A Day in the Death of Joe Egg (1972)

          Adapted by Peter Nichols from his own play and directed by Peter Medak, whose work here echoes the style of his fellow Englishman John Schlesinger, A Day in the Death of Joe Egg explores a profoundly depressing subject with a strange mixture of irreverence and solemnity. The story concerns a couple whose only child suffers from cerebral palsy. Confined to a wheelchair, unable to communicate through gestures or words, and subject to occasional seizures, Jo (Elizabeth Robillard) is a virtual invalid and a source of never-ending anguish for her parents, schoolteacher Bri (Alan Bates) and housewife Sheila (Janet Suzman). Yet the first half of A Day in the Death of Joe Egg is filled with levity, because Bri uses jokes and playacting to transcend the grim reality of his family’s everyday life. Medak takes this narrative trope even further by slipping into fantastical scenes, Bri’s tall tales made “real.”

          Sheila plays along with Bri’s escapism, though it’s plain she’s more focused on the here and now, and it soon emerges that she’s aware of a different set of fantasies that Bri entertains. He sometimes imagines himself murdering Jo so that he and his wife can be free of the burden she represents. The juxtaposition of dark and light elements makes the first hour of the picture a bit discombobulated, but things come together during a lengthy monologue that Sheila delivers close to the midpoint. She confesses to humoring her husband and further admits she’s as despondent about the family’s situation as Bri. What buoys her is faith and the optimism it inspires—she considers any life miraculous, and she believes, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Jo may someday improve.

          The second half of the picture isn’t much smoother than the first, because two dinner guests join Bri and Sheila, bringing the simmering debate about how to handle Jo to full boil. The wife, sickened by Jo’s pathetic state, advocates mercy killing, while the husband, a detached logician, equates that suggestion to the Third Reich’s Final Solution. It’s all very heavy, though on some level the story is about marriage as much as it’s about mortality; the central dramatic question explores whether two people can stay together if their viewpoints on the single most important topic that connects them are different.

          Alas, the various parts of A Day in the Death of Joe Egg clash as often as they cohere. Jumping between fantasies and realities was all the rage in the late ’60s, but the technique had lost its novelty by 1972, when this film was released. Additionally, Medak never seems clear whether the husband or the wife should occupy the center of the storyline. If it’s the husband’s story, then A Day in the Death of Joe Egg is a bleak statement about a weak soul favoring comfort over compassion. If it’s the wife’s story, then it’s an equally bleak statement about the nurturers of the world suffering in silence. Either way, the movie is unpleasant to watch, and not every viewer will agree the harsh thematic takeaways justify the investment of time and tolerance the picture requires.

A Day in the Death of Joe Egg: FUNKY

The Black Windmill (1974)

          The Black Windmill is a straightforward thriller distinguished by the onscreen participation of Michael Caine and the behind-the-camera participation of director Don Siegel. Caine grounds the picture in his understated performance brimming with just-below-the-surface intensity, and Siegel makes sure the movie stays laser-focused on the task of generating tension. So, even though the plot is quite ordinary and the ending is a bit on the abrupt side, it’s hard to argue with results, and The Black Windmill is consistently compelling, exciting, and nerve-jangling. It may not be what the poster promises (“The ultimate experience in controlled terror”), but it’s a solid potboiler.

          Caine plays Major John Tarrant, a British covert operative under the supervision of unctuous spymaster Cedric Harper (Donald Pleasence). Violent crooks led by a mysterious Irishman (John Vernon) kidnap Tarrant’s son, then use their hostage for leverage to pressure Harper into handing over a cache of diamonds his agency is holding. (Rest assured this seems a lot less convoluted when it unfolds onscreen.) The story twists in interesting ways as Tarrant realizes his superiors value their financial assets more highly than the life of his son, so Tarrant steals the diamonds and attempts to outsmart the crooks. While still leaving room for a touch of nuance here and there, the picture builds steadily from one nasty situation to the next while Tarrant drifts further into illegality.

          As always, Caine excels at illustrating on-the-fly calculations; watching him assess situations and change strategy is pure pleasure, because subtle fluctuations dart across his expressive features like lightning sparking in the night sky. Pleasence is terrific as well, playing a heartless survivor whose mousy demeanor hides lethal ambition, and Vernon delivers another of his enjoyably florid turns as a cold-blooded monster. Joss Acklaland, Clive Revill, and chilly European starlet Delphine Seyrig also appear, and Nicholas and Alexandra Oscar nominee Janet Suzman gives an emotional performance as Tarrant’s estranged wife, who finds herself drawn back to Tarrant because of their family’s harrowing circumstances. Thanks to all of these virtues, it doesn’t matter that The Black Windmill isn’t really about anything, because the movie does exactly what it’s supposed to do and nothing more.

The Black Windmill: GROOVY

Nicholas and Alexandra (1971)

          Writer James Goldman, the older brother of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid scribe William Goldman, made his name with the play and screenplay The Lion in Winter (released as a film in 1968), which dramatized the life of England’s King Henry II. He then spent much of his career exploring similarly lofty historical subjects, and Goldman’s ability to blend the personal and political is on full display in the downbeat epic Nicholas and Alexandra, which depicts the doomed reign of Russia’s last tsar. Nicholas Romanoff (Michael Jayston) is the product of a 300-year dynasty, an insulated royal so oblivious to his people’s suffering that he blithely extends military conflicts out of personal pride. He’s also preoccupied with his loving marriage to Alexandra (Janet Suzman), a foreign-born aristocrat who engenders only enmity from the Russian populace, so when the couple’s son, Alexis, is diagnosed with hemophilia, they lose virtually all connection with life outside the palace. Meanwhile, ambitious politicians including Vladimir Lenin (Michael Bryant) carefully transform public rage into the seeds of revolution.

          Even at a length well over three hours, Nicholas and Alexandra, based on the book of the same name by Robert K. Massie, tackles an enormous amount of history; some viewers will get lost amidst the huge cast of characters and the shifting backdrops of social change. Also problematic is director Franklin J. Schaffner’s regal style. Taking a step away from his usual robust camerawork, Schaffner shoots Nicholas and Alexandra somewhat like a play, with lengthy dialogue passages unfolding in an unhurried fashion, ornate costumes and sets allowed to overwhelm actors, and stiff blocking. The movie’s dramatic power is further muted by Jayston’s intense but quiet lead performance; although perfectly cast as an ineffectual monarch, Jayston displays a soft-spoken style that’s more soothing than invigorating.

          Nonetheless, Nicholas and Alexandra is such an ambitious and handsome production, offering so many insights into a tumultuous period, that it overcomes its weaknesses. The dialogue is consistently intelligent and probing, the intercutting between subplots is careful and logical, and the physical reality of the production is awesome—whether the setting is a barren Siberian encampment or a glorious St. Petersburg palace. Plus, the acting is uniformly good, even though most of the players are as understated as Jayston. Suzman is especially strong, playing a lioness of a mother, and future Doctor Who star Tom Baker is creepy as Alexandra’s notoriously debauched advisor, “mad monk” Rasputin. Familiar faces including Ian Holm, Laurence Olivier, and John Wood appear in the cast, though everyone takes a backseat to the leading players. While probably not exciting or lurid enough to entice viewers who are not predisposed toward historical subjects, Nicholas and Alexandra is an elegant treatment of an unusual subject: the reign of a man who didn’t understand the obligations that accompanied his crown until it was far too late.

Nicholas and Alexandra: GROOVY