Film Reviews by Steve

This is easily the best of producer Harry Alan Towers' '60s reboot of Sax Rohmer's Fu Manchu series. Christopher Lee is a perfect fit as the imperious, degenerate supervillain, almost matched by Nigel Green in a rare starring role as the crime fighting Sinologist, Nayland Smith. Essentially, it's a Holmes-Moriarty story.

There are echos of the James Bond franchise too, though arguably as Dr. Fu Manchu turned to crime in 1911, the influence may be the other way. The evil Chinese terrorist intends to kill everyone on Earth with poisonous opium, for reasons which are never made clear. It's just a hook for some hokey dialogue and sadistic mayhem.

The face of Fu Manchu is actually immobile, given Lee's heavy yellowface makeup... There's a decent budget and some nice locations, with Dublin standing in for London. And China! The relentlessly overcast weather looms gloomily over the action. The period reconstruction is fair. This was a co-production so there's an odd supporting cast of German actors.

The narrative stirs up the usual formula of an exotic adventure driven by a cruel megalomaniac. Which is amusing, without being exciting. But Fu Manchu adds some cultural resonance. This sort of story was realised better in precode Hollywood. They did arcane melodrama better back then, and it's easier to buy into the foolishness. 

This is a surprisingly faithful remake (by Hammer studios) of a 1940 Victor Mature picture, One Million BC about the rivalry between two prehistoric tribes- while both are menaced by man eating dinosaurs! So it's an escapist family adventure which is no longer likely to attract such an audience, because there are no CGI effects.

But for nostalgics, this is remembered chiefly for a salon ready Raquel Welch in a fur bikini as a stone age babe from the permissive Shell tribe. Who are all fair. She shares a pre-language romance with John Richardson from the social Darwinist hunters of the Stone tribe. Who are all dark. And literally fight over who gets the leg or the breast.

So it seems humanity was divided into liberals and fascists even at the dawn of civilisation. Aside from Welch in the moment of stardom, the other reason to watch is the stop-motion dinosaurs modelled by animation legend Ray Harryhausen, which are superb. The rest is a camp Technicolor romp filmed on Tenerife.

So Martine Beswick and Raquel wrestle with a large antelope horn to win the favours of the chief! The cast is chosen for body type, and surely for their willingness to enter into the spirit of things. The fur bikini became one of the screen's iconic costumes. Of course, this is idiotic but a decent amount of thought and craft went into its creation.

Anyone who comes to this via the Japanese arthouse classic Woman of the Dunes (1964) may be disappointed. It's another experiment in philosophical strangeness from director Hiroshi Teshigahara/writer Kôbô Abe, but lacks the clarity and emotional pull. And the astonishing Kyôko Kishida only has a minor role this time.

This is cerebral science fiction. At times it feels like an illustrative essay on the nature of identity. It's more cryptic than the similar French sci-fi/horror, Eyes Without a Face (1960). An industrial executive (Tatsuya Nakadai) whose face is destroyed in an explosion, discovers the mask he is given triggers a shift in his personality.

Which might be a pitch for a psychological thriller, though it plays out more as a meditation on multiple abstract themes. Most obviously, the facial scarring implies injuries suffered at Hiroshima, and the mask is the traumatised insincerity of how the Japanese suppressed this devastation during the American occupation.

Which may be interpreted as resentment for how Japan was made to change... Though it could be about almost anything. Despite the esoteric concepts, Teshigahari maintains our interest with the atmosphere of the set design, the use of silence and the echo of the progressive soundtrack. It's a stimulating but arduous experience.

Surely no other film has met with such polarity between critical scorn and public acclaim. The reviewers saw a sentimental love story incompatible with its Nazi context. But the audience doted on the astonishing musical numbers and wholesome Julie Andrews as the plucky Austrian nun who becomes the governess and then stepmother of seven adorable kids... as WWII closes in.

It became the biggest box office hit ever. The soundtrack sales were a phenomenon. And for most of its long running times this is a sweet romance about an innocent but feisty novice who teaches the unhappy children of an aristocratic widower (Christopher Plummer) how to sing, and be joyful. And what songs- with the title number, Edelweiss, Climb Ev'ry Mountain...

...My Favourite Things, Do-Re-Me... and many more. All of them schmaltzy, or gloriously life affirming, depending on who you are. It does all the epic things very well, with the truly sensational locations in Salzburg and the Austrian Alps, including the magnificent historic architecture. And Robert Wise's inspired use of the ultra-widescreen dimensions, plus the lovely colour. He deserved his Oscar for best director (and film).

He tells the long story with skill, at least until the final 30 minutes when the Nazis threaten the von Trapp family and we hear the famous songs reprised, to diminishing effect. And the true story begins to feel improbable. And the onslaught of the cutes starts to aggravate... But why fight it? Many films are appreciated. This one is truly loved.

Sentimental old school western which met with a critical shrug on release, but has since gathered considerable acclaim. Maybe in 1962 this looked old fashioned; the over-lit b&w photography and the studio interiors make it feel an awful lot like television. After all, this was the year Sam Peckinpah reinvigorated the big screen western with Ride the High Country.

 Now, this hardly matters; it's a John Ford film, with his usual obsessions. James Stewart plays an attorney from back east who (symbolically) brings law to the west when he shoots the outlaw Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin). Only he was really felled by the gun of a settler (John Wayne). Because it was the firearm- and the pioneer- not liberal legislators, who brought peace to the frontier...

Which doesn't stand much scrutiny. But heck, it's Ford's picture, and his politics. There's the usual knockabout comedy (a stuttering Swede is particularly vexatious). And if after two hours you're not exhausted by Duke calling Jimmy 'pilgrim' about a hundred times, try watching it again... Andy Devine's comic turn as a cowardly sheriff, will be very much to taste.

Each performance is a caricature and everything takes its time getting there. The moment weariness settles in, John Carradine stands up to deliver a long oration on behalf of the cattle barons... Still, the ending is distinctly good, which leaves a decent impression. It's now rated a genre masterpiece, but there's nothing that Ford hasn't already done, sometimes better. 

So wretched are Roger Corman's '50s exploitation pictures that it's tempting to wonder if there is some other hand at work in this superb adaptation of the Edgar Allan Poe story? Maybe Twilight Zone veteran Charles Beaumont who wrote the literate and philosophical script?

Or Nicolas Roeg who photographed the rich colour palette of the castle interior? It is a medieval allegory- influenced by Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) according to Corman- about how unchecked power will usually end in atrocity,

And there is a surprising amount of chat on the nature of evil. Vincent Price is perfect casting as the aristocratic Satanist who machinates as the plague closes in on the domicile of his empire. Patrick Magee equals him as his ambitious lickspittle.

Corman's films improved in the '60s, but this is on another level. He was critical of his British crew for working slowly, yet they produced the best horror film of his long career. Which eventually entered the zeitgeist during the Covid lockdown!

Arthouse exploration of class paranoia as Dirk Bogarde's obsequious proletarian valet turns the table on James Fox's effete toff in a schematic confrontation which concludes with the servant ruling the house and the master wearing the pinny. And also an outstanding London picture, shot in the icy winter of '62-'63.

This is probably Bogarde's signature performance; a thrilling vehicle for Harold Pinter's insidious, oblique dialogue. He is dangerous, hypnotic, watchful, and exactly as exploitative, degenerate and entitled as the aristocrat he seeks to dominate. And the star is well on top of the sexual ambiguities.

It's a psychological game played out within a combat zone; the swanky townhouse, which the hired help proceeds to control. Joseph Losey's direction is inspired. The b&w photography (Douglas Slocombe) is awesome. Plus the moody musical shading from John Dankworth, with Cleo Laine. Oh heck, and the set design...

It deftly captures the mid-60s zeitgeist. And even becomes progressively psychedelic. There is really nothing else like this; you can't copy genius! And that's principally due to the thrilling synergy in the alignment of Bogarde, Losey and Pinter. This is flawless, and an ever-present in lists of great British films.

This standout of the British New Wave creates a deeper impression of a northern underclass than any of its contemporaries. We see plenty of the authentic Salford locations, and the cold damp of the interiors- though director Tony Richardson's excess of documentary realism is now more of historic interest.

What survives most vividly is the melancholy of Shelagh Delaney's play. This is different from other 50s-60s reflections on working class characters who are usually taking advantage of a trickle down of opportunity and prosperity. And imparting a new, unfamiliar vernacular.

This is about people who economic upturns never reach- the poor and the uneducated- rather than a new idea about the proletariat. The plot is deliberately ordinary. A pregnant schoolgirl brought up by a feckless mum struggles to make sense of the awkward facts of adult life...

Richardson was immensely fortunate to cast 18 year old Rita Tushingham in her debut role, with Dora Bryan ideal as the mother. But it's Delaney's lines which haunt the memory... It's the sad poetry of the teenager's vulnerability (it's not the darkness outside that scares me...) that makes this a landmark of UK cinema.

Spectacular epic about the 11th Century Spanish warlord and mythic national hero, which creaks under it's own weight but ultimately succeeds because of the awesome production, with the location shoot in Spain with a cast of thousands... in ultra-widescreen and Technicolor. And also director Anthony Mann's narrative expertise which maintains interest all the way to the astonishing climax. 

Most of all it's the presence of Charlton Heston in the title role and Sophia Loren as his feisty queen who make the suspension of disbelief just about possible. There are the usual problems with Hollywood historical blockbusters in the opening scenes. Like the sedate narrative momentum, the overstated performances and ceremonial dialogue...

But the leads blow away these trivialities with the massive dimensions of their star personas. Then there are the awesome Spanish castles and the lavish costumes and interiors. Concerns about authenticity fade away in the incredible three hour pageant of cartoonish adventure, lifted by Miklós Rózsa monumental Oscar nominated score.

There's a simple medieval story of the Christian war with the Moorish Empire, infused with modern themes of forgiveness, tolerance and the moral imperative of peace. There are clanking swordfights, a bone jarring joust and some seriously impressive battle scenes. The '50s-60s historical epic has fallen into disrepute, but this is one which justifies the considerable running time..

After Sapphire (1959), director Basil Dearden and scriptwriter Janet Green again married social commentary to a crime story, this time to explore the illegality of homosexuality which facilitated the extortion of gay men. And led to further crime, to pay the blackmailer.

Victim pulls a lot of punches. The lawyer played by Dirk Bogarde, who expedites the investigation into the death of a rent boy, doesn't actually have sex with men. He is married, and resists the impulse. But he does make clear the desire is there in a passionate speech apparently written by the star.

And the level of candour was a big leap forward... It was banned in the US. Bogarde gives a profound performance; a gateway to his many complex arthouse roles of the 1960s. Sylvia Syms as his supportive but alienated wife, is... simply electrifying.

The b&w photography around central London, is also exceptional. The thriller aspect is underdeveloped and the community it portrays may no longer be apparent. Yet it remains a compelling - perhaps heroic- production which challenged censorship, prejudice and even the UK law.

Unsatisfactory John Ford western which awkwardly blends broad comedy with the ham-fisted presentation of more serious themes. Where can the director go if before 20 minutes have elapsed, he's already done his humorous drunken sketch and the comical punch-up?

Obviously, the solution is a typically partisan rerun of the conflict between frontier settlers and native Americans. As with the more highly rated The Searchers (1956), it portrays immigrant child hostages who grow up in the indigenous tribes. Though this potentially interesting subject is merely exploited for unconvincing melodrama.

James Stewart and Richard Widmark give landmark foolish performances as the scouts who negotiate with the tribal leader for the return of the lost children. Both are too old, and Jimmy is allowed to hee-haw shamefully, like the director didn't really care. Andy Devine as an idiotic cavalry soldier is present for a plethora of fat jokes.

Ford had no time for the film, though it isn't in essence much different from his classics. Except there is no vocal harmonising by the Irish troops. The late Victor McLaglen is no longer available to comically drill the new recruits. There's Technicolor, and some attractive photography, but little apparent reason for even the director's super-fans to defend this one.

Scaled back revival by Fritz Lang of his Mabuse crime thrillers from the 1920s-30s. Critics claim the earlier series anticipates the rise of Adolf Hitler; the Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933) actually quotes from Nazi speeches. So it's easy to assume the theme of surveillance in this 1960 reboot references the Stasi of postwar East German Communism.

Though this is set in the West... The police are horrified when someone seems to be adopting the methods of the criminal Übermensch years after his apparent death... Is Dr. Mabuse somehow still alive... or at least his malign plans survive through the incoherent notes he scrawled in the asylum?

Lang is back in Germany for his last picture. It's a low budget production less representative of those earlier expressionist dreamworks than the sadly underwhelming series which this launched. Though this is easily the best of those. And there are a few echoes of the Weimar films for the fans.

It anticipates motifs of the James Bond franchise- with Dawn Adams a sexy double agent and Wolfgang Preiss a cartoonish villain, with a hi-tec underground HQ. We even get Gert Fröbe! But it lacks suspense and while there are effective episodes, the story is predictable. It disappoints both as Mabuse comeback, and the final release of a legend.

Astonishingly macabre Southern Gothic which abundantly ticks off all the Hollywood taboos of the studio era. So there's incest, paedophilia, homosexuality... And cannibalism! Were the censors asleep? It even dares to criticise capitalism! Plus there are Tennesse Williams' recurring esoteric themes, like the purity of the artist struggling to survive in an age of corruption...

Katharine Hepburn plays a wealthy southern matriarch; the sort of establishment figure who would sooner change the whole world than her mind. She was unconventionally close to her son, a beautiful/narcissistic poet who died mysteriously in Spain. And plans to silence the screwy testimony of her niece (Elizabeth Taylor)... by having her lobotomised. 

Naturally she'll pay, offering the surgeon (Montgomery Clift) a hospital wing in her son's name. And that's a crazy story, extended from Williams' one act play (by Gore Vidal). So there's some padding, and it's not very cinematic. Tolerance relies on a willingness to submit to some extraordinarily long speeches. And the thrillingly exaggerated performances. And the expressionism.

What did audiences make of it who only bought a ticket to see Liz in an insubstantial swimsuit? This is like a fever dream. Especially Taylor's final unhinged soliloquy. Which is also spellbinding. Plus there's the usual lyrical symbolism we expect from Williams; you won't get dialogue like this anywhere else. Or such exotic human monsters. Extraordinary final twist too!

This wacky WWII comedy was a massive success in 1959, but has lost its shine. When a US submarine in the Philippines is decommissioned, the skipper is given an opportunity to rebuild and re-enter the war. Which includes pilfering the red and white paint that turns the vessel pink. Apparently the situations were based on real life snafus.

The comical conflict between the levelheaded establishment figure and a younger finagler is usually viable. But Cary Grant as the submarine Commander and Tony Curtis as the flash maverick don't share much chemistry, mainly because Grant is too much of a charismatic star to play the standard stuffy reactionary. 

And the exploitation of the five female army nurses as babelicious kooks now feels misguided. The stalwart support cast tries its best but the familiar gags are erratic and there's only so much they can do with such threadbare stereotypes. Joan O'Brien comes off best as an accident prone blueprint for Inspector Clouseau!

There's an ultrabrite colour palette and a decent production But the comedy of propriety between the demure nurses and wolfish crew is dated; the humour is broad and unsubtle. Sure, it's a Blake Edwards picture and that can sometimes be fun. But stretched over an astonishing two hour running time, there is far too much drag.

Amazing that a film critiquing the racism in 1950s London should hit so relatively few bum notes when viewed from today. Basil Dearden and scriptwriter Janet Green examine prejudice and social injustice from multiple perspectives, only a year after after the Notting Hill riots.  And also tell a compelling detective story.

Sapphire is a young woman of mixed race who has been 'passing for white' in a society where being black imposes so many impediments. When she is found dead on Hampstead Heath, a conventional police procedural is set in motion, with racial hatred the likely motive.

The cast is uniformly superb, with Nigel Patrick as the (comparatively) liberal police inspector. Earl Cameron is a GP and the victim's more obviously Caribbean brother, and Yvonne Mitchell a lonely mother consumed by anger and resentment. Daniel Craig, normally a B picture romantic lead, plays the racist cop.

The cinematography is dynamic and John Dankworth contributes an exciting jazz score. And the suspense really pays off. Anyone determined to seek out dated attitudes to race will inevitably find them. But at the heart of this film, is huge compassion for the bigotry and poverty suffered by so many of the Windrush generation on arriving in the UK.