“DON’T YOU CALL THEM TATTOOS!”

By Raymond Benson

Ray Bradbury’s excellent 1951 short story anthology, The Illustrated Man, is one of the author’s most revered works. It contains eighteen tales loosely framed by a narrator who meets a carnival sideshow freak covered in tattoos that “tell stories”—and each entry in the book illustrates one of the tattoos.

“Don’t you call them tattoos!” Rod Steiger belligerently yells at the protagonist of the 1969 film adaptation. “They are skin ill-us-tra-TIONS!” Steiger emotes in his inimitable scenery-chewing way.

And there is the crux of why The Illustrated Man, which was adapted by co-producer Howard B. Kreitsek, doesn’t work too well. Steiger, who plays “Carl,” the illustrated man, had a checkered career marked by many brilliant performances… but also, perhaps, more eccentric and over-the-top ones. His good screen appearances (On the Waterfront, Oklahoma!, The Pawnbroker, Doctor Zhivago, In the Heat of the Night, among others) are truly excellent, and Heat of the Night earned him an Oscar for Best Actor. But then there is No Way to Treat a Lady, Waterloo, and Lolly-Madonna XXX. Steiger’s performance in The Illustrated Man probably falls into the latter category, although he has his moments.

The time is the 1930s (judging from the automobile seen at the beginning). Willie (Robert Drivas) is hitchhiking his way west and stops at a lake for a swim and campout. Carl, the illustrated man, happens to be doing the same. The pair meet, and Carl is unreasonably confrontational and unfriendly, and yet the two men settle down to share coffee (actually, Carl takes it without asking). Then Carl reveals his illustrated body to the shocked Willie and begins to tell his story of how a witch from the future named Felicia (Claire Bloom, Steiger’s wife at the time) entranced him and proceeded to tattoo his entire body (sorry, illustrate his body). Three tales from Bradbury’s anthology are then enacted. “The Veldt” is in the future, and it features both Steiger and Bloom as a married couple with two children who play in a virtual reality “nursery” that reproduces realistic places… in this case an African veldt occupied by hungry lions. “The Long Rain” features Steiger with three other astronauts on Venus, where it’s constantly raining. They’re lost and attempting to find a “sun dome” for shelter, but the men begin to go nuts. “The Last Night of the World” again presents Steiger and Bloom as a married couple who learn that the world will end overnight, so the population has decided to end the lives of their children so that they won’t suffer. There are, of course, twists in all three tales.

There is much to admire about the film. Steiger’s “illustrations”—the makeup and design—are truly magnificent, and kudos should be awarded to the technicians responsible. Jerry Goldsmith’s eerily beautiful score creates a melancholic mood that is quite effective. Bloom is good, charismatic, believable, and gorgeous. Where the movie falls short is in the inelegant writing, clumsy direction, and in Steiger’s odd performance. Sometimes his line readings are just… strange. Maybe that was intentional, but instead of coming off “other worldly,” it’s more like campy bad acting.

This viewer remembers seeing the film in 1969 as a young teen and being taken with the storytelling and mood. It also seemed to be very “adult” (there are flashes of nudity) and was rated “M” at the time (for Mature audiences), a designation later replaced by PG. In those days, the “M” could often lie somewhere between today’s PG and R in terms of sex and violence. Ah, the good old days.

Warner Archive’s new Blu-ray (produced on demand when ordered) looks sharp and clear in its widescreen glory. A short featurette on the creation of Steiger’s makeup and illustrations, and the theatrical trailer, are included as supplements.

The Illustrated Man may not be a perfect Ray Bradbury adaptation, but any Bradbury on screen is better than none.

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“COURTROOM HIJINKS”

By Raymond Benson

The 1948 courtroom drama, I, Jane Doe, directed by John H. Auer and starring the inimitable Ruth Hussey as a defense attorney who displays feminist tendencies before that word was in the public vernacular, is a well-acted, twisty-plotted, and entertaining B-movie flick from second-string studio Republic Pictures—except for one thing… the trial and all the aspects associated with it (legalities, procedures, and “how a criminal case works”) is absolute nonsense.

It’s as if screenwriter Lawrence Kimble made up a courtroom drama based on what he’d seen from other movies of that ilk without ever studying the law as it applies to a trial. In no way would our heroine, Eve Meredith Curtis (Hussey), be able to insist on a retrial of a convicted murderer (in this case, “Jane Doe,” played by Vera Ralston) on the basis that Ms. Doe had refused to reveal her real name or present a defense for herself in the first trial. Secondly, the second trial is presented with the defense leading off the process and calling witnesses before the State does. What? All the prosecutor (Gene Langston) can do throughout it is to object, only to have the objections mostly overruled by an unbelievably sympathetic judge (James Bell).

“Jane Doe” shot Stephen Curtis (Eve’s husband, played by John Carroll) one day in his New York apartment. The evidence is clear. She did it. She is tried and sentenced to the electric chair. However, it is then revealed that she is pregnant with Curtis’ child. Jane delivers the baby while in prison, and the execution is rescheduled. Before that can happen, though, Eve (who had retired from law practice to become Mrs. Curtis years before) decides to talk to Jane and find out the real story behind it all…and then re-enters her practice to get a re-trial for Jane. As if it were that easy. Of course, as the second trial progresses, we learn Stephen Curtis’ secrets, the truth behind Jane Doe and her identity, and that Eve has secrets of her own.

Despite the ridiculousness of the legalities in the story, I, Jane Doe does manage to be an engaging near-90-minutes of cinema. Hussey carries the picture with aplomb. Ralston is also effective as the accused, and Carroll is suitably caddish for his role.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration looks quite good. Unfortunately, there are no supplements other than trailers for other Kino Lorber releases.

I, Jane Doe may have courtroom hijinks in the plot, but it’s still an appealing melodrama, thanks to Hussey and the basic story twists that keep us guessing.

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“CORKY’S MAGIC”

By Raymond Benson

If you’ve never seen Waiting for Guffman, you owe it to yourself to grab this wonderful motion picture (now available as a Warner Archive Blu-ray release) or find it streaming somewhere, for it is such a laugh-a-minute extravaganza that truly set in motion the so-called “mockumentaries” made by Christopher Guest and his revolving stock company of comic actors.

It all started, of course, with This is Spinal Tap (1984), in which Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer (among others) presented a pseudo-documentary about a wacky rock band. This picture was directed by Rob Reiner. It was so well done that some people wondered why Reiner had chosen a band “no one had heard of” to make a documentary about. The film skewered the rock world, band politics and antics, and gave us highly quotable lines of dialogue and memorable sequences, as well as actual songs ultimately released as a real album.

A decade later, Guest took the mockumentary concept and made it his own beginning with Waiting for Guffman, which premiered at the Boston Film Festival in 1996 and was released to U.S. cinemas in early 1997. His stock company in this case included Eugene Levy, Catherine O’Hara, Fred Willard, Parker Posey, Bob Balaban, Michael Hitchcock, Larry Miller, and others. Even Michael McKean and Harry Shearer show up in the credits—as co-composers with Guest of the original songs performed in the picture (so, in effect, one could say that Spinal Tap wrote the score for Waiting for Guffman).

Guffman uses the documentary approach to what it’s like to be in a small-town community theatre. The 150th-anniversary celebration of Blaine, Missouri is approaching, and Corky St. Clair (Guest) is in charge of putting on the live show that will tell the story of the town’s history. Corky used to work in New York theatre (so he says), so the townspeople consider him to be an “expert” (his previous production of Barefoot in the Park was apparently a smash). Ron and Sheila Albertson (Willard and O’Hara) are travel agents who believe they have talent and have experience acting in the community productions, so they’re a shoo-in to be cast. Town dentist Dr. Allan Pearl (Levy) has never acted but has the bug, so he auditions. Libby Mae Brown (Posey) works at the Dairy Queen and aspires to make it big. Corky brings in music teacher Lloyd Miller (Balaban) to handle the musical direction. Unfortunately, Corky has no budget to speak of and must make lemonade out of, well, a lot of bad lemons. The town council, after first refusing Corky’s request for $100,000 (!) to do the show, they encourage him to “make magic” the way he’s done before. Indeed, Corky’s magic ultimately gets the show up and running.

The humor comes in the improvised characterizations the brilliant cast brings to the table. For example, Guest plays Corky as a closeted gay man with every stereotypical mannerism in the book, even down to speaking of a wife that no one ever sees. Anyone who has worked in community theatre (or high school or college theatre, for that matter) must know someone exactly like Corky St. Clair. The late Fred Willard is hilarious as the wannabe movie star, and O’Hara is a perfect foil for him. Posey is very winning; the actress was just beginning her career when the picture was made, and she almost steals the movie. Balaban plays his part as a frustrated perfectionist who would rather be the boss of the production instead of following Corky’s orders.

Guest would go on to make other classic mockumentaries (Best in Show, A Mighty Wind), but they don’t get much better than Waiting for Guffman, the title of which refers to the famous Samuel Beckett play, Waiting for Godot. In this case, Guffman is the New York critic who Corky promises will come to see the show and possibly take the company to Broadway.

Warner Archive’s Blu-ray (produced on demand) looks sharp and colorful, and it is a high definition transfer of the previously released DVD from years ago. It comes with an audio commentary by Guest and Levy that is as entertaining as the film itself. For supplements, there are many deleted/additional scenes that are just as fun, including two musical numbers from the “show” that were cut for the theatrical release. These scenes also come with optional commentary by Guest and Levy. The theatrical trailer rounds out the package.

Waiting for Guffman stands as one of the great comedies of the last 25 years, and it’s a testament to the tremendous talent of many alumni of National Lampoon’s Radio Hour, Second City, SCTV, Saturday Night Live, and other breeding grounds of some of our most treasured funny people. Highly recommended.

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The Mary Millington Movie Collection Limited Edition Blu-Ray Box-Set  (UK, Region 2 release).

An interview with historian and documentary filmmaker Simon Sheridan

BY ADRIAN SMITH

In June 2020 Screenbound are releasing a limited edition Blu-ray box set in the U.K. dedicated to the films of one of Britain’s most celebrated and tragic erotic film stars, Mary Millington. Historian Simon Sheridan has spent years researching her life (his book Come Play with Me: The Life and Films of Mary Millington was published in 1999) and has overseen this new collection.

Cinema Retro: How did you begin this lifelong quest to tell Mary Millington’s story? When did you first discover her?

Simon Sheridan: I’m not sure I can tell you this story! I was a curious schoolboy. I happened upon some porn mags when I was a young boy. It wasn’t in a bush, but someone I knew had these porn mags. I’m not going to reveal who! She was in copies of Playbirds and Whitehouse throughout the 1980s so I saw this beautiful woman, but they were talking about her in the past tense, and the articles next to these very explicit photographs said she had died at the age of 33. These kind of things just stayed with me throughout my life, that this woman who posed in the post explicit manner and was prepared to pretty much do anything on camera had died so young. She has always fascinated me, and the more I research and learn about her life, I just think, “What a great human being she was.” She really fought for people’s rights to enjoy pornography. People ask me what Mary was like: she was this 4’11" ex-veterinary nurse from Surrey who took on the force of the Establishment at a time when society was not mature enough to believe that people could be happy and work in the sex industry. What a brave woman she was. She was a pioneer, there was nobody like her at the time. When I went to university I wrote my dissertation on her, and then I wrote my book, then I worked on her film releases, then made my movie, and now this box set. So this was how I came upon Mary, so to speak.

CR: Could you tell us more about what the boxed set features? Is it every film she ever appeared in?

SS: It is all the films she made for publisher David Sullivan. When Come Play with Me came out in April 1977 it was promoted as Mary Millington’s first film, but of course it wasn’t her first. She had made quite a few before she went on to become a big star through Come Play with Me (1977). The other films are The Playbirds (1978), Confessions from the David Galaxy Affair (1979), Queen of the Blues (1979), Mary Millington’s True Blue Confessions (1980) and Mary Millington’s World Striptease Extravaganza (1981), along with my feature documentary Respectable: The Mary Millington Story (2015).

CR: True Blue Confessions is such an interesting and unusual film.

SS: I’ve known David Sullivan for over twenty years, and when I first met him one of the films I really wanted to talk about was True Blue Confessions. I was astonished when I first saw it. It’s so visceral. It’s so brutal. In 1980 you didn’t really know what went on in celebrities’ lives. When Mary died it was in the newspapers, but all the stuff about drugs and prostitution wasn’t really reported, but it’s all in True Blue Confessions. It’s a very honest look at her life, quite unlike anything else that had been made in this country, or anything to do with the porn world. It probably shocked a lot of people, but it was a huge hit. It played for weeks and weeks. People were fascinated to see what the truth was behind Mary, although of course most of that film isn’t true! There’s a lot of elaboration, but at the heart of it there is some truth to her story. It’s always fascinated me. I’ve probably watched that one more than any of her other films. David will argue until the end of time that that was not an exploitation film. It was not there to make money. When Mary died it was completely sudden, the general public had no idea this was going to happen. She was the sex superstar who was going to go on and on. David was inundated with tens of thousands of letters. She was like the pornographic Princess Diana. Fans were just bereft and couldn’t believe it, so he brought out these tribute magazines which had her autobiography in it. She wrote an autobiography in 1978 that is half true, half faked, which was written with her probation officer, and those tribute magazines sold by the shedload. I think David did about thirteen or fourteen different ones. They kept being reprinted, so David felt compelled to also do something for the cinema about her life. He always says he was trying to make Mary more famous in death than when she was alive.

CR: How has it been possible for these films to be restored? Where were the original elements all these years?

SS: I had been nagging David for ages about where the original film negatives and reels were, and he had a warehouse in Barking, where he stored all the products for his U.K. sex shops. I went there with him and it was filled with racks of magazines and boxes of sex toys. There in the corner of this warehouse were these wooden pallets piled high with these huge tin reels with scrappy labels. They were rusting on these pallets. It was very exciting for me to see them. I said he should have them stored somewhere better, instead of in the corner of a warehouse full of rubber sex toys. These were worth preserving. He said, “Are they really, Simon?” Yes they are! A deal was done with the BFI and they took them and stored them in their archive in Berkhamsted, where they were frozen at a certain temperature. They’ve been there for about ten years. They were used to make DVDs, and it’s now taken a long time to make the Blu-rays. Initially, I was told British sex films would not sell on Blu-ray, but then a couple of years ago Screenbound told me they wanted to bring the Mary Millington films out on Blu-ray. I was beside myself with joy! This was the dream project. We got them restored in London by Final Frame. Come Play with Me and The Playbirds were not shot on the best film stock. These were David’s first films, and they were using little scraps of films, offcuts, to shoot these things. The later films were shot on much better quality film. But I’ve seen them now and they do look really good.

“THE FINE ART OF SEDUCTION?”

By Raymond Benson

The winner of the Palme d’Or at the 1965 Cannes Film Festival was a thoroughly “mod,” Swinging London-set comedy directed by rising star filmmaker Richard Lester, who was just coming off the huge success of helming the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night.

The Knack is directed in the same style as Hard Day’s, which borrowed heavily from the signature traits of the French New Wave—radical editing and jump cuts, handheld camerawork, on the street cinema verité, breaking the fourth wall, intentionally arty shots, and a relatively low budget… plus Lester’s trademark absurdist humor, surrealism, and a wacky British sensibility that he had exhibited ever since working with Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan on such fare as The Running, Jumping and Standing Still Film (1959).

Adapted by Charles Wood from a stage play by Ann Jellicoe, The Knack is a loosely-constructed stream of consciousness tale of Colin (Michael Crawford), a shy young man who is inexperienced with women and greatly desires “the knack” of seducing them the way his friend Tolen (Ray Brooks) can. Tolen is a handsome drummer and seems to have women (who all look like the type of model in the Twiggy years—mid-60s hip, mod, sexy) all around him. He’s a bit of a cad, though, and not a particularly nice guy. Colin and Tolen live with Tom (Donal Donnelly) in a London flat that serves as a grand central station for all these women. Meanwhile, Nancy (Rita Tushingham), an innocent newcomer to London, meets the trio. Colin sets his sights on her, but Tolen muscles in and attempts to exercise his alpha male prowess. What happens next is a cockeyed treatise on relationships in the context of this swinging lifestyle, all examined through the gaze of an op art lens. There is a combination of slapstick, pratfalls, wordplay, titillation, and, toward the end, a disturbing sequence (for today, that is) in which Nancy falsely—but symbolically—accuses Tolen of rape.

It’s a strange piece of work, something that is decidedly dated, but it’s important to judge cinema within the context of when it was released. At the time, The Knack was edgy, out of the box moviemaking. One will have to decide whether it works for today’s audience or not.

The one thing that does work—spectacularly—is John Barry’s jazzy score, one of his landmark 1960s efforts. There are a few dreamy pieces with strings and vibraphone that foreshadow his underwater scenes music in Thunderball, which was due to be released at the end of ’65.

And look for the faces of Charlotte Rampling, Jacqueline Bisset, and Jane Birkin among the extras of beautiful “birds,” as the English lads called them back in the day.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration looks and sounds fine in all its widescreen, black and white glory (and this is a picture that is filmed in stark contrasting black and white!). Supplements include two “Trailers from Hell”—one on the film with Allan Arkush, and one on Lester’s 1969 picture, The Bed Sitting Room analyzed by fellow director John Landis, plus theatrical trailers for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

The Knack…and How to Get It is a relic of its time, a snapshot of a pop culture in flux during a significant period of innovation and experimentation.

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“THE PATTY-CAKE CHRONICLES, PART ONE”

By Raymond Benson

The Bing Crosby and Bob Hope “Road to…” series began in 1940 with this landmark musical-comedy that teamed the dueling popular radio personalities for the silver screen. Each of them had already been featured alone in Hollywood pictures prior to this, but Hope, especially, had not yet become the huge star that he would be over the ensuing years. At the time, Crosby was the bigger celebrity, and, in fact, so was Dorothy Lamour, who served as the duo’s female foil for the series (except the seventh and last title); hence, Bob Hope received third billing for the only time on Road to Singapore.

Singapore sets up the formula that would be repeated for the remainder of the series. Two playboys (Crosby and Hope, whose character names change with each movie, although their “characters” are always the same) find themselves traveling to some exotic locale in order to either escape a woman, gangsters, or pursue some con job, only to get mixed up in a farcical plot with an equally exotic woman (always Lamour, in her “sarong” era). There are a few songs performed by both men or solo or with Lamour, comic hijinks (especially from Hope), and even some action and adventure. A running gag throughout the series was a bit that Crosby and Hope did—playing “Patty-Cake, Patty-Cake,” reciting the verse and slapping their hands in front of adversaries as a distraction—and then surprising the bad guys with sudden punches, thereby starting a fight and the means to escape. Another familiar face in some—not all—of the “Road” movies is that of big-eyed, big-mustached Jerry Colonna, whose mugging and bigger-than-life voice provides much merriment.

In Singapore, Crosby is Josh, the son of a wealthy shipping magnate (Charles Coburn), but he wants nothing to do with the business. He is engaged to Gloria (Judith Barrett), but he doesn’t really want to get married and settle down. Like his bachelor best friend, Ace (Hope), Josh just wants adventure and no responsibilities. While they make an oath to swear off women (who always get them in trouble), they are still very much attracted to the opposite sex and pursue the ladies anyway. After wrecking his own engagement party, Josh escapes with Ace the wrath of the family and ends up in Singapore, which was owned by Britain at the time (didn’t Britain once own everything?). There, they rescue island girl/dancer/singer Mima (Lamour) from a cruel club performer boyfriend, Caesar (Anthony Quinn), and she becomes the boys’ “roommate.” While Josh’s family and fiancée search for him, our two heroes must deal with the on-again, off-again threesome relationship with Mima and attempt to avoid Caesar’s efforts at revenge.

The picture is usually cited as one of the best of the “Road” pictures. There are indeed some wonderful moments. The chemistry between the two leads is palpable, the musical numbers are a lot of fun, and the comedy produces many laughs. Some elements might seem embarrassingly dated to today’s audiences—such as a prolonged sequence in which Crosby and Hope don dark makeup in order to impersonate island natives—but one must place the movie within the context of when the picture was released, and 1940 was a very different societal time. It should also be noted that the film was not shot on location in Singapore—it was made in Hollywood. Once you’re past the eye-rolling at some of the sexist and racist attitudes that are present, Road to Singapore can be a nostalgic and entertaining evening at the home video theater.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray release looks fine and sounds great. It comes with English subtitles for the hearing-impaired. Three previously issued supplements accompany the film: a short documentary on Hope and the Road pictures, with appearances by Phyllis Diller, Randall G. Mielke (author of The Road to Success), and Richard Grudens (author of The Spirit of Bob Hope); a short featurette on Hope entertaining the troops over the years; and a musical excerpt from the film presented as a “sing-along” with lyrics to follow.

If you’re a fan of Crosby and Hope, the Road pictures, and Hollywood pre-World War II entertainment, then Road to Singapore is for you!

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“LONESOME COWBOY”

By Raymond Benson

The late actor Kirk Douglas has often cited that one of his favorite pictures he ever made was Lonely are the Brave, a “western” set in its contemporary year of release (1962).

Based on Edward Abbey’s 1956 novel, The Brave Cowboy, the picture was shot on location in New Mexico and directed by David Miller, a craftsman who worked with a variety of genres and subjects (he gave us the 1952 film noir Sudden Fear and the 1941 Billy the Kid). Most significantly, the screenplay is by Dalton Trumbo, whom Douglas “rescued” from blacklist hell two years earlier by giving the writer screen credit for his work on Spartacus (and effectively ending the blacklist). It is indeed Trumbo’s script—and Douglas’ fine performance—that makes Lonely are the Brave a quality movie.

Jack Burns is a cowboy, a loner, a drifter, a man without a real home or job—it seems his only possessions are the clothes he wears and the horse he rides. He grabs cowhand work where and when he can get it. He hates having to deal with the modern world, automobiles, fences, borders, the law, and bureaucracy. One day he returns to a small border town to visit his best friend, Paul (Michael Kane) and learns that Paul is in jail for assisting illegal immigrants. Paul’s wife, Jerry (Gena Rowlands, in one of her early screen appearances) obviously has some affection for Jack and hosts him and his horse. Jack finally decides he’s going to do something about Paul being in jail, and the only way to do it is to get himself arrested in order to break Paul out from the inside. The sheriff (Walter Matthau) and his sadistic deputy (George Kennedy) set out to pursue Jack before he rides across the border to safety. And then there’s a truck driver (Carroll O’Connor) innocently driving along, to whom the movie cuts periodically throughout the story—and we wonder why… until we do know.

That’s it in a nutshell, but the power of the movie comes in its melancholy that exudes from Jack’s character and the widescreen western vistas (albeit in glorious black and white) that are as much a supporting role as the living actors. Jerry Goldsmith’s wistful score also contributes a great deal to the success of the film. This is all good stuff, making Lonely are the Brave indeed one of Kirk Douglas’ more memorable appearances.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration looks terrific and comes with an audio commentary by film historians Howard S. Berger and Steve Mitchell. Supplements include a tribute to the film featuring interviews with Douglas, Rowlands, Michael Douglas, and Steven Spielberg, and a featurette on Jerry Goldsmith’s score. The theatrical trailer for this and other Kino Lorber releases round out the package.

Lonely are the Brave is too-often overlooked gem from the early 1960s.

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(For Steven J. Rubin's exclusive interview with Kirk Douglas about "Lonely are the Brave", see Cinema Retro issue #40.)

“A CREEPY EXPLOITATION DOUBLE-BILL”

By Raymond Benson

Here we go again! Another entry in the “Forbidden Fruit: The Golden Age of the Exploitation Picture” series, this time it’s Volume 5. Presented by Kino Lorber in association with Something Weird Video, we have for your viewing pleasure the double-bill of Tomorrow’s Children, released in 1934 and directed by Crane Wilbur, who went on to do an impressive amount of writing and directing for (mostly) B-movies, and Child Bride, released in 1938 and directed by the notorious Harry J. Revier, a practitioner in cinema sensationalism dating back to the silent era. Note: Some online sources such as Wikipedia incorrectly state that the running time of Tomorrow’s Children is 70 minutes (here it’s 56 minutes and there doesn’t seem to be anything missing), and that Child Bride was released in 1943 (nope, it was 1938).

First up—Tomorrow’s Children, the subject matter of which is eugenics and sterilization. Believe it or not, there was quite the movement in those days that perpetuated the sick belief that people who might be alcoholics or have disabilities or be criminally inclined should not be allowed to procreate. You know, it’s what Hitler and the Nazis actually practiced. The picture, surprisingly, settles on the side of “it’s wrong,” but it goes about portraying the unfortunates who do become sterilized as stereotypical miscreants and misfits. Diane Sinclair plays Alice, who is the daughter of alcoholics and sister to siblings who are either physically or mentally impaired. Thus, when she desires to marry her sweetheart, Jim (Carlyle Moore), the court deems that she must undergo sterilization to prevent the further breeding of undesirables. Enter the honorable Dr. Brooks (Donald Douglas), who fights to help Alice and stop the surgery from taking place.

The picture must have been somewhere in the realm of a respectable B-picture production, albeit produced independently of Hollywood, for none other than acclaimed actor Stanley Holloway appears as comic relief as one of the doctors at the hospital. Douglas was also a hard-working actor who appeared in over 100 films. Director Wilbur at least knows how to put a movie together, and the acting isn’t terrible (but certainly not award-worthy). That said, the picture indeed has a creepiness factor that justifies its inclusion in the exploitation film genre.

On the other hand, Child Bride is exceptionally creepy and wince inducing. It is presented as an “educational” treatise on the horrors of child marriage, which the movie postulates as common in such American backwater areas as the Arkansas Ozarks, where the story takes place. Twelve-year-old Jennie (Shirley Mills, who went on to play one of Henry Fonda’s kids in The Grapes of Wrath), is innocent and just entering puberty. Her best friend (and boyfriend) is young Freddie (Bob Bollinger), and their relationship is wholesome. However, there are men in her little mountain community who take “young’uns” as brides. When Jennie’s father is murdered, the heavy of the movie, Jake (Warner Richmond), threatens her mother (Dorothy Carrol) with blackmail unless she allows Jennie to be forcibly married to him. Meanwhile, the schoolteacher, Miss Carol (Diana Durrell) is advocating against child marriage in the village, which attracts the wrath of the menfolk. Child Bride is as salacious as it sounds, especially today. The picture became infamously banned for its brief, gratuitous nude swimming scene featuring the star. Sure, the film’s message is “child marriage is bad,” but director Revier isn’t above throwing some red meat to the perverts in the audience. Child Bride is a shocking—yet fascinating—piece of cinema history that shines a light on moral (and immoral) attitudes of the late 30s. Of note is the inclusion of dwarf actor Angelo Rossitto (credited here as Don Barrett; he was prominent in Tod Browning’s Freaks) as one of the heroes of the picture.

Kino Lorber does the best they can in restoring the films in high definition considering the poor source material. Tomorrow’s Children looks the best, despite a brief courtroom sequence that appears as if it is fifth generation YouTube video. Child Bride is choppy and full of scratches, but we’re to expect this coming in. The first feature has an audio commentary by Eric Schaefer, author of Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!: A History of Exploitation Films, and the second has a highly informative feminist take audio commentary by film historian Alexandra Heller-Nicholas. Unfortunately, there are no supplements other than the trailers for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

For those interested in the history of exploitation films and fans of the other titles in the Forbidden Fruit series, then Tomorrow’s Children/Child Bride is for you. Just be sure to take a shower after viewing.

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BY TODD GARBARINI

The films of John Cassavetes are an acquired taste. Long considered to be the father of the modern independent film movement, his unorthodox style to acting and filmmaking notoriously drove some of his performers crazy while also receiving kudos and accolades from others. Like most filmmakers of his ilk, his work was best seen in independently owned movie theaters in New York City where films generally played for weeks or even months on end to a combination of both rave reviews and decent box office, two ingredients necessary to ensure securing funding for future projects. His directorial debut, Shadows (1958), depicted a romantic relationship between a white man and an African-American woman and the tumult that their relationship brought to their families. The film was unorthodox not only in its subject matter but in its approach to filmmaking. The film possesses a unique style and an immediacy that audiences of the time were not used to seeing in polished Hollywood productions. Following Too Late Blues (1961) he made A Child is Waiting (1963), which starred Burt Lancaster, Judy Garland, John Marley, and Mr. Cassavetes’s wife Gena Rowlands. The latter two would go on to appear in his financially successful and acclaimed Faces (1968) which would provide the financing for his controversial Husbands (1970), a searing portrait of middle-aged men, their relationships with women, with each other, and most of all, with themselves.

Gus (John Cassavetes), Harry (Ben Gazzara), Archie (Peter Falk) and Stuart (David Rowlands) all appear to be successful businessmen. They are in their early forties, they are married and have children, and as the movie opens to snapshots depicting them all at family picnics, family outings, and general overall goofiness, it becomes apparent to the audience that these four men are best friends and are for all intents and purposes inseparable – until Stuart suddenly dies of a heart attack and leaves his friends behind as a solemn triumvirate questioning their lives and their places in the world. We never see or meet Stuart outside of the still photos, but his presence hangs over Gus, Harry, and Archie in everything they say and do and more importantly what they do not say or do. Following Stuart’s funeral, the men all decide not to go home, instead electing to set out on a series of adventures: taking a subway ride; playfully fighting in the streets; playing basketball at a local gym; swimming; encouraging a woman to sing them a song at a local bar; getting sick in a men’s room, etc. Harry’s family is the only one we are privy to when he returns home and has a physical fight with his wife and her mother. They all make half-hearted efforts to return to their jobs until the futility of life sparks a decision to travel to London. Harry intimates that he wants no part of the middle-class life that he has built in his suburban house.

Arriving across the pond, they play craps and encounter varying degrees of difficulty picking up three women (Jenny Runacre, Jenny Lee Wright and Noelle Kao). What transpires in their hotel rooms may on the surface seem ridiculous and silly, however something remarkable occurs as the three men are forced to reckon with Stuart’s death and ultimately, their own mortality. The film is ultimately about absence: Stuart is gone from their lives, and aside from Harry’s fight with his wife, the wives are absent from Gus and Archie’s lives, except from the opening stills. Their behavior with the women they have picked up is far more complex than their dialog lets on, which anticipates the film’s unexpected yet deeply poignant denouement. It may be impossible to understand the meanings of the scenes upon one viewing of the film, but Mr. Cassavetes was a rogue filmmaker with an originality and honesty to be reckoned with. Some accused him of being self-indulgent. For the adventurous and curious cineaste who prefers a cerebral cinematic experience bereft of Marvel superheroes and the requisite explosions, the rewards in Husbands are plentiful.

Husbands opened in New York City on Wednesday, December 9, 1970, but the film was shot in the early months of 1969. It was featured on the cover of Life Magazine in May 1969 but by the time the film was released, the cover story became a distant memory for readers. The director’s unorthodox method to shooting provided challenges to those he worked with, especially Peter Falk who struggled at first with what the director wanted. Initial rough cuts favored different points-of-view: one favored Gus, then another favored Archie, and yet another favored Harry. The director shot roughly 1,300,00 feet of film, which translates to about 240 hours of raw footage. That is almost an unconscionable amount of takes to sift through to yield a finished film, the sheer volume taking months simply to view it prior to attempting to cut it all together.

The new Criterion Collection Blu-ray runs 142 minutes and the film already feels long, however Ben Gazzara preferred the 240-minute cut, which I would have loved to have seen as an additional disc. Obviously that cut was answer-printed and locked, so it must exist in some form, perhaps in either Gena Rowland’s or Nick Cassavetes’s basements? If the film’s trailer touts it as a comedy, it is due to the fact that the director took the version well-received by the audience and recut it into the version that he wanted, to the dismay of the suits at Columbia Pictures.

“CLOUDS… DARK… SNOW”

By Raymond Benson

This Ealing Studios thriller was a total surprise to this viewer. It’s always a joy to discover a picture from yesteryear that one hasn’t seen, and The Night My Number Came Up happens to be a solid, riveting piece of work.

The movie is based on a real incident experienced by British Air Marshal Sir Victor Goddard, and it was adapted to the screen by R. C. Sheriff. Competently directed by Leslie Norman, Number is a taut aeronautical near-disaster flick about a small Royal Air Force plane that carries thirteen people (eight passengers and five crew) from Hong Kong to Tokyo on a harrowing journey.

One could say that the movie has much in common with an episode of The Twilight Zone due to a somewhat supernatural slant. One day at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport, Air Marshal Hardie (Michael Redgrave), civilian Owen Robertson (Alexander Knox), Secretary Mary Campbell (Sheila Sim), Officer Mackenzie (a young Denholm Elliott), and others board a Dakota to fly to Japan. Unfortunately, weather is poor (“clouds… dark… snow” are the recurring images and dialogue that describe the danger). The plane gets lost and is in danger of crashing. Back at the airport, Commander Lindsay (Michael Hordern) seems to know what has happened. He’d had a dream 48 hours before that illustrated every event leading up to the plane’s take-off, and he believes he knows where the aircraft has gone down. It is up to him to convince the air traffic control officers in Hong Kong to direct their search in the right place—which is WAY off the Tokyo route. The thing is—Lindsay had related his dream to many of the plane’s passengers the night before their departure, so the events that occur do not feel coincidental to them.

The suspense is palpable. At no time does one question the eye-rolling premise of the man who has dreams that pre-determine destiny; the whole thing is played straight, and it works. All the actors are quite good, especially Knox as the superstitious and frankly somewhat cowardly friend of Air Marshal Hardie’s who unwittingly comes along on the flight.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray restoration (from StudioCanal) looks and sounds quite good. It comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired, plus an audio commentary by film historian Samm Deighan. The trailer for this and other Kino Lorber titles are also included.

The Night My Number Came Up belongs in the genre that would later spawn such more extreme supernatural fare as Final Destination… and Number was made 45 years earlier! Check it out for a fast-paced armrest clutcher.

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“PSYCHO SCARFACE”

By Raymond Benson

While we in the United States think of the “gangster film” as something that is perhaps distinctly American, it can be forgotten that other countries have had their fair share of mobsters, too. The U.K. is a typical specimen. There have been some very bad hombres in movies like Sexy Beast and The Long Good Friday, which are classic examples of British gangster cinema.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover Brighton Rock, obviously a beloved crime movie in Britain, but not as well known in the States. In fact, the movie was released in America as Young Scarface. This thriller, made in 1947 and released very early in 1948, is a product by the Boulting Brothers (identical twins!), who were a sort of British Coen Brothers at the time. They produced numerous quality movies from the late 1930s to the 1970s, usually directing separately, or maybe one would produce while the other directed, and so forth. In this case, Roy Boulting was the producer, and John Boulting was the director.

The screenplay for Brighton Rock was written by the acclaimed Graham Greene and Terence Rattigan, based on Greene’s 1938 novel. The book had already been adapted into a West End stage play prior to the Boulting Brothers’ further turning it into celluloid.

A very young Richard Attenborough made his acting breakthrough as the star of the picture, playing a truly psychotic sociopath, Pinkie Brown, a role for which he had received praise in the stage play. The character is only seventeen, but he is a ruthless, cruel, cold killer who is handy with a knife—and he becomes the leader of his gang after the boss is murdered.

As the movie’s title crawl tells us, Brighton as a beach resort was a hotbed of criminal activity between the world wars. The story takes place in the late 1930s, when rival gangs were vying for territory and commerce in the community. Pinkie blames a journalist for the boss’s death because of an article the writer penned about the rival gangs. Pinkie then stalks and kills the journalist. Enter amateur sleuth Ida Arnold (Hermione Baddeley… wait, Hermione Baddeley??), who is an entertainer on the Brighton pier. She is convinced that Pinkie and his gang were responsible for the journalist’s death (she knew him personally), but the local police don’t buy it and have closed the case. Meanwhile, Pinkie meets an innocent and pretty waitress named Rose (Carol Marsh). Pinkie woos her in his creepy, icy way, and astonishingly, this strict Catholic girl with no street smarts falls in love with him (this is perhaps the only element of the story which is a bit difficult to swallow).

Things get more complicated as Pinkie sets out to destroy anyone who might have the goods on him, and he also wants to strike at—or maybe join—the rival gang, which is gaining more power in the territory.

Allegedly Greene was not happy with the film’s ending, because the Boultings changed it slightly from the novel. In truth, the filmmakers presented a more ironic, albeit happier, conclusion to the story, which works very well. It can be argued that the movie’s ending is actually more cynical than the book’s finale.

Brighton Rock is Attenborough’s movie. His performance is chilling; it’s a measured, quiet, intelligent portrayal of a psychopath that gives Richard Widmark in Kiss of Death a run for his money. Baddeley is also winning as the bubbly and stubborn extrovert who insists on solving the crime when she has no reason to do so.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration (from StudioCanal) looks and sounds terrific, and there is an accompanying audio commentary by film historian Tim Lucas. There are no other supplements aside from the trailers for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

Brighton Rock is recommended for fans of British cinema, gangster movies, and crazy criminals.

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“EXPLOITATION AT ITS WOR—ER, FINEST!”

By Raymond Benson

There have always been what have been termed in the motion picture industry “exploitation films,” even back in the silent days. The late 1930s and much of the 1940s, however, saw a deluge of cheap, not-even-“B” pictures made, usually independently of Hollywood and marketed in guerilla fashion as “educational” adult fare. You know the type. Reefer Madness. Child Bride. Mom and Dad.

Dwain Esper was one of the most notorious directors who made these types of pictures in the 1930s. He was assuredly the Ed Wood of that decade. He purposely chose sensational subjects—drug use, sexuality—and produced them independently of Hollywood. The Production Code was in full force during most of his working years, so distribution had to be done in creative ways—renting theaters and advertising locally that the films were for adults but contained valuable lessons in morality. Maybe in the 1930s, viewers bought that line, but face it—these movies appealed to prurient interests. When viewing these two titles in restored, uncut form, one wonders how Esper got away with it. Interestingly, his wife Hildegarde Stadie (credited as “Hildagarde” Stadie) wrote the screenplays and often acted as producer.

Kino Classics, in association with Something Weird Video, has released a “Forbidden Fruit” series of exploitation films (this is Volume 4). Here we have a double feature by Esper, along with some eye-opening shorts as extras.

First up—Marihuana (sic) (1936), a “cautionary tale,” ha ha, along the lines of the hilariously similar feature Reefer Madness, in which two sleazy drug dealers (Pat Carlyle and Paul Ellis) corrupt the youth of a small town with the evils of marijuana and other drugs. An innocent but slightly rebellious teenager, Burma (Harley Wood) and her boyfriend (Hugh McArthur) attend a party thrown by the dealers. After ingesting the devil weed, Burma has sex with her boyfriend, all the girls go skinny dipping on the beach at night (yes, there is full nudity), and one girl drowns. The dealers force the teens to cover up the crime, but Burma is now “hooked.” She has become pregnant, leaves home, and starts working for the dealers. Of course, all this leads to ruin and tragedy. The whole thing is jaw-droppingly ridiculous, but it is anthropologically captivating.

Narcotic (1933) shows what a difference three years can make in production quality back in the 30s. This feature is decidedly lower in technical values (the print is also choppy and full of scratches—but the restoration is surprisingly better than one might think). Narcotic is allegedly based on the true story of a promising young doctor, William Davis (played astonishingly well by Harry Cording), who gets involved with opium, heroin, and other “hard” drugs. Eventually, they destroy his career. He instead becomes a snake oil salesman of a miracle cure that he concocts, works in a circus sideshow, and deals dope on the side. The centerpiece of the movie is a drug party with Dr. Davis and his friends, male and female, who spend the evening shooting up, snorting cocaine, and smoking pot. We get to see how these drugs affect the users—and, again, the results are unintentionally mirthful. Especially egregious is the inclusion of a Chinese character, Gee Wu, who is played (in bad makeup and with an atrocious, exaggerated accent) by a white actor, J. Stuart Blackton, Jr., who happens to be the son of cinema pioneer J. Stuart Blackton, the head of Vitagraph Studios in the early days of silent film. Once again, though, Narcotic is short enough to be luridly entertaining.

Picture quality in Marihuana is pretty good; in Narcotic, not so much. The same is true for the sound quality, although there is a lot of static and background noise in both features. Nevertheless, these are probably the best presentations of these pictures you’ll ever see.

Both Marihuana and Narcotic come with an audio commentary by Bret Wood, co-author of Forbidden Fruit: The Golden Age of the Exploitation Film. Much interesting trivia is imparted, and it is well worth the listen. Marihuana also features a second audio commentary from 2000 by David F. Friedman and Something Weird founder Mike Vraney.

Of special interest in the supplements are two versions of Dwain Esper’s short, How to Undress (also known as How to Undress in Front of Your Husband). This is intended to be a piece of comedy in which wives are instructed by a male narrator on the “proper” way to remove clothing at the end of a day, i.e., they are to do it in a slow, calculated, sensuous way—in other words, a strip tease. None other than John Barrymore’s wife at the time, Elaine Barrie Barrymore, stars as the spouse who follows the directions well. Older and overweight vaudeville star Trixie Friganza contrasts Elaine in another bedroom by undressing the “wrong” way. It’s really an excuse to denigrate her looks. Incongruously, there’s a subplot involving a peeping tom. The long version is around 15 minutes. A shorter version, that cuts out Trixie’s scenes altogether, runs around 9 minutes.

Another short, How to Take a Bath, is another comic bit involving two different pairs of husbands and wives. In one, the couple is happily married, flirt with each other after an evening out, and the wife takes a bath that the husband has run for her. Wedded bliss does not exist for the other couple, however. This wife is depicted as a shrew, nagging at her sheepish husband the entire time. Nevertheless, the viewer gets to see both wives, well, take baths.

Pure exploitation. One wonders what kind of relationship Dwaine Esper had with his writer/producer wife.

Another throw-away supplement are three very brief excerpts from Esper’s lost 1932 film, The Seventh Commandment, and these are hardly worth the inclusion. Trailers for this and other Kino Classics releases round out the package.

All in all, the Marihuana/Narcotic double Blu-ray disk is a lot of fun, despite its politically incorrect content. After all, both pictures are preserved by the Library of Congress, so they must be “culturally and significantly important.” These films do serve to act as a time travel device for audiences today to look back at American values and customs in those years. Fascinating stuff.

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