rosy. But there’s a guest in reception who seems to recognise Fontaine and greets her by another name, before long he’s dead, and not long after all the other guests start dropping like particularly diseased flies. Grant grows suspicious that his lovely bride is responsible, and investigates even when trying to throw the suspicions of others away from her.
If we’re honest Fontaine isn’t much of a comedienne, but her icy, implacable cool serves the film well. It’s left to Grant to do all the heavy lifting laughs-wise and this he achieves with a truly manic unhinged performance. Think of some wild, lost Abbott & Costello movie with Grant in the Costello role; or a Marx Brothers film where Grant has moments of impersonating both Groucho and Harpo – then you have an idea of the joy that lies within ‘Honeymoon of Horrors’.
The dark tone and clearly cynical world view mean it won’t be for everyone’s tastes, but Grant is brilliant and serves yet another reminder why we should never forget what a fantastic, wonderful, always impeccable actor he was.
B&W
‘Honeymoon of Horrors’ is a dark comedy of the type that you just feel Cary Grant wished he did more of. Obviously he knew his image and was fond of his image as it paid for him to be, well, Cary Grant, but there was always something about him that strained to be darker than that image. You can see it in the films he made with Alfred Hitchcock; you see it in the films he made with Howard Hawks. But this is one of those rare movies where he just really goes for it. From talking of the horrendous fate meted out to Archibald Leach in ‘His Girl Friday’, to murderous aunts in ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’, to bloody honeymoons here: this, my friends, is the dark side of Cary Grant.
Upping the tempo of his normal screen persona, this is Grant as full-on frazzled. The most famous example of a frazzled Cary Grant is of course ‘North by Northwest’, but there he’s a proto James Bond, which you have to admit is pretty damn suave. ‘Honeymoon of Horrors’ though is an increasingly macabre comedy, where laughs and deaths are piled on top of each other in frantic and haphazard fashion, and Grant is frazzled to the max. At points he doesn’t even look like Cary Grant: his face is grubby, that normally pristine hair finds itself ruffled and spiked, and his eyes are well and truly bulging. This is a Cary Grant lost in a situation he can’t control, as a newly-wed husband who starts to believe that his wife is a mass murderer.
The fact that the wife is played by Joan Fontaine makes this a delicious spin on Hitchcock’s ‘Suspicion’. In that film Joan plays a newlywed who starts to be suspicious about the murderous intentions of her husband, Cary Grant, suspicions which build to a disappointing ending. Here it’s Joan Fontaine as the suspected murderess, but it still builds to a disappointing ending. It’s much like Karl Marx said: good Hollywood ideas repeat themselves, first as suspense and then as farce.
Starting out as what looks like a blissful Hollywood romance, the two drive to the beautiful country hotel they’re staying in for their honeymoon, all loved up and with dreams of their future. They check in with the charming receptionist, kiss as they go up to their hotel room and everything looks rosy. But there’s a guest in reception who seems to recognise Fontaine and greets her by another name, before long he’s dead, and not long after all the other guests start dropping like particularly diseased flies. Grant grows suspicious that his lovely bride is responsible, and investigates even when trying to throw the suspicions of others away from her.
If we’re honest Fontaine isn’t much of a comedienne, but her icy, implacable cool serves the film well. It’s left to Grant to do all the heavy lifting laughs-wise and this he achieves with a truly manic unhinged performance. Think of some wild, lost Abbott & Costello movie with Grant in the Costello role; or a Marx Brothers film where Grant has moments of impersonating both Groucho and Harpo – then you have an idea of the joy that lies within ‘Honeymoon of Horrors’.
The dark tone and clearly cynical world view mean it won’t be for everyone’s tastes, but Grant is brilliant and serves yet another reminder why we should never forget what a fantastic, wonderful, always impeccable actor he was.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Munich Murder (1985)
D. Otto Haus
Colour
Oh crumbs, there’s a World Cup on, isn’t there? And that probably means I should be topical and write about some of the strange and curious football related films out there. So let’s try this one on for size, shall we? A European/German movie about a grizzled, hard-bitten detective investigating the murder of the left back of a Munich football club. (The club in question is named Borussia Munich, although they obviously play in Bayern Munich’s stadium and in Bayern Munich’s kit. Quite why this name change happened is not made clear, but it’d be like making a film about a North London football club, which play in red and white at Highbury, and are named The Gun Factory.) In the German version – which I have not seen – the detective is played by Maximillian Schell. I have no idea of what Mr Schell’s take on the role is, but here we have Jon Voight giving us a performance of such aggressive, intense boredom that it’s worth tracking down just to see Mr Voight scowl through every scene and to greet every emotion he’s called on to play with a glower. It’s as if he couldn’t be bothered to learn anything about football, detective work, Germany and possibly the whole continent of Europe itself before the film was made, and so strides around distinctly pissed off that he’s being forced to fake an interest in them. Normally an actor so disengaged from the film around him is said to be Zen, but Mr Voight is clearly so livid at being there that peace and calm are clearly not attributes anyone would associate with him.
The other problem with Jon Voight playing the role and the film being made in English to accommodate him, is that the other parts in the film are all played by Germans. Performing in another language would be hard for trained actors, but this film further makes it much more difficult by hiring footballers to play – well – footballers. So amusingly we have Franz Beckenbauer playing the retired captain of the club with all the charm of a haughty, out of touch, autocratic, blue-blooded despot; while Jürgen Grabowski manages the incredible feat of looking even less happy to be there than Jon Voight. His character is minor, so minor in fact that there’s no chance of him being a suspect – although in any other movie he’d have been lead henchman at least, if not someone who went on a murderous rampage before the end. Very, very amusingly there is also a cameo from Mighty Mouse himself, Kevin Keegan (or Keggy Keegle, as he’s sometimes known in his home country) – where he manages to demonstrate even less talent than he did on ‘Head Over Heals in Love’
The film plods along in rhythm with Mr Voight’s pissed off stride, throwing in herrings of red, pink and purple shades, until the killer is revealed. And it becomes clear, the more Mr Voight hangs around the football club, that this film could easily have been made about any sport or indeed any industry. As by the end the film has clearly joined Mr Voight’s disinterest in football, football players, as well as any and all round balls. This could easily have been a movie about a murder of a foreman in a diamond mine, or a welder at a dockyard – both of which would no doubt have elicited no more interest on Mr Voight’s face than the contents of his handkerchief on a wet Thursday afternoon. At the very end Mr Voight trudges off, presumably for a lie down, I hope he enjoyed it more than he did this movie.
Colour
Oh crumbs, there’s a World Cup on, isn’t there? And that probably means I should be topical and write about some of the strange and curious football related films out there. So let’s try this one on for size, shall we? A European/German movie about a grizzled, hard-bitten detective investigating the murder of the left back of a Munich football club. (The club in question is named Borussia Munich, although they obviously play in Bayern Munich’s stadium and in Bayern Munich’s kit. Quite why this name change happened is not made clear, but it’d be like making a film about a North London football club, which play in red and white at Highbury, and are named The Gun Factory.) In the German version – which I have not seen – the detective is played by Maximillian Schell. I have no idea of what Mr Schell’s take on the role is, but here we have Jon Voight giving us a performance of such aggressive, intense boredom that it’s worth tracking down just to see Mr Voight scowl through every scene and to greet every emotion he’s called on to play with a glower. It’s as if he couldn’t be bothered to learn anything about football, detective work, Germany and possibly the whole continent of Europe itself before the film was made, and so strides around distinctly pissed off that he’s being forced to fake an interest in them. Normally an actor so disengaged from the film around him is said to be Zen, but Mr Voight is clearly so livid at being there that peace and calm are clearly not attributes anyone would associate with him.
The other problem with Jon Voight playing the role and the film being made in English to accommodate him, is that the other parts in the film are all played by Germans. Performing in another language would be hard for trained actors, but this film further makes it much more difficult by hiring footballers to play – well – footballers. So amusingly we have Franz Beckenbauer playing the retired captain of the club with all the charm of a haughty, out of touch, autocratic, blue-blooded despot; while Jürgen Grabowski manages the incredible feat of looking even less happy to be there than Jon Voight. His character is minor, so minor in fact that there’s no chance of him being a suspect – although in any other movie he’d have been lead henchman at least, if not someone who went on a murderous rampage before the end. Very, very amusingly there is also a cameo from Mighty Mouse himself, Kevin Keegan (or Keggy Keegle, as he’s sometimes known in his home country) – where he manages to demonstrate even less talent than he did on ‘Head Over Heals in Love’
The film plods along in rhythm with Mr Voight’s pissed off stride, throwing in herrings of red, pink and purple shades, until the killer is revealed. And it becomes clear, the more Mr Voight hangs around the football club, that this film could easily have been made about any sport or indeed any industry. As by the end the film has clearly joined Mr Voight’s disinterest in football, football players, as well as any and all round balls. This could easily have been a movie about a murder of a foreman in a diamond mine, or a welder at a dockyard – both of which would no doubt have elicited no more interest on Mr Voight’s face than the contents of his handkerchief on a wet Thursday afternoon. At the very end Mr Voight trudges off, presumably for a lie down, I hope he enjoyed it more than he did this movie.
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Runaway! (1970)
D. Michael Winner
Colour (but a really washed out colour, as if it woke up hung-over that morning)
Reading Robert Galbrath/J.K. Rowling's tale of a down on his luck private eye in Soho, reminded me with sudden incredible clarity (like I’d just eaten a madeleine) of this neglected Michael Caine private eye movie. And that memory gave me particular satisfaction when I realised that Caine's character is actually named - and I'm not making this up - Barry Potter. Not that I’m suggesting for one second that Rowling based either of her recurring characters on this film. Having read ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’, Michael Caine certainly isn’t Comoran Strike. Admittedly I’ve only seen the Harry Potter films rather than read the books, but unless there’s something in the novels about the teen wizard having a porn collection and liking rough sex, he’s not a student of Hogwarts either.
This is a tale about a down on his luck London private eye, but Comoran Strike has nothing on Barry Potter for rough living. Yes, both sleep in their offices and squander their money on booze and fags, but Strike doesn't steal a tenner from the elderly lady upstairs for electric metre money. Nor does he effectively mug a homeless man when said homeless man is cheeky. Nor, indeed, does he steal a chip from a nun in a chip-shop before suggesting flirtatiously that he remove her from the habit. There is an aggressive unpleasantness and seediness to this character - the anti-anti-anti-Philip Marlowe. It's almost as if the filmmakers looked at Caine as Harry Palmer and decided that he was still just too upwardly mobile for their tastes, it was time to bring him down several dirty and greasy pegs. And Caine relishes the part, clearly on paper this is an unpleasant man, but our favourite cockney knight uses all his charm to make sure he still deserves to be the hero.
Philip Marlowe is undoubtedly a (much more noble) background presence, as the plot isn’t far off Raymond Chandler's ‘The Little Sister’ (which had been filmed far more glamorously in Hollywood a few years earlier). A prim librarian type seeks out Potter's help to find her missing sibling, who’s disappeared into the Soho netherworld of strip clubs and pornographers. Before long Potter finds himself up to his neck in sleaze (not necessarily a problem, Potter admits to liking “a bit of naughty”), and murder (more of a problem, particularly when he finds himself the prime suspect). It's up to Potter to stay one step ahead of the police as he tries to solve the crime.
The audience stayed away en mass, which is why the British tough guy Michael Caine picture people remember from the early 1970s is ‘Get Carter’ and that’s fair enough as it’s much stronger and looks far better. However good performances abound: from Ray Milland as a disgraced former copper with an accent so very, very Welsh (so much so I couldn’t work out whether he was putting it on or that was indeed his real accent), surprise guest-star Frankie Avalon, hamming it up as a would be gangster even when he looks a little lost in seedy London, and most astonishing of all Cilla Black – of all people – as a hard as nails prostitute. If those punters who stood excited at her side in the ‘Blind Date’ and ‘Surprise, Surprise’ years had watched this, they’d probably have come armed.
(Casting Director-wise, the movie credits one Phyllis Dunfield, who clearly had a very left-field mind that’s hard not to admire.)
The Rowling/Galbrath book is better, as despite a not bad cast and a suitably muddy storyline, this is a film which – even with Sir Michael’s efforts – is so seedy and depressive it leaves you wanting to have a good scrub down afterwards.
Colour (but a really washed out colour, as if it woke up hung-over that morning)
Reading Robert Galbrath/J.K. Rowling's tale of a down on his luck private eye in Soho, reminded me with sudden incredible clarity (like I’d just eaten a madeleine) of this neglected Michael Caine private eye movie. And that memory gave me particular satisfaction when I realised that Caine's character is actually named - and I'm not making this up - Barry Potter. Not that I’m suggesting for one second that Rowling based either of her recurring characters on this film. Having read ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’, Michael Caine certainly isn’t Comoran Strike. Admittedly I’ve only seen the Harry Potter films rather than read the books, but unless there’s something in the novels about the teen wizard having a porn collection and liking rough sex, he’s not a student of Hogwarts either.
This is a tale about a down on his luck London private eye, but Comoran Strike has nothing on Barry Potter for rough living. Yes, both sleep in their offices and squander their money on booze and fags, but Strike doesn't steal a tenner from the elderly lady upstairs for electric metre money. Nor does he effectively mug a homeless man when said homeless man is cheeky. Nor, indeed, does he steal a chip from a nun in a chip-shop before suggesting flirtatiously that he remove her from the habit. There is an aggressive unpleasantness and seediness to this character - the anti-anti-anti-Philip Marlowe. It's almost as if the filmmakers looked at Caine as Harry Palmer and decided that he was still just too upwardly mobile for their tastes, it was time to bring him down several dirty and greasy pegs. And Caine relishes the part, clearly on paper this is an unpleasant man, but our favourite cockney knight uses all his charm to make sure he still deserves to be the hero.
Philip Marlowe is undoubtedly a (much more noble) background presence, as the plot isn’t far off Raymond Chandler's ‘The Little Sister’ (which had been filmed far more glamorously in Hollywood a few years earlier). A prim librarian type seeks out Potter's help to find her missing sibling, who’s disappeared into the Soho netherworld of strip clubs and pornographers. Before long Potter finds himself up to his neck in sleaze (not necessarily a problem, Potter admits to liking “a bit of naughty”), and murder (more of a problem, particularly when he finds himself the prime suspect). It's up to Potter to stay one step ahead of the police as he tries to solve the crime.
The audience stayed away en mass, which is why the British tough guy Michael Caine picture people remember from the early 1970s is ‘Get Carter’ and that’s fair enough as it’s much stronger and looks far better. However good performances abound: from Ray Milland as a disgraced former copper with an accent so very, very Welsh (so much so I couldn’t work out whether he was putting it on or that was indeed his real accent), surprise guest-star Frankie Avalon, hamming it up as a would be gangster even when he looks a little lost in seedy London, and most astonishing of all Cilla Black – of all people – as a hard as nails prostitute. If those punters who stood excited at her side in the ‘Blind Date’ and ‘Surprise, Surprise’ years had watched this, they’d probably have come armed.
(Casting Director-wise, the movie credits one Phyllis Dunfield, who clearly had a very left-field mind that’s hard not to admire.)
The Rowling/Galbrath book is better, as despite a not bad cast and a suitably muddy storyline, this is a film which – even with Sir Michael’s efforts – is so seedy and depressive it leaves you wanting to have a good scrub down afterwards.
Wednesday, 14 May 2014
The Man from Budapest (1946)
D. Raoul Walsh
B&W
Ah, it must have been great to have an actor like Peter Lorre hanging around the studio. He could make any bog-standard scene 500% better, while if you gave him something really good he’d turn it into black & white gold. I guess Steve Buscemi would be the modern equivalent. Both are weedy tough guys, both are always better than their material and both occasionally had the chance to be a leading man. In Buscemi’s case television has moved on far enough that he can find himself the star of a lavish drama, while Lorre got ‘The Man from Budapest’. This is a remarkable movie: here’s Peter Lorre in the Bogart role: the ethically dubious detective, with love scenes, smacking down the villains, and being brilliant in the most unsettling way.
Lorre is Lazlo Tec, a famous Hungarian detective (this is a world where policeman in Eastern Europe can build up reputations which stretch across continents – just go with it). On a trip to Manhattan, Lazlo literally has murder drop into his lap in the form of the young Angela Lansbury. Even on holiday Lazlo is too much of a professional to let criminals get away, so he helps nice but dim NY police detective, George Reeves, solve the crime. Along the way he spars with bad girl gone good but maybe going bad again, Lana Turner; roughs up gangster Edward G. Robinson (himself born in Romania, but here playing very American) before revealing the killer at a big fireworks event in a truly bizarre scene where all the dialogue is interspersed by pops and bangs and the other characters look to be peering around Lorre to watch the thrills.
But by that point in the film we’ve got used to the bizarre, as all the way through we’ve had Lorre’s truly shifty and untrustworthy performance. The kind of performance no one usually gives as a hero, but which makes this film truly interesting. No doubt this was written for a Robert Montgomery or a Dana Andrews. That would have been a straightforward film, a run of the mill film, a boring film – this one though is fascinating.
There’s something so wrong about having Lorre as a hero. Every line he utters sounds like a lie, every assertion a misdirection, every accusation a fabrication to hide his own sins. There’s that snivelling voice, that weedy demeanour, those big wet eyes not designed for your straightforward detective. When he smiles at a suspect, one imagines he does so because he knows he’ll be murdering the suspect’s parents later. But what makes it truly great is that the script all the way through treats him as if he is of the highest repute, admired and loved by all, even though that doesn’t really work on the screen. Lana Turner’s character – for instance – falls for him hard, but Lana Turner the actress can’t quite pull off the burning desire for Peter Lorre she needs and so the love scenes feel like he’s paying her to be there.
All of this adds up to a really weird film which almost brings a big old unreliable narrator to the cinema. We’re told Lorre is a hero and he seems to behave decently and to solve the crime at the end. But what if he isn’t and he doesn’t? After all, Lansbury drops into his lap just after he’s been away from his seat to find a waiter. What if, rather than finding the waiter he was killing her for some unknown reason? Then when the police arrive he lays out his credentials (and he may be the real Lazlo Tec, or he might not – who would really know?) and leads the dim NY City police detective on a merry dance. He charges over NY blaming others for his crime, committing more in the cover up (or just for the hell of it), before finally landing on some dumb sap to take the heat for it all. Then at the end he heads back to Hungary with his new paid for floozy escort.
Pick your own version of what the hell is going on, but acknowledge that this is wonderfully subversive film which makes you doff your cap once again to the genius of Peter Lorre.
B&W
Ah, it must have been great to have an actor like Peter Lorre hanging around the studio. He could make any bog-standard scene 500% better, while if you gave him something really good he’d turn it into black & white gold. I guess Steve Buscemi would be the modern equivalent. Both are weedy tough guys, both are always better than their material and both occasionally had the chance to be a leading man. In Buscemi’s case television has moved on far enough that he can find himself the star of a lavish drama, while Lorre got ‘The Man from Budapest’. This is a remarkable movie: here’s Peter Lorre in the Bogart role: the ethically dubious detective, with love scenes, smacking down the villains, and being brilliant in the most unsettling way.
Lorre is Lazlo Tec, a famous Hungarian detective (this is a world where policeman in Eastern Europe can build up reputations which stretch across continents – just go with it). On a trip to Manhattan, Lazlo literally has murder drop into his lap in the form of the young Angela Lansbury. Even on holiday Lazlo is too much of a professional to let criminals get away, so he helps nice but dim NY police detective, George Reeves, solve the crime. Along the way he spars with bad girl gone good but maybe going bad again, Lana Turner; roughs up gangster Edward G. Robinson (himself born in Romania, but here playing very American) before revealing the killer at a big fireworks event in a truly bizarre scene where all the dialogue is interspersed by pops and bangs and the other characters look to be peering around Lorre to watch the thrills.
But by that point in the film we’ve got used to the bizarre, as all the way through we’ve had Lorre’s truly shifty and untrustworthy performance. The kind of performance no one usually gives as a hero, but which makes this film truly interesting. No doubt this was written for a Robert Montgomery or a Dana Andrews. That would have been a straightforward film, a run of the mill film, a boring film – this one though is fascinating.
There’s something so wrong about having Lorre as a hero. Every line he utters sounds like a lie, every assertion a misdirection, every accusation a fabrication to hide his own sins. There’s that snivelling voice, that weedy demeanour, those big wet eyes not designed for your straightforward detective. When he smiles at a suspect, one imagines he does so because he knows he’ll be murdering the suspect’s parents later. But what makes it truly great is that the script all the way through treats him as if he is of the highest repute, admired and loved by all, even though that doesn’t really work on the screen. Lana Turner’s character – for instance – falls for him hard, but Lana Turner the actress can’t quite pull off the burning desire for Peter Lorre she needs and so the love scenes feel like he’s paying her to be there.
All of this adds up to a really weird film which almost brings a big old unreliable narrator to the cinema. We’re told Lorre is a hero and he seems to behave decently and to solve the crime at the end. But what if he isn’t and he doesn’t? After all, Lansbury drops into his lap just after he’s been away from his seat to find a waiter. What if, rather than finding the waiter he was killing her for some unknown reason? Then when the police arrive he lays out his credentials (and he may be the real Lazlo Tec, or he might not – who would really know?) and leads the dim NY City police detective on a merry dance. He charges over NY blaming others for his crime, committing more in the cover up (or just for the hell of it), before finally landing on some dumb sap to take the heat for it all. Then at the end he heads back to Hungary with his new paid for floozy escort.
Pick your own version of what the hell is going on, but acknowledge that this is wonderfully subversive film which makes you doff your cap once again to the genius of Peter Lorre.
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Murder at Greystone Grange (1934)
D. John Harris
B&W
What’s that you say? There’s a new film opening down The Ritzy? A murder mystery at an English country house? Ooh, intriguing. Very Agatha Christie. Oh, this isn’t her? Never mind, it’s a scenario which always offers a lot of promise. Who’s in it? Okay Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Madeleine Carroll, Ralph Richardson, Edith Evans, Peter Lorre and Peggy Ashcroft. Hmm, Madeleine Carroll I know as she’s your proper film star, but as for the rest I’ve heard the names – I’m not much of a theatre goer, I’m afraid – and that good things are expected. Promising young actors then. And Edith Evans who isn’t actually that young. Okay, I’m sold. Let’s go!
If ever there was a film where the over-talented cast tries valiantly to get above underwhelming material, it’s ‘Murder at Greystone Grange’. Gielgud is a wealthy industrialist who invites various associates – including: his supposedly demure sister Ashcroft; socialite Carroll; penniless duchess Evans; mysterious European investor Lorre; and man about town/mystery novelist Olivier – to a dinner party at his fantastic old manor house, Greystone Grange. But at the stroke of midnight the lights go out and the next anyone sees is Gielgud’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor.
The script is credited to a Deidre Evans, with direction by John Harris. These are two individuals whose work I confess I don’t know, but whose names just scream out pedestrian and mediocre. Can we really expect great things from a collaboration between Harris and Evans? Clearly not. It’s often difficult to physically and unmistakably see a lack of something, but inspiration here is painfully and utterly missing. So, what makes this creaking, aged curio interesting is watching that talented cast try their absolute hardest to breathe life into material so limp it almost feels in need of a mercy killing itself.
Olivier has moments to shine as the callow young lead, Gielgud is dominant as the aged industrialist, Richardson is shifty as the butler and one only needs to point the camera at Lorre to make him a sinister European. There are good things in the performances. But there is also a director with absolutely zero sense of control. In comparison to Gielgud and Ashcroft’s underplaying, both Lorre and Olivier wildly overact. Olivier mostly gives into his tendency to attack any scenery he sees as if he is peckish Neolithic man and it’s a tasty slab of woolly mammoth; while Lorre is all eye popping and dramatic gestures galore. His pronunciation of “telephonist” is definitely worth seeking out however, making it sound like one of the most exotic substances known to man.
What truly lingers from the film though is Carroll, who brings the charm and understanding of a proper film star. It’s a genuine movie performance and another reason why she should be better remembered today.
B&W
What’s that you say? There’s a new film opening down The Ritzy? A murder mystery at an English country house? Ooh, intriguing. Very Agatha Christie. Oh, this isn’t her? Never mind, it’s a scenario which always offers a lot of promise. Who’s in it? Okay Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Madeleine Carroll, Ralph Richardson, Edith Evans, Peter Lorre and Peggy Ashcroft. Hmm, Madeleine Carroll I know as she’s your proper film star, but as for the rest I’ve heard the names – I’m not much of a theatre goer, I’m afraid – and that good things are expected. Promising young actors then. And Edith Evans who isn’t actually that young. Okay, I’m sold. Let’s go!
If ever there was a film where the over-talented cast tries valiantly to get above underwhelming material, it’s ‘Murder at Greystone Grange’. Gielgud is a wealthy industrialist who invites various associates – including: his supposedly demure sister Ashcroft; socialite Carroll; penniless duchess Evans; mysterious European investor Lorre; and man about town/mystery novelist Olivier – to a dinner party at his fantastic old manor house, Greystone Grange. But at the stroke of midnight the lights go out and the next anyone sees is Gielgud’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor.
The script is credited to a Deidre Evans, with direction by John Harris. These are two individuals whose work I confess I don’t know, but whose names just scream out pedestrian and mediocre. Can we really expect great things from a collaboration between Harris and Evans? Clearly not. It’s often difficult to physically and unmistakably see a lack of something, but inspiration here is painfully and utterly missing. So, what makes this creaking, aged curio interesting is watching that talented cast try their absolute hardest to breathe life into material so limp it almost feels in need of a mercy killing itself.
Olivier has moments to shine as the callow young lead, Gielgud is dominant as the aged industrialist, Richardson is shifty as the butler and one only needs to point the camera at Lorre to make him a sinister European. There are good things in the performances. But there is also a director with absolutely zero sense of control. In comparison to Gielgud and Ashcroft’s underplaying, both Lorre and Olivier wildly overact. Olivier mostly gives into his tendency to attack any scenery he sees as if he is peckish Neolithic man and it’s a tasty slab of woolly mammoth; while Lorre is all eye popping and dramatic gestures galore. His pronunciation of “telephonist” is definitely worth seeking out however, making it sound like one of the most exotic substances known to man.
What truly lingers from the film though is Carroll, who brings the charm and understanding of a proper film star. It’s a genuine movie performance and another reason why she should be better remembered today.
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