Film Reviews by Steve

Sombre sequel to the 1965 spy caper The Ipcress File which moves the action from London to Berlin with a major style makeover. Gone is the pop art photography and the froideur of the John Barry soundtrack. It's only a year on but sadly Michael Caine's iconic suits are not quite as stylish. Though he still has the glasses.

It's one of many Berlin set spy films of the sixties, and this one is pitched somewhere between John le Carré and Alfie. Whitehall sends Harry Palmer to assist a Soviet general to defect to the west. Then the sprawling plot reaches way back to Nazi war crimes and acquires the interests of the Israeli secret service.

It's the nerdy cool of Caine's reprisal as the impassive but provocative British agent which provides most of the entertainment. It remains his signature role. And he has many excellent, insolent ripostes to deliver. Eva Renzi is a remarkably sexy counteragent and Oscar Homolka is engaging as the would be defector. But who can you trust?

There is no politics. There's nothing at stake. It's just a convoluted spy story. Instead we get the cold war atmospherics of the divided city, including some cabaret drag, checkpoint charlie and the bombed out buildings either side of the wall. It's not as good as The Ipcress File, but far better than its own sequel, Billion Dollar Brain.

Surreal enigma from the Italian modernist Michelangelo Antonioni, which is a candidate for the definitive film about sixties London. David Hemmings plays a trivial, but chic and successful fashion photographer who aspires to work in social realism. While shooting in a park he appears to capture a murder in the grainy background of his snapshots.

Or does he? He is an unreliable observer; everything he says in the film is arguably a lie. He soon loses interest and moves on to other diversions. The film is a riddle and each viewer will bring their own meaning. But there are recurrent Antonioni themes, of alienation, failure of communication and existential fatigue/apathy. 

Behind the vogue of swinging London, these are superficial and capricious people. We get to observe the scene, with a live performance by the Yardbirds, the Mary Quant style frocks, and the youth subcultures. Plus appearances by sixties ace-faces like Jane Birkin and Veruschka. But this is a satire not a celebration. And the scene is pretty dead.

Hemmings is on screen every minute, supported by cameo performances. And he's convincing as the indulged, exploitative antihero. The plot slowly meanders. The mystery of the possible killing is only a brief deviation which isn't resolved. It's a hallucinatory head-movie, but the director has a gift for making the obscure accessible.

Offbeat black comedy which was a change of direction for Roman Polanski after his critical hit with Repulsion. Its most memorable aspect is the location shoot on grey, rainy Holy Island, Lindisfarne, including the sixteenth century castle, which gives the film a particular aura of end-of-the-world desolation.

There's the obvious influence of Harold Pinter in the caustic menace of the script. And a thread of absurdity. A pair of bankrobbers (Lionel Stander and Jack MacGowran) attempt to take refuge with a middle class couple (Donald Pleasance and Françoise Dorléac)- at gunpoint. But get entangled in the bitter conflict of their marriage.

While it's an original screenplay, there's the impression of a stage play barely opened up for the screen. Polanski would work on that smaller scale many times over the years. Once MacGowran has been buried in a shallow grave it's mostly a three hander with Pleasence the standout as an effete artist of rather vague accomplishments.

It's more eccentric than purely entertaining, but it is a thrill to witness the technique of a great director. There's a feeling of liberation in the virtuosity of Polanski's style, which includes a famous unbroken eight minute edit. But his best creative decision was to set the film in the windswept seclusion of the stark Northumbrian coast.

Unusual and intense WWII film set in a military prison in Libya (shot in southern Spain). As an attempt by Sean Connery to find a future as an actor beyond James Bond, it is a big success. He is superb in a fine ensemble cast, with Ossie Davis also memorable as a Caribbean prisoner who unilaterally quits the British army.

There's a hilarious finale when he strips off his uniform in protest. But it's not a spoof. This is an examination of the psychology of hierarchy and oppression. Like a premonition of the Stanford prison experiment. It mostly sidesteps allegory for a forensic look at the bureaucratic, pitiless, idiotic abuse within armed forces.

Connery is the nonconformist who stands up to the system and the barbaric Sergeant Major (Harry Andrews). But the oppressiveness of the desert prison is mostly channeled through Oswald Morris' glistening b&w photography, with the distorted close ups, eye popping edits and the feel of the overwhelming heat of the sun.

Sidney Lumet directs with liberal intelligence and an artistic eye. There isn't a great deal of plot, this is all about the performances and the ideas; a vision of collective insanity. The theme of individualism is more relevant to the sixties than wartime. But as a depiction of the brutality within the British military, it's timeless.

Arthouse horror which is a brilliant model for how to unsettle an audience. Catherine Deneuve plays a Belgian abroad in London. During a period of isolation, her various neuroses, particularly her anxiety at being touched by men, develop into schizophrenia and her world begins to rupture, literally.

And in her fear, she protects herself by killing the men who intrude into her Kensington apartment. In his first English language film Roman Polanski uses the tools of his art to explain the frightening world she inhabits, including distorted sounds, expressionist effects and stark black and white contrast. And there are jump scares too.

This is an abstract film. It's tightens the pressure of apprehension slowly and inexorably. It focuses completely on the fragile woman's gradual mental collapse. In one scene, we are watching her sleep! Many horror films use madness as a plot device, but here the audience is immersed into her psychosis. It is a disturbing experience.

Eventually it becomes unmissable that this fractured psyche was the victim of sexual abuse as a child. And it should be recognised that Polanski was later guilty of this. Which makes a disturbing film actually problematic. And it's also an original and inspired work of cinematic imagination... featuring an affecting and provocative performance by the star.

Creepy occult horror expanded from a short story by Robert Bloch which doesn't deliver any big scares but creates a nice atmosphere of supernatural dread. A dishonest trader in paranormal nick-nacks (Patrick Wymark) wants to sell the skull of the evil Marquis de Sade to an obsessive collector (Peter Cushing) despite the warning of its former owner (Christopher Lee).

The skull is possessed and has a malign authority over anyone who acquires it. Consequently the film has a sedated, hypnotic ambience, as all the characters are to some degree under its influence. Then on the night of the new moon, the terrible power of the dead French aristocrat is revealed. OK, the effects are rudimentary, but the impression is unsettling.

The plot is padded out from its brief source. A strange Kafka-esque dream sequence is particularly ill suited to the style of the rest of the film. The best episodes have the feel of an MR James story, with dusty, male academics meddling with weird, arcane paraphernalia which they don't understand. There isn't much of a female presence, beyond screaming.

It was made by Amicus and maybe it would have been better tucked away into one of their horror anthologies. Still, the cast do fine work in treating the hokum with sincerity. The abundant clutter of black magic novelties adds to the spooky atmosphere and creates dark shadows and blind spots. It's not sophisticated, but still an eerie, fatalistic curiosity.

Rugged action adventure which is a tribute to the Norwegian Resistance during WWII, particularly their sabotage of a heavy water plant implicated in the potential manufacture of Nazi atomic weapons. This kind of memorial was typical of the immediate post war years but is made more spectacular with the use of stunt teams, explosives, Panavison, Technicolor and helicopter shots.

While the events are broadly true, they are distorted to fit the conventions of a popular entertainment. The heroics are not underplayed. Kirk Douglas is a kind of playboy boffin who opens the film getting it on with one of the lab assistants in a darkroom. Soon he is leader of the underground and liaising with London on their perilous, courageous insurrection.

And romancing his ex-wife played by Ulla Jacobson. The corny love story actually detracts from the suspense and too much screen time is wasted trying to make Kirk look like a conventional Hollywood hero. Richard Harris is more credible as his sidekick, a pugnacious and tenacious patriot. Michael Redgrave's peripheral role is bewildering.

The real star of the film is Robert Krasker's widescreen photography of the awesome Norwegian landscape. The missions are exciting and well staged and the history is fascinating. It works as a testimonial to the bravery of the Resistance and the sacrifices of the civilians. It's one of the better war blockbusters of the sixties.

Released right on the bang of when The Beatles exploded as a cultural as well as musical phenomenon, their debut film also feels like a turning point in the decade. The UK still looks like the tatty, sooty industrial wasteland of the British new wave, but the screen comes alive with a freedom and optimism which heralds the swinging sixties.

George, John, Paul and Ringo are the essence of the band as a gang.  They inhabit a shared, secret domain, which separates and protects the group from outsiders. They wryly mock the old England of social class, war heroes, bobbies on the beat and the old school tie.

And this feeling of emancipation is in Richard Lester's direction too. All is movement, with the hand held cameras, the zooms, pans and jump cuts. Not all in focus. It is a day in the life of the band, which they mostly spend horsing around with Wilfred Bramble, then climaxes with a performance at a tv studio to an audience of screaming girls.

The script draws on their image as four ordinary lads from Liverpool. There is barely a plot so when the narrative gets stuck it coasts on surreal humour. But the action is stuffed with music, including three UK/US number ones. Now it's a period piece, and a reminder of a time when pop groups could become global superstars without expensive dentistry.

Sweet and sour comedy about a struggling actor which gave Kenneth More one of the best roles of his career. He plays a wry, dogged survivor who is now middle aged and has failed to make good on his career ambitions and ideals, while watching his romantic last chances slide by.

The film portrays the circumstances of a jobbing actor as  being pretty grim; mainly due to the insecurity which undermines every aspect of life. More's leaky bedsit in a shared slum building is particularly dismal. He gets by on brittle optimism and booze and a support network of other failing thespians. And if one of them gets a break, it's worse.

The film creates a detailed impression of the physical world of the sixties precariat. There's a funny/sad script full of wise, witty lines which More punches home with uncharacteristic melancholy.  A cameo from Cecil Parker as an elderly, homeless washout is especially poignant.

More finds brief success in a series of popular tv adverts, but hates himself for selling out. His pal (Edmund Purdom) hits the big time in a blockbuster, but there is still an impression this isn't fulfilment. It's not Cyrano. These are people for whom dreams almost never come true, but who achieve an obscure heroism in their endurance.

Slow burning psychological drama primarily remembered for Kim Stanley's Oscar nominated role as a mentally disturbed medium who kidnaps a young girl on the demands of her stillborn son. And in the hope that she will be revered for finding the abducted child with her special gift. And she is chilling, and brings a touch of American gothic to Wimbledon.

Richard Attenborough is also excellent as her browbeaten husband who just wants his wife to be well again. But how far will he go? It's mostly a two-hander, just opened out to include the investigation into their crime. While it's a drama, there are also tremors of suspense and horror, which are intensified by John Barry's atmospheric, eerie score.

Brian Forbes directs with considerable style, and his script also includes a satisfying thread of dark humour. The deliberate pacing allows a perverse, unsettling ambience to settle over the film. However the premise is slight and overextended. It's too long, and the film comes to a dead stop at the midpoint which the dialogue is unable to resuscitate.  

Then it recovers for a powerfully sombre and daunting conclusion. The visuals are stunning, especially the photography and set design. It isn't a complete success, but still imaginative and strange and embellished by Kim Stanley's otherworldly performance, as if a tragic Tennessee Williams heroine has strayed into a classic of the British New Wave.

Wordy but fascinating psychological thriller which was unfortunately preoccupied with existential despair just as London was starting to swing. So there are long conversations about mental disintegration on the moody, muddy banks of the Thames. A psychotherapist is found dead and presumed to have shot himself.

But what if he was killed by one of his patients? Stephen Boyd is a nihilistic, driven television journalist who was a client of the dead man. He is encouraged by the shrink's young daughter to suspect one of the other regulars. These are played by a trio of guest stars: Richard Attenborough, Diane Cilento and Jack Hawkins. Who are all exceptional.

But the stand out is Pamela Franklin as the orphaned girl, with a secret. This is an all time great performances from a child actor. Her portrayal is so mature it's possible to forget she is playing a 14 year old, her real age. She creates a hypnotic rapport with Boyd, who soon begins to sense that he is investigating himself.

The climax is a knockout. Occasionally the cerebral script strays into pretentiousness, and won't be to all tastes. There is an exciting thriller format, but this is a downbeat film about emotionally traumatised people in a pitiless world. This melancholy is deepened by the sombre visual imagery of London in black and white CinemaScope. And it's a haunting experience.

Sprawling, epic account of the defence of the Christian mission at Rorke's Drift during the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879 when 150 British soldiers armed with rifles held their ground against an attack from over 3000 Zulu warriors with spears. The imposing production was shot on location in Natal near the site of the battle. The many Zulu extras were descendants of the actual fighters.

The film is respectful to both sides and while the names of the eleven recipients of the Victoria Cross are solemnly intoned (by Richard Burton) at the conclusion, it is critical of the barbarity of empire. The combat is not staged with much realism in close up, but looks spectacular in the long shots, enhanced by the evocative sound mix.

Performances are variable. This was Michael Caine big break, but he is an unconvincing officer. Jack Hawkins is stuck with an impossible role as a drunken missionary, and it's a relief when he exits the action. Stanley Baker is the best of the leads, and Nigel Green catches the eye. But crucially, all the cast contribute to the vivid visual pageant.

The ostentatious British redcoats look magnificent against the baby blue Technicolor sky, as does the line of Zulu warriors stretched across the CinemaScope horizon. John Barry's score pumps up the bloody combat. This is a long, rousing blockbuster, which takes a few liberties with history. But its reflections on the futility of war will always be relevant.

Trashy soap which lifts the scab of the salacious beauty racket; the post-war glamour contests popular in holiday camps and all the way up to Miss World. It's an exploitation film which, as much as writer/director Val Guest tries to embellish with sleaze, is resisted by the sweet elegance of Janette Scott, as a west country typist who almost gets to wear the crown.

 And who we see model a wide variety of beachwear. Along the way, there are some interesting reflections on fame. And the balance of power in showbiz relationships. It has the gloss of a fifties Hollywood melodrama, with the location shoot in the south of France, the kitsch easy listening soundtrack and the CinemaScope.

This is all undeniably pre-feminist but Guest's cynicism about the beauty jungle is exquisitely driven home in a brilliantly dystopian final twist. Scott is perfect casting, though it's disappointing that the male leads lack her polish. Still, there is the curiosity of guest appearances by a few celebrities as themselves, including Sid James and Stirling Moss!

It feels like the film version of a fat, glossy airport novel. And it's as lightweight and moreish as that sounds; a pulp exposé rather than a comic satire. It makes good use of its backgrounds, whether Monte Carlo or Weston-super-Mare. There is a tasty script too. But most of all it's an ideal setting for the luminous, beautiful star.

Beautiful and articulate rites of passage story set in Dublin, about an affair between an inexperienced country girl and a much older and married writer. It's adapted from Edna O'Brien's second novel which was banned in Ireland for its portrayal of adultery and sex, though the film looks extremely tasteful now.

It's about the the youngster's sexual and social awakening,. The commonplace events are deepened by the sensitive performances: Rita Tushingham plays the spirited ingénue brought up in the conservative provinces under the thumb of her crude father and the country priest. Peter Finch is her worldly but inflexible mentor/lover.

There's a witty and exuberant script too. But above all, it's the photography (by Manny Wynn) which excels, shot in a pale monochrome. The sunlight illuminating the well chosen interiors is exquisite. The gorgeous visual style is even more touching than the ill fated romance. Though the b&w means we never see the colour of the jealous girl's eyes!

There is a lively impression of Dublin in the early sixties. And of a teenager caught between city and country, youth and maturity and religion and freedom. Maybe it's incongruous that English actors like Rita and Lynn Redgrave should play Irish women, but their performances are spot on. It's a delicate, detailed, artistic miniature.

Low budget science fiction loosely based on John Wyndham's acclaimed best seller. This adaptation throws out most of the novel. It retain the basic premise of mankind blinded in a meteor storm then preyed upon by ambulant, man-eating plants. And the memorable opening episode of the sighted hero (Howard Keel) walking over a deserted Westminster Bridge.

Wyndham's cold war subtext is all gone, and his contemporary politics. And most of the scenes about the collapse of social order. There is a new subplot of married biologists (Janette Scott and Kieron Moore) living in a lighthouse searching for the means to fight back. Conservative values win out as Keel accumulates a family and the survivors surprisingly assemble to thank god.

Anyone who watches films to enjoy twenty-first century special effects will be disappointed. Poor monsters prevail. But those who can suspend disbelief will find an entertaining post apocalypse tale enhanced by rich colour* and CinemaScope, and sincere performances by all the cast. Keel is a phlegmatic, dependable lead. And he doesn't sing...

Choices are limited by financial realities, but the story of Keel's journey south from a wrecked London to a colony of survivors in Spain resonates with a deep melancholy. It's an end-of-the-world film made when those fears were commonplace. While there's not much Wyndham on screen, what remains is one of the better UK science fiction films of the period.

*beware poor prints.