Reviews

Seriously bad movies takes the viewer into unexplored realms of weirdness quite beyond the range of more conventional films (there's an extraordinary sequence in 'Night of the Ghouls' depicting a seance, for example); although when a film begins with Criswell rising from a coffin to deliver a pious homily on the existential threat posed by juvenile delinquency you've got a pretty good idea what to expect. Veteran cameraman William C. Thompson meanwhile creates some memorable images; the single most haunting probably being the closeups of Jeannie Stevens in her fleeting appearances as the Black Ghost.

Described by the late David Shipman as "a dreadful film" this earlier adaptation of a novel by Nevil Shute further demonstrates his preoccupation with the office politics of aviation in which Michael Denison - like James Stewart in the later 'No Highway' - falls foul of the authorities over a difference of opinion which results in him being hauled over the coals for causing grievous disruption for jumping the gun to destructive effect.

Although this film was made after the war the story takes place in 1940, with the tone less heroic and the emphasis more on events on the ground than in the air.

'How the West Was Won' is an obvious example that a film can represent a giant leap forward in the technology of the cinema but prove something of a trial to sit through; although it certainly looks good and provides you with plenty of bang for your buck.

A major milestone in the development of Cinerama it proves as long as the screen is wide, but it possesses a strong narrative thread as staged by three Hollywood action veterans with the scenes of boats shooting rapids, wagons being chased by Indians, stampeding buffalos and a train derailment being balanced by quieter moments of which the most affecting probably comes in John Ford's Civil War interlude featuring John Wayne as General Sherman.

One of the pleasures of watching cheap sixties sci-fi movies was that they did the future so much better in those days, as witness the snug ski pants and stylish hairstyles worn by the women in this glossy colour quickie with cardboard sets and hilarious monsters that must have cost several dollars and evokes Maria Montez rather than Stanley Kubrick.

It's pretty awful and the special effects may not be very special but it's always a pleasure to see the lovely Merry Anders while the discussion of the effects of time paradox display at least a rudimentary knowledge of science fiction concepts on someone's part.

A deeply felt, highly unusual film that effectively concluded the black and white phase of Hitchcock's career and the film that probably most overtly draws upon the Catholicism of its maker, 'I Confess' once again provides evidence that his failures were frequently more interesting than his successes.

The use of Quebec as a backdrop gives the film a singular quality enhanced by the glacial photography of Robert Burks, Dimitri Tiomkin's music is noisy but effective, Anne Baxter an honourable addition to the ranks of Hitchcock blondes, while the suffering in Montgomery Clift's eyes stays with you.

In big bushy eyebrows, false teeth and later a moustache Mark Rylance gets to play a real character part as another Great British failure who takes on the big boys like Eddie the Eagle.

It's all very cozy and British, lovingly set in a seventies suffused in bright colours rather at odds with the actual vulgar ghastliness of the period. ABBA are on the soundtrack, Maggie Thatcher and 'Match of the Day' are on the telly while the fact that the new colour set offers three channels is a cause of wonder - "Blimey! Three channels!!" Maurice exclaims - although you still had to balance on one foot holding the aerial to get a decent picture.

Hollywood star Paul Henreid came to Britain to play a plastic surgeon who finds out the hard way that beauty is only skin deep in this very poor man's 'Vertigo' after operating on shrewish kleptomaniac Mary Mackenzie in what is possibly the most eccentric film ever made by Hammer Films in their Exclusive days which offers the truly surreal sight of Lizabeth Scott incongruously blessed with the ability to play the piano yet dubbed with the voice of guttersnipe; an experience that is probably one of the most surreal Hammer ever provided with Malcolm Arnold's romantic piano score adding to the impression.

A very long way from the sophistication of their later adaptations of Nigel Kneale and Joseph Losey's 'The Damned', Hammer in their Bray Studio days would occasionally try their hand at science fiction.

Despite the grand title, in the hands of veteran Gainsborough warhorse Terence Fisher 'Spaceways' is cheap, garrulous and earthbound with the plot more pulp fiction than sci-fi; the most spectacular sight it provides being Eva Bartok as a glamorous mathematics genius in a high maintenance wardrobe and stylish white lab suit, and when at long last (SLIGHT SPOILER COMING:) we finally arrive in space seeing her in her chic Egyptian haircut and spacesuit proves worth the wait.

People are usually unaware that when Hammer Films were originally making films under their earlier name Exclusive they already produced a number of films that qualified as fantasy and horror.

One of these was 'Room to Let' - based on a radio play by Margery Allingham - which featured the further exploits of a killer explicitly identified as Jack the Ripper (identifiable according to witnesses by his distinctively laboured breathing, but which the audience never actually hears) updated fifteen years later to the Edwardian era in a subject to which Hammer would return twenty years later with a far more graphic version entitled 'Hands of the Ripper'.

This sequel by Cy Endfield to 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea' marking the return of a bearded, white-haired Herbert Lom as early eco-warrior Captain Nemo - having turned his attention from warships to pirates - starts realistically enough with an escape by balloon from a Yankee prison during the Civil War, but once they land on the island of the title the contribution of Ray Harryhausen soon makes itself felt as our heroes are (SPOILER COMING:) attacked first by an enormous crab, then by a large ostrich, big honey bees and finally by the inevitable giant squid.

Michael Craig looks out of place in such a fantastic setting as do Gary Merrill and Joan Greenwood, while Percy Herbert's Southern accent has been commented upon before and modern audiences might quibble at the obvious models and process work; but it all has a certain period charm and in Technicolor & Superdynamation with a score by Bernard Herrmann you certainly get your money's worth.

When I first saw this hybrid of 'The Towering Inferno' and Assault on Precinct 13' played for laughs with Bruce Willis employing the pent-up aggression accumulated from bickering with his wife I enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of discovering a formidable actor I'd never heard of before called Alan Rickman playing the head of a gang of extortionists. (Although the other long-haired bad guys wielding guns all had teutonic names, the guy in change naturally had an urbane English accent).

Wit is inevitably in short supply but the funniest moment has to be when McClane finally succeeds (SLIGHT SPOILER COMING:) in breaking into the phone line to alert the authorities only to be told the line is only for use in emergencies; the wittiest probably being the brief uses of 'Ode to Joy' towards the end.

Dismissed by the late Bill Warren of consisting largely of "a rather dull travelogue of Alaska" but breaking new ground on the discussion of UFOs this film confused the debate on flying saucers under the misconception that there was actually only one flying saucer despite the first sighting in 1947 of several such craft gliding like saucers skimming across water.

Conforming to the then prevailing notion that flying saucers originated behind the Iron Curtain the baddie's hideout is presided over by a Teutonic Mrs Danvers, capable of instilling with menace lines like "You forgot your thermos, Mr Trent!", although the profession of his partners in crime to "the cause" marks them out as followers of Uncle Joe.

For the most part it justifies Warren's criticism but when it finally appears the flying saucer although rather resembling one of Ed Wood's hubcaps lives provides a lively conclusion.

Clive Donner's film version of Harold Pinter's play was made under such modest circumstances that financing was raised on the basis of a whip-round among friends and colleagues, the contributors duly acknowledged in the credits.

The austerity of the circumstances of the film's production actually enhanced the claustrophobia of the situation, while the snow that then shrouded the British Isles complemented the silence of Robert Shaw as the deceptively passive Aston.

Donald Pleasance and Alan Bates may have originated the parts and are given the most to say but it's Shaw whose stillness provides the film its core.

It was by a happy chance that one of director John Ford's greatest achievements should be a third version in Technicolor of a novel that Ford himself should have filmed in 1919 with Harry Carey in the lea - who also gets a dedication in the opening credits - and pays further tribute to the veteran star of silent westerns to star his son as one of three sinners who find redemption in a simple act of simple charity.

All three leads give subdued, deeply felt performances. John Wayne displays depths that might surprise you, and last, but certainly not least, there's the great Mexican actor Pedro Armendarez.

Hammer in their war films concentrated on the more visceral aspects of warfare. Few ever mention that Hammer personnel like Jack Asher, Bernard Robinson and even Malcolm Arnold earlier worked alongside stalwarts of more traditional fare like Anthony Steel and Lewis Gilbert in this depiction of possibly the most bizarre method of escape from a prisoner of war camp ever devised.

It has the usual mixture of contrasting nationalities with William Sylvester as "the gentleman from Texas" bringing his usual reassuring presence to this film's equivalent of the 'Cooler King', while Anton Diffring puts the 'nasty' into 'Nazi'.

If the name The Sudan is familiar today it is probably on account of the constant references to the exploits of his youth by Jonesy in 'Dad's Army' of the time he spent engaging the Mad Mahdi, briefly seen played by John Laurie in footage from the 1939 version.

Here you get a chance to see the thing played straight in this CinemaScope remake by Zoltan Korda of his classic thirties Ripping Yarn back in the days when Britain still had an empire.

Anthony Steel is a colourless substitute for John Clements as Harry Faversham and the less said about Lawrence Harvey in the role originally played by Ralph Richardson the better; but the late Mary Ure makes a charming and gracious heroine, while Osmond Borradaile's original location footage continued to give good value in this and a subsequent seventies version.

In 1963 L. Lee Thompson laid claim to a high moral purpose underpinning his films and his regret that critics had a tendency to misunderstood his finer intentions. If by the time Thompson made 'Death Wish' such reservations presumably no longer troubled him as he could at least console himself that in 'Yield to the Night' he'd bequeathed posterity a film with impeccable humanitarian credentials.

Veteran bad blonde Diana Dors for once gets an opportunity to display her vulnerable side, as does Michael Craig as the abusive lover, despite him displaying the usual abrasiveness he displays in his more 'sympathetic' roles.

Although the credits read 'A Lasse Halstrom Film' and Stephen Spielberg's name being nowhere to be seen, 'A Dog's Purpose' contains a fantasy element probably attributable to Spielberg, whose production company Amblin' was a partner - especially the cute anthropomorphic portrayal of animals - to compensate for canines in reality being rather short-lived.

Following a similar narrative arc to the classic Victorian novel 'Black Beauty', but Americanised and based on Man's Best Friend rather than a horse, like Spielberg's earlier 'Bridge of Spies' it manages to take a cozy view of the Cold War complete with Pop reading a newspaper headlining the Cuban Missile Crisis.

The Czechs have long been famed for their animation, its deceptive cuteness making them palatable to most Westerners who will discern in them a critique of life under totalitarianism, although the staff at Disney doubtless found Uncle Walt just as intrusive a backseat driver.

In his final film Jiri Trnka plainly had plenty of baggage to get off his chest. The symbolism in employing a hand is vividly conveyed as it offers the frustrated hero a variety of blandishments - naturally including a television set - as it switches from fussily overbearing to seductive, complete with garter belts and nail varnish.

'Invaders from Mars' was the first of two startlingly original colour productions displaying an ambivalent attitude to authority as seen from the perspective of a vulnerable young child to hit screens in 1953, the second being 'The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T'.

While William Cameron Menzies was a giant in the field of production design as a director he'd already made a substantial contribution to the history of science fiction cinema when he came to Britain in the thirties to join forces with Alexander Korda and H. G. Wells to make 'Things to Come'.

Menzies' late contribution to the genre drew from the late David Shipman the rather obtuse criticism that "the decor is particularly disappointing given Cameron Menzies achievement in art direction", which rather misses the point, since the sets were SUPPOSED to be stylised.

In addition to the Cinecolor photography by veteran cameraman John Seitz, Raoul Kraushaar's score also rates a mention, using 'Venus' from Holst's 'The Planets' to eerie effect to accompany an ambiguous closeup of Janine Perreau and every time (SPOILER COMING:) the sandpit devours one of its victims employing a choir of 16 electronically manipulated voices to create in the words of Bill Warren "an unworldly sound unlike that of any other SF film".

The most surprising feature of the second of Harry Alan Towers' two attempts to make a glossy widescreen colour franchise showcasing Edgar Wallace's old hero from the days of the British Empire and revamp him as a kind of African James Bond is the absence of Walter Rilla, hitherto a seemingly obligatory feature of such hokum.

On this occasion Towers somewhat hedges his bets by top-billing an American in the form of Dale Robertson, Heinz Drache and Marianne Koch had already seen service in recent German adaptations of Wallace, Richard Todd as Sanders evokes memories of his role in heroic war movies, while Derek Nimmo is a silly ass straight out of the thirties.

Warren Mitchell in his only Hammer horror gained the rare distinction of playing the local huntsman (SPOILER COMING:) who provided the silver bullet that saw off Oliver Reed at the conclusion of this Technicolor version of Universal's 'The Werewolf of London', which is pretty gory even by Hammer's standards.

Furthermore that unsung hero John Hollingsworth made yet another important contribution to Hammer's enterprising use of music by commissioning Benjamin Frankel to compose what is claimed to be the first serial score composed for a horror film.

As is the custom in werewolf films, the title character is portrayed symbolically, tormented by circumstances beyond his control.

The title refers to mysterious, uncommunicative strangers in black who appear unannounced at the homes of ordinary citizens who have had paranormal experiences.

Here they're the good guys represented after by Tommy Lee Jones, demonstrating his ability to dominate a film by doing very little. In 'Men in Black' he moves centre stage and his quietly authoritative presence dominates the proceedings.

In keeping with Jones' laid back presence the script offers mildly satirical digs at the great American public's love affair with firearms and the relative accuracy of the New York Times and the supermarket tabloids, to which the final visual joke sets the lid to satisfying effect.

Lovingly recreating the era between the Lady Chatterley ban and the Beatle's first L. P., 'The Duke' is much a period piece as the Ealing comedies whose spirit was sustained by the late Roger Mitchell's final film jauntily, depicting an amateur criminal cocking a snook at the establishment with the aid of troopers Jim Broadbent and Helen Mirren.

Most of the James Bond films contain obligatory topical references which sometimes take a little knowledge of the period when they eventually turns up on television. When it came out in 1962 one of the few points of critical consensus concerning 'Dr. No' was the universally positive response to placing Goya's portrait of the Duke of Wellington - whose whereabouts at the time was temporarily unknown - in pride of place among the Doctor's illicit booty.

'Plan 9 from Outer Space' is another of those guilty pleasures that lingers flavoury in the memory and really calls for an exclamation mark rather than a conventional rating.

Although the late Bill Warren declared that "'Plan 9' deserves its fame and should be suffered through at least once by anyone interested in movie history", and it receives respectful treatment in Tim Burton's 'Ed Wood' - who depicted it receiving a gala premiere - it was hidden in plain sight on late night television for more than twenty years (the earliest entry it received in a reference book probably being Steven H. Scheuer's 'TV Key Movie Reviews & Ratings' in 1961, which gave it one star and sarcastically damned it with faint praise as being "Important for students of Vampira's mid-50's films") before its embrace by connoisseurs of the awful; and wasn't even included in 'The Fifty Worst Movies of All Time' (published the year the director died).

Seriously flawed by its almost total lack of humour (although the scene - SPOILER COMING: - where Bela Lugosi gets hit by a car is pretty funny), its very easy to mock a film made on a mere shoestring, but like most truly bad films its certainly not dull, Wood certainly shows a flair for purple prose and many of its technical shortcomings such as continuity mismatches can be found in far more commercial films without looking too hard.

Described by Anne Billson as "a thinking, feeling generous-hearted person with more genuine vision in his little finger than in all of today's working-stiff directors laid end to end", and a bigger name dead than he ever was alive, Wood would have probably revelled in his posthumous fame.