Charley One-Eye (1973)

          Presumably conceived as a provocative statement about race, this peculiar Western depicts the adventures of a black soldier who’s gone AWOL from the Union Army and the mysterious Indian whom the soldier encounters in the desert. Initially, the soldier makes a hostage of the Indian by threatening him at knifepoint, forcing the Indian into servitude and mercilessly taunting the man. After bonding over their mutual hatred of white people, the soldier and the Indian decide to commit robberies together. All the while, a bounty hunter chases the soldier, so the specter of death is omnipresent. In its broad strokes, this storyline should be serviceable despite its contrived nature. But Charley One-Eye is riddled with peculiarities, like the fact that none of the characters has a name. (The soldier is billed as “The Black Man,” the Indian is billed as “The Indian,” etc.)
          Actually, a slight correction to the preceding remark is necessary, because the film does indeed feature a character named Charley One-Eye. He’s a chicken. And, quite frankly, he’s the most sympathetic character in the whole movie.

          The first hour of Charley One-Eye is a slog, because the soldier (Richard Roundtree) is a sadistic prick given to fits of idiotic laughter, and the Indian (Roy Thinnes) is part pathetic cripple and part wise mystic. Neither character is believable or fun to watch, so the myriad scenes of them shuffling through the desert while being cruel to each other are boring. Eventually, the bounty hunter (Nigel Davenport) arrives, leading to scenes of torture and other violence.

          None of this resonates much beyond visceral impact, though flash cuts to the past indicate that the soldier slept with a white officer’s wife and subsequently killed the officer. The picture fails to provide corresponding illumination for the Indian, except to illustrate that he’s kind to fowl, particularly the aforementioned Charley One-Eye. The story climaxes with a failed attempt at poetic irony, exemplifying that the divide between the content and intentions of Charley One-Eye is so wide as to render the film almost impenetrable. As a result, the film is little more than pretentious pulp, despite Roundtree’s spirited efforts to enliven a poorly conceived role. Chicago native Thinnes, absurdly miscast as a Native American, mostly stares out from beneath long hair and a wide-brimmed hat while hissing his curt lines in a raspy whisper.

Charley One-Eye: FUNKY

No Blade of Grass (1970)

          One of myriad early-’70s sci-fi flicks featuring an ecological apocalypse caused by man’s abuse of the planet, No Blade of Grass was made in the UK by he-man actor-turned-director Cornel Wilde, who served as coproducer, writer, and director. Wilde’s storytelling style is clumsy in the extreme, relying on such hokey devices as heavy-handed voiceover at the beginning and end. Additionally, Wilde doesn’t sustain a consistent tone. At one point, for instance, the movie abruptly cuts from a brutal scene of the hero euthanizing someone to a chatty vignette of the hero walking through the countryside with his traveling companions. There’s also an irritatingly mechanical quality to the progression of narrative events, with Wilde contriving scenes solely to advance pedantic messages about compassion and conservation.

          The picture begins with an elaborate montage juxtaposing scenes of overpopulation, pollution, and famine with voiceover provided by Wilde. Then the story proper introduces John Custance (Nigel Davenport), an eyepatch-wearing UK architect who has friends in the British government. John is privy to advance information about a plague that’s spreading across the earth, destroying every patch of grain and grass that it touches. John’s brother, David Custance (Patrick Holt), departs London for a remote countryside estate in Scotland, where he hopes to build a shelter in anticipation of society falling apart. Thereafter, the movie shows John and his family making a pilgrimage to Scotland amid growing anarchy. John soon becomes a postapocalyptic Pied Piper, gathering more and more people to his flock even as the group has bloody conflicts with roving bands of savages. Does it all end with lots of “My God, what have we done?” hand-wringing? Of course it does.

          No Blade of Grass wobbles between talky scenes that fail to illuminate characters and violent scenes that occasionally contain surprising bursts of gore. (In one bit, a housewife gets cut nearly in two by a close-range shotgun blast.) Davenport, as always, brings a certain zest to his performance, but the disjointed nature of Wilde’s screenplay prevents Davenport from forming a believable or consistent characterization. Meanwhile, the largely anonymous British supporting cast performs interchangeable roles competently. The movie also contains, for no discernible reason, a lengthy birth scene integrating real documentary footage of a messy human birth. Restraint, they name is not Cornel Wilde.

No Blade of Grass: FUNKY

Death of a Snowman (1976)

          While it’s unsurprising that certain genres associated with Hollywood have been emulated throughout the world, it does seem peculiar that blaxploitation—which, after all, grew from idioms and issues associated with inner-city America—made its way outside the borders of the U.S. Then again, if any country in the world could have made a viable claim to the genre in the mid-’70s, it would have been apartheid-era South Africa, where being black was often a matter of life or death. Having said that, whatever innate potential one might associate with the notion of a South African blaxploitation flick is unrealized in the boring Death of a Snowman, which is occasionally marketed by the alternate titles Black Trash and Soul Patrol. (Note the above poster, which has zero to do with the film’s content.) Suffering from a muddy script and sloppy editing, as well as indecisiveness about which character is the protagonist, the movie trudges through a rather pedestrian story about criminals masquerading as social activists.

          The picture ostensibly focuses on the partnership between a black reporter (Ken Gampu) and a white detective (Nigel Davenport), who join forces to investigate the criminals, but writer Bima Stagg and director Christopher Rowley fail to define the characters as interesting individuals, much less a dynamic duo. Meanwhile, recurring cuts to a spaced-out hit man (played by Stagg) add little except explosions of violence. Even though Death of a Snowman is only 86 minutes in duration, it feels infinitely longer because there’s no discernible narrative momentum. Further, Death of a Snowman has an odd vibe because of its international origin. Parts of the movie are reminiscent of Italian crime pictures, some scenes feature Asians performing martial arts, various actors’ voices were replaced in postproduction (creating lip-sync problems), and vignettes with Afros and leisure suits evoke American drive-in flicks. Death of a Snowman ends up feeling a bit like a fever dream of bad ’70s cinema, with flavors from around the world mixed together in the most haphazard fashion possible.

Death of a Snowman: LAME

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1974)

          Producer-director Dan Curtis, the king of small-screen ’70s horror, struck again with this restrained adaptation of Bram Stoker’s classic vampire novel. (Jack Palace stars as the world’s most famous bloodsucker.) The question, of course, is whether “restrained” was the right approach for a story about sex and vampirism. Therefore, while Curtis is to be commended on some level for exercising good taste, this picture is ultimately as bloodless—metaphorically speaking—as any of the victims Dracula leaves in his wake. Penned by the great Richard Matheson, who was apparently instructed to exclude his wonderful sense of humor from the screenplay, Bram Stoker’s Dracula sticks closely to certain elements of the source material. The picture begins in central Europe, where English lawyer Jonathan Harker (Murray Brown) arrives to present various UK properties to a rich client, Count Dracula (Palance). The count and his three bestial brides prey upon Jonathan. Then Dracula takes a ship to England, where he menaces Jonathan’s fiancée, Mina (Penelope Horner), and her best friend, Lucy (Fiona Lewis), until the intervention of wily Dr. Van Helsing (Nigel Davenport).
          According to the fine folks at Wikipedia, this adaptation was the first to include two clever nuances: Dracula being the same person as real-life warrior Vlad Teppes (better known as “Vlad the Impaler”), and Dracula stalking a woman whom he believed to be the reincarnation of a lost love. (These nuances were later repurposed for Francis Ford Coppola’s frisky big-screen 1992 smash, also titled Bram Stoker’s Dracula.)  Notwithstanding its admirable literary properties, Curtis’ movie is turgid because of flat direction and even flatter performances. Palance is okay, clearly relishing a chance to play something other than a generic goon, and he strikes some facial expressions imbued with real pathos. Yet Brown, Davenport, Lewis, and Simon Ward (playing Lucy’s betrothed) seem stiff as they churn through leisurely dialogue scenes in between the film’s too-few fright sequences. Clearly, Curtis wanted to transpose the Gothic-romance formula of his enduring Dark Shadows franchise onto Stoker’s narrative, but it’s easier to appreciate what he tried to do than what he actually accomplished.

Bram Stoker’s Dracula: FUNKY
 

The Last Valley (1970)

          Though he’s best remembered as the author of sweeping historical novels including 1975’s Shogun, James Clavell also enjoyed a significant career in film, co-writing The Great Escape (1963) and directing To Sir, with Love (1966), in addition to working on several other projects. Notwithstanding his subsequent screenwriting contributions to TV adaptations of his books, however, Clavell’s last film work was writing, producing, and directing the intense epic The Last Valley. Big on every level, from the scale of its visuals to the scope of its themes, the picture has many admirers among fans of historical dramas, partly because it dramatizes an obscure chapter in world events and partly because it treats its subject matter with intelligence and respect.

          Set in the early 17th century, the movie involves minor players in the Thirty Years War, a conflict revolving around religious disputes between Catholics and Protestants. Based on a novel by J.B. Pick, Clavell’s screenplay takes place in a secluded, sparsely populated German valley. When the story begins, a mysterious man named Vogel (Omar Sharif) flees through plague-infested Europe until stumbling onto the valley, which has escaped the ravages of illness and war. Unfortunately, a roving armada of mercenaries, led by a character known only as the Captain (Michael Caine), finds the valley at the same time.

          The Captain’s soldiers claim the valley as their private empire, demanding food and women in exchange for not slaughtering the locals. As the convoluted narrative unfolds, the Captain plays his subjects against each other to tighten his stranglehold, with Vogel emerging as the voice of compassion when a local aristocrat (Nigel Davenport) and a local priest (Per Oscarsson) rail against the Captain’s oppression—and the officer’s cavalier attitude toward religion. God is a major topic of discussion throughout the movie, which gets heavily philosophical during many long interludes of extended dialogue; although Clavell spices up the picture by with bloody vignettes at quasi-regular intervals, The Last Valley is primarily an intellectual exercise.

          Unfortunately, vague characterizations diminish the story’s potential impact. Vogel is a cipher, and the Captain so clearly represents Big Ideas that he never emerges as an individual. A clash in acting styles is problematic, as well: Caine tries to employ his usual virile naturalism, but he’s held back by the metaphorical quality of his role and by his shoddy German accent, while Sharif preens through a competent but superficial performance. Still, the pluses outweigh the minuses. Clavell presents many handsome 70mm vistas, and John Barry’s muscular score amplifies the story’s emotions. Furthermore, while The Last Valley sometimes seems like a dry history lesson, the film’s merciless final act underscores the insanity of shedding blood in God’s name.

The Last Valley: GROOVY

Phase IV (1974)

          While it may be hard to envision an art movie about super-intelligent ants wreaking havoc on human victims, Phase IV is just such a film—a creature feature that balances creepy-crawly horror moments with elegantly realized compositions and a weird sort of metaphysical wonderment. Sure, it’s easy to slag the film for being opaque on many levels, since the (human) characterizations are virtually nonexistent and the ending is a cerebral freakout in the 2001 tradition, but Phase IV is too ambitious and interesting to dismiss. Obviously, the most noteworthy thing about the picture is that it’s the sole directorial effort of Saul Bass, the celebrated graphic designer who created numerous posters and title sequences for filmmakers including Alfred Hitchcock and Otto Preminger; accordingly, it’s fascinating to watch Phase IV for sequences in which powerfully minimalistic images such as rows of symmetrical objects evoke Bass’ aesthetic.

          Yet it’s unfair to simply categorize Phase IV as a visual exercise, because on some unknowable level, the movie is about something provocative—a meditation on the inevitability of man losing supremacy over the Earth, perhaps. Plus, the picture is quite exciting, speeding through an eventful story in just 84 minutes (the length of the most widely available version), and Bass’ attention to detail generates a handful of memorable scenes. The story is as bare-bones as one of Bass’ striking posters: Two scientists establish an outpost in a remote desert to study ants that have inexplicably joined forces to overrun local livestock. Dr. Ernest Hubbs (Nigel Davenport) is an obsessed researcher fascinated by the insects’ emotionless collective endeavors, while his associate, James Lesko (Michael Murphy), is excited by the challenge of using mathematical analysis to translate the insects’ “language.” Setting up a fortress-like dome that’s hermetically sealed to avoid contact with ants, the scientists soon find themselves under siege, so they employ chemical toxins as a defense measure. Meanwhile, a young woman (Lynne Frederick) who defied an evacuation order for the surrounding area seeks refuge with the scientists.

          As the movie progresses, the ants grow more resourceful in their attacks on the scientists, Hubbs becomes more megalomaniacal, and Lesko grows determined to flee, taking the young woman with him. Phase IV is interesting from start to finish, if only to see what a truly clinical horror film looks like, and the best sequence is a triumph of visual storytelling—worker ants carry a crumb-sized sample of a deadly toxin back to their queen, even though each ant can carry the sample only a short distance before dying from exposure. Then, after the sample finally reaches the queen, she ingests the substance and produces a new, genetically engineered brood—it’s the whole cycle of evolution played out in a handful of minutes. Sure, one wishes Phase IV had a more concrete ending, but there’s a lot to be said for leaving viewers with tantalizing mysteries to ponder.

Phase IV: GROOVY

Living Free (1972)

          The 1966 movie Born Free won a slew of awards (mainly for its music) and engendered widespread goodwill for telling the inspiring real-life story of George and Joy Adamson, two English naturalists who, while living in Eastern Africa, raised three orphan lion cubs from infancy to adulthood. By the end of Born Free, which was adapted from Joy Adamson’s book of the same name, the leading characters had sent two of the grown lions to safe havens in European zoos but set their favorite, Elsa, free—in the movie’s memorable second half, the Adamsons teach Elsa how to hunt so Elsa can build a new life with a mate. Eventually, the lioness has three cubs of her own.

          Born Free had a profound impact on actors Virginia McKenna and Bill Travers, who portrayed the Adamsons and became animal-preservation activists themselves. McKenna and Travers starred in the fiction feature An Elephant Called Slowly and the documentary The Lions Are Free, both released in 1969, but the actors did not return to their signature roles once Born Free got a proper sequel, Living Free, in 1972. Instead, Susan Hampshire plays Joy and Nigel Davenport plays George in this gentle story about the Adamsons becoming the de facto guardians of Elsa’s cubs after Elsa dies from an infection. (Adding to this picture’s convoluted lineage, Living Free was adapted from a later book in Joy Adamsons’ series, rather than her immediate literary follow-up to Born Free.)

          Realizing that domesticating big cats probably wasn’t a great idea the first time around, the Adamsons decide to capture Elsa’s cubs and deliver them to the Serengeti Animal Preserve, where they can, well, live free. Thus, most of Living Free comprises scenes of the Adamsons trying to keep the cubs out of trouble and safely cage them for transport. This is a bit more interesting than it sounds, thanks to terrific footage of real cats and impressive location photography. Additionally, Hampshire and Davenport do a fair job of showing the cracks in their characters’ stiff-upper-life personas; the anxiety and frustration of attempting something nearly impossible wears on them. The ending is never in much doubt, since this is heartwarming family fare, but persuasive visuals more or less carry the day.

          After the release of Living Free, the Adamsons’ adventures shifted to the small screen for a short-lived 1974 TV series (titled Born Free); later, Elsa resurfaced in the 1996 TV movie Born Free: A New Adventure, with fresh characters taking the place of the Adamsons.

Living Free: FUNKY

Mary, Queen of Scots (1971)

          A dense historical drama bursting with sex, treachery, and violence, Mary, Queen of Scots features enough narrative for a miniseries, so viewers not already versed in the backstory of the British royal family (myself included) might have difficulty grasping all of the picture’s nuances. That said, the broad strokes are (relatively) simple. In the year 1560, 18-year-old Mary Stuart (Vanessa Redgrave) ascends to the French throne after the death of her husband, the Gallic monarch. Stuart is also, by birthright, the queen of Scotland. Advisors send Mary to Scotland as a means of ensuring her security (female leaders were perpetually under threat in Mary’s era), but Mary’s return to Scotland alarms her cousin, England’s Queen Elizabeth I (Glenda Jackson).

          A fervent Protestant, Elizabeth recognizes that Mary’s potential claim to the English throne could make her a rallying point for Catholic factions looking to reclaim power over the British Empire. Before long, the respective queens are locked in mortal battle. Others caught in the palace intrigue include Mary’s ambitious brother, James Stuart (Patrick McGoohan), who believes he can manipulate his sister and claim Scotland for himself; David Riccio (Ian Holm), a clever representative of the Vatican who aids Mary; and Lord Damley (Timothy Dalton), an aristocrat sent by Elizabeth to tempt Mary into a marriage with political advantages for Elizabeth.

          It’s quite a lot to follow, though the principal focus is the contrast between the two queens: Elizabeth is a master strategist who remains unwed lest a husband diminish her stature, whereas Mary is a naïve optimist who tumbles into impetuous romances until time and tragedy make her wise.

          The leading performances are impeccable. Jackson rips through dialogue with wicked glee, adroitly illustrating how Elizabeth had to be smarter than every man around her simply to survive, and yet Jackson also shows intense undercurrents of longing and rage; though onscreen for less time than Redgrave, Jackson commands the picture with a deeply textured performance. Redgrave gradually introduces layers of complexity behind her luminous beauty, succinctly demonstrating the maturation of a woman in impossible circumstances. As for the men surrounding these powerful actresses, they’re a mixed bag. Dalton and Holm play their arch roles well, though each succumbs to florid excesses. McGoohan is quietly insistent in his vaguely villainous role, and Nigel Davenport (as Mary’s protector, Lord Bothwell) gives a virile turn marked by equal amounts of bluster and bravery.
          The film looks fantastic, with immaculate costumes and sets creating a vivid sense of the story’s 16th-century milieu, and composer John Barry anchors key moments with a typically lush musical score. Mary, Queen of Scots may be too arcane for casual viewers—it’s not as accessible, for instance, as the ’60s royal dramas The Lion in Winter and A Man for All Seasons—and clarity suffers because the movie barrels through so many eventful decades. But as a showcase for great acting and as an introduction to an amazing historical figure, it’s well worth examining.

Mary, Queen of Scots: GROOVY

The Mind of Mr. Soames (1970)

          A compelling oddity, The Mind of Mr. Soames is a British drama with a sci-fi flourish starring Terence Stamp as John Soames, a 30-year-old man who fell into a coma while an infant. When clever American surgeon Dr. Michael Bergen (Robert Vaughn) contrives a way to stimulate Soames’ brain and free him from his lifetime of slumber, Soames enters the world as a 30-year-old baby with no idea how to eat, speak, or walk. Conflict soon arises between Bergen, a compassionate father of two who advocates a nurturing approach to Soames’ development, and Dr. Maitland (Nigel Davenport), a hard-liner who believes Soames should be rushed through disciplined education in order to become a functioning member of society. Since Maitland has legal custody over Soames, Bergen is forced to sit on the sidelines as Maitland’s iron-fisted approach turns Soames into the equivalent of a troubled child.

          Thus, when Bergen builds rapport by busting the man-boy out of his hospital room for a joyous play date outside, Maitland becomes infuriated that another doctor is producing better results. Fast-moving and focused, The Mind of Mr. Soames works as a slow-burning thriller, steadily building toward the inevitable moment when Soames escapes and tries to make his way in the world. The movie also works as a drama of ideals, exploring questions about what happens when civic responsibility and human compassion clash—Bergen and Maitland are both “right,” since each wants what he perceives as the best outcome for the patient, though the film unequivocally portrays Maitland as a villain whose actions are guided by repression.

          The film’s key performances are quite effective, with Vaughn suppressing his Man from U.N.C.L.E. flair to present an authoritative sort of clipped intellectualism, and Davenport playing uptight Englishness to the hilt. Stamp makes the most of a wild role, somehow retaining his dignity while making goo-goo-gaga sounds, parading around in onesies, and receiving baby food through spoon-feeding. The final stretch of the movie, in which Soames wanders the countryside frightened and hungry, is touching and terrifying at the same time, since the filmmakers create tension around the question of whether Soames will fall victim to the outside world or succumb to animal instincts and lash out in violence. All in all, The Mind of Mr. Soames is solid stuff. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

The Mind of Mr. Soames: GROOVY