Deep Red (1975)

          Complaining about the excesses and shortcomings of Dario Argento’s celebrated giallo thriller Deep Red serves little purpose, because the folks who dig this sort of movie expect little more than stylish violence, and the people for whom the film’s rough edges would be problematic are unlikely to ever watch Deep Red. A visually dynamic shocker with absurdly detailed gore, indulgently long suspense sequences, and a murky storyline that exists mostly as a means of stringing sensationalistic set pieces together, the film has inarguable cinematic merits. Furthermore, it’s a safe bet that Deep Red and other ’70s Argento pictures influenced the work of such American horror/thriller auteurs as John Carpenter and Brian De Palma. Nonetheless, there’s no avoiding the fact that Deep Red was designed to be unpleasant. Except during sequences that get bogged down in turgid plotting, the picture largely achieves its goal of making viewers uncomfortable, sometimes through crude means (onscreen bloodshed) and sometimes through subtler methods (the generation of legitimate suspense). And even though the script by Argento and frequent Fellini collaborator Bernardino Zapponi actually devotes quite a bit of time to character development, the value of the picture ultimately resides in its ability to provoke revulsion. Therefore, despite being made with considerable artistry, Deep Red is not high art. If anything, it’s the exact opposite of that.

          Set in Turin, Italy, the meandering movie begins with atmospheric scenes culminating in the murder of a psychic. The killing, which occurs in a high window of an apartment building, is witnessed by an English musician named Marcus Daly (David Hemmings), who lives and works in Italy. Marcus soon becomes obsessed with determining the murderer’s identity. Helping him investigate are friends of the deceased psychic as well as a reporter named Gianna Brezzi (Darla Nicoldoi). The plot grows more complicated with each passing scene, eventually becoming almost incomprehensible as Argento adds in myths and rumors and whatnot, hence the picture’s bloated original running time of 126 minutes. (During its initial American release, Deep Red earned an “X” rating for its violence, only to get trimmed down for mainstream US exhibition.) As with many of Argento’s pictures, the style is ultimately more important than the substance. Argento’s probing camerawork is exciting to watch, with cameras floating and soaring through spaces whenever the director isn’t composing striking static shots. Pushing these images along is an undulating original rock score by Italian band Goblin, whose spooky grooves have a hypnotic appeal. As for leading man Hemmings, his work is chilly and intense, though in his defense, Hemmings’ character exists to drive the story, rather than the other way around.

Deep Red: FUNKY

The Squeeze (1977)

          Produced in England and featuring the same sort of seedy criminals who pervade such UK crime classics as Get Carter (1971) and The Long Good Friday (1980), this slow burn of a picture boasts a terrific leading performance by Hollywood actor Stacy Keach—so long as you disregard his patchy version of a British accent—and a believably grimy tone. Keach plays Jim, a loser who drank himself out of a job as a police detective and botched his marriage in the process. When we meet him, he’s so far down the spiral that he gets arrested for public inebriation and thrown into a drunk tank, then walks out of jail the next day and heads for the nearest pub.

          Duty calls when gangsters kidnap Jim’s ex-wife, Jill (Carol White), and the young daughter she’s raising with her new husband, Foreman (Edward Fox). Foreman enlists Jim’s aid in tracking down the perpetrators, but in his sodden state, Jim is initially no match for brutal crime boss Vic (Stephen Boyd) and his brilliant but sociopathic underling, Keith (David Hemmings). Jim is captured while attempting to probe Vic’s estate, so Vic humiliates the would-be hero by having him beaten senseless, stripped naked, pumped full of booze, and then deposited back in his own neighborhood without a stitch of clothing. Meanwhile, Keith torments Jill under threat of harming her daughter, forcing her to strip for his goons and provide sexual favors. Bubbling under the whole affair is a blackmail scheme, because Foreman is an executive at an armored-car service, so instead of ransom, Vic demands help arranging a massive heist.

          What makes The Squeeze unique is the twist it provides on the usual crime-movie formula. Whereas most filmmakers would show a character like Jim making subtle moves as he prepares a climactic rescue, the folks behind The Squeeze show that Vic and his goons are fully aware of Jim’s machinations, but don’t consider him a threat because he’s such a wreck. And, for much of the movie’s running time, their assessment proves correct. Jim reacts to hardships by retreating into alcohol, even though he knows that innocent people will pay terrible prices for his choices. All of this dark drama is set to a driving and eerie score by David Hentschel, which pops with synthesizer-laden prog-rock flourishes. Had The Squeeze benefited from a sharper script, the grim concepts marbled through the story could have elevated the piece into rarified terrain. As is, the picture is an interesting near-miss containing several fine performances.

          In particular, Irish actor Boyd—appearing in one of his final films—gives a disquieting turn as an unsophisticated brute, employing his natural accent instead of hiding behind the Americanized speaking style he used during his Hollywood career. (Boyd is a long way from his vapid he-man turns in such widescreen epics as 1959’s Ben-Hur and 1964’s The Fall of the Roman Empire.) Hemmings and Keach deliver exemplary work, though each actor played similar notes in other films; debauched villains were a staple of Hemmings’ filmography dating back to Camelot (1967), and Keach’s definitive drunk-loser performance was in John Huston’s bleak drama Fat City (1972). Yet even if The Squeeze isn’t a defining moment for anyone involved, it’s executed with menace and skill, and it’s among the toughest pieces ever helmed by the prolific English director Michael Apted, who is generally best known for documentaries and sensitive melodramas.

The Squeeze: GROOVY

The Love Machine (1971)

Lamenting the stupidity and trashiness of any movie derived from a book by Jacqueline Susann is redundant, since she and Harold Robbins were the titans of literary schlock during the ’60s and ’70s. Nonetheless, The Love Machine is hard to beat for sheer tackiness. Excepting such technical aspects as cinematography and editing, everything about the movie is embarrassingly bad. The acting is wooden, the dialogue is ridiculous, the plot twists are absurd, and the themes are sensationalistic. Even worse, because the storyline concerns a fast-rising TV executive whose proclivity for broadcasting junk is supposed to symbolize the triumph of the lowest common denominator, The Love Machine feels like an idiotic precursor to Network (1976). Clearly, the time was right for someone to make a sweeping statement about television, and Susann was not that person. John Phillip Law, the handsome but robotic actor who caught attention in Barbarella (1968), stars as Robin Stone, a beat reporter at the New York affiliate station of a fictional network. Judith Austin (Dyan Cannon), the trophy wife of the network’s aging owner, Gregory Austin (Robert Ryan), sees Robin on TV one night and falls in lust, so she convinces her husband to hire Robin. Inexplicably, Gregory grants Robin control over the whole news division. And when Gregory suffers a near-fatal heart attack, Judith uses her proxy powers to put Robin in charge of the entire network while Gregory recuperates. Meanwhile, Judith begins an affair with Robin, even though Robin’s also sleeping with a model named Amanda (Jodi Wexler), as well countless other women who succumb to his charms. This is pure jet-set fantasy, with the entire story predicated on Robin’s superhuman gifts for career advancement and sexual conquest. The movie is also a relic from an ugly time, because the subplot about fashion photographer Nelson (David Hemmings) is filled with clutch-the-pearls horror at the notion Nelson’s homosexual scheming might lure Robin into a gay tryst. Not one frame of The Love Machine feels authentic, and the entertainment value is painfully low. Only those craving a few so-bad-it’s-good snickers need investigate further.

The Love Machine: LAME

The Walking Stick (1970)

          A tender love story that includes elements from the crime-thriller genre while remaining largely focused on subtle nuances of characterization, the British drama The Walking Stick was adapted from the novel of the same name by Winston Graham. Delicate beauty Samantha Eggar stars as Deborah Dainton, an insecure and uptight young professional woman who works as an assistant at a London auction house. Deborah uses a walking stick because one of her legs is slightly deformed after a childhood bout with polio. Still living with her parents, Deborah watches her gregarious sisters engage in romantic exploits, but feels resigned to a loveless existence. When she’s dragged to a party one evening, Deborah is approached by confident but self-deprecating artist Leigh Hartley (David Hemmings), who asks for a date and won’t take no for an answer. Eventually, Deborah’s resistance weakens, and romance blooms. She moves into Leigh’s dingy flat, and he persuades her to walk without aid of the stick.

          Things take a disquieting turn, however, when Leigh reveals that he’s been asked by criminal acquaintances to get information from Deborah about the security at the auction house. Idle chatter soon becomes serious business, because Leigh says he’s determined to not only assist with but also participate in a planned robbery of the auction house. These circumstances force Deborah to investigate whether Leigh’s feelings are sincere, or whether he was using her all along.

          While the actual storyline of The Walking Stick is slight, elegant filmmaking and tender performances make the movie quite worthwhile. Eggar, who first gained international attention in The Collector (1965), fills her characterization of Deborah with interesting textures. At various times, Deborah is confrontational, meek, sensuous, and vulnerable. Similarly, Hemmings—best known for playing a philandering photographer in Blowup (1966)—gives equal attention to the fragile and tough aspects of his role. By the end of The Walking Stick, Leigh is revealed as a person whose psyche has sustained as much damage as Deborah’s, because his dreams of artistic glory are inhibited by the limitations of his talent.

          Director Eric Till and cinematographer Arthur Ibbertson shoot the movie beautifully, using imaginative angles during intimate scenes to suggest varying degrees of closeness and distance between characters; the way a key love scene is played almost entirely on Eggar’s face reflects the humanistic aesthetic that pervades the picture. Similarly, the filmmakers exploit exteriors well, capturing the ruggedness of life on a low-rent wharf while also celebrating the visual splendor of posh neighborhoods. Additionally, Stanley Myers’ evocative score energizes the supple rhythms of the acting, cinematography, and editing. The Walking Stick is a small movie in every sense, which means that some viewers might grow restless waiting for explosive plot developments. Yet for those willing to accept the film’s modest scope, a rewarding experience awaits.

The Walking Stick: 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

Juggernaut (1974)

          It’s tempting to lump Juggernaut in with the various disaster epics of the early ’70s, and, indeed, the movie is quite enjoyable if consumed as a thinking-person’s alternative to the campy escapism of, say, Irwin Allen’s mayhem-filled productions. Yet in addition to being a British film instead of a Hollywood picture, Juggernaut is really a terrorism thriller rather than a proper oh-the-humanity destruco-fest. For instance, the tragedy that the film’s heroes attempt to overcome is not a natural occurrence such as an earthquake or a tidal wave—it’s a bomb planted on an ocean liner. Accordingly, Juggernaut eschews the standard disaster-movie formula of introducing various characters whom the audience knows will later fall victim to capricious fate. The movie focuses almost exclusively on bomb-squad technicians and maritime officials.

          Set largely aboard the cruise liner Britannic, the picture begins when an unseen terrorist who identifies himself as Juggernaut makes phone contact with ship’s owner, Porter (Ian Holm). Juggernaut says he’s rigged the Britannic to blow unless he’s paid a hefty ransom. Soon afterward, the British government sends in a bomb squad led by the intrepid Fallon (Richard Harris). The rest of the film comprises parallel storylines—Fallon’s attempts to find and defuse bombs (turns out there’s more than just one), and endeavors by a police detective (Anthony Hopkins) to find Juggernaut’s hideout on the mainland. There’s a good deal of tension in Juggernaut, so even if you feel as if you’ve seen a million “Cut the blue wire!” scenes before, the care with which director Richard Lester executes the suspenseful passages is visible in every claustrophobic close-up and every nerve-rattling edit. Lester, though best known for his exuberant Beatles movies and his lusty Musketeers pictures, apparently joined Juggernaut late in the project’s development and then supervised a heavy rewrite. It’s therefore unsurprising that the final film is very much a director’s piece, with characterization and story taking a backseat to pacing and texture. Perhaps because of this focus on cinematic technique, Juggernaut is excellent on a moment-to-moment basis, but not especially memorable overall.

          That said, the movie promises nothing more than a good romp, and it delivers exactly that. Contained within its fleeting frames, however, is fine acting by a number of posh UK actors. In particular, Harris and David Hemmings have strong chemistry as bomb-squad teammates, with both actors articulating believable characterizations of men who face unimaginable stress in the course of their daily activities. The picture’s production values are exemplary, and the cinematography and music—by British stalwarts Gerry Fisher and Ken Thorne, respectively—contribute to the overall intensity and polish of the piece.

Juggernaut: GROOVY

Fragment of Fear (1970)

          Appropriate to its title, Fragment of Fear offers glimpses of the powerhouse psychological thriller it never quite becomes—fragments of greatness, as it were. In fact, the movie screams for a remake because a more vivacious interpretation of the same material could be dynamite. Based on a novel by John Bingham and adapted by the British screenwriter Paul Dehn, the movie has a terrific hook: A recovering drug addict tries to expose a conspiracy, so the conspirators exploit his past to destroy his credibility. Had the movie maximized the tension inherent to that strong premise, it could have hit viewers right in the gut. And indeed, some scenes, particularly the finale, provoke the desired level of audience discomfort. However, the movie is burdened with an unnecessarily convoluted narrative and a preference for loaded conversations over physical action. As a result, the picture feels longer than its 94-minute running time even though most of what happens onscreen is intense and nasty.

          David Hemmings stars as Englishman Tim Brett, a former junkie enjoying the success of his best-selling memoir by taking a vacation in Italy with his beloved aunt. When his aunt is murdered in circumstances so mysterious that the Italian police give up their investigation almost immediately, Brett decides to smoke out the killer (or killers). Meanwhile, he manages a rocky relationship with his beautiful fiancée, Juliet (Gayle Hunnicutt), who’s not completely convinced of Tim’s recovery. As Tim sniffs for clues about the murder, he starts getting threats to back off, which only compels him to dig deeper—until the threats start getting directed at Juliet. The ordeal pushes Tim to heavy drinking, and maybe even back to the needle; by the final act, the lines between what’s happening in the real world and what’s happening in Tim’s imagination have blurred.

          Stories predicated on altered mental states are notoriously difficult, because trying to replicate the twists and turns of encroaching madness often damages narrative clarity—and in Fragment of Fear, the problem is exacerbated by talkiness. Since there’s so little in the way of exciting visuals, dull stretches emerge whenever the plot gets murky. It doesn’t help that Hemmings is a cold fish; although he’s credible as a strung-out hothead, his inability to convey warmth inhibits our ability to root for his character. Having said that, it’s probably best to view the movie through the prism of its reserved Britishness; at one point, a policeman sternly announces, “I shall be in danger of losing my temper!” So, in that sense, Fragment of Fear offers an offbeat alternative to the usual hysterics of American drug-themed pictures. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

Fragment of Fear: FUNKY