Film Reviews by Steve

Best known of the many crime films inspired by the 1964 Great Train Robbery. This strays well away from the facts, and the names are changed. Stanley Baker is the criminal mastermind who assembles a huge gang of specialists in order to steal over a million quid in used notes from a Royal Mail locomotive. While Scotland Yard, led by James Booth, closes in.

It follows a standard three act heist structure: the coming together of a diverse team of crooks; the staging of a complicated theft; and the unravelling of the caper due to internal conflict and individual flaws. Robbery is different for this period in that there is an abundance of action, particularly car chases.

And Peter Yates got to direct Bullitt off the back of it. The pursuits are okay, but don't look all that amazing by present standards. The measured pacing sometimes plods, and because the gang is so big, there isn't so much depth of characterisation. The photography is flashy in the style of the era with lots of focus pulls and pop art closeups.

The cast is all male, save for the brief intrusion of Joanna Pettet's peripheral glamour. Baker always stands out, and though the ensemble cast is fine, no one else makes an impact. There is an impression of the impressive logistics involved but it's mainly an action film inhabited by laconic, impassive tough guys with lots of cars and gadgets.

This is loosely adapted from a novel by Josephine Tey which was broadly based on a real life incident in Victorian Britain. But given the bizarre plot, that's hard to believe! There's an inheritance up for grabs, and a family member long presumed dead comes back to claim a share. But surely he's an imposter?

Alexander Davion is the nonchalant mystery man who returns to the country estate. Oliver Reed is the violent, alcoholic brother who is spending his inheritance before he gets it. Janette Scott is the beautiful, neurotic sister who might just be frightened to death. Best of all is Sheila Burrell as the wild eyed aunt who could well be the screwiest of the lot.

It's principally a thriller which crosses over into horror for the grotesque climax. There are some excellent suspense set pieces, including a cliff hanger on the coast of Dorset. But the most interesting theme is the romance between Scott and Davion. Her nerves can't stand it... she's in love with her own brother! And he loves her too...

So he has to either give up the girl, or the loot. But if Ollie can get Janette in the mad house, he will get the lot. It's a low budget psychological thriller. It's trashy enough, but far too beautifully photographed- in b&w- and handsomely staged for a B film. It's among the more enjoyable of Hammer's sixties Psycho rip offs.

This landmark British gangster film is Mike Hodges' debut as director and he says he was inspired by how Raymond Chandler used the crime story to make satirical observations about society. Which probably explains why Michael Caine is reading Farewell My Lovely while he travels up to Newcastle to investigate the death of his brother.

And it's the impression of Britain in decline which is the most penetrating aspect of the film. Newcastle is a filthy corpse, fed on by gangsters, pimps and worse. Its coal industry is a black stain on the land. If Britain boomed during the sixties, the wealth hasn't trickled down to these mean streets. And the culture has surrendered to a tawdry, joyless Americanism.

The weakness of the film is the uninspired plot. Basically, Caine's antihero knocks around from one hoodlum to the next until he stumbles upon the truth by chance. And then he kills everyone involved. It's a signature role for the star, playing a relentless, cold hearted loner set on revenge; a laconic, incredibly violent sociopath.

There's a large supporting cast, though only Caine gets much screen time. Britt Ekland is barely in it. Which is a pun. Carter famously tells Bryan Mosley that he is in bad shape. But Caine is also plainly overweight. And it's this shabby realism which is the visual style. It's a grim gangster film with a large body count and a famously bleak last shot.

This is an odd blend of genres but most potently a protest film which makes a case against the death penalty. Diana Dors plays a shopgirl who murders her boyfriend's rich lover. It relates her last few days in a procedural narrative style, before she hangs. But it also feels like film noir, with the voice over, flashbacks and expressionist photography.

It is most remembered for the casting of DD as the guilty woman. She gives a competent, subdued performance outside her usual range. Her face is scrubbed of makeup and her rather blank ordinariness is emphasised. This is no monster. The implication is that the murder was temporary insanity. But the character is so passive it's a struggle for the star to sustain interest.

Compare the dynamism of Susan Hayward in the similar but superior I Want to Live! two years later. There are parallels between Yield to the Night and the hanging of Ruth Ellis in 1955. Director J.Lee Thompson points out that the source novel by Joan Henry preceded the Ellis case, but the film came after and the publicity must have been influential.

So, the release was topical. But not influential; the death penalty remained for another 13 years. Thompson directs with a flourish and the b&w photography is artistic. Yvonne Mitchell gives a typically nuanced performance as a sympathetic screw. But the appeal of the film rests heavily on Diana's stunt casting, and she just about pulls it off.

This is a companion to Alexander Korda's production of The Four Feathers, released a year later. They are Technicolor empire adventures based on novels by AEW Mason. This time the British redcoats put down an uprising in Northwest India with the heroic assistance of a loyal tribal Prince, played by the 14 year old Sabu.

And today, both films share similar snags. There is the assumption of the moral right of empire and the steadfastness of British honour. There's Raymond Massey under makeup as a two dimensional, perfidious Islamic warlord. Its portrayal of the indigenous population provoked riots in major Indian cities.

It's a contemporary story, but feels like the Victorian era. There's a handsome production with authentic location footage in Kashmir and Peshawar, and the colour must have looked glorious in 1938. Roger Livesey and Valerie Hobson look enchanting in (now) washed out Technicolor; like '30s cigarette cards brought to life by magic.

The viewers' response will depend on a willingness to watch it in the spirit of the times. No one will make a film like this again. The assumptions about the legitimacy of empire are exhausted. It's staggering to realise that only nine years later, the British left India for good. Maybe this now gives the film an unintended moral dimension.

Out of all the war stories shot in the UK after 1945, this one stands apart because the hero is a German. It's a biopic of Franz von Werra, a Luftwaffe pilot who was gunned down over Kent during the Battle of Britain and became the only Nazi to escape from captivity. After many attempts, he finally got away while being transferred to a POW camp in Canada.

He claimed asylum in the neutral USA before making his own way back to Germany. The film overlooks his politics and mostly tells the events as a triumph of the spirit. Particularly in the final scenes as he drags himself across the frozen Canadian border to America. Hardy Krüger plays the flying ace with a blend of arrogance and single-minded courage.

Krüger manages to get us, if not actually on his side, at least amenable to his escape. So there is little friction; interrogation is so benign that it seems homeland security plans to keep the country safe with a mix of bureaucracy and self deprecating humour. Every time the prisoner breaks free he is thwarted by being given a form to fill in.

Von Werra isn't portrayed as a Good German, but the film does stress his audacity and resilience. Roy Ward Baker tells the story well, and keeps the narrative moving forward at pace in convincing locations with a good degree of realism. And there's a rare and interesting insight into British intelligence. Its a unique fifties British war film.

Long political thriller adapted from Frederick Forsyth's huge bestseller. It is a fictional account locked onto the many real assassination attempts by right wing terrorists on French President Charles de Gaulle after he accepted the independence of Algeria in 1962. Edward Fox plays a lone assassin who operates under the code name of the Jackal.

It's extraordinary that Fred Zinnemann was able to direct such a compelling film with so little human factor. Not just that the Jackal is a cypher, but so are all the other lesser characters. They have no histories. The support cast can only reveal character through the sparse, narrative driven dialogue. The best of these is Cyril Cusack as a sinister gunsmith.

But it's mostly Edward Fox all the way, and he's quite credible as the imperious, but emotionally numb killer. The story grows into a remote, intense conflict between the hitman, and the lawman, played by Michael Lonsdale. They only connect in the final scene. It's a supremely well made film with a sophisticated sound mix, Oscar nominated editing and stunning location photography.

And so suspenseful, even though it is understated and ultra-realistic. It is a political thriller which conveys no ideology but suggests the conflict reflects the methods, interests and beliefs of old, powerful men, rather than any ethical intent. It is fascinating to see through the eyes of the assassin, but it's a cold, pessimistic experience.

Joe Orton's sex comedy was a landmark on stage in 1964 for its brash, unambiguous representation of male homosexuality. By the time it was adapted into a film, its themes weren't as unconventional, and now it's a period piece which reflects long ago values. And this is its principle interest today. And the bouncy theme song by Georgie Fame.

Peter McEnery is Sloane, a serial killer who lodges with a sexually predatory older woman (Beryl Reid) and attracts the interest of her closeted gay brother (Harry Andrews). Their decrepit father (Alan Webb) reckons he can link the newcomer with the murder of a local man...

Well... there's no incest! The set up is cursory, it's a background which allows Orton to take aim at sixties social conventions just as they were being shrugged off. This is an extremely unwholesome black comedy. Not just because the characters are so disinterested in ethical consequences, but because of how ugly and grimy is their environment.

This must have been an interesting role for Harry Andrew, who was gay, which was only decriminalised in 1967. Douglas Hickox normally worked on tv, but he directs for the big screen with psychedelic exuberance. It runs out of energy in the second half, and it's not particularly funny. It's a dark, amoral portrait of another side of the sixties.

Maybe Alexander Korda intended a charming interpretation of Oscar Wilde's satirical play which would emphasise Cecil Beaton's elaborate costumes and Vincent Korda's chintzy set decorations in Technicolor. But that not what this actually is. This version emphasises the themes of hypocrisy and deception in upper class Victorian society. But applies to any period.

And in this context, the designs look grotesque. A tasteless expression of inner sanctimony. Hugh Williams and Diana Wynyard are a turn of the century power couple. He has a seat in the cabinet and she is... the perfect wife. When he is blackmailed by a professional adventurer (Paulette Goddard) it falls to Michael Wilding's shiftless aphorist to restore appearances.

It is Williams' performance as the mendacious MP which sets the balance of the drama. He plays the aristocrat as a villain and so poisons the whole of his class who are superficial and careless. It's tempting to suppose that Wilde, as a gay man who presumably knew people who were blackmailed for their sexuality, was showing us the real monsters.

There's a fine cast. In this period, British actors were well attuned to social comedy, but the most subtle performance is by the American Paulette Goddard as an insidious smoke bomb thrown at the perpetual tea party of the entitled wealthy. It's Oscar, so there is polished drollery and counterintuative insights. But this is also quite subversive.

Rudyard Kipling's satire on the epic folly of empire makes for a rousing, red blooded adventure story and a splendid star vehicle for Sean Connery and Michael Caine. They are a pair of demobbed soldiers in India who blunder into the wild mountains of Afghanistan intent on becoming mercenary warlords while looting a fortune.

Of course, they are destroyed by their hubris and their greed. Kipling's story is an allegory for the British expansion into the Indian continent, and the egomaniacal hypocrisy of their mission. But it seems likely that writer/director John Huston was more interested in making a ripping yarn about the agents of free enterprise exploiting uncharted lands.

And he presents the indigenous people as foolish archetypes, or witless savages. The film mainly centres on the two stars, who deliver boisterous, flamboyant performances. And they are very funny. The ironic script is literate and poetic and the recreation of late nineteenth century India is delightfully vivacious.

There is a spectacular adventure tale to be found here, if you can set aside what now could be considered offensive. It's a thrilling pageant of virtuoso film making. Connery and Caine run amok. Yet it is also carelessly cruel. And Huston clearly relishes his duo of bogus empire builders. Most viewers will probably find themselves on either end of this spectrum.

This is the kind of Hammer horror that defined their image in the early seventies, with a sensational supernatural tale set in a colourful period setting... plus tasteful female nudity. It's inspired by the legend of Elizabeth Báthory, a real Hungarian aristocrat born in 1560, who allegedly bathed in the blood of virgins to restore her youthfulness.

Though the truth was probably embellished! As Ingrid Pitt's Elizabeth actually does get younger, she gives us two performances. She is the ancient, wizened baroness and also masquerades as her voluptuous, sexually liberated daughter, while her own chaste little darling (Lesley Anne-Down) is imprisoned by a crazy-mute woodsman.

Ingrid is fine and her sexy portrayal is crucial, but it's the support cast which brings the grotesquery, particularly Maurice Denham as a venerable, rat-like scholar. Some of the events are obviously disturbing, but most of the violence takes place off camera. There is one graphic skewering. But there is more nudity than gore.

As usual, Hammer squeeze decent production values out of a small budget. The set was left over from Anne of the Thousand Days (for which it was nominated for an Oscar). Perhaps the slight premise is stretched too thin but the history is interesting, if distorted, and it is well directed. With The Vampire Lovers (1970), it's a key entry in the cult of its star.

Complex science fiction epic which became a key film for the sixties counterculture and eventually acclaimed by critics as a masterpiece. There are two linked stories: a mythic, arcane mystery triggered by the discovery of a black obelisk buried on the Earth's moon; and an ill-fated voyage to Jupiter undermined by the spaceship's computer, Hal.

And it's this allusion to artificial intelligence that most makes the sixties futurism feel relevant now. Otherwise Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke's vision of the near future doesn't seem all that intuitive. It was made in a year of social revolution and there is a sense of optimistic change. In the present cycle of history dominated by global heating, our destiny seems more dystopian.

So it feels like a film of its time, now past. The long psychedelic finish was innovative in the period, especially if enjoyed with hallucinogens. It is an audacious endeavour of imagination and craft, an immersive synthesis of theory, set design, effects and its famous score. But for long periods, Kubrick is just showing off the work of his designers while the story drifts through space.

The acting is deliberately understated. The most vivid and memorable performance is the impassive computer, Hal (voiced by Douglas Rain). It's a head movie and its themes of mind expansion and evolutionary leaps made it pertinent to the hippie generation. Now it feels likely to be more of interest to the sci-fi hardcore and effects nerds.

Delicious late career performance from Bette Davis in an uncharacteristically muted production from Hammer studios. Bette isn't understated, but there is a contrast with her gothic horror roles of the sixties. She may be a dependable old school nanny unforgivably persecuted by a maladjusted ten year boy (William Dix) fresh out of rehab...

Or she could be the passive-aggressive psycho-nanny who drowned the little sister of this vulnerable youngster who now fears for his own life! Presumably everyone knows where this is headed but it is tempting to fear the worst for little Billy Dix, so convincing is his portrayal of a pouting, spoiled... little darling.

This is an eerie, dark thriller dominated by the Hollywood star. It's artfully directed by Seth Holt, mostly within the single space of an upmarket London apartment, and stylishly photographed in black and white. It's as close as Hammer ever got to a straight drama.

But Davis does still get to expose the faithful retainer's suppressed psychosis in the later scenes. The tone is playful without becoming comical. It's intriguing to contemplate if this may disturb the buried experiences of those who actually had a nanny! It is a curious British addition to the cult of Bette Davis.

This is generally thought of as a lesser Ealing comedy. And it is insubstantial, but the plot is the ultimate example of the values this series of films represents. After the war the studio developed projects in support of the Attlee government. By the fifties, this enthusiasm had burned out. The Titfield Thunderbolt is a conservative film, with a small 'c'.

When British Rail plans to close down a branch line, local enthusiasts unite to keep the railway going, led by the parish vicar (George Relph) There is the usual parochial ragbag of eccentrics, rascals and dreamers. The road lobby, represented by the owner of a regional bus company, sabotages this ramshackle operation, just as the man from the ministry arrives for an audit.

So the underdogs steal the ancient Victorian puffer from a museum to make the crucial journey. This is gentle whimsy. The characters are paper thin and there are no major stars. And there isn't much of an impression of the local community. But whenever a later film maker evokes the magic of the Ealing comedies, it is most particularly this they are drawing on.

It would be another ten years before most of these local lines were closed down after the Beeching Report. The film is a light comedy which has acquired a lustre of nostalgic regret on the loss of a much loved national resource. A film which once seemed ephemeral fluff, now feels more complex; a nation offering resistance in a time of immutable change.

After World War 2 there was a movement of social realist films years before the British New Wave made this approach fashionable. This is also one of many women in prison films made in the UK in the fifties. There are three interwoven stories each about a convict released at the same time, into their first few hours of freedom.

As usual in British films back then, the characters are defined by their social status. Yvonne Mitchell plays an upper middle class woman who got stiffed by her crooked boyfriend. Joan Collins is a working class good girl who can be tempted to do tricks for the nicer things in life. Kathleen Harrison generates an excess of pathos as a lonely, elderly, uneducated shoplifter.

Mitchell is always worth watching and she's the best on show here and gets the most screen time. Terence Morgan as her upmarket criminal lover is so creepy he's hard to watch. The last part of the film involves him being chased over the rooftops of the west end after a safe job, which is quite exciting, but strays a long way from the premise of the film.

Kathleen Harrison as the threadbare repeat offender caught the attention of the critics in the most sentimental and tragic of the three tales. Though she is patronised in a way that would have been avoided by the New Wave directors. There are few political points being made about the experiences of released prisoners. It's just an entertaining insight into the lives of others.