That’s a Wrap! Loose Ends, Part One


My absolute acceptance of the cliché, “all good things must come to an end” doesn’t necessarily mean that I like it.  And, true enough, there are so few good things, especially now.  What I have trouble wrapping my need-to-escape brain around is when all GREAT things come to an end.  Thus, I mournfully report on the Blu-Ray Acorn Media/RLJ Entertainment/EndemolShine Group releases of the final third seasons of THE FALL and HUMANS.


2013’s THE FALL quickly became one of the most fascinating, thrilling and creepy shows ever to emerge from either end of the pond.  The story followed two obsessed individuals:  serial killer Paul Spector, who chalks up victim after victim, while perfectly playing the role of dedicated husband and family man (plus being a highly thought of social worker!), and Stella Gibson, a likewise sexually fucked up but brilliant detective sent from the England to Ireland to investigate the case.

The work both put into their “quests” are superbly paralleled via the magnificent writing and directing, but mostly from two standout performances, Jamie Dornan (that Dornan is essentially identifiable here because of the Fifty Shades franchise is unfair, but, I imagine financially suitable) and Gillian Anderson (already an icon for a quarter of a century, internationally known as “Scully” from The X-Files; although this role alone should be her beacon performance).  Dornan and Anderson, the latter who also co-produced, share the final third portion of this chilling story with ace direction from creator and writer Allan Cubitt, David Grennan’s photography (lushly and eerily capturing the pros and cons of the Northern Ireland locations) and a score (by Keefus Ciancia and David Holmes) that audibly works in tandem with the visuals to raise the goosebumps.  The double-disc Acorn Blu-Ray is (as with the previous two sets) technically top-notch, rendering crystal-clear 1080p clarity and excellent stereo-surround sound (there are also nearly a half hour of extras, comprising a behind-the-scenes featurette, deleted scenes, plus a photo gallery).

In the 2017 finale, Spector, wounded and recovering after surgery in a closely guarded hospital ward, reflects on what he’s done, while grooming the doctor who operated on him (and the entire female staff) with his patented sympathy technique – the prerequisite to victimization.

Gibson, meantime, is conflicted about contact, as she knows only too well what the killer laid out:  that they’re closer to one another than she thinks.  While in denial verbally, psychologically, she realizes that his smirky accusation is likely a cold, hard fact.

Unraveling Spector’s horrible childhood, as a victim himself of a sexual predator, Gibson and her crew do everything to guarantee his recovery for trial and, probable execution.  As indicated, Spector has other plans.  So does his support group:  a wife, now teetering on suicide, and his last uncompleted score:  Katie, a lovesick teen, hopelessly devoted to the psychopath, to paraphrase the Grease lyric.  Terrific supporting acting turns from Aisling Franciosi (as Katie), Denise Gough, John Lynch, Bronagh Taggart, and Sarah Beattie really deliver the goods, and help to ratchet up the breathless tension.

While I really enjoyed the various locations from the first two installments, the endgame, largely set in the hospital was, for me, a bit too claustrophobic.  At least, at first.  As the walls close in on Spector, another twist occurs – taking the narrative to a shocking climax.

Leaving Belfast at the conclusion, we are, like Stella Gibson, wasted, empty, relieved.  We’re additionally disappointed that the engrossing story and characters are to be no more, but we come out ahead of the ace lady sleuth.  She’s stuck with a lulu of a “what if.”  The show may haunt us for a while – in fact, I suspect, quite a while, but the dark twisted thoughts they unleashed will haunt Stella forever.


The last third of 2018’s HUMANS (or, to be specific, HUMANS 3.0) is riveting, heart-wrenching and exciting.  The series, as it always has, combines the best sci-fic has to offer with allegorical allusions to contemporary politics…and horror.

While the underlying theme of THE FALL was that the heroine and villain were more alike than each (or, at least, one) would choose to admit, the narrative in HUMANS is that the synths are more human than the flesh-and-blood counterparts.  And so it continues.

The unsettling punch that the scenario too easily fits into the current fascist state of America is thoroughly frightening.  Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.  I mean, taking “people” who are different and putting them in border camps, lying to the public, instigating racism by inciting riots for violence that doesn’t exist…Yeah, who’d do that?

I was crushed to see the fates of some of my favorite characters (won’t go into details, check it out for yourself), but hopeful at the revolution and evolution of Niska.  She takes no shit, has been softened to an extent, and has a new goal.  Again, that’s all you’ll get out of me.

If HUMANS has taught me anything, it is never to trust humans (either the right wing or the do-the-right-thing wing).

Don’t get me wrong, HUMANS doesn’t exist to cram and ram messages down your gullet and in your face, its terrific entertainment from the get-go (the deep dish stuff is insidious and occasionally subliminal).  So, come on, folks, a spoonful of artificial substitute helps the medicine go down!

As usual, the writing (Jonathan Brackley, Sam Vincent and Debbie O’Malley, Namsi Khan, Jonathan Harbottle, Daisy Coulam, Melissa Igbal, based on the Swedish TV series by Lars Lunstrom), performances (prominently Gemma Chan, Colin Morgan, Emily Berrington, Ivanno Jeremiah, Katherine Parkinson, Lucy Carless, Tom Gordon-Hill, Theo Stevenson, and Pixie Davies), direction (Jill Robertson, Al Mackay, Ben A. Williams, Richard Senior), photography (Kieran McGuigan), and music (Sarah Warne) is/are exemplary, particularly the on-screen work of Mia (Chan), Leo (Morgan), Niska (Berrington) and Max (Jeremiah).

And, as usual, Acorn’s Blu-Ray presentation of HUMANS 3.0 (the uncut international version, not the oft syndicated abridged nonsense) is first-rate.

HUMANS comes with a 24-minute behind-the-scenes featurette, and (like THE FALL) is housed in a slipcover.  Both shows are also available in complete series boxed sets (Google the Acorn Media website).  That said, I kinda wish a HUMANS 4.0 eventually sees the light of day.  It’s Niska’s time.

THE FALL (CAT # AMP-2574) and HUMANS 3.0 (AMP-2677):  Color.  Widescreen [1.78:1; 1080p High Definition]; 5.1 DTS-HD MA. Acorn Media/RLJ Entertainment/EndemolShine Group. SRP: $39.95@.

The Commie-Knockers


What a delightful treat to become re-acquainted with Norman Jewison’s charmingly hilarious 1966 romp, THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, now on Blu-Ray from the comrades at Kino-Lorber Studio Classics/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment/MGM Studios..

This picture was da bomb (in that good Nineties-speak way) in 1966, THE comedy to see that year, and millions of Americans (and “feriners”) did; another box-office wallop for UA (with the Bonds, the Beatles pics, The Great Escape, The Pink Panther, etc., UA  really was all that!).

The movie, based on Nathaniel Benchley’s humorous novel, The Off-Islanders, draws much of its mojo from two contemporary (but diverse) comedy hits, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (another UA smash) and Dr. Strangelove;  the plot involves the less lethal aspects of the latter, and much of the slapstick/mirth of the former.  To this point, the producers even hired the Stanley Kramer pic’s screenwriter (the wonderful William Rose), and cast some of Mad‘s super-roster of comics, notably lead Carl Reiner and Jonathan Winters, plus Paul Ford and Ben Blue (even the master cartoonist Jack Davis, who drew the iconic IaMMMMW poster was recruited back to service for RUSSIANS).  To bolster the already formidable thesp power, RUSSIANS added Eva Marie Saint (as Reiner’s savvy wife), Theodore Bikel, Michael J. Pollard, the brilliant character actors Doro Merande, Parker Fennelly, Vaughn Taylor, Richard Schall, Cliff Norton, Larry D. Mann, Philip Coolidge, and, prominently, Brian Keith (a funny non-funnyman in essentially the Mad World Spencer Tracy role – a weary but less larcenous top cop).  Making their screen debuts in a major motion picture were the excellent and underrated John Phillip Law and the magnificent Alan Arkin, who received an Oscar nomination (one of the flick’s five Academy nods) for his portrayal as Rozanov, the flustered Russian officer determined to makes sense of American mores, and, thus, doomed before he starts.

The plot takes place during the post-Labor Day summer weekend on Gloucester Island, in Massachusetts (Eureka, CA ably standing in for the picturesque New England coastal community).  An over-zealous Russian commander (Bikel) determined to sneak a peek at the U.S. gets his nuclear sub stuck on a sandbar.  Arkin, Law and a handful of sailors attempt to arrange for some fishing boats to help pull the vessel off safely and back out to sea, but Cold War mindset sets the town into Pearl Harbor mode in a very uproarious fashion.  Indeed, the script (as concocted by Rose, who authored the classic Brit comedy The Lady-Killers), creates a mini-society of Ealing-type characters reacting to an outlandish situation; but, since, they’re Americans, the response is less droll and more batshit crazy.  And there you have it.

Reiner’s irritable Walt Whittaker, his wife and two children are packing to head home to New York (he’s a successful musical-comedy scribe suffering from writer’s block and “damp!”).  “We’ll never go away anywhere again, I promise,” purrs wife Saint to her complaining spouse.  Their nine-year-old, a small fry version of what we today call a MAGAt (‘cepting, it’s the 1960s, so they hate Russians) blurts out his desire to kill them all – a request mirrored by the town’s lunatic gun-owners (or, simply, the town).  How it all works out amiably was kind of bold then, and almost lovely now.  But, again, very funny.

For director Jewison, it was the final kiss-off to years of formulaic TV and movie fare (albeit fine ones), and a further leap into the big-screen big-time (RUSSIANS was preceded by The Cincinnati Kid, and followed by In the Heat of the Night).  Reiner, superb in a rare leading role, makes the viewing bittersweet in lieu of his recent passing on June 29, at age 98 (sadly, composer Johnny Mandel, who supplies the jaunty, perky score left us the same day, age 96).  It’s Arkin’s show, however, and it’s a virtuoso comic performance.  Nevertheless, my two favorite scenes are Arkinless.  One is a bug-eyed Morande, bound and gagged on a cupboard shelf while aged hubby Parker Fennelly quietly and unbeknownst to her plight, calmly has his breakfast; when finally cognizant of the situation, his deadpan response is “Muriel, what cha doing hanging up there on the wall?”  The packed house in 1966 howled at this for a full half-minute, one of the biggest yuks I ever recall at the movies.

The second sequence is when Reiner and telephone operator Tessie O’Shea are tied up together, and attempt an escape plan.  Popcorn was flying out of the bags, people were so doubled up with laughter during this moment (both scenes have lost none of their bite, I can happily report).

The movie was luxuriously shot in Panavision and DeLuxe Color by the great Joe Biroc.  He really captured the beauteous flavor and essence of a brisk late summer New England dawn, even if it turns out to be a “red” one.

For me, RUSSIANS was a deal-with-it experience.  After years in the Catskills, where the local bijou was a mere fifteen minute walk, we had re-located to Budd Lake, NJ – with no theater nearby.  We were, therefore, at the mercy of our parents – well, their cars.  I was also additionally disturbed to discover that admission price was now seventy-five cents!

The Kino-Lorber Blu-Ray of THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING is quite nice, perhaps a bit warm and a tad soft; that said, it’s also perfectly acceptable, and near-pristine 35MM quality (as is the mono audio).  A Making Of featurette, hosted by Jewison, is included as a neat extra, plus, the theatrical trailer.

From a time when we could still enjoy the foibles of our “enemies,” before both sides sired monsters, THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING remains a Sixties rose-colored tableau that practically demands the accompaniment of “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.”

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING. Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 2.0 DTS-HD MA. Kino-Lorber Studio Classics/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment/MGM Studios. CAT # K1500. SRP:  $29.95.



Norse by Norsewest


If, indeed, imitation is the highest form of praise, I surmise that Alfred Hitchcock must have been in seventh heaven with the release of the 1963 thriller THE PRIZE, now on Blu-Ray from the Warner Archive Collection.

The picture was based on a wildly successful bestseller by Irving Wallace, who previously (and scandalously) wowed ’em in print and on-screen with The Chapman Report.  MGM, seeing the endless possibilities, Hitch-ed their wagon to a star (Paul Newman), and re-channeling the droll suspense that made their North By Northwest such a hoot, went for a repeat performance (this blue plate special recipe went so far as to re-cast Leo G. Carroll in basically an offshoot of his NBW role – with a side order of Lewis Stone from Grand Hotel, including a variation of the latter’s final line).  Metro even got NBW‘s screenwriter, the wonderful Ernest Lehman (also of Sweet Smell of Success) to do the cinematic quill-and-ink honors.

But it’s the MGM legacy that melds the Master of Suspense stuff with their trademark lavish all-star presentations (from the aforementioned 1932 Garbo-Barrymore opus to the then-current The VIPs).  That the movie takes place at the (Stockholm) Grand Hotel isn’t a coincidence (there are multiple GH in-jokes scattered throughout).  While the Newman narrative thread carries the body of this espionage tale, the ancillary stories of other PRIZE folks help to weave a complete and tidy tapestry.  Here’s a brief recap, a scenario made-to-order for the Mad Men era.

Alcoholic, womanizing author Andrew Craig (Newman) is the recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature (no year is mentioned, a descriptive post-credit card indicates “the future,” but it’s soooooooo 1963).  While his “genius” novels go nowhere, he secretly makes a decent living banging out detective thrillers under a pseudonym (sort of like the plot-within-the-plot of the Fred Astaire/Tony Hunter musical in the studio’s The Band Wagon).  He curmudgeonly accepts the Nobel for mercenary reasons – i.e., the 50K check that goes with the recognition. His reputation preceding him, Craig is more than delighted to see that the Swedish government has assigned him a handler – especially when he sees her – the not-so-wise decision of selecting Inga Lisa Andersson, aka Elke Sommer, in possibly the most beautiful she’s ever looked (and that’s saying somethin’!).

Ever on the prowl for action, Craig bumps into Dr. Max Stratman, the winner for physics, a survivor from the Nazi Holocaust, along with his (natch) super-gorgeous (and horny) niece Emily (“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asks the nymph, running into her at an after-hours club.  “I accept!,” she eagerly squeals –  a scene that made it into the trailer, and was received with gales of laughter and rapturous applause).

Stratman, loving his adopted country of America, and despising his now communist-held former residence, known as East Berlin, reluctantly meets an old acquaintance, hoping to personally give him a piece of his gifted mind (a dumb move for so brilliant a physicist).  He’s kidnapped, replaced by his evil brother (who will denounce the U.S.) and then “defect” along with said skanky niece/daughter, who’s apparently enthusiastically in on the switch.

Bickering co-award winners for medicine (heart transplants) Dr. John Garrett and Dr. Carlo Farelli and sex therapist marrieds (who sleep around, and, are, of course, from France), Drs. Claude and Denise Marceau, round out the rest of the cast of characters that swing into high gear when the American upstart writer gives a disastrous half-swacked press conference revealing his true source of income and how he has a “nose for finding devious plots in everything I observe.”  This prompts a Stockholm-based patriot to contact him about the Stratman “exchange,” which ludicrously (but royally entertainingly) puts Newman in the Cary Grant driver’s seat, as nasty, murderous spies descend upon him with a vengeance (including a refurbishing of the NBW auction sequence, now taking place in an indoor nudist colony), and ends in an action-packed, sexy finale that had audiences cheering from coast-to-coast.

The laughs are tense, oft-roller-coaster lip-biters, thanks to Lehman’s deft script.  The direction by Mark Robson, while professional and swift, undoubtedly kept Hitch amused without ever losing him a nanosecond of sleep.  The remaining cast is just terrific – a cornucopia of 1960’s movie and TV international stars, and features Diane Baker, Kevin McCarthy, Sergio Fantoni, Micheline Presle, Gerard Oury, Jacqueline Beer, Don Dubbins, Virginia Christine, Rudolph Anders, Martine Bartlett, John Banner, Peter Coe, Edith Evanson, Gregory Gaye, Stuart Holmes, Anna Lee, Queenie Leonard, Lester Matthews, Gregg Palmer, Gene Roth, Ivan Triesault, actor/director Sascha Pitoeff (as Daranyi, perhaps, the most sinister spy in cinema; for years, I actually thought that Antonio Prohias’ Cold War Spy vs. Spy strip in Mad Magazine was based upon him), and Britt Ekland (as one of the nudists!).  Most diverting is the Greek chorus duo of real-life Swedes Karl Swenson and John Qualen as special Nobel-assigned hotel bell captains.

Other credits are aces, and comprise the sensational camera eye (in Panavision and MetroColor, nicely restored) of an industry great, William Daniels (off and on at MGM since the silents) and rising newcomer composer Jerry Goldsmith, delivering one of his first big assignments.

Without question, the ladies are stunning, and seem to be having a ball playing with and off Newman.   The actor later revealed that making THE PRIZE was probably the most fun he ever had in Hollywood (and very likely got him the role in an actual Hitchcock thriller, Torn Curtain, three years later).  His drunken forays certainly suggest that he’s having a blast, frequently resembling a loving homage to Reggie Van Gleason.  Not surprisingly, it’s Edward G. Robinson (as Stratman) who owns the movie with his superb emoting in two (actually three) roles, each with their own vocal inflections and body language (a route he triumphantly took back in 1935, in John Ford’s The Whole Town is Talking).  I have to tell you a story about my seeing THE PRIZE on a July night in 1963 (sometimes MGM would preview upcoming movies for us in the Catskills before they went into wide release; THE PRIZE opened nationwide that December).  When Robinson made his initial appearance in the pic, the packed house burst into applause, with some members even standing to show their appreciation.  More like something one would see in a live Broadway opening; I had/have never experienced anything like that in any movie theater before or since.

The Warner Archive Blu-Ray really does THE PRIZE justice.  In 1080p, it truly looks and sounds like it did first-run 57 years ago.  I’m still amazed at the matching of the extensive second unit Stockholm footage and the bulk of the pic (entirely shot at MGM, in Culver City); that said, a rear-screen of Newman’s character being pushed off a bridge totally propels the situation into High Anxiety territory, a moment that I suspect the Master of Suspense would have secretly loved.

THE PRIZE. Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition; 2.0 DTS-HD MA.  Warner Brothers Home Entertainment/Turner Entertainment. CAT # 1000736867.  SRP: $21.99.

Available from the Warner Archive Collection: or online retailers where DVDs and Blu-rays® are sold.




Suggested for Mature Adulterers


Looking to followup their 1958 smash hit Indiscreet with another philandering romcom, star Cary Grant and producer-director Stanley Donen, via their Grandon Company, found a winner with 1960’s THE GRASS IS GREENER, now on Blu-Ray from Olive Films/Paramount Home Entertainment.

The movie, based on a hit play by actor-couple-turned-writing-couple Hugh and Margaret Williams, starts on a very post-war British premise:  the outrageous tax situation on titled country estates – and how their residents were forced to offer paid tours to remain solvent.  Seriously, this was a real thing, research it.  Or just watch this flick and ask Earl and Lady Rhyall.  Convivial, lovingly happy and…I guess this is the best word…comfortable, the Rhyall’s world is turned upside down when, during a typical morning tour, brash American (are there any other kind?) oil millionaire Charles Delacro intentionally-on-purpose wanders off the paying visitor’s track and into forbidden private quarters, discovering a casual but ravishing Lady Hilary.  Its lust at first sight, and the pair can’t believe what’s happening (“I was having quite a lovely life until you came into it,” she later gently scolds).

Earl of the Manor, Victor, is no fool, and immediately knows something is up, but can’t deny his wife – the mother of their children (conveniently on a holiday with their crone of a nanny) – anything.  He loves her that much; he also realizes that retaliating viciously would only ruin his chances of winning her back.  Besides, that isn’t English, it’s American —  sooooooo American.

With Hilary off on a supposed hairdressing appointment in London – in reality, to see her new paramour (it turns into a weekend), Victor with his neurotic would-be novelist underpaid butler Sellers, sets his own plan in motion.  More complications arise when the Rhyall’s bitchy, ditzy drop-dead gorgeous mutual friend Hattie arrives to stir things up (she’s out to snare Victor for herself).

The return of Lady Hilary and Charles to the manor erupts in a visual and verbal melange of hilarity, involving a fishing expedition, Scrabble (with Hilary reminding Hattie that she’s not supposed to play that game with grownups) and even a duel.

Everyone’s so matter-of-factly resolute with the extracurricular sexual shenanigans that it’s a wonder THE GRASS IS GREENER ever got released.  Or made at all; in fact, it almost never got made, due to some sad tidings behind the scenes (although you’d never know it from the comfort level of the four leads).

Originally, Grant and Donen purchased the property for the star’s pals Rex Harrison and Kay Kendall (so wonderful in Minnelli’s The Reluctant Debutante).  Donen had just completed directing Kendall in Once More with Feeling, but the actress was already seriously ill with leukemia (that would soon extinguish her brilliant light on September 6, 1959).

Nevertheless they were all hoping THE GRASS IS GREENER might become a reality (with Grant taking the costarring Delcro role).  When this became an impossibility, Harrison, unable to even consider the project, bolted to, frankly, shamelessly playing the grieving widower longer than his run as Professor Higgins (for a great read, check out my pal Eve Golden’s marvelous biography of the actress/comedienne: The Brief Madcap Life of Kay Kendall).

Grant reluctantly, moved up the chain to keep the movie going – taking over the Rhyall part, and brought on Deborah Kerr, with whom he had successfully been paired in Dream Wife, and, more prominently, An Affair to Remember.  Jean Simmons, perhaps the most beautiful she’s ever been, happily signed on for Hattie, and it’s likely that the two women tossed the name “Robert Mitchum” into the hat; both had marvelous working relationships (and friendships) with the actor, the former on Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison and The Sundowners – the latter on Angel Face and She Couldn’t Say No.  Donen and Grant were concerned that the rugged star couldn’t handle the sophisticated subject matter and approached a pair of alternates:  Rock Hudson, then emerging as an excellent light comedian in his own right (Pillow Talk) and (YIKES) Charlton Heston, who would have been abysmal.  Both mercifully turned it down, due to contractual arguments about billing.  Mitchum’s name came up again, and his response (“I couldn’t give a f**k about billing”) probably cinched him the role.  And he’s spectacular in it.  Grant later admitted Mitchum saved the picture and praised his handling of the dialog and his physical reactions to the various comedic situations.  NOTE: the versatile actor’s next Universal-International pic (they released GRASS) was Cape Fear!

While the movie is essentially a foursome, a fifth character, the impoverished butler Sellers, must be mentioned; it’s a wonderful performance by Moray Watson, the only participant from the original stage production.

In synch with these excellent thesps is Donen’s direction (often inventively using scope split screen, a grand technique he pioneered with It’s Always Fair Weather, in 1955), drolly spot-on, particularly in a Lubitsch-inspired montage of Hilary’s and Charles’ amoral weekend – a sequence of dollies-in to empty theater seats, an empty restaurant table, empty picnic areas, etc.

The movie was a pretty big hit when I saw it in the late summer of 1961 (the picture was a Universal Christmas attraction for 1960, but Catskills theaters wisely held-up playdates until the following summer, correctly assuming that it would be perfect cinematic catnip for the hifalutin’ Manhattanites).  I was with my parents and several other couples of their generation; GRASS IS GREENER was to be the frothy dessert topping after dining out at a posh restaurant (I still recall the name, Kass Inn). I can still remember what I ate:  broiled scallops and a baked potato (my first encounter with scallops, and I loved ‘em. I can still taste them every time I see this movie!).  Without hesitation, mater and pater took me along to the cinema, knowing I’d keep my mouth shut, since I already was addicted to most anything celluloid (I also remember the theater, the Galli-Curci, in Fleischmann’s neighboring town of Margaretville).  While I wasn’t able to fathom much of what was going on, I knew it was a comedy from the frequent laughs coming from the audience.  I do recall being in awe at the beautiful countryside and the amazing color (Technicolor and Technirama, painted by the great Christopher Challis’ superb palette).  Remarkably, even at age seven, I knew who all the principals up on the screen were.

The Olive Films Blu-Ray of THE GRASS IS GREENER is, for the most part, a reasonable facsimile of what the 1960 35MM prints looked like.  Although the exteriors tend to be a bit on the faded side, the interiors really do have that Technicolor/Technirama pop.  The mono audio displays a hint of sibilance, but not enough to annoy or deter from the reams of witty dialog. A score arranged by Douglas Gamley is highlighted by an opening and closing tune, composed by Noel Coward (“The Stately Homes of England”), which nicely underlines the narrative trappings.

THE GRASS IS GREENER.  Color.  Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA. Olive Films/Paramount Home Entertainment. CAT # OF650. SRP: $29.95.





It’s a Blunderful Life


Last July, looking to try something different, I devoted the entire month to reviewing discs of movies I remember seeing during our family summer vacations in the Catskills.  I thought it would be a mildly interesting one-off.  Much to my surprise (and delight), I received more emails, tweets, DMs and texts on that nostalgic detour than I usually get on major star/director/genre pieces.  So, guess what?  Here’s Part Two: the Sequel, possibly a new July Supervistaramacolorscope norm.  Enjoy!


In the 1967 Hammer classic Quatermass and the Pit, Hobbs End is the locale for the possible Earthly domain of Satan. For Roger Hobbs, aka Jimmy Stewart, the American version of same might be a ramshackle Victorian frightmare that his overly optimistic wife, Peg (Maureen O’Hara), has leased for the summer. The often hilarious results regarding the latter are now on-view for all to savor in the limited edition Blu-Ray of 1962’s MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION, available from Twilight Time/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment.

I must confess that I’ve been particularly partial to this rollicking look at middle-class (well, upper-middle class) America since I saw it with my folks at the Onteora movie emporium, located high in the Catskill mountain retreat of Fleischmann’s, NY, when I was eight. I loved it then, as did the packed theater of (mostly) vacationing city dwellers, and I pretty much feel the same now; of course, my maturity (HA!) has pierced the veil of the movie’s supposed fluffy lightweight trappings. Despite the WASPy family values yuk-yuk stuff, and beautiful brightly lit DeLuxe Color CinemaScope compositions, MR. HOBBS quite often reveals a dark side of Americana that thematically is closer to film noir than to uproarious sitcom fare. Or more Squeaky Fromme than squeaky clean.

This is no accident, as it’s based on a novel by Edward Streeter, revered for his sardonic views on mainstream USA. That his best-known work (book and movie) is Father of the Bride should be the enticing contradictory warning sign. Like Bride, HOBBS‘ title character is a successful breadwinner, steeped in a “respectable” profession (the former’s Spencer Tracy was a lawyer; HOBBS‘ Stewart is a banker). Both have sired essentially ungrateful families who seem to get vicarious thrills from ignoring, snubbing, insulting and humiliating pater at the drop of a lead pipe. Streeter takes what should be euphoric events and turns them into a Dante’s Inferno Disneyland. For Tracy, the wedding in Bride is a surreal near-Kafka-esque horror; so is the summertime sojourn for Stewart. Dreaming for a serene month with his glamorous wife, Hobbs is stunned to learn that they are to spend August in an upscale Northern California vacation trap-by-the-sea. Insult to injury, Mrs. Hobbs has invited their two married daughters (and their terrifying spawn) to join them. As narrator Stewart implies to the audience, it’s not that he actually hates them, it’s just that…well, yeah, he hates them. Once one meets the respective broods, it’s easy to see why. One daughter (Lily Gentle, the precocious teen from Tashlin’s Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?) is married to a cheating, self-absorbed psychology professor (John Saxon); the other (Planet of the Apes’ Natalie Trundy) is spliced to a quick-tempered loose cannon (Josh Peine) who has refused to allow his wife to inform their in-laws that he’s been out of work for more than a half a year.

Furthermore, Hobbs has his two teenybopper kids to contend with – a sexually blossoming nymph (Laurie Peters) hobbled by her new braces, and a TV-violence-addicted son (Michael Burns) whose only reason for acknowledging his disrespected father is to supply him with “…a copy of Playboy every month.” There’s also their live-in cook, an aged battleaxe refugee from Eastern Europe – Monogram’s answer to Marjorie Main, the ubiquitous Minerva Urecal. Urecal has some of the picture’s funniest moments.  As the Hobbs clan first sets sight on the rather bleak coastline, a perky O’Hara inquires if the surroundings remind the servant of her homeland. “Vorse!,” replies the stoneface in a thick accent. Urecal bolts early, having been outraged by Stewart’s foul language. This confounds the couple until Hobbs retraces his verbal steps (realizing that his suggestion of getting some “sun on the beach” was grossly misinterpreted). I should take a moment to reflect on my original theater-going experience, as the aforementioned Playboy and “beach” lines are forever etched in my brain. On both these occasions, a young mother sitting behind us clapped her hands over her son’s ears (he was around my age). “I thought this was a family movie,” she groaned out loud. As if the mere mention of Playboy Magazine would turn her progeny into Jackie the Ripper! Well, it was 58 years ago.

Admitting that their summery residence hasn’t been topped “…since Dragonwyck,” the Hobbses attempt to see the dreary scenario as a glass half-full. “If it was good enough for Edgar Allan Poe…” spouts a cynical Roger before tripping through a collapsed rotted stairway. At least they’re grateful for the manse’s electricity…until they switch on the bulb. “This isn’t a light – it’s a DARK!,” exclaims Stewart in his inimitable manner. And that perfectly describes the movie: a dark light…a frothy dark light, more kin to the actor’s Anthony Mann outings than his forays into Mr. Smith Goes to Washington‘s beloved Capracorn.

Stewart plays the befuddled card with all the frustration of Scottie Ferguson in a Carry On flick, notably when trying to connect the indoor plumbing and running water. Failing, he calls the local energetic handyman, who arrives immersed in terracotta-stained clothing. Shaking Peters’ and O’Hara’s hands smears them with unmentionable particles revealed to be the remnants of a neighbor’s cesspool. Sharing a party line likewise proves bodily function disgusting, as their phone hoarding sharers are medical atrocity junkies, perennially relishing tales of exploded cysts, inflamed oozing livers and other organ malfunctions.

Escaping for a dawn rest on the shore, Stewart resigns himself to finally tackling Tolstoy’s War and Peace (certainly not the definition of fun summer reading). This too is sabotaged by the arrival of Anita Ekberg clone Marika (Valerie Varda). All bubbly and booby (in a tight swimsuit), Marika is a gold-digger (albeit a lovable one), whose prime targets are older attractive men and money (although not necessarily in that order). Upon learning Hobbs is a banker, she pounces on him with the subtlety of an Alien face-hugger. “Any good?,” she asks, indicating the famed Russian novel. “The New Yorker didn’t care for it,” replies Stewart/Hobbs drolly. Stewart’s jealousy later boils when he spies O’Hara talking to yacht club bon vivant Reginald Gardiner. When insisting on knowing what they were conversing about, O’Hara magnificently retorts that they were discussing The Brothers Karamazov – a spectacular right back at ya kick in the ass.

Sexuality in general plays a big part in MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION. To get embarrassed jaw-wired Peters out of her funk, Stewart basically pimps the 14-year-old to the male locals at a teen dance. Actually reverse pimping, paying off the jocks at five bucks a pop. Fortunately (or not) the one who clicks with her is The Fabulous Fabian (as he was known then) in the fourth of his six Fox appearances. The pair becomes a seasonal item, spending their days and nights at Pizza Heaven, where they even get to sing a duet – the bubblegum ballad “Cream Puff,” part of the sprightly soundtrack provided by Henry Mancini. Yet, this innocuous ditty (lyrics by Johnny Mercer), too, has lurid connotations when one applies the slang terminology to the title, as well as the references to tasty jellyrolls and other edibles.  FYI, Stewart’s later moves on O’Hara are amorously underlined when he slips her a fin.

The carnal shenanigans reach their peak in a climatic encounter between Varda and Saxon “You didn’t call last night,” brazenly purrs the siren into the nervous professor’s ears in full view of his relatives. It makes one wonder as to the ultimate longevity of Roger Hobbs’ kids’ marriages.

Stewart’s character is sort of Gran Torino’s “Get off my lawn!” Eastwood in middle age; this becomes prominently evident in barbs that border on cruelty.  His referring to Saxon as Professor Egghead is the mildest version.  A more severe outburst comes when he sneers “You little creep” to his admittedly psychopathic toddler grandson.  The big guns come at the teen dance; observing a possible suitor for Peters, Stewart nudges O’Hara to take a gander at the boy’s head and face which he unkindly audibly spouts “…looks like the inside of a small cantaloupe.”  Yeah, okay, I laughed.

Yet, the most disturbing aspect of MR. HOBBS is when Burns’ TV conks out and Stewart is cornered into taking his son out on the waves in a craft aptly named a Spatterbox. Soon a fog moves in and the pair finds themselves hopelessly drifting out to sea. Stewart’s morose voiceovers made me squirm uncomfortably back in ’62 – the one part of the movie I found scarily unpleasant.

Things do perk up when Trundy’s husband asks her parents to entertain a potential vacationing employer and his wife – the wonderful who’d-a-thunk-it teaming of John McGiver and Marie Wilson. They pretty much steal the show as the eccentric Turners, a strait-laced, humorless couple (who, suitcase-carrying Hobbs later discovers, fill their luggage with concrete). McGiver’s one passion is bird-watching, and a sidebar trek where the two embark on a dawn patrol search for a Yellow-legged Claphanger is one of the movie’s highlights. The piece de resistance, however, comes later when Stewart is locked in the bathroom with a naked (and swacked) Wilson. The Turners are closet alcoholics and kinky sex aficionados. “You know what he likes sometimes…” teases a giggly Wilson to a mortified Stewart, as he screams for O’Hara to rescue him. It’s the funniest sequence in the pic (I can only imagine that the mother in back of me had by this time committed suicide). Wilson’s subsequent mash note to Stewart caps the segment, and all ends well enough that the family pre-books the dwelling for the next summer.

MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION was a huge hit in 1962 – enough so that Stewart and director Henry Koster (a trusted coworker since Harvey) repeated the formula (with diminishing results) in two follow-up comedies, Take Her, She’s Mine (1963) and Dear Brigitte (1965).

The chemistry between Stewart and O’Hara is terrific and I always figured that making this movie must have been as much fun to shoot as it is to watch (and, despite the ominous narrative elements superbly and cleverly scripted by Nunnally Johnson, it truly is, on the surface, a very funny movie). Not so. In her 2004 biography, ‘Tis Herself, O’Hara exposed a rather startling revelation.

“…I learned a few things about working with Jimmy Stewart on MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION.  I discovered that in a Jimmy Stewart picture, every scene revolves around Jimmy Stewart.  I was never allowed to really play out a single scene in the picture.  He was a remarkable actor, but not a generous one.”

O’Hara worked with Stewart again four years later in the Andy McLaglen western The Rare Breed. Things had not changed in the least, she sadly reported.

Twilight Time’s Blu-Ray of MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION is what we in the trade call a humdinger (but in a clean way). William C. Mellor’s remastered 1080p 2.35:1 images look sensational. The frequently unstable DeLuxe Color that I recall from Fox pics from that period (flesh tones specifically looking pink) is…well, stable and presented with razor-sharp clarity. In short, the movie looks better here than it did in its original release. The audio is in 1.0 mono – although I believe that the first-run prints had a magnetic stereo track. No matter – the audio is fine, and the earlier indicated Mancini score is accessible as an IST (Isolated Score Track).

I’m sure there are thousands of Boomers like me who worship this movie – eternally and wistfully associating it with that Death of Marilyn summer of 1962. While you may recall it as a thoroughly refreshing breezy cinematic beverage, today one might surprisingly find that it carries a slight kick – as if somebody spiked that Coke at Pizza Heaven


MR. HOBBS TAKES A VACATION. Color. Letterboxed [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; Mono [1.0 DTS HD-MA]. UPC # 851789003849; CAT # 903RJO41HTV.  Limited Edition of 3000.  SRP.  $29.95.

Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment.  [].




Marilyn at Fox: The Beginning and the End


Arguably the greatest American female movie icon to come out of the Fifties, Marilyn Monroe was largely defined by the studio that re-invented Norma Jeane Mortenson (aka Baker), 20th Century-Fox.

They signed her in the late 1940s, and she instantly stood out from the other starlet eye candy.  Soon her “human prop” work inched up to walk-ons, then bits, and even lines.

Fox, realizing they had something potentially special here, worried if she could actually emote.  So they (uncharacteristically in the waning Big Studio days) gave her a full-length feature test, a 1952 B-plus noir DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK.  It didn’t get a whole lot of play, but what buzz it generated was enough.  And the smoking sex bomb became a star.

Her difficulties with users, pushers, and general Hollywood scum fucked her up royally throughout the decade, and yet she managed to make an array of truly great movies.  Striving for independence, yearning to stretch, she balked the system and enrolled in Manhattan’s Actor’s Studio; she also started her own production company, and turned down projects any other contract performer would have killed for.

The off and on love affair with Fox seesawed into the early 1960s.  The new decade began for Monroe with LET’S MAKE LOVE, a frothy musical comedy, helmed by famed women’s specialist George Cukor.  It would be her final completed Fox project.

Both of the above-mentioned titles, pivotal to the Marilyn Monroe legend, are now available in (very) limited edition Blu-Rays from Twilight Time/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment.  Fans should swarm down with a vengeance, and grab ’em before they’re quickly gone, like their star.


The morality tale/warning of DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK is one that any noirista worth his/her salt can grasp blindfolded:  never hire any relative of Elisha Cook, Jr.  In the pic, Cook is a veteran bellboy at a posh big city hotel holding a mammoth convention.  One of the guests of honor needs a babysitter for his young daughter, so Cook (aka Eddie Forbes) volunteers Nell, his unemployed twentysomething niece.  All well and good, ‘cept she’s a dangerously unbalanced individual – a one-time picture of serenity, traumatized by the death of her fiancé in the Korean War.

As the couple hand over their child to the seemingly agreeable woman, other stories are unfolding in this kinda Grand Hotel of noir.  Downstairs, in the main ballroom, newly hired chanteuse Lyn Lesley is having her own problems.  Wowing the crowds and sopping up the acclaim has put a damper in her love life, even though Jed Towers, her smart but shiftless pilot paramour, has temporarily relocated to the metropolis.  Jed sees the relationship going nowhere, that Lyn is more concerned with her career (which she doesn’t totally deny), so it’s a kiss-off.

Getting ready to split, he notices the hottie blonde across the way.  Why not?  It’s over between him and Lyn.  The lady is – yep – Nell, just finishing terrorizing and torturing Bunny, the urchin she’s supposed to be caring for (the child is presently bound and gagged in the bedroom).  Towers, as indicated, is no fool and their liaison for a drink, immediately sets off alarm bells; he quickly discerns that there’s something terribly wrong.  Fortunately, Jed also has a decency streak, and soon he, Lyn, Eddie and others do an eggshell walk, locating the girl’s parents, the authorities and the adolescent herself – hopefully before it’s too late.

DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK is a tight 76-minute (stunningly photographed, by Lucien Ballard) film noir, expertly directed (by newly hired Brit import Roy Baker, later to be known as Roy Ward Baker) and superbly scripted (by From Here to Eternity’s Daniel Taradash, from a chilling short story by Charlotte Armstrong).  While the pic was greenlit to ignite Monroe, Fox still needed a name to get wider interest throughout their distribution network.  They asked A-lister Richard Widmark if he’d accept the role of Jed Towers.  He readily agreed, knowing what a break can mean for an up-and-comer (it worked for him in Kiss of Death); he had previously done the same favor two years earlier for Sidney Poitier and Ossie Davis in No Way Out, Poitier becoming a lifelong friend (I met Widmark once, and can honestly say that he was one of the nicest guys I ever had the pleasure to hang out with).  But the pic was a debut for another recently signed actress, Anne Bancroft, who makes the most of the secondary role of Lyn.  Other wonderful appearances in the movie are from Jim Backus and Lurene Tuttle (as the parents), Donna Corcoran (Bunny), and Jeanne Cagney, Verna Felton, Willis Bouchey, Emmett Vogan, Gloria Blondell, Robert Foulk, Olan Soule, Vic Perrin and the ubiquitous Bess Flowers.  A fine Fox medley score orchestrated by Earle Hagen, Lionel Newman and Bernard Mayers appends the piece, along with some nicely reprised Harry Warren/Mack Gordon songs (some by Bancroft’s character), all available as an IST.

The truly cool thing about DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK isn’t the expected take-her-down ending, but a rather poignant (and progressive) climax that intelligently and actually quite delicately deals with mental illness.  Monroe is extraordinarily good in the role of Nell; as often is the case, the wags who trash her performance as quasi-trance-like, simply do not get the point.

The Twilight Time Blu-Ray of DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK looks and sounds swell; some nifty extras make this platter even more tempting: a pair of A&E Network Biography episodes, one on Monroe, the other on Widmark.

The fortuitous casting of Monroe, Widmark and Bancroft assured the KNOCK nearly non-stop TV play during the late 1960s-early 1970s.  In 1952, it did merely what it was supposed to do – underline the fact that Marilyn Monroe was more than just a bod.  Perhaps the most expensive screen-test ever, DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK subsequently paid off handsomely; the following year, Fox had a trifecta of Monroe blockbusters in theaters across the nation: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Niagara and How to Marry a Millionaire.  The legend, so quickly born, almost as quickly began to unravel.


I have to admit I’m flummoxed.  To this day, I don’t quite understand why so many responsible movie folk detest 1960’s LET’S MAKE LOVE.  I loved it when I was a kid (my late, great pal Ric Menello was a fan as well); in adulthood, I just went along with the rhubarb that it was a deadly misfire.  Then, I saw the new Twilight Time Blu-Ray, and scratched my head innumerable times.  I laughed out loud frequently (the script by Norman Krasna, with additional material by Hal Kanter, was nominated for a WGA), the use of scope by d.p. Daniel L. Fapp was excellent, as was George Cukor’s direction (his third of four musicals, following A Star is Born and Les Girls and preceding My Fair Lady; okay, granted, LOVE is the least of the quartet).  Have to say – and I hope I don’t lose any longtime movie compadres – I had a really good time.

The plot is very 1960 risqué, and commences with a brief prologue concerning the life and times of the mega-wealthy French Clement family.  A poor 18th-century farmer, the first rapscallion Clement discovered a pot of buried coins on his property; in the several hundred years since, the Clements, all womanizing entrepreneurs (many dying from “balloon accidents,” coded language for sex with buxom femme fatales), have parlayed that rusty pot into a nearly billion dollar empire.

CUT to 1960 Manhattan.  An off-Broadway revue (like the later National Lampoon Lemmings series) is doing a parody of current culture icons, including “horndog” Jean-Marc Clement (a smooth and likeable Yves Montand, imported from France).  Jean-Marc’s publicity man and business associate apprise him of this travesty, and beseech the playboy to shut the show down.  So he sneaks into a rehearsal.

Ever hear the story of Charlie Chaplin entering a Chaplin Look-a-like Contest, and losing?  It happened, and no doubt spurred the LET’S MAKE LOVE writing team.  Except this time, the real McCoy’s mistaken for an actor auditioning for the Clement role.  He’s about to smack ’em down when he spies what could be the greatest balloon accident in his family’s history: female lead Amanda Dell, doing a red-hot rendition of Cole Porter’s “My Heart Belongs to Daddy.”  And from here on in, the movie is owned by Monroe, making perhaps the sexiest character debut in Hollywood history (donned in black tights, legs spread, she clingingly descends down what we today call a stripper pole – a CinemaScope close-up of her sliding crotch before the full-shot).  Clement (and most viewers) are dog-tongued on the floor; so, of course, he auditions for the part, and, unlike Chaplin, aces it.

Jean-Marc’s attempts to woo and seduce Amanda turn to genuine affection, and, to this aim, he uproariously attempts to win over the lady by hiring Milton Berle to teach him comedy, Bing Crosby to sing and Gene Kelly to dance (a trio of unbilled guest appearances).  Clement, we learn must compete with show star Tony Danton (who also doubles as Dell’s lover).  This unfortunate casting is another import, Britain’s Frankie Vaughan – a goofy, genial entertainer, displaying no chemistry whatsoever with Monroe (imagine a singing and dancing Bobby Cannavale or Brad Garrett).

You can figure out how it all ends up within the first half hour, but, as they say, getting there is half (if not all) the fun.  And it is fun.  Monroe (again, I was listening to years of the pic’s detractors) was criticized for phoning it in, for being so zonked on drugs that it often looked as if she didn’t know where she was.  Au contraire, in Cukor’s hands, she appears (and likely felt) relaxed and comfortable.  She’s also quite funny – and looks like she’s really enjoying herself.  And the scene between her and Montand in an elevator is super steamy (Cukor would be on-board to direct the next Fox/Monroe title, the uncompleted Something’s Got to Give).

LET’S MAKE LOVE is certainly the peak of the strange Fox deal Yves Montand signed on for (the tail end being Tony Richardson’s downright weird adaptation of William Faulkner’s Sanctuary, with Montand as the villainous rapey Candyman).  A famed singer as well as actor, he and MM (unlike her and Vaughan) set off romantic spontaneous combustion; apparently, this spilled over off-screen, as the pair engaged in a torrid affair, much to the discern of Monroe’s then-spouse Arthur Miller (who contributed some uncredited script revisions) and Montand’s wife, actress Simone Signoret (who had initially friended and bonded with the Some Like it Hot star).

The supporting cast is great for Mad Men era fans, and includes Tony Randall, Wilfrid Hyde-White, David Burns, Dennis King, Jr., Mara Lynn, Michael David, Joe Besser, Joan Banks and Madge Kennedy; ditto, the movie’s songlist – with original ditties by Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn (featuring the title tune and “Specialization,” which I, frankly, couldn’t stop humming; it’s all accessible as an IST).  Special note must be given to the other celeb parodies in the pic:  Maria Callas (Marian Manners), Van Cliburn (Richard Fowler) and Elvis Presley (the great Dick Dale).

The High Definition Blu-Ray of LET’S MAKE LOVE looks exactly like the better DeLuxe Color CinemaScope movies I remember from the early 1960s; the original stereo soundtrack is accessible in either 5.1 or 2.0 surround.  Is it a Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Seven Year Itch or Some Like It Hot?  No.  But is it worth visiting on an air-conditioned summer night?  Sure.

DON’T BOTHER TO KNOCK.  Black and white. Full frame [1.33:1; 1080p High Definition] 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

LET’S MAKE LOVE. Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 5.1 or 2.0 DTS-HD MA.

Twilight Time/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment. SRP: $29.95@

Limited Edition of 3000.  Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment









From Gore to Lore


Anyone who’s been following this column for the past few years knows all too well that few studio movies get me more revved up than Hammer Films.  Yep, I grew up on those grand (guignol) Technicolor goths that sprinkled their expertly told tales of terror with a pinch of adult themes.

Well, Hammer didn’t just produce horror pics.  They made some really good noirs, post-Psycho thrillers (what Hammer cofounder James Carreras termed “mini Hitchcocks”), and historical action-adventure folk tales.  While these colorful, exciting forays into our past generally took a back seat to the supernatural stuff, they definitely need to be acknowledged for the top-notch entertainments that they are.  Many feature cross-over stars from the higher profile ghoulish flicks, up-and-coming newly signed talent (most prominently, Oliver Reed), Old Vic attractions on hiatus (Richard Pasco), plus the occasional participation of directors like Terence Fisher, who helped make Hammer an international success during these formative years (the late 1950s-early 1960s).  Twilight Time, in conjunction with Columbia Pictures, has chosen to release two excellent examples of this Hammer sidebar genre, 1960’s SWORD OF SHERWOOD FOREST and 1962’s PIRATES OF BLOOD RIVER.  While these vest pocket epics usually supported the Dracula and Frankenstein movies, they nevertheless borrowed much of the mojo that put Hammer on the map:  beautiful photography, graphic violence and monstrous villains (albeit human ones).  So grab a flagon of ale, retreat to the library room, and journey back to the days of yore.


1960’s SWORD OF SHERWOOD FOREST cinematically defines a fun way to pass the time on a rainy weekend afternoon.  While it will never seriously give Errol Flynn anything to worry about, it tells its tale quickly (80 minutes), professionally and with enough popcorn thrills to make viewers merry men and women.  All the legend elements are here in Alan Hackney’s script, heightened by excellent color photography (in scope, too) by Ken Hodges (Eastmancolor in the States, Technicolour across the pond).

The movie stars Richard Greene as the fabled rogue, whose last name became lovingly adopted in the criminal world.  While Greene, by 1960, was a bit long in the tooth to play Robin, it was stroke of genius in other ways.  The actor had portrayed the bandit in a wildly successful internationally syndicated television series that ran between 1955-1959.  Bringing him back (reruns were still playing here when the movie was in theaters) in his most famous role was inspired (he coproduced the pic with Hammer and Sidney Cole).  The idea of seeing TV’s Robin on the big screen, and in color (still a big draw in 1960) was, for fans, too good to pass up.

But there are other reasons to enjoy this retelling.  The cast is pure Hammer, with costar Peter Cushing (as Nottingham) doing an increasingly rare return to villainy (I never thought his Frankenstein was truly evil).  Sarah Branch, so beguiling in the Hammer noir Hell is a City makes a pretty good Maid Marian (nicely athletic as well; she is definitely doing her own riding).  Old Vic star Richard Pasco is particularly slimy as the never-to-be-trusted Earl of Newark and other noted thesps (many who appeared on the Greene series, but in other roles) also elevate the proceedings, including Niall MacGinnis, Dennis Lotis, Jack Gwillim, Nigel Greene, Vanda Godsell, Desmond Llewelyn, and Derren Nesbitt.  A special nod must go to an unbilled Oliver Reed, just beginning his celebrated Hammer tenure, as a sinister French assassin.  Interesting sidenote:  Reed played his character (Lord Melton) as a lisping fop; once the rushes were screened, studio execs nixed the interpretation, but not enough to order retakes.  A voice actor was hired to redub Reed.  Best of all is the breezy direction by Terence Fisher, taking a brief respite from the goths (his renowned 1961 Stranglers of Bombay would be another foray into history’s violent past, and one of his non-horror triumphs).

The Twilight Time Blu-Ray of SWORD OF SHERWOOD FOREST looks just dandy in its 1080p evocation.  The mono audio, featuring Alun Hoddinott’s score, sounds fine, too.


A colony of ex-pat Huguenots, living on the secluded isle of Devon, becomes a sanguine-drenched battlefield in 1962’s spirited THE PIRATES OF BLOOD RIVER.  The movie, a trim 87 minutes, hits the ground running – literally with a fleeing adulterous couple being chased to the shoreline of the title body of water.  The lady in question (Marie Devereux) is liquidated by gnashing jaws, as the pond is infested with piranha (giving Hammer the op to stack this adventure pic with elements from its best known genre).  The male lover, son of  stolid fanatical religious leader, is banished to fifteen years in swamp-bordered prison so horrendous that even a ninety-day sojourn is tantamount to a death sentence.  He escapes, is captured by pirates, and is given a ride home on the proviso that they allow the Huguenot sanctuary to double as their hideout.  Of course, there’s an ulterior motive: Captain LaRoche, the leader of the sea-faring bandits, is convinced a great treasure is hidden by the populace.  And, since this is a Hammer Film, there are always the bodacious women as an ancillary booty/booty incentive.  The captive, Jonothon Standing, quickly realizes his mistake, and with childhood friend Henry and his fiancée Bess (Jonothon’s sister), stage a rebellion that makes most actioners look like an Our Gang birthday party (of course, one doesn’t tip one’s hat to a piranha-filled lake early-on without returning to this delicious device, which helps write the climax).

THE PIRATES OF BLOOD RIVER is “rousing” with a capital “Rrrrrrrrrrr.”  Many thanks are in order, firstly to the fantastic cast, led by Christopher Lee (as the nefarious LaRoche, his second Hammer pirate role), plus Kerwin Mathews and Glenn Corbett (unnecessary but welcome Yanks signed to cinch the American market, the former of 7th Voyage of Sinbad fame, the latter, late of William Castle’s Homicidal, both Columbia titles); the remainder of the thespians include such faves as Andrew Keir, Peter Arne, Marla Landi, Jack Stewart, David Lodge, Dennis Waterman (as a kiddie), Oliver Reed and Michael Ripper.  Quite an array.  The MegaScope (billed as HammerScope) color photography is top-notch as well, so additional kudos to Arthur Grant.  And John Gilling’s and John Hunter’s script (story by Jimmy Sangster) is fast-paced-proof to allow for no dull moments (piranha and prison gang life aside, there’s a blindfolded sword fight to sweeten the pot).

The lion’s share of credit, of course, must go to cowriter/director Gilling, an underrated craftsman, who helmed one of my favorite horror pics (Flesh and the Fiends) and a couple Hammer ghoul classics (Plague of the Zombies, The Reptile).  Gilling, it must be said, was sort of the UK version of Andre de Toth (as if one wasn’t enough); he, apparently took sadistic pleasure putting his actors in peril, as PIRATES ably proved. The lake used in the pic immediately tipped off the company of players that something wasn’t kosher from the foreboding pond scum surface and stench.  Sure enough, it was dangerously polluted – and the forced treading through the thick germ soup resulted in several post-shoot cases of eye and ear infections and other debilitating diseases, including a severe muscle disorder for star Lee, who claimed it was a full half-year before he could properly walk a flight of stairs (it did not endear the star to Gilling, as he spied the director laughing throughout the entire debacle; for a more detailed account, I suggest seeking out a copy of Wayne Kinsey’s excellent book, Hammer Films: The Bray Years. An interview with Michael Ripper on BLOOD RIVER is harrowing, to say the least).

The Twilight Time Blu-Ray is everything Hammer fans could ask for: crisp, colorful scope visuals and a buoyant mono soundtrack (featuring Alun Hoddinott’s me-hearties pirate-friendly score).  A funny note: when Sangster pitched the idea to studio head Michael Carreras, the mogul was instantly intrigued (no doubt, the piranha aspect), but warned the writer to not include a pirate ship (too much money); the shots of LaRoche’s vessel are all stock footage.

SWORD OF SHERWOOD FOREST. Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

THE PIRATES OF BLOOD RIVER. Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

Both Twilight Time/Columbia Pictures Industries. SRP: $29.95@.

Limited Edition of 3000.  Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment .


World War, Too


In the military, nothing is worse than fighting the enemy, especially if he/she is in your own squad.  This is a theme covered (mostly) in this quartet of superb warrior epics all surrounding the years in the (mostly) European theater from 1941-45. UA, a thoroughly progressive studio, nevertheless (mostly) founded by ultra-right wingers, has given us some of the best (liberal and otherwise) war pictures ever made.  During the advent of talkies, Howard Hughes retained the company as a distributor for his 1930 odyssey Hell’s Angels, which became a blockbuster in the midst of The Great Depression (utilizing not only the new sound medium, but additionally featuring sequences in color and widescreen).  William Wellman’s 1945 classic The Story of G.I. Joe became one of the most beloved soldier pics of all-time (and made Robert Mitchum a star, with an Oscar nom to boot).  1949’s Home of the Brave tackled PTSD and racism.

Bizarre war flicks followed, like the Robert Parrish 1954 Korean conflict saga The Purple Plain, a vicious part of history likewise covered three years later in Anthony Mann’s splendid Men in War. We also virulently returned to the Great War via Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory (also 1957).  Can’t leave out John Sturges’ 1963’s The Great Escape, one of the decade’s cinematic landmarks.  See where I’m going?

Sandwiched between the UA output of the 1950s and the 1960s are four extraordinary titles, all comprising jaw-dropping casts, fine directors, brutal confrontations (both physical and emotional), terrific camerawork (all on-location) and fantastic scores (accessible on these platters as ISTs).  The movies cover the personal hardships and escalating seething hatred that added that just one-more-piece-of-hell to the actual fighting.  They’re all in widescreen (albeit in varying aspect ratios), and, with the exception of one iconic 1960s title, are relatively unknown to the casual picture-goer.  As far as I’m concerned, each is a classic deserving a spot on any serious classic collector’s library shelf.

Up and at ’em!


A considerable hit in 1958, Delmer Daves’ KINGS GO FORTH, based on Joe David Brown’s scorching novel (screenplay by Merle Miller), has been almost forgotten today.  Shame, as it’s a terrific picture, and one of the director’s crowning achievements.  It certainly had the star power – and the liberal take on a once-taboo subject is perfect for today’s audiences.

The movie stars Frank Sinatra (then at his peak), Tony Curtis (a major movie from his major year), and Natalie Wood (in her second adult starring role, having scored twelve months earlier in Marjorie Morningstar in 1957).

Sinatra’s Sam Loggins is a New York tough self-made blue collar G.I. who has risen through the ranks as World War II draws to a close.  Stationed in the French Riviera sector of the European Theater (what the dogfaces termed “the Champagne Campaign”), proves to be a paradox of heaven and hell.  Incredibly insecure and lonely Sam meets Monique, a gorgeous French woman at a cafe during a weekend furlough.  His growing attraction toward her is derailed when her mom, an American ex-pat reveals that the girl’s father was black.  Loggins battles the Nazis and his racism, eventually overcoming the bigotry – but too late.  Monique has fallen for the charismatic pampered, handsome, jazz-playing Britt Harris, a rich kid playboy from a noted Jersey family, nicknamed the Pride of Newark (which should tell you something).  Sam tries to hate him, but Harris’ oozing charm and likeability makes it difficult.  Again, Loggins becomes emotionally twisted due to Britt’s being “born rich and handsome and I was born poor and not handsome.”
Loggins immediately tells Harris of Monique’s ethnicity, swearing that he’ll kill anyone who hurts the lost love of his life.  Britt’s response is surprisingly upbeat, brimming with pride and respect.  But Britt Harris is a sociopathic scumbag, and doing a black chick turns out to have been just “a kick.”  The Pride of Newarks’s blistering comment to Monique and her mother is one of cinema’s most vicious verbal smackdowns.  Loggins vows to kill Harris, and then gets his chance – when they both are recruited for a suicide mission.  The battles, the aftermath, and the epilogue are exciting and sublimely staged and acted.  Really, as indicated, this is one of Delmer Daves’ finest flicks.  The crisp monochrome location work by Daniel L. Fapp is as good as it gets, and displays all of the director’s trademark crane and moving camera tracking shots (thanks to Twilight Time’s sensational 35MM transfer, KINGS GO FORTH makes its Blu-Ray debut in its original aspect ratio, not seen since 1958.  The soundtrack is tops as well, with a wonderful score composed by Elmer Bernstein.   Wood truly showed she had what it took to be a grownup actress, and gives an enduring performance; Sinatra and Curtis, too, are fantastic, and have a smooth chemistry between them (Curtis immediately became an honorary member of the Rat Pack).  Frank had by this point more than proven himself as a superb actor, but it was Curtis, who excelled as the vile, cobra Harris – a continuing array of villainous bastards that began with Sweet Smell of Success in 1957, continued with his Oscar nom in The Defiant Ones and a heroic costarring lead in the smash The Vikings (the latter pair both released the same year as KINGS; 1958 was genuinely Curtis’ time).  A fine supporting cast appends the lead trio, and includes Leora Dana, Karl Swenson, Ann Codee, Eddie Ryder and jazz musicians Red Norvo and Red Wooten.  This movie really needs to be better known.

There’s an interesting sidebar story that Frank Sinatra, Jr. told — one that I heard shortly before his passing in 2016.  During the filming of KINGS GO FORTH, the Sinatras discovered that the Boris Karloffs were neighbors in their California community.  Sinatra, a devout movie fan, couldn’t have been more thrilled, and became close friends with Boris.  Particularly taken with the horror star’s speechless interpretation of the Frankenstein monster, Frank asked the veteran thesp for some tips.  KINGS GO FORTH was a flashback picture, and contained silent action over Sinatra’s/Loggins’ narration.  Karloff, indeed, worked with Sinatra, and “threatened” to ask for payback, should he ever attempt to professionally sing.  “Anytime,” was Frank’s response, and that was a promise returned royally nearly ten years later when Karloff asked Frank to help him “speak-sing” the lyrics to “It Was a Very Good Year.”  Sinatra happily worked with Boris on the song, and it became a Top Ten novelty hit.  Just a nice story I thought I’d share with you folks.


One of director John Frankenheimer’s and actor Burt Lancaster’s career triumphs, 1965’s THE TRAIN comes roaring into High Definition Blu-Ray with a vengeance.

Stunningly shot on-location in France in crisp, black-and-white by Jean Tournieur and Walter Wottitz, and beautifully scripted (from their screen story adaptation) by Franklin Coen, Frank Davis (with uncredited assist from Walter Bernstein, Nedrick Young, Howard Dimsdale and Albert Husson; from the novel Le Front De L’Art by Rose Valland), THE TRAIN offers a physical/spiritual parallel of wartime priorities:  what defines a country and patriotism vs. the price of humanity.  Relax, it’s ingeniously woven within the narrative as to not interfere with the grand suspense thriller it is.

Paul Labiche (Lancaster) runs the integral railroad station outside a suburb of Paris.  On the surface, he wants no complications and seemingly cooperates with the Nazi high command who dominate the town.  In reality, he’s the head of the local Resistance, using brute force, if necessary, to sabotage any faction of the Third Reich.

On the opposite end is erudite, sophisticated Nazi officer Colonel Franz Von Waldheim (Paul Scofield), who also will show no mercy when it comes to defending his turf.  As with Labiche, Von Waldheim has a wartime dual purpose – outwardly to protect great works of art from destruction, but, in reality, to greedily whisk them away to Germany, where they are likely to become his personal property.  Besieged by artists and museum librarians to save the paintings, Labiche initially scoffs at the idea of risking lives to save canvasses.  His gradual realization that these masterpieces represent the soul of France transforms this mission into an obsession.  The bulk of the picture, concerning the title transport machine pits these two strong-willed men against each other in perhaps the ultimate mainstream movie ever filmed about the Resistance and the war.  A confrontation line between Von Waldheim and Labiche is one of my favorite quotable bits of dialog:  “A painting means as much to you as a string of pearls to an ape.” Burt’s response is classic.

Supporting Lancaster and Scofield is a fantastic cast of European players, including Suzanne Flon, Wolfgang Preiss, Albert Remy, Charles Millot, Richard Munch, Jacques Marin, Howard Vernon and Donald O’Brien (of special note are two spectacular cameos from French icons, Jeanne Moreau and Michel Simon).  A churning, terrific score by Maurice Jarre accompanies the action (of which there is plenty).  It was certainly a good year for the composer; THE TRAIN’s music, in any other time a standout effort, was eclipsed by his work on DOCTOR ZHIVAGO.  It was also a major year for UA, who dominated the box-office.  THE TRAIN was a huge hit with critics and audiences, but paled to the studio’s other blockbusters Help!, What’s New, Pussycat? and Thunderball.

Frankeheimer’s and Lancaster’s working relationship hit a new zenith, but it was a slippery slope.  The actor originally hired the director (after seeing some of his television output) to helm the underrated 1961 drama The Young Savages.  This led to Birdman of Alcatraz the following year, a shoot so acrimonious that Frankenheimer vowed to never work with Lancaster again.  That changed when Kirk Douglas hired the director for Seven Days in May.  During this production, Lancaster and Frankenheimer buried the hatchet, bonded, and planned THE TRAIN (in my opinion, their greatest work); a final collaboration, The Gypsy Moths, would be released in 1969.

THE TRAIN is one of the scarce Twilight Time titles that sold out almost immediately and warranted a second printing.  Either version is worth tracking down.

A funny sidebar; after a super successful reception, a beaming Lancaster emerged announcing, “If I knew it was going to turn out this good, I’d have done it with an accent.”  To which Frankenheimer drolly replied, “Thank God he didn’t know!”


1968’s PLAY DIRTY lives up to its title – with the subtlety of a blowtorch.  Taking the key word from one of the 1960’s biggest movie hits, The Dirty Dozen, this brutal, gritty adventure relates a similar tale.  Captain Cyril Leech, a disgraced but brilliant soldier, who has a prosperous sideline as a mercenary, doesn’t believe in “bringing ’em back alive.”  We’re not talking prisoners, we mean his own men.  This doesn’t sit well with social-climbing sleazeball Colonel Masters, who has fashioned an impossible mission to dismantle Rommel’s hidden fuel supply in the African desert.  Since the odds are next to nil that anyone will survive, Masters saddles Leech with a horrific band of rogue Brit commandos, all POWs with convictions for drug-dealing, rape, sadism, etc.  To assist with the doomed task, an expert in munitions is needed; ninety-day-wonder Captain Douglas is chosen, with a paid voucher to Leech that, for publicity sake, he be brought back breathing.  Stuffed shirt Douglas is no angel either; he’s a former BP executive.  Masters’ paper soldier plan is quickly hijacked by superior officer Brigadier General Blore, who’s an even bigger scumbag than he is.  And so it goes.

The mission, as expected, is hazardous and hideous, with Douglas having to watch out for Nazis, throat-cutting Arabs and his own men.  Nevertheless he proves himself quite a killer himself, earning the respect from the creeps in his battalion, particularly Leech.  A change in plans causes Masters and Blore to squelch the operation without notifying Leech or Douglas.  They fix this problem by simply leaking their whereabouts to the Germans.  Nice guys, eh?

PLAY DIRTY, a rarely-seen actioner, has become something of a cult classic over the past couple of decades.  And so it should.  The expert cast, led by Michael Caine and Nigel Davenport (the latter, excelling in an atypical leading role), is ably backed up by Nigel Green, Harry Andrews, Patrick Jordan, Daniel Pilon, Bridget Espeet and Vivian Pickles.  The movie’s other credentials are equally impressive.  It was produced by the 007 group (who in 1968 could do no wrong at UA, or anywhere else), scripted by Melvyn Bragg and Lotte Colin (from a story by George Marton) and magnificently photographed in Spain (gruelingly and realistically standing in for the Sahara) by Ted Scaife (who likewise shot The Dirty Dozen).  A music score by Michel Legrand adds to the top-notch celluloid endeavors.  Of course, directing such an extravaganza requires a keen eye for this sort of thing, and they sure got it (well, the one that worked) with Andre de Toth (who, uncredited, did a rewrite), helming his final work – and one of his best.

The pic, not surprisingly, was beset by disasters and turmoil from Day One.  Originally, Leech was to be played by Richard Harris, who bolted early on, reportedly due to a dispute about his haircut.  More likely, it had something to do with de Toth, a notorious sadist on and off camera.  How de Toth got the gig is a classic movieland story in and of itself.  Needing an accomplished action director, Bond producer Harry Saltzman put out a query for suggestions.  “Get Bundy!” was an oft-received reply.  “Bundy” was a nickname for Andrew Marton, an ace action-man, who had codirected the 1950 classic King Solomon’s Mines.  Unfortunately, for Marton, de Toth, too, had a nickname:  “Bandi,” and that’s who they mistakenly got.  Never mind. It worked out swell (although the rigors and stress of the men under fire is frequently waaayyyyy too authentic, particularly a sequence where a man-controlled makeshift conveyor belt is utilized for pulling vehicles up a desert hill).  De Toth was rewarded for PLAY DIRTY by becoming Executive Producer on the next Caine/Salzman/UA  project, 1969’s Billion Dollar Brain, the third and final Harry Palmer spy thriller.  The Twilight Time Blu-Ray looks fantastic, and is sure to please any war flick fan.


Another great obscurity, 1969’s THE BRIDGE AT REMAGEN boasts a distinguished cast, a fantastic score, terrific action and a powerful message.

Based on a true incident (the taking/destruction of the Ludendorff bridge, housed between Remagen and Erpel, on March 7, 1945), this riveting, engrossing pic examines both sides of the coin – and each is vile.  Whether a blunder or for gain or just because one can, the results in war are always the same: dead is dead (it’s also a variation of the definition of insanity).  The Americans and the Germans seemingly are in a contest to see who can sadistically kill the most men and innocent civilians, lives being relegated to mere impressive statistics.  Leading the U.S. are the snarky, belligerent rebellious troops, headed by Lt. Hartman (George Segal), based on the real-life Karl Timmermann.  Also along for the ride are Ben Gazzara, Bo Hopkins, Robert Logan and Bradford Dillman.  Commanding the carnage is Brigadier General Shinner (E.G. Marshall), who delights in trapping the Germans, thereby hastening their deaths (a mere 75,000 men). The Germans, too, have no problem taking one of their illustrious own (Robert Vaughn in an excellent performance), and sacrificing him up for Der Fuhrer.  Truth is, the Nazis’ plan to blow the bridge is botched, so, too bad/that’s life/auf wiedersehen, boys.  The Americans decide to help matters by detonating the German explosives themselves, shrugging off the townsfolk as collateral damage.

THE BRIDGE AT REMAGEN is one unnerving war thriller, with dialog (script by Richard Yates and William Roberts; story by Roger Hirson) as sharp as a bayonet in the gut (“Come on, you can rob him later,” offers a soldier looting a dead boy’s body).  REMAGEN’s filming was an adventure worthy of its own movie.  It began shooting in Czechoslovakia (the first American movie shot behind the Iron Curtain), but increasing and dangerous political unrest forced the company to flee (the remainder of the flick was lensed in Italy).  The curious thing about the bridge that everyone (particularly the Germans) wants to destroy is that it was built BY the Kaiser’s troops during the Great War in order to quicken their connection to the two towns.  Irony transcends the Iron Cross.

REMAGEN was directed by John Guillermin, possibly the apex of his praiseworthy filmography.  It was shot in scope by the outstanding Stanley Cortez, and features one of my favorite Elmer Bernstein scores (and that’s saying a lot!); I still play my CD soundtrack constantly.  The Twilight Time Blu-Ray looks amazing, and the mono track really has a theater kick.

1969 was a strange time for a war movie, and REMAGEN, I recall, ended up going directly to the nabes (it played the grindhouse circuit constantly throughout the early-mid 1970s).  In the half-century-plus since its release, the picture has become a revered underground fave.  And for good reason.

KINGS GO FORTH. Black and white; widescreen [1.85:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

THE TRAIN. Black and white; widescreen [1.66:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

PLAY DIRTY. Color; widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

THE BRIDGE AT REMAGEN. Color; widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA

Twilight Time/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment/MGM Studios.  SRP: $29.95@.


Limited Edition of 3000.  Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment



Muti and the Beasts


Can’t thank the folks enough at Twilight Time Blu-Ray (in conjunction with Rewind Film, S.r.l.) for presenting us foreign movie fans with  LA MOGUE PIU’ BELLA and APPASSIONATA, a pair of diverse Italian pics celebrating the multi-talented actress Ornella Muti.

Muti (born Francesca Romana Rivelli) was one of the 1970’s greatest cinemactress finds.  While many Americans might be unfamiliar with her large body of work (save for her best-known international turn in 1980’s campy Flash Gordon), in Europe the lady is a goddess.  That she started out so young (she was 14-years-old when BELLA began filming) is all the more remarkable for her range and cognizance of adult situations and emotions.  Post-BELLA, Muti, simultaneously blossoming into full-fledged womanhood and deserved stardom, was able to use her incredible beauty to joke about her sexuality.  Of course, they say “beauty is a curse,” and in Muti’s case, that often proved true.  Most picture-goers were gobsmacked by her looks that transcended mere movie-star gorgeous; the term I often use is “ridiculously beautiful,” translated to mean “Come on, no one really looks like that!”  But Ornella Muti did (and does).  Her “deal with it” attitude coupled with her outstanding thesp abilities (plus that all-important “star power”) has kept the actress in the Euro limelight for over fifty years.  And, as indicated, below are two reasons why.


In the amazing dramatic thriller, LA MORGLIE PIU’ BELLA (The Most Beautiful Wife), director and co-writer (with Enrico Ribulsi and Sofia Scandurra) Damiano Damiani manages to create a visceral, uncompromising world of 1970 rural Italy.  In a small Sicilian village, ruled by Mafia overlords, the reins are temporarily handed over to the young, impulsive and vicious psychopath Don Vito Juvara (the elder kingpins agree to jail sentences in a “clam up or sleep with the fishes” pact).  Juvara is immediately attracted to the young daughter of a poor farm family.  The woman, Francesca, isn’t your average country beauty – she’s a person with scruples, smarts and determination.  Half-agreeing to courting her very distant relative, this faux romance is kiboshed by Juvara who threatens to kill the suitor unless he “disappears.”  This allows Vito to move in on Francesca; admittedly, she’s turned on by his looks and bad boy demeanor – not realizing how bad this boy is.  Soon, she discovers the frightening truth, and rebels – backing off and out, shaming the thug into sociopathic rages (no one ever says “no” to him).  Vito retaliates, mostly out of lust and obsession – two points Francesca is wise enough to play in her favor.  Eventually, he breaks down, confesses his love and promises to change.  Francesca, wanting to believe his regeneration, agrees to see him again, but is quickly and horribly shown the extent of his lies and never-can-reform true colors.  After he rapes her, Francesca does the unthinkable – she brings criminal charges against the punk, much to the horror of the villagers, the clergy and the police (who refuse to believe the female has the balls to go through with her case).  But Francesca has more guts than anyone in the town, including her now vandalized family.  Even her loyal, loving kid brother turns against her.  But, as they say these days, “she persisted,” and her defiant vow to achieve justice is stirring, satisfying and occasionally terrifying.  LA MOGLIE, thanks to Damiani, pushes all the right buttons.  It’s exquisitely photographed on-location in scope by Franco di Giacomo, and features a (what else?) marvelous score by Ennio Morricone (accessible as an IST).  The Twilight Time 1080p transfer from original, restored 35MM camera elements is stunning.  The audio is offered in dual options:  the original Italian with English subtitles, or an English dialog version produced for Anglo audiences.

The performances are perfection itself, especially from Muti, who essays the role of a troubled, conflicted and tenacious woman that should be (but isn’t) way beyond her years; the novice actress, as stated earlier, was only fourteen when the pic began production.  What Muti manages with her eyes and body movement is screen acting magnificence.  One moment particularly stands out; Francesca, again hearing a begging Vito’s lies about how he’ll change, is met with a “fool me once” look, followed by her gazing at other mob wives – all once beautiful, hopeful women like herself, but now old-before-their-time hags, sitting in silence and fear.  Muti’s next expression is startling: pathos (for the women) mixed with “go fuck yourself” antagonism (for her assaulter).  This is cinematically paralleled by visuals of the priests shoo-ing away women with the same gusto reserved for pigs.

A later scene worth noting (and referenced above) circles around her once-loyal brother, now toadying to the demands of the town, and the mob (of which he hopes to get himself a position with).  Muti’s character doesn’t hold back on her disappointment; the brother’s response is even more jaw-dropping.  The sibling vows that he’ll not forget what had been done to her (rape), and will wait till he grows up:  “Then, I’ll kill him,” he calmly replies as if he were asking about dinner.

Oh, yeah, one last note:  LA MOGLIE PIU’ BELLA is entirely based on a true-life story, a 1965 kidnap and rape of Franca Viola.


About as “one extreme to the other” as you can get, 1974’s APPASSIONATA, directed and co-written by Gianluigi Calderone (with Alessandro Parenzo and Domenico Rafele) nevertheless covers the same basic theme: young women coming to terms with their burgeoning sexual power.  In BELLA, the force was used for protest – or good; in APPASSIONATA, it’s more like “because I can.” The story revolves around two girl-women who want to test the limits of their sensuality…partially because of its materialistic attraction, but mostly because of the potential devastating effect on essentially decent men.  In the case of this movie, the unfortunate prime target is the father of one of the teens, a successful dentist (the great Gabriele Ferzetti).

BFFs Eugenia and Nicola have been friends like since forever.  Now their girlhood innocence has bloomed into womanhood sin-nocence, taking over their bodies, minds and souls.  The fact that both females have early matured into gorgeous specimens of pulchritude has made their goals all the more lethal.

Nicola (Eleanora Giorgi) decides to take it to the max by seducing Nicola’s father in his office.  At first, he’s outraged, and mildly disgusted – but, ultimately (dick over brain) cannot refuse the determined female with a mission.  He abandons everything for her (to the steadfast nymph’s delight), including his longtime wife – a former virtuoso pianist, now suffering from the early stages of dementia (a brilliant and poignant performance by Valentina Cortese).

The spider-and-the-fly lifestyles of these femme fatales, of course, eventually has terrible repercussions, but not before giving audiences a sensational taste of the misuse of power, and its ripple effect victims.

The movie is beautifully photographed by Armando Nannuzzi (while some grain is present in this otherwise stunning Blu-Ray transfer, the bulk of  the movie looks quite nice, with candy pop colors and detail).  A wonderful score by Piero Piccioni accentuates the proceedings (like BELLA, it is accessible as an IST, and offers dialog in both Italian w/English subtitles, or an English dub version).


The movie American Beauty wishes it was, APPASSIONATA hits the ground running, a cinematic walk of shame for tweeners who think they’re immune – if only because they’re still way too young to fully grasp what they’re doing.  It is peak cautionary tale movie-making, and another triumph for Muti.


LA MOGLIE PIU’ BELLA.  Color. Widescreen [2.35:1; 1080p High Definition]; 2.0 DTS-HD MA.

APPASSIONATA. Color. Widescreen [1.85:1; 1080p High Definition]; 1.0 DTS-HD MA.

 Twilight Time/Rewind Film, S.r.l. SRP: $29.95@.

Limited Edition of 3000.  Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment and



Twentieth Century-Fox Presents a CinemaScope Picture


A sad note before we begin this review/article – perhaps the saddest home video news of 2020.  Twilight Time, the great Blu-Ray friend to classic movie collectors, is closing their doors after a magnificent near-decade run.  Rather than moan and and weep platitudes, I want to partially post the email company co-founder Brian Jamieson sent to me and other reviewers.  It says it all.

“After nine years of successful operations in which 380 motion pictures from the 1930s to the 2010s have been released on DVD and Blu-Ray disc, the home video label Twilight Time…will not release any further titles and we will be winding down operations this summer.  A changing market, the rising costs of title acquisitions and the passing of longtime partner and company spokesman Nick Redman, are the key factors for the closure.

 “… will continue to sell titles while available through June 30th, at which time they and Twilight Time will cease operations.

“Remaining inventory will be acquired and distributed exclusively by Screen Archives Entertainment – effective July 1st 2020.”


To pay homage to Twilight Time, I will be devoting all of June to the company, choosing some of the most diverse titles I could think of, and from a handful of the many different distributors Twilight had the pleasure of working with.  Even though they will be no more, a smattering of their fine transfers will, undoubtedly, occasionally pop up from various collectors and dealers across the Net.  These rare gems should not be missed.  In addition, every so often, I will pick a Twilight Time title (as yet not covered by Supervistaramacolorscope) and give it a chance to breathe.  All are fine movies, and deserve coverage.  Who knows?  They may give you the impetus to seek and find.  Meantime, head toward Screen Archives Entertainment, and build your Twilight libraries en masse…while supplies last.


The above title of this piece represents a supplemental dissolve-logo card on almost every Fox title between 1953-1967.  To see those words on a rectangular screen, with Alfred Newman’s great appended 20th fanfare in accompaniment, always gave me a rush.  I love CinemaScope, particularly early anamorphic flicks.

To celebrate the words that had me skedaddling toward my local hardtops throughout those years, I’ve chosen a theme close to the hearts of Zanuck and the gang:  illicit sex in the burbs (already covered here a couple of years ago; see Shagging in the Crabgrass); while one stretches the real estate to cover hilltop Honolulu, the overall subject matter remains a lulu regardless.  The movies in question helped knock the censorship code to the ground, and then merrily proceeded to kick it in the gut.  Yay!  All four movies, of course, are in scope – three in color and stereophonic sound (with options to access the tracks in either 5.1 or 2.0).  Each represents grand (albeit risqué) 1950’s entertainment at its cinematic peak.  So, grab a handful of rubbers, and let’s go!


Jack Warner once infamously told director Raoul Walsh that his idea of a tender romance is when the local whorehouse burns down.  In Walsh’s 1956 sordid drama THE REVOLT OF MAMIE STOVER, it doesn’t quite burn down, but is under attack during Pearl Harbor.  Close enough.

A sure thing for Fox, MAMIE, based on a bestselling novel by William Bradord Huie (screenplay by Sydney Boehm), tread familiar big box-office territory of the blockbuster From Here to Eternity.  Same time frame, same locale, same “hostess” cupcakes.  Yep, it’s a brothel, but Hollywood still went the gentleman’s club route, where you get to dance and talk to…“hostesses.”  Weird, as MAMIE arrived a year after Walsh’s Battle Cry, which made no such polite distinction; however, 1956 “adult” audiences were savvier than Gene Autry’s, of whom the B-movie cowboy brilliantly quipped, “My fans think the dance halls girls really dance!”  Strangely enough, even with the “clean-up,” the MAMIE managed to get banned in some U.S. cities.  Maybe it’s her aggressive nature…

As the pic opens, Mamie Stover is tossed out of Frisco on a morals charge, and shipped off to Honolulu.  It’s 1941, and the place is rife with American soldiers who flock to The Bungalow, a “specialty” club.  Mamie has a BBF grass skirt gal pal, Gladys, who’s like something left-over from the pre-Code days.  Gladys gets her a Bunglaow gig, Mamie dyes her hair red (creating the tag “Flaming Mamie”), and becomes the whore du jour.

Nevertheless, on the steamship from the mainland, she meets Jim Blair, a hunky good guy who offers to help the damsel in distress.  Jim-boy’s a famous writer, who just inked a deal with Hollywood – so he’s got plenty of dough.  This particularly gets a rise out of Ms. Stover, and, before you can say “Shiver me timbers,” the shipboard friendship turns into a “fire in the hold!,” much to each lover’s chagrin (she wants no commitments; he’s got a beautiful steady socialite girlfriend)

Mamie’s unscrupulous lust for money bests her lust for honey, and soon she’s using her ill-gotten gains to acquire real estate cheap, post-Pearl Harbor.  Stover’s greed even eclipses that of The Bungalow’s Madam (Agnes Moorehead) and Harry, the joint’s psycho henchman (Michael Pate), who, as a sideline, enjoys thrashing the women who misbehave.

Mamie, like George Amberson Minafer, soon gets her comeuppance, and, since it’s 1956 America, returns to San Fran a financially poorer but spiritually richer hooker (off to see Daddy in the Deep South).  Fer Sadie Thompson Christ sakes!

THE REVOLT OF MAMIE STOVER is a fun, trashy opus, beautifully produced and lushly photographed partially on-location by Leo Tover.  Walsh, obviously having a blast, directs his cast, especially star Jane Russell (with whom he had a previous great working relationship a year earlier on The Tall Men, another Walsh/Fox/CinemaScope classic), with great aplomb.  Male lead Richard Egan does what he does best, grins his white bumper grill of approximately 238 teeth.  Frankly, the promoted robust pair make quite a couple.  And so do Russell and Egan.  Dick gets to remove his shirt, Jane cavorts in a skintight swimsuit, and eventually, they display geometrically what CinemaScope was made for.  The two thesps genuinely set off sparks, and had previously collided on John Sturges’ 1955 pic Underwater!  Russell, in later years, cooed that no one looked better than Richard Egan, indicating that the attraction on-view wasn’t just acting.

The supporting cast is wonderful, and features Joan Leslie (in her last feature pic), Alan Reed, Eddie Firestone, Jorja Cartwright, Margia Dean, Richard Coogan, Sally Todd and Hugh Beaumont.  The aforementioned cinematography is fantastic, nicely using the scope process and Hawaiian backdrops.  Thumbs up again to Leo Tover.  The score by maestro Hugo Friedhofer is one that had me humming more than the gals at The Bungalow (and, as with most Twilight Time titles, is available as an IST).  The crystal-clear ebullient colors really pop in this grand 1080p transfer (a far cry from a beet-red faded 35MM scope print I saw many moons ago).  Hey, Mamie, you go, girl!


In a pair of extremely adult-themed dramas, writer-turned-director Philip Dunne crafts an admirable look at suburban sirens and suburban siren calls with 1956’s HILDA CRANE and 1958’s TEN NORTH FREDERICK.

CRANE gives the underrated Jean Simmons one of her best starring roles, as a liberated Eisenhower Era femme fatale – in essence, a human contradiction of terms.  Escaping from her bigoted, hypocritical small town of Winona, Hilda heads for Sin City, aka Manhattan, where her exploits keep the frigid townsfolk back home a-percolating for years.  Hilda is a high IQ, sexually adventurous and business savvy curious woman, who had the misfortune to be born at the wrong time.  Her return to the fold, after two failed marriages, a succession of lovers and the rather rude caveat that she was asked not-so-politely to leave her last place of employment doesn’t bode well for the burg’s favorite notorious walk of shame lass.  This particularly affects her loving but ashamed mother, who practically freezes stalagmites every time Hilda brings up sex.  And sex is what Ms. Crane craves, much to the delight/shock of her supposed freethinking best friend couple (who ultimately fail on both counts).  Soon, Hilda’s cozying up to old boyfriend, beefcake Russell Burns (Guy Madison), a po’ boy made rich via his burgeoning construction company.  A nice guy, Burns’ prob isn’t just the fact that he’s a bore, but has a monstrous mother – a former hamburger flipper, who’s out to ruin Hilda any way she can.  That’s okay, ’cause canny Crane has a backup lover, her sleazy, but sophisticated ex-college professor, who has the extra lure of being French (Jean-Pierre Aumont).  Professor Jacques de Strappe (okay, De Lisle) is frantic for Hilda – as he can’t get their gyrating past lovemaking out of his soul (even after screwing all the subsequent coeds, none of who can ever take Hil’s place).

Knowing a cheater way too well, Hilda boots Professor Penis to the curve (he quits the Halls of Ivy and flees to New York to write a bestselling sex novel), and settles for comfortable Russell.  Rusty’s Mommy Vicious says over her deceased body – and backs up her threat by dropping dead on cue.  Shattered, Burns eschews the couple’s plans for a worldwide honeymoon, a co-designed dream house and any chance at happiness the duo anticipated.  They move into his digs, presided over by a hideous portrait of mother, which has the additional unappreciated effect of making Russ impotent.

Being a 1950’s movie, it does seem to cop out a bit at the end, but there’s enough disgraceful behavior to keep modern viewers interested.  Dunne does his Sirkiest to tell Hilda’s tale; he also scripted the movie, which is based on a play by Lubitsch’s favorite writer Samson Raphaelson (I haven’t read the original, but suspect it ends quite differently).  The lavish CinemaScope cinematography is fantastic, one of Joe MacDonald’s finest anamorphic efforts (with the rare Fox mid-Fifties credit, Print by Technicolor – it certainly looks it).  A nice music score by David Raksin adds the finishing touch to this drama that also features Judith Evelyn (as Hilda’s mom), Evelyn Varden (as Monster Mom), Peggy Knudsen, Gregg Palmer, Richard Garrick, Blossom Rock, and Herb Vigran.  Aside from the trailer, an A&E Biography on Simmons is also included as a supplement.


1958’s 10 NORTH FREDERICK, containing another script by director Dunne, is based on the John O’Hara novel – which should already have horndogs a-scratchin.’   It takes place in the author’s famed looks-are-deceiving town of Gibbsville, PA – a viper’s nest of hypocrisy and scumbaggery.

Stalwart middle-aged Joseph Chapin (Gary Cooper, in an excellent late career performance), despite being an attorney, strives to always do the right thing.  It’s tough what with his being married to Edith, an unfaithful social-climbing harpy (Geraldine Fitzgerald), who emasculates Joe whenever she can (and that’s 24/7).  She pushes the mook into politics, having him come into contact with sleazoid campaign managers, governors and other human anal warts who bleed him dry financially and then make a move on his integrity.  The bad marriage has also taken a toll on his two grown children, Jody (Ray Stricklyn) – an amateur jazz musician/professional drunk, who’s dream of attending Julliard is ruined by Edith and liberal hot-to-trot Ann, who is so radical she becomes pregnant by a married Big Band trumpet player (like MAMIE STOVER and PEYTON PLACE, much of the narrative takes place in 1941, damn, that was a rapacious year!).  Unfortunately, since this is a 1950’s movie, Ann has two choices:  lose the baby or die in some fall down a stairway/traffic accident/open manhole, etc.  Since its Diane Varsi, fresh from PEYTON PLACE, we want her to live – so, hurray, she has a miscarriage.

After being humiliated in politics (briefly flirting with a run for the WH), Joe decides to visit The Big Apple, where Ann now resides with a gorgeous roommate, Kate Drummond, the daughter of one of the elder Chapin’s old college classmates.  Before you can say “barely legal,” the pair are panting, grunting and coupling up like the caboose and the stock car in the B & O rail yard.

Unlike HILDA CRANE, 10 NORTH FREDERICK ends tragically for Chapin, and bittersweetly for Ann and Kate.  It does end well for viewers, who will be royally entertained by the proceedings, exquisitely shot in black-and-white CinemaScope (by Joe MacDonald) and with a wonderful soundtrack by Leigh Harline.  The supporting cast is A-1, and includes Stuart Whitman (as the defiler of Ann), Philip Ober, Tom Tully, John Emery, and last but not least, the always-marvy Barbara Nichols as the hypocrites, adulterers, skanks and alcoholics.


A Hallmark Card from hell, or, as a character correctly dubs the burg, a town where “everyone hides behind plain wrappers,” 1957’s PEYTON PLACE (yeah, we’re going back one year chronologically) is the blockbuster that seemed tailor-made for carnal-carnage-obsessed Fox (the pic would become a cottage industry for the studio, siring a sequel and a top-rated 1964 TV series).  Based on a fantastically successful bestseller by Grace Metalious, PEYTON PLACE was rivalled in box-office only by the ringing coffers whistling the “Colonel Bogey March” in Bridge on the River Kwai.  Truly, there was no reason why this scandalous rip-the-mask-off pic WOULDN’T do phenomenally.  It has it all:  whores, drunks, illegitimacy, conniving old money predators, petting parties, frigidity, sex ed, rape, incest, suicide and murder.  How could it miss?  It’s so America!

Peyton Place is a picturesque New England town that everyone wishes they lived in – until they actually live there.  The movie opens with Michael Rossi (Lee Philips) a progressive educator from the big city (Philadelphia) arriving to take over the high school.  His misogynistic appointment pushes out the beloved elderly spinster schoolteacher (Mildred Dunnock), who apparently taught George Washington the proper way to row a boat across the Delaware.  But Rossi’s sooooo into modern academia (aka, the dreaded sex education) that he immediately becomes popular.  This enrages single mom Constance MacKenzie, who worries her curious teen daughter Allison will go too far south below the border (and she ain’t talking about a trip to Mexico).  It’s merely a matter of reels before the two become lovers (Michael and Constance, not Constance and Allison).

Then, there’s that nasty skirmish called World War II that takes away the plethora of the hamlet’s men, many never to return.  Not to worry, none of this gets in the way of the doing-the-nasty prerequisite for becoming a local citizen.  This is especially true with main character Allison, an aspiring writer who has penned a tell-all novel about the large outbreak of cushion-pushin’, past and present. She thinks she’s okay, ’cause she changed the names.  What Allison discovers about mommy rocks even her world.

The movie, practically an epic, runs over two and a half hours.  Fret not, as it moves fairly quickly, thanks to the large and exceptional cast, led by Lana Turner, Lloyd Nolan, Arthur Kennedy, Betty Field, Barry Coe, Terry Moore, Russ Tamblyn, Leon Ames, David Nelson and Lorne Greene.  Diane Varsi, mentioned above, is really good in her debut, and Hope Lange surprised everyone with her portrayal as Allison’s BFF Selena Cross (after a less-than-impressive appearance in The True Story of Jesse James), even garnering an Oscar nomination (one of nine the pic received, including nods to Turner, Varsi, and Kennedy).  Turner reaped the most rewards from the movie.  Like Gary Cooper in 10 NORTH FREDERICK, the veteran actress defiantly played her age; having been dumped from her home studio (MGM) several years earlier, Ms. T made the comeback of all-time.  Her role in PEYTON PLACE permanently assured staying power in the industry, starring in A-pictures (usually glossy romances) throughout the 1960s.  It didn’t hurt that the Lana’s participation in this naughty pic coincided with the actress’s sopping soiled laundry being splashed across the tabloids when her real-life teenage daughter killed mummy’s lover – the added attraction being that the victim was Johnny Stompanato, an abusive mobster.  It was as if two subplots of PEYTON PLACE merged; indeed, the timing was almost too perfect, and prompted many wags to tip their hats to Fox’s great publicity department.

PEYTON PLACE has great credits behind-the-camera as well.  The gorgeous CinemaScope pic was shot by William C. Mellor, the instantly recognizable iconic score was composed by Franz Waxman, and the screenplay (that often seemed parodic in order to get the rawest parts across in Ozzie and Harriet speak) was written by John Michael Hayes, late of the Alfred Hitchcock screenwriting division (Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, The Trouble with Harry, The Man Who Knew Too Much).  The movie, aside from pouring money into cash registers globally, received a multitude of critical acclaim and awards (in addition to the aforementioned Oscar nods, the flick also received Academy noms for Hayes, Mellor, Tamblyn, director Mark Robson and producer Jerry Wald).

I really do have to hand it to the cast, especially the young ‘uns, as I never realized how very good they were until seeing this recent Blu-Ray.  Varsi, Lange, Tamblyn, Moore and Coe effectively pull off the New England accents without spilling into the lethal trap of a Pepperidge Farm commercial.  And further kudos to Ms. Varsi and director Robson, who forever quelled any doubt that Allison was Metalious in a scene where the jeans-and-flannel-shirt bohemian-garbed MacKenzie, pounds out her novel on a typewriter.  It essentially mirrors the famed back book jacket shot of the author that today would probably be her TL profile snap.

The Twilight Time Blu-Ray of PEYTON PLACE is the best rendition you’ll probably ever see.  It looks sensational in 1080p clarity and restored DeLuxe Color and with theatre sound stereo tracks.  A number of cool extras accompany the platter, and are worth noting.  They include audio commentary by film historian Willard Carroll, plus additional commentary by Terry Moore and Russ Tamblyn, a Hollywood Backstories episode on PEYTON PLACE, and a location documentary special.  If you’re into being ravished and/or scandalized, this is the perfect social distancing vacation spot for you!

All Blu-Rays in 2.35:1 1080p widescreen. Twilight Time/20th Century-Fox Home Entertainment.  SRP: $29.95@.


HILDA CRANE. Color. 5.1 or 2.0 DTS-HD MA.

10 NORTH FREDERICK. Black and White. 2.0 DTS-HD MA.

PEYTON PLACE. Color. 5.1 or 2.0 DTS-HD MA.

Limited Edition of 3000.  Available exclusively through Screen Archives Entertainment and