The Spiral Staircase (1975)

          Tolerable only because of midlevel star power and solid production values, this inert UK thriller squanders a workable premise thanks to shoddy scripting and a directorial approach that prioritizes baroque visuals over compelling dramaturgy. Nearly everything in The Spiral Staircase feels contrived and false, so only a handful of violent scenes have anything resembling energy. Yet the truly confounding aspect of this picture is that it should have worked, seeing as how it’s a remake of the respected 1946 movie starring Dorothy McGuire. (Other versions of Ethel Lina White’s 1933 novel Some Must Watch include a pair of telefilms both titled The Spiral Staircase, one from 1964 starring Elizabeth Montgomery and one from 2000 starring Nicolette Sheridan.) The possibilities arising from a woman-in-peril story about a protagonist rendered mute by past trauma would seem to be nearly limitless, but this picture gets mired in dull domestic drama and presents suspense scenes with such clumsy obviousness that virtually no tension percolates. One is left with little to watch beyond leading lady Jacqueline Bisset’s beauty and costar Christopher Plummer’s unique brand of patrician haughtiness.
          Helen (Bisset), who lost the ability to speak after witnessing a tragedy, works as a caregiver for the elderly matriarch of a wealthy family that includes brothers Joe (Plummer) and Steven (John Phillip Law). Meanwhile, a local serial killer preys upon women with disabilities, triggering fear that Helen might be next on the hit list. Instead of focusing on that intrigue, screenwriters Chris Bryant and Allan Scott (wisely hiding behind a shared pseudonym) and director Peter Collinson lumber through aimless scenes about a drunk cook and a love triangle comprising the brothers plus comely secretary Blanche (Gayle Hunnicut). Most of this material is insipid, nonsensical, or both, and dopey sequences involving mysterious figures scuttling about in nighttime rain provide only brief reprieves from tedium. The Spiral Staircase finally gets down to business in the last 40 minutes or so, with attacks and chases and killings, though it’s pointless trying to track or understand the behavior of anyone onscreen. Still, Bisset is suitably alluring and Plummer is suitably pompous, so at least the movie delivers for fans of those actors. Similarly, Collinson and cinematographer Ken Hodges render lively compositions full of ominous foreground objects and shadowy background spaces, so The Spiral Staircase has the look of a passable shocker.

The Spiral Staircase: FUNKY

1980 Week: Somewhere in Time

          Received indifferently during its original release, this time-travel romance subsequently gathered a cult of devoted fans who succumbed to the pleasures of the movie’s lush music and sentimental storyline. Despite being penned by one of the great sci-fi writers of the 20th century, Richard Matheson, the movie is outlandish, slow, and syrupy, with direction that’s serviceable at best, and the actors playing the leads render questionable work. What the movie has in its favor, however, is utter sincerity: The filmmakers strive valiantly to create an immersive illusion. Additionally, the aforementioned leading actors are both classically pretty, the Great Lakes locations are resplendent, and composer John Barry suffuses the movie with his signature strings. In short, Somewhere in Time is just the thing for imaginative viewers eager for a good cry. Think of it as a predecessor to Ghost (1990), only without the jokes.
          Matheson adapted the movie from his own 1975 novel, Bid Time Return, making significant adjustments along the way. The film begins in 1972, on the night that budding playwright Richard Collier (Christopher Reeve) celebrates the premiere of his new play during a student workshop at a Midwestern college. Amid the regular crush of cast, crew, and well-wishers, a mysterious elderly woman walks up to Richard, hands him an antique watch, and says, “Come back to me.” Years later, during a melancholy moment in his life, Richard returns to the college town and takes a room at a posh hotel. He discovers a photograph, dated 1912, of beautiful actress Elise McKenna (Jane Seymour), and he eventually determines that she was the woman who gave him the watch. Becoming obsessed with Elise, Richard contacts a time-travel theorist who suggests that it’s possible for people to transport themselves across decades using self-hypnosis. Richard succeeds in doing so. Upon arriving in 1912, he courts Elise and tries to persuade her they’re destined to be lovers.

          The premise is loopy, but it’s easy to understand why fans of Somewhere in Time consider the movie intoxicating. What’s more thrilling than the idea of a beautiful, sensitive individual sacrificing everything for a chance to find a soul mate? Matheson’s script has more than a few rickety elements, including the contrived presence of Elise’s manager, William Robinson (Christopher Plummer), who impedes Richard’s efforts. Similarly, Jeannot Szwarc’s direction is slick but unremarkable. Somewhere in Time represented a test of Reeve’s box-office appeal and range after his breakout performance in Superman (1978), and he faltered on both fronts. The connection between his stilted performance and the movie’s lackluster box-office performance seems plain. As for leading lady Seymour, a great beauty without much dramatic power, this picture represented the latest in a series of failed attempts at becoming a proper movie star. On the bright side, her looks are incandescent throughout Somewhere in Time, so it’s easy to accept her character’s ability to beguile admirers.

Somewhere in Time: FUNKY

The Pyx (1973)

          A Canadian-made thriller with elements of character drama, police procedure, and supernatural horror, The Pyx is noteworthy for the presence of American actress Karen Black in the leading role. In addition to contributing poignant and subtle work to many scenes, she sings a few wispy songs on the soundtrack. Although it would be pleasant to report that the movie is a quality piece deserving of Black’s commitment, The Pyx is a rudderless and sluggish, with Christopher Plummer’s half-hearted performance in the underwritten co-leading role of a hard-driving police detective draining much of the energy that Black’s portrayal generates. Furthermore, because of the story’s structure, the stars never have scenes together. By the time The Pyx climaxes with a grim showdown involving Satan worship, the picture has devolved into utter mediocrity. That said, how many movies have been made about Montreal devil cults? The picture opens with the death of Black’s character—she falls or is pushed from a balcony atop a high-rise building and splats on the pavement far below. Two detectives, Jim Henderson (Plummer) and his French-Canadian partner Pierre Paquette (Donald Pilon), lead the ensuing investigation. The movie cuts back and forth between cop scenes and extended flashbacks depicting the final days of Elizabeth Lucy (Black), a heroin-addicted prostitute who ran with a dangerous crowd.

          The cop scenes are rudimentary, with Plummer essaying a tight-lipped tough guy who seems to get off on beating suspects even as he withholds his emotions from his long-suffering girlfriend. Yawn. The investigation itself is just as plodding, because none of the informants and/or suspects makes a real impression. Happily, the flashbacks bear more fruit. Not only do these scenes culminate in a creepy ritual, which adds much-needed visual flair, but Black does a fair job of conveying her character’s angst, confusion, and self-loathing. In one effectively overwrought scene, for instance, Elizabeth tries to comfort a drug-addicted friend while foolishly claiming that she can control her own addiction. The notion, presumably, was to demonstrate why Elizabeth’s psychological wounds made her susceptible to victimization by Satanists. In any event, the true thematic focus of the picture remains as murky as the storyline itself, even though The Pyx features a handful of colorful and emotional peaks.

The Pyx: FUNKY

Waterloo (1970)

          Making elaborate historical epics is often a lose-lose scenario. Not only do these films require such enormous budgets that a high degree of financial risk is involved, but the slightest deviations from historical facts can invoke the ire of experts. All it takes is a few highly vocal naysayers to endanger the success of a massive commercial enterprise. And here’s the kicker—even when filmmakers strive to get most of the important details right, there’s a hazard of losing the mainstream audience, because nobody buys a ticket on a Friday night to experience the equivalent of dry textbook. Given these realities, it’s no surprise that film history is filled with middling movies along the lines of Waterloo. Easily one of the most expensive films ever made at the time of its original release (costing a reported $35 million), Waterloo failed at the box office, received zero Oscar nominations, and subsequently slid into quasi-obscurity. Ironic, then, that the picture depicts one of history’s most infamous military defeats.

          Set in 1815, the picture begins with French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte (Rod Steiger) being driven from power after enemy forces reduce his domain from all of Europe to just a small part of France. Napoleon accepts defeat bitterly, and then returns from exile less than a year later with a small army of 1,000 loyal soldiers. His attempt to regain power infuriates leaders across Europe during a period referred to by historians as “The Hundred Days.” This period culminates in the Battle of Waterloo, where British commander Arthur Wellesley (Christopher Plummer), otherwise known as the Duke of Wellington, pulverizes Napoleon’s insurgent forces. Nearly half the movie’s running time comprises the battle itself, including preparations, preliminary fights, and the ultimate clash.

          Produced by Dino de Laurentiis in one of his more dignified moments, Waterloo features truly awesome production values. According to the lore surrounding the film, 17,000 Russian soldiers were used as extras during principal photography in the Ukraine (subbing for Waterloo’s real location in Belgium). Wide vistas during fight scenes are spectacular, with columns of men trailing to the horizon, and it’s exhausting just to imagine how much work went into costuming, organizing, and training this many people. Cowriter/director Sergi Bondarchuk and his collaborators strove for accuracy in the areas of formations, techniques, uniforms, weapons, and such—so, from a technical standpoint, the combat scenes are nearly unassailable.

          However, the movie’s dramatic scenes are not as effective. Juicy story threads regarding the shifting allegiances of France’s Field Marshal Ney (Dan O’Herlihy) and the political machinations of French King Louis XVIII (Orson Welles) are undernourished, while a silly romantic subplot involving a British officer adds nothing to the narrative. The filmmakers try to parallel the psychological states of Napoleon and Wellington, but the gimmick never quite works; while Steiger contributes a characteristically overripe performance (envision lots of howling in pain), Plummer is chilly and remote. That said, the debonair Plummer is at his best when delivering such absurdly aristocratic lines as, “Commanders in battle have something better to do than shoot at each other.”

          Ultimately, Waterloo is an unsatisfactory hybrid. It’s not elevated enough to reach the level of cinematic literature (read: David Lean), and yet it’s too educational and mechanical to qualify as pulp entertainment. Even acknowledging that history buffs will find more to enjoy here than general audiences, it seems fair to say that Waterloo’s shortcomings are as prominent as its virtues.

Waterloo: FUNKY

Conduct Unbecoming (1975)

          “Gentlemen do not question the honor of other gentlemen,” the imperious Col. Strang tells a cheeky subordinate at a British military base in colonial India, circa the late 19th century. The colonel’s declaration gets to the heart of Conduct Unbecoming, a solid courtroom drama predicated on the Old World notion that persons of good social standing should be considered beyond reproach. Adapted from a play by Barry England, the story revolves around Lieutenants Drake (Michael York) and Millington (James Faulkner), both of whom are new arrivals at Strang’s base. Drake is a proper soldier who comfortably defers to authority and tradition, whereas Millington is an arrogant dilettante who hopes to conclude his national service as quickly as possible. Upon arrival at the base, the lieutenants are inundated with rules about proper conduct, including the strange instruction to avoid the flirtations advances of Mrs. Scarlett (Susannah York), the widow of a beloved officer. Yet during a party, Millington makes a pass at Mrs. Scarlett, who is subsequently attacked.

          With Millington the obvious suspect, Strang’s junior officers—led by the officious Captain Harper (Stacy Keach)—empanel an unofficial court-martial tribunal, hoping to keep the scandal private. Millington asks Drake to serve as defense counsel, and Drake assembles evidence that might exonerate Millington. Unfortunately, Drake soon discovers that the regiment plans to railroad Millington whether he’s guilty or not, simply for the sake of expediency and propriety. Therefore, the story ends up exploring two equally relevant dramatic questions: Who really attacked Mrs. Scarlett, and what dirty secrets about the regiment will Drake’s investigation reveal?

          Smoothly directed by Michael Anderson (who reteamed with York the following year for the sci-fi classic Logan’s Run), Conduct Unbecoming is unapologetically melodramatic, but the crisp dialogue and skillful acting make the piece quite watchable. (Howard, Keach, and costars Richard Attenborough and Christopher Plummer give especially lusty performances.) On the minus side, the movie’s sound mix is muddy, and the final plot twist is both silly and tawdry. Nonetheless, the central theme of upper-crust people using social position as a shield for depravity has the desired impact, and key technicians (notably cinematographer Robert Huke, editor John Glen, and music composer Stanley Myers) contribute sterling work.

Conduct Unbecoming: GROOVY

Murder by Decree (1979)

          Presumably inspired by the success of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a 1974 novel by Nicholas Meyer about Sherlock Holmes teaming up with Sigmund Freud—and by the favorable reception for the terrific 1976 movie adaptation of Meyer’s book—this ambitious mystery film pits Holmes against a real-life murderer, Jack the Ripper. That’s where things get a little complicated. First off, Meyer was not involved with Murder by Decree, but he made a wholly separate 1979 movie about Jack the Ripper called Time After Time. Furthermore, Murder by Decree is based on two separate books. They are Murder by Decree, a 1975 tome that Elwyn Jones and John Lloyd adapted from their own 1973 BBC miniseries Jack the Ripper, and Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution, a 1976 book by Stephen Knight. Oh, and neither of those books features Sherlock Holmes. Confused? Me, too. Moving on!

          Murder by Decree is predicated on two gimmicks. First is the novelty of pairing Holmes with a real-life mystery, and second is the conspiracy theory detailed in the books upon which the film is based. Without giving away anything that isn’t hinted at by the title, the theory holds that Jack the Ripper was a member of the British aristocracy who had official sanction for his horrific crimes. Murder by Decree has many fans—deservedly so, since it’s a consistently intelligent and sophisticated film—though one wishes the producers had demonstrated more confidence in the source material, since the Holmes contrivance makes the whole picture feel a bit fluffy. After all, it’s hard to buy into a conspiracy theory when it’s presented in tandem with one of world literature’s most famous fictional characters. In other words, the story can only be so persuasive since it contains a made-up protagonist. Anyway, notwithstanding the credibility gap (and an overlong running time), Murder by Decree is solid entertainment for grown-ups.

          The cast is terrific, with an urbane Christopher Plummer playing Holmes opposite a snide James Mason as Dr. Watson. Supporting players include Frank Finlay and David Hemmings as policemen, plus John Gielgud as the British PM. (Geneviève Bujold and Donald Sutherland also appear.) Orchestrating the whole film is eclectic director Bob Clark, who at this point in his career had just escaped the ghetto of low-budget horror pictures; appropriately, he cloaks Murder by Degree with enough shadows and smoke to fuel a dozen frightfests. The movie comprises lots of skulking about in dark places, as well as interrogating suspects in ornate rooms, so the contrast between posh and seedy locations serves the story well. Still, it’s all a bit long-winded, and Plummer’s quite chilly, making it difficult to invest much emotion while watching the picture. Accordingly, how much you dig Murder by Decree will depend on how intriguing you find the central mystery—and how satisfying you find the ending, which might tie things up a bit too neatly for some tastes.

Murder by Decree: GROOVY

The Silent Partner (1978)

          An obscure but diverting thriller produced in Canada with American leading man Elliot Gould and Canadian-born Hollywood star Christopher Plummer, The Silent Partner was written for the screen by Curtis Hanson, who later demonstrated his acumen for the thriller genre by writing and/or directing critical faves including L.A. Confidential (1997). Complex and smart, Hanson’s script—which was based on a novel by Anders Bodelson—boasts not only a nifty set of plot twists but also wry wit and a surprising degree of savagery. In particular, the movie features one of the nastiest screen villains of the ’70s, and Plummer, who plays the baddie, clearly relished an opportunity to skewer the nice-guy image that had haunted him since his appearance in the squeaky-clean blockbuster The Sound of Music (1965).

          Gould, portraying one of his signature put-upon everyman characters, stars as Canadian bank teller Miles Cullen, whose branch gets robbed by a thief named Harry Reikle (Plummer). In a memorable flourish, Harry commits the crime while dressed as Santa Claus. Through circumstances that needn’t be explained here, Harry flees the bank without his stolen cash, which remains in Miles’ possession. However, because the bank believes the money is gone, Miles helps himself to the haul. Emboldened by his unexpected transition to criminality, Miles also becomes involved with a dark-haired femme fatale, played by the smoldering Canadian singer/starlet Céline Lomez. Unluckily for everyone involved, she’s also connected to Harry. Here’s the kicker: When Harry learns that he and Miles are both complicit in criminal activity, the crook manipulates his “silent partner” into participating in further larceny. It gets ugly.

          The plot requires a considerable suspension of disbelief, and some viewers may be turned off by the lack of a tangible moral center—even though Harry is a monster, Miles is at the very least a reckless weasel who endangers everyone around him for petty reasons. Yet the movie remains interesting because of its unexpected rhythms and vivid performances. Sure, Gould did similar work in many other films, but Plummer dives wholeheartedly into portraying a sociopath, and Lomez more than delivers the requisite measure of sexual heat. (Poor Susanna York, as was so often the case, wilts in a bland supporting role, though her elegant presence offers a small complement to the craven behavior surrounding her character.) Director Daryl Duke, whose career mostly comprises melodramatic TV projects including the ’80s miniseries The Thorn Birds, serves the edgy material well, guiding actors toward uninhibited work much as he did with the acidic music-industry drama Payday (1972). So, while The Silent Partner might not hold up to close scrutiny, it’s strikingly intense and mean-spirited.

The Silent Partner: GROOVY

Aces High (1976)

Stuck somewhere between old-fashioned melodrama and modern realism, this adaptation of the R.C. Sherriff play Journey's End explores the horrors of war through the relationship between a cynical veteran officer and a naïve new recruit. Although Sherriff’s play concerns infantrymen, the reconfigured Aces High instead follows pilots in the Royal Flying Corps, the World War I predecessor to the RAF. (Screenwriter Howard Barker also integrated elements from an RFC flyer’s memoirs.) The story begins at the elite Eton school, where Major John Gresham (Malcolm McDowell) speaks to a graduating class that includes Stephen Croft (Peter Firth), whose sister is Gresham ’s girlfriend. Because of this connection, Croft requests assignment to Gresham ’s unit once he’s commissioned as an officer. Yet the wide-eyed Croft is disillusioned to discover that Gresham is actually an embittered alcoholic with little interest in building emotional bonds because of the high fatality rate among new pilots. The picture comprises scenes of Croft trying to ingratiate himself to his senior officers, interspersed with dogfights in which the Brits battle Germans in the skies over France. While the underlying material is basically sound, Aces High is lifeless. McDowell’s interest in his performance seems to wane periodically, and Firth lacks a leading man’s charisma. Most of their costars are equally indifferent and/or unimpressive, so only Christopher Plummer—as the genteel commanding officer of the flying unit—lends humanity to the proceedings. And while it’s true that some of the dogfights are dynamic, the aerial scenes in Aces High rely too heavily on cheap-looking special effects including stilted rear-projection shots. The post-production shortcuts are a shame, because other physical elements, such as costuming and set design, are persuasive.

Aces High: FUNKY

International Velvet (1978)

          International Velvet is an oddity. The picture is an elaborate sequel to National Velvet (1944), the movie that transformed 12-year-old Elizabeth Taylor into a movie star—she played Velvet Brown, a precocious equestrian who wins a major contest, becoming a heroine in her native England, only to be disqualified due to her age. Produced 34 years later, without Taylor reprising her role, International Velvet dramatizes a new adventure in Velvet’s life. Now settled into quiet, rural domesticity with her husband, successful author John Seaton (Christopher Plummer), Velvet (Nanette Newman) becomes the guardian of her recently orphaned niece, Sarah Brown (Tatum O’Neal). After some initial trouble adjusting to life in England, Sarah follows in her aunt’s footsteps by becoming a world-class rider, entering the Olympics atop the son of the horse Velvet rode in the first picture.

          Sequels arriving decades after their predecessors rarely work, and the absence of Taylor in the Velvet role makes International Velvet feel particularly unnecessary. Therefore, since the movie is primarily a vehicle for O’Neal—who, by the late ’70s, was a top child star with an Oscar to her credit—wouldn’t it have made more sense to simply remake the original film instead of awkwardly contriving a follow-up? Alas, one can only guess at the machinations of producer/director/co-writer Bryan Forbes, whose eclectic career includes several intelligent but unremarkable movies. And, unfortunately for Forbes, the biggest draw of International Velvet—O’Neal’s performance—is a letdown. Caught at an awkward age, O’Neal is an attractive teenager but neither a fascinating child nor a fully formed adult, and her acting is so mannered that she’s outclassed by her costars.

          In the early scenes, depicting Sarah’s integration into her aunt’s country estate, Plummer’s suave demeanor and wry line deliveries dominate. Later, when Sarah joins the British Olympic team, Anthony Hopkins takes over the movie with his funny turn as a witheringly sarcastic coach. (As for Newman, the director’s real-life spouse, she’s elegant but forgettable.) Forbes mounts an impressive production, with extensive location photography, glamorous lighting, and vivid sports sequences. Additionally, some of his dialogue is quite tasty, particularly the bitchy monologues issued by Hopkins. However, the lack of real suspense in the movie, save for a harrowing plane trip during which a horse’s life is endangered, makes International Velvet feel as deep as a postcard.

International Velvet: FUNKY

Hanover Street (1979)

          While not a career zenith for any of its major participants, except perhaps leading lady Lesley-Anne Down, Hanover Street is a respectable World War II romance filled with old-fashioned themes of heroism and sacrifice. The movie’s reliance on narrative coincidence is a problem, and one wishes writer-director Peter Hyams had moved past archetypes to investigate his characters more deeply, but Hanover Street delivers much of what it promises—the stars are attractive, their onscreen love affair is complicated by unusual circumstances, and the movie spins inexorably toward an action-packed climax. So, even though it’s all a bit rudimentary in conception, the full package—accentuated by David Watkin’s shadowy cinematography and John Barry’s plaintive musical score—goes down smoothly.

          Harrison Ford, giving the most satisfying performance of his wilderness years between Star Wars (1977) and The Empire Strikes Back (1980), stars as David Halloran, a U.S. pilot stationed near London circa 1943. After a quick meet-cute with British nurse Margaret Sellinger (Down), David persuades his new acquaintance to join him for a long afternoon of tea and conversation. Although they fall in love almost instantly, Margaret reveals she’s married—but then the trauma of being caught in an air raid pushes them together. They begin an affair. This affects both of their lives badly, because David loses his combat edge while worrying about when he’s going to see Margaret again, and Margaret introduces a chill into her marriage to Paul Sellinger (Christopher Plummer). Paul was a teacher during peacetime, but he’s now an officer with British Intelligence—and when he feels Margaret drifting away, he recklessly volunteers for a mission behind enemy lines, hoping to win back her respect.

          The coincidence with which Hyams merges the fates of these characters stretches believability, but Hyams commits wholeheartedly to the ensuing melodrama, and the second half of the movie—when the story shifts from romance to thrills—is brisk and tense. As far as the actors go, Ford sulks a bit too much, though he’s sufficiently dashing during action scenes to compensate for his moodiness; and if Down fails to provide much substance behind her mesmerizing beauty, that’s acceptable as well, since she’s primarily meant to be an object of desire. Plummer is, predictably, the picture’s saving grace, lending elegance, humor, and vulnerability to his characterization. FYI, Hanover Street is far more palatable than the similarly themed Yanks, which was released later the same year—although the latter picture, directed by John Schlesinger, is more sophisticated, it’s a lifeless museum piece compared to Hyams’ fast-moving crowd-pleaser.

Hanover Street: GROOVY

Starcrash (1978)

How bad is Starcrash? To paraphrase the Bard, let us count the ways. First, there’s the discombobulated, idiotic storyline—an interstellar smuggler gets sent to the monster-filled home world of an evil wizard in order to rescue the son of an outer-space emperor, aided only by a band of outlaws and robots. Yep, it’s all the main signifiers from the previous year’s blockbuster Star Wars, thrown into a blender and transmogrified into nonsense. (Proving the makers of Starcrash have no shame, the flick even features low-rent light sabers.) Then there’s the garish production design, which blends Buck Rogers-style camp (the heroine spends most of the movie in an outer-space bikini) with sub-Star Wars mechanization, resulting in an aesthetic jumble. Next come the godawful special effects, ranging from chintzy stop-motion monsters to weak spaceship shots. And finally, there’s the abysmal acting, which is exacerbated by sloppy dubbing: B-movie stalwarts including Marjoe Gortner, David Hasselhoff, Caroline Munro, and Joe Spinell hiss and preen through ridiculous performances. Throw all of these elements together, and you’ve got junk so dreadful that even producer Roger Corman, whose company released the picture in the U.S., should have been embarrassed. Made in Italy, and variously titled in different international territories as Scontri stellari oltre la terza dimensione and The Adventures of Stella Star, the picture is nominally a showcase for leading lady Munro, a raven-haired beauty who first caught notice in Hammer horror flicks and a kitschy Sinbad picture. She fills out her barely-there costume nicely, but her bug-eyed acting diminishes her appeal considerably. Even more painful than enduring Munro’s work, however, is watching Christopher Plummer’s stupid cameo as the emperor—could he possibly have been paid enough for this humiliation? And for that matter, how the hell did the producers get A-list music composer John Barry, already a three-time Academy Award winner at this point, to do the score? Mysteries, to be sure, but not worth investigating.

Starcrash: SQUARE

The Man Who Would Be King (1975)

          After spending much of the ’60s in the creative wilderness, director John Huston rebounded in the early ’70s with the acclaimed character drama Fat City and the eccentric Western The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean, both released in 1972. Still, it seemed unlikely he would ever make another classic equal to his studio-era masterpieces The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) and The African Queen (1951), both of which starred Humphrey Bogart. It also seemed unlikely he would ever find the right actors for his adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s story The Man Who Would Be King, since Huston originally meant to make the picture with Bogart and Clark Gable. Yet Huston gracefully achieved both goals: Engrossing, spectacular, and thoughtful, his film of The Man Who Would Be King is among the all-time great adventure movies, perfectly meshing a once-in-a-lifetime onscreen duo with a timeless parable about man’s lust for gold.

          Michael Caine and Sean Connery play English soldiers in late 19th-century India, when the country was still part of the British Empire. Determined to improve their lot and emboldened by their belief in the superiority of white Christians over dark-skinned pagans, Peachy (Caine) and Danny (Connery) quit the army and venture to the remote terrain of Kafiristan, which is rumored to harbor untold treasures. Employing their army training, the lads help bolster the defenses of a remote village against violent marauders, and then a chance occurrence elevates their stature.

          During an attack, Danny is hit by an arrow but doesn’t flinch, convincing the locals he must be a god. (In fact, the arrow struck his leather bandolier.) Soon, Danny is summoned to a nearby holy city, with Peachy in tow, and another chance occurrence secures their illusion of divinity: The locals mistake Danny’s Freemason crest for a symbol of Alexander the Great, thus mistaking him for a reincarnation of the fabled conqueror. A palace filled with gold is handed to the soldiers, but when Peachy suggests they grab as much loot as they can carry and leave before their ruse is discovered, a power-mad Danny insists on staying.

          The stage thus set, Huston elegantly stages the duo’s inevitable fall from grace. The film’s climax is beautifully realized thanks to committed acting, crisp storytelling, and dazzling stunt work. Huston and co-screenwriter Gladys Hill capture the dangers and delights of Kipling’s style throughout the picture, so scenes in crowded India are chaotic and fast, while scenes in sprawling mountaintop temples are meditative and resplendent. Furthermore, veteran cameraman Oswald Morris’ lush photography makes locations like a vertiginous mountaintop staircase and a terrifying rope bridge seem like legends come to life. Huston employs a quasi-documentary feel for the most exotic scenes, creating a sense that Caine and Connery wandered into a never-before-seen wonderland; this intoxicating atmosphere is accentuated by the presence of Caine’s real-life wife, Guyana-born beauty Shakira Caine, in her only significant acting role. (Christopher Plummer appears in enjoyable framing sequences as Kipling.)

          As for Caine and Connery, they live up to the grandiose production surrounding them. Trading working-class banter like blokes sharing a pint, the actors convey the quality of deep friendship, so watching avarice cleave their relationship feels like observing great tragedy. That the actors never reunited onscreen defines The Man Who Would Be King as a singular document of their cinematic camaraderie.

The Man Who Would Be King: OUTTA SIGHT

The Return of the Pink Panther (1975) & The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976) & Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978)

          British comedian Peter Sellers first played nincompoop policeman Jacques Clouseau in The Pink Panther (1963), but really hit his groove with the sequel, A Shot in the Dark (1964), for which he and director Blake Edwards elevated Clouseau’s ineptitude to a giddy level of farcical perfection. So it’s disappointing to view The Return of the Pink Panther in close succession with its predecessors, because the 1975 reunion of Edwards and Sellers is a minor effort for both men. All the usual tropes are here (animated title sequence, smooth scoring by Henry Mancini, glamorous European locations), but the filmmaking is enervated. The jokes are moronic, repetitive, and telegraphed; the camerawork is flat except for an exciting heist at the beginning; and the storyline is a pointless rehash of the original 1963 movie, with Christopher Plummer blandly essaying a role originated by the debonair David Niven. As for Sellers, he seems bored, and there’s not nearly enough of Herbert Lom as Clouseau’s insane boss/nemesis, Dreyfus.
          The 1976 follow-up The Pink Panther Strikes Again is much better, though by this point Sellers’ characterization is becoming overly reliant on elaborate makeup and goofy costumes. The James Bond-ish plot is silly fun, with Dreyfus escaping from a mental institution and threatening global destruction with a super-powerful laser beam unless Clouseau is surrendered to him, and the movie benefits from its supporting players: Lom’s cheerful-maniac routine is delightful, and Lesley-Anne Down smolders as a Russian agent. Strikes Again is too long, but that’s true of all of Edwards’ Panther movies, and while comic inspiration is in short supply, some of the gags are terrific, like Clouseau’s attempt at dentistry.
          The series ran out of gas with Revenge of the Pink Panther, which relies on insipid disguises (Sellers dressed as a gargantuan mobster), stupid puns (a shopkeeper whose surname is Balls), and tedious plotting about a crime boss conspiring to kill Clouseau. Lom’s comic mojo is defused when his character is “cured,” Dyan Cannon is wasted in a decorative role, and series supporting player Burt Kwouk (Clouseau’s manservant Cato) gets stuck in a series of foolish slapstick gags. Even the usually reliable Mancini contributes lackluster work, from the disco-ish version of the main theme that plays over the opening credits to the corny vaudeville-style number that accompanies the Hong Kong-set climax.
          After Sellers died in 1980, Edwards pillaged outtakes from various Panther movies for a pair of awful ’80s sequels, and more recently Steve Martin took over the Clouseau role in a pair of critically drubbed comedies.

The Return of the Pink Panther: LAME

The Pink Panther Strikes Again: FUNKY

Revenge of the Pink Panther: LAME