And Now for Something Completely Different (1971)

 "My hovercraft is full of eels."

This film is, of course, just a load of sketches from the first two series of Monty Python's Flying Circus, barely rewritten at all and reshot with a slightly bigger budget. That, of course, is no bad concept for a film.

Whether the "best" sketches were chosen is, of course, a subjective thing. Any thirteen episode series of half hour shows is going to be, as the cliche goes, hit and miss. There's so much good stuff in those two series, and the film has less than ninety minutes to play with, so it's a shame they went for the killer joke sketch, the rowdy old ladies, and other second tier stuff. I suppose they were pretty much obliged to include the slightly overrated parrot sketch. Nevertheless, we get the two mountaineering sketches, not being seen, the restaurant sketch, defence against fresh fruit, and other top tier stuff/.

Obviously, the film is superb. It couldn't possibly not have been. But what fascinates me, after the passage of fifty-odd years, is how much longer ago 1971 feels than it did the last time I saw this film, I suspect when John Major was prime minister. We no longer, mercifully, have many tobacconists. Let us just say that attitudes to LGBT+ people are a bit different. Even more fascinating, though, old people wear Victorian fashions because they are, of course, Victorians. It's middle aged women who look like my generation's idea of what old people look like. And there are the ever-present city gents with their black bowler hats.

This is a hilarious comedy, and also a fascinating little time capsule.

Johnny Got His Gun (1971)

 "I'll pray for him for the rest of my days. But I will not risk testing his faith against your stupidity."

Two things first. One: this film is one of the finest works of cinematic art to which I've been exposed, and I've blogged many hundreds of films. I'm very grateful to the lovely individual who introduced me to it. Two: yes, I've seen the video to Metallica's "One" probably hundreds of times. That means, firstly, that there were spoilers, although I don't think that matters and, secondly, that finding clips I recognised provided some relief from the beautiful yet cathartic horror of what this film is about.

It's an anti-war fim, yes, completely and absolutely; the end caption drives that home. But there is so much subtext here. The poetry of both the dialogue and the direction is painfully exquisite. The sheer horror of imagining oneself without eyes, nose, limbs, mouth, movement, yet forced to live one's natural span with nothing but interior life and what touch and feeling one is permitted. The ambiguity between dream and reality, with sedatives further blurring the lines. The importance of kindness, a kiss on the forehead. The joy of sunlight. 

The longing for extinction. For this cannot be life.

Joe's dreams of the past- in colour, for the monochrome of the present has an obvioius symbolism- mix memory and surrealism. The sweet yet only time that he and Corrine, people of their time, in 1917, enjoy the union of their bodies. His innocence. The cynical evil of a world that, having communicated with him and registered his wish to die, keep him alone, secret, to live and suffer. The frustrated kindness of the nurse and his love for her. 

It's hard to process, shortly after a first viewing, how much meaning there is in this film.But it is magnificent, cathartic, beautiful.

Dad's Army (1971)

 "And I must ask you to keep your hands off my privates...".

Obviously, this film isn't ever going to be as funny as the TV programme, which I'll prpbably never blog, fuzzy thoiugh my principle of never blogging sitcoms may be. Films, being directed differently and, in this era, on film instead of video, are not directed for comic effect in the same way as a contemporary sitcom episode.

Despite this, the film is bloody funny.

A lot of this is, of course, down to all the familiar characters, well-established by 1971. The opening scenes establish this so well, as Mainwaring walks to the bank in the morning and greets the townsfolk.

It's amazing to ponder that 1971 was fifty-one years ago, and that old people at that time- such as John Laurie and Arnold Ridley- would have been born in the century of Victoria. The cast is superb, as much as the script, as ever with Dad's Army, is the best kind of farce, entirely based on well-developed character.

Yet this is, too, a fascinating historical document, chronicling the events of 1940 through ordinary people. And the ending- where Mainwaring is a genuine, bona fide hero- is both superb and something we'd never see on telly. Mainwaring may be a pompous ass, but he's no coward and, indeed, as brave as any western hero. Such is the complexity of life.

I love the constant comical friction with Bernard Archard's general. I love that this is a rather well done origin story. I love the whole bloody thing. Cinematic versions of sitcoms didn't often succeed in this era. But this certainly does.

David Bowie- Hunky Dory (1971)

 

It's odd I've never blogged this particular album before. I've got rather deeply into Bowie over the years- and by no means just the albums from The Man Who Sold the World up to Let's Dance that you're supposed to like; he did great work throughout his career, and yes, that includes the '90s.

But conventional opinion has this album as one of his very best, and sometimes, just sometimes, conventional opinion is right. 

It's not just the obvious huge hits- Starman"; "Life on Mars"- the whole album is full of bangers. "Bewley Brothers"; "Song for Bob Dylan"- literally every song on the album is absolutely as good as the singles.

This is the moment where Bowie stops being an artist who merely makes good albums and reveals himself as a genius, with much credit due to the rest of the band, of course, not least Mick Ronson. It's also arguably the best album of the early '70s, and a positive sign of something new for a new decade. 

Chances are high that the next album I blog won't be anhywhere near as good...

Led Zeppelin- IV (1971)

This was the first Zep album I ever heard, back in my mid-90s teen heyday. Inevitably, perhaps; this is the most famous album, and has Stairway to Heaven on it. That's obviously a sublime track, building up and up in a truly epic way. Yet there's so much more to this album than that, from The Battle of Evermore to its true highlight, When the Levee Breaks, which to my ears is right up there with Kashmir as Jimmy Page's masterpiece.

And the band is, lets face it, about Page, with John Bonham and John Paul Jones. Robert Plant is a decent enough singer but in a style which, well, has dated somewhat. It's also true that a hell of a lot of what the band did, far more understood now than it was at the time, could fairly be described as white boys plundering the musical heritage of the Mississippi Delta Blues.

Yet there's far more to them than that, and even at their bluesiest- see When the Levee Breaks- Page manages to develop those influences into something incredible. And, in a case of conventional opinion sometimes actually being right, this is probably their best album.

The Magnificent Seven Deadly Sins (1971)

 "You're a walking repository of carbohydrates."

I suppose I have to start that this is a rubbish film, made by pretty much the cream if British comedy writers and performers as of 1971, but it ends up as (mostly) utter pants. But they are, at least, interestingly soiled pants.

Yes, I shall indeed go into a corner and think about what I've just typed.

This is a portmanteau film, with a very crude (in all senses) cartoon linking device separating seven long comedy sketches of varying quaity and various styles. The use of the seven deadly sins as a basis for portmantaeu film is not an inherently bad idea; its just that most of the sketches are rubbish.

Yes, the Galton and Simpson sketch with the stand-off between two cars on a country road is good, but we've all seen it before and here we have it wheeled out again, this time with Ian Carmichael. There's also a sketch on gluttony, penned by Barry Cryer and Graham Chapman that's rather good. Sadly, beyond that we have rather a lot of sub-Benny Hill nonsense (hot take: Benny Hill wasn't cancelled in 1988 because of "political correctness", but because hisentire format was unfunny and crap) and Blakey from On the Buses as a tyrannical park warden. We even have Harry Secombe blacking up- badly- at one point. The social attitudes are certainly of another era.

Still, rubbish though it is, this film is a fascinating snapshot of the variable state of British comedy fifty years ago. We tend to remember the best stuff, but there was also a lot of dross out there.

Twins of Evil (1971)

 "They have crosses? And stakes? And axes?"

I've seen a fair few Hammer horrors in my time, and some of them are very good indeed, while others are less so. This one is easily the best I've seen thus far, and by some distance.

On the surface it's an obvious crowd pleaser. There are the two rather attractive twins themselves to offer a bit of soft porn with titties briefly on display. Both actresses are decent, but mainly there for their sexiness, which is considerable. Mmm. But it's also a bloody well made and splendidly scripted horror film, gripping throughout, and with possibly Peter Cushing's best and most nuanced performance.

And yet, while pushing all the buttons to appeal as a bit of top notch early '70s vaguely titillating horror fun, it's acrually a lot cleverer than that under the surface. The twins Maria and Frieda are good and evil  respectively, yet the society they live in is less clear cut. There are two equally evil villains. The first, Count Karnstein, is an obvious baddie, a bored and decadent aristocrat who becomes a vampire (from a fanous ancestor we recognise from the prequel!) for fun. Damien Thomas, an actor so often underused, makes a superb villain.

Yet no less evil is Gustav Veil, a man who leads a gang of witch hunters who persecute any woman who shows and degree of independence and burns her alive without due process and the maximum of cant. They perform at being religious, and no doubt believe themselves to be so, but their religiosity is shallow, authoritarian and  no less evil in its murderous fanaticism. This is made clear in the opening scene, and the fact that the opening titles run over the sight of a woman being burned alive. Yet Cushing plays him superbly, as a villain driven to evl by his fanatcism and reaising to his horror that he is not the good man he believes himself to be but an unwitting servant of Satan.

It is therefore appropriate that Veil should die fighting the Count and that the baddie should die instead at the hands of Anton, a decent, questioning sceptic who is not blinded by fanaticism- a moderate, a liberal, a centrist dad. Good man. 

Karnstein and Veil would probably vote Tory this coming Thursday if they happened to live in Leicestershire. I'm sure Anton would vote Lib Dem. Be like Anton.

Hands of the Ripper (1971)

 "It's the Ripper!"

I love Hammer Horror. Not all of the films are good, although most are, but most at least provide some cheesy fun. This one, however, does not really do even that. It's a rare dud.

I suppose there's nothing intrinsically wrong with the concept- the daughter of Jack the Ripper (a married, unnamed aristocrat who murders his wife after escaping a torch-wielding mob) grows up to have blackouts triggered by a certain thing that cause her to kill, much as her father. This is centred around a very Henry Higgins relationship between Dr Pritchard (Eric Potrter, still very good here even while obviously phoning it in) and Anna herself (an excellent Angharad Rees.

There's some good subtext here- one example of which is the debate between Pritchard and Dysart about judicial killing, rightfully reminding us of the barbarity of the practice: after all, how many killers have had abusive childhoods, even if not necessarily watching one's father stab one's mother to death? There also an amusing equivalence, intended or not, between seances, mediums and all that and Freudian psychoanalysis- both kinds of quackery are, of course, nonsense.

There are also enjoyable appearances from both the great Dora Bryan and the always wonderful Lynda Baron, both having enrmous fun with their roles. However, the film never really catches fire and, despite the charasma of the two leads, is rather formulaic without being silly enough to be quite enough fun, isolated scenes aside.

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Godzilla vs Hedorah (1971)

"Come on, blow your mind!"

It's a new decade, a new creative team and, for the first time an entirely new cast- and it's a triumph, a film which has something to see and manages to be groovy while doing it.

The film doesn't so much have subtext as text, as Hedorah is the most blatant (and well-realised) metaphor for pollution imaginable. But that's no criticism; as the last half-century has shown, you can't be too blatant with the urgent message that we should please try and not bugger up our planet as a place to live on.

This film tells that story, based around the engaging supporting cast of a professor and his family with a groovy young couple whom we see at an awesome gig with visuals that remind me of early Hawkwind, never a bad thing. Not just that, but we get awesome animated segments, along with an opening sequence that comes across like a James Bond song. More of this please. It's about time these films acknowledged the counterculture.

There is, perhaps, a moment that's a little close to the bone in 2020, as Hedorah's air pollution forces the people of Tokyo and Osaka to wear masks in public. And perhaps the MacGuffin that helps Godzilla (unambiguously a goodie- and Monster Island seems forgotten) is a little obvious. But this is a promising new start and a fine film.

The Blood on Satan's Claw (1971)

"There is growing amongst you all an insolent ungodliness, which I will not tolerate!"

I was expecting a B movie here- after all, look at the title. Instead I find an artily directed film, perhaps a little too lowly paced, with a visually realised depiction of the late 17th century (dialogue about "King James III" in exile makes me put this after 1688, but the fashions put it not too long after) that evokes the 1970s BBC M.R. James stories. The effect is of a very well-directed film, with the pretty visuals made to look eerie by horror direction and overcast weather, This film is often lumped in with The Wicker Man as "folk horror". It isn't as good, but you can see the stylistic links.

Patrick Wymark is superb, outstandingly so, as the judge, and both Wendy Padbury and Simon Williams are very good indeed in the early part of the film as the threat emerges of the younger generation, creepily acted and shot, being involved in a cult which may be Satanic but may be pagan in a way which was popular in the early '70s, when pagan survivals in modern culture were perhaps exaggerated. And perhaps their disappearance part way through the film, with Michele Dotrice (pre- Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em typecasting, and bloody good) taking prominence as a Satanic disciple, is a flaw in the coherence of the script, But I don't see this as being as troubling as the horrible rape scene, filmed so as to show us the victim's point of view, which is a big part of why this film has to be seen as well made yet deliberately abrasive. A simultaneously assured and rough watch, fascinatingly flawed,

The House That Dripped Blood (1971)

"The one with Be;a Lugosi, of course. Not this new Fellow.

Time for another of Amicus' splendid portmanteau films, I think, and a haunted house theme can't go wrong. Indeed it doesn't and, while this is perhaps not up there with the finest of Amicus' stuff, it is nevertheless a highly enjoyable film with a magnificent cast of British character actors.

A framing device having been devised with an inspector investigating the bizarre disappearance of the house's latest tenant, we jump into the first segment, and perhaps the best, as Denholm Elliott excels as a horror seemingly becoming obsessed with his latest murderous creation, seeing him anywhere. The twist is clever, and the mood effective.

We then have Peter Cushing and the ever-affable Joss Ackland in a less effective segment about a creepy waxworks, elevated by the extraordinary haunted performance of the recently bereaved Cushing. But what follows, with Nyree Dawn Porter and the great Christopher Lee, is a highly effective example of the trope of the creepily evil child.

The final segment stars Jon Pertwee, showing a delightful disinclination to vary the performance he was giving each week at the time in Doctor Who, but is enjoyably charismatic as the old school horror star who buys a cursed vampire cloak from the truly awesome Geoffrey Bayldon. Ingrid Pitt as an actual vampire just adds to the fun.

Nom not all the segments are equally good. But, like all of its ilk, this Amicus portmanteau horror is massively fun to watch.

Get Carter (1971)

"I'm the villain in the family, remember?"

This is an odd beast, very well-directed, very violent, a very gritty portrayal of various Geordie places with mostly unconvincing accents (Mrs Llamastrangler is from them there parts), an unexpectedly complex plot to put it mildly, and playwright John Osborne as a crimelord called Cyril.

It's also a vivid record of various little things about Britain in 1971- the awful brown and yellow decor; the fact that the Sixties never happened for most working class people; how bloody awful much of the housing was; the casual, unthinking sexism.

But we see all this through the amoral eyes of Jack Carter (Caine)- gangster, killer, probable psychopath, womaniser and general complete bastard, as he investigates his brother's somewhat suspicious death, all done with such cold charisma that you don't question how this apparent Geordie born and bred seems to have entirely gone native in London, accent-wise. Through violence and intimidation rather than detective work the casual womaniser soon discovers that everything revolves around the sexual exploitation of Jack's niece, who may be his daughter, and things get very violent.

It's all very watchable- imaginatively shot, well-cast if you ignore the accents and with an admirable economy of exposition. But, my God, it's complex. And all these young people with names like Doreen...

Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)

"If the good Lord had intended us to walk, he wouldn't have invented roller skates...”


It’s an alarming thought that this film was made when Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was a recent children’s novel. But 1971 was a long time ago, and inevitable comparisons with Tim Burton’s 2005 adaptation (not a remake; merely a different imagining of the same source material, so I haven’t broken my rule by blogging that film first) must reflect that.

This film may not have Burton’s remarkable visual style, striking though it is on its own terms. It cannot quite live up to the vivid and wonderfully surreal chocolatescapes of the novel; instead it has Gene Wilder, not an actor I have always admired, in the role he was born to play. He is extraordinary. His Willy Wonka is wry, highly intelligent, fatalistic about being surrounded by unkind, uncultured, venal fools. This is one of the most charismatic, and quotable, characters in the history of cinema.

There is much else to enjoy, though, such as Tim Brooke-Taylor’s comic cameo and, for us Doctor Who fans, recognising Bill from Day of the Daleks. The Oompa-Lookpa songs, while much truncated, are still entertaining, and most of the songs are not annoying. Most of them. There are lots of nice little comedy scenes surrounding the search for the golden ticket to raise a titter from the adults watching. The film is a triumph, hugely entertaining and, in spite of yielding to reality at times, surprisingly faithful to the book. If only there’d been a sequel with Vernicious Knids...

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

"You are now a murderer, little Alex."

Anthony Burgess may not be a fashionable author but I'm a huge fan of his. I've read a large amount of his work, from A Dead Man in Deptford to Earthly Powers and while, yes, there's certainly a fair amount of Catholic guilt in there as subtext, you can't reduce him to that as a writer; he has such fun playing with ideas in gloriously erudite prose. A Clockwork Orange is no exception- a treatise not only on sin but also on civil liberties vs. law and order, on free will, on the awkward fact that one can appreciate high culture and still be evil, whatever F.R. Leavis may think.

So how does Stanley Kubrick handle it? Well, with great aplomb. The entire film takes place amongst the brutalist architecture of the third quarter of the twentieth century, even the scenes set outside, with rose horrible associations not yet of decay (as I'm sure the same locations would have evoked a few years later) but of a brutal, soulless totalitarianism of the mind, which fits the totalitarianism of what happens to Alex. Yet law and order truly has broken down and totalitarian mind control is proposed as a solution; there is no role for decent liberals here, whom the script even seems to mock as elitists. It's a chilling echo of modern times. The fashions- while boiler suits, bowler hats, fake eyelashes- are striking and succeed in giving the film a sense of timeless in spite of the inevitable 1971-ness of various things, not least the police brutality.

The film would not be the triumph it is without a stellar central performance by a young Malcolm McDowell, who is not only convincing but successfully manages to imbue the psychopath Alex with sufficient charm to leaven the darkness of the film. McDowell is ably assisted by a strong cast including a startlingly young Warren Clarke. The directorial style is just as awesome as we might expect.

After a couple of crappy films it's such a relief to be blogging a true masterpiece like this. A truly seminal film.

Diamonds Are Forever (1971)

"I was just walking my rat and I seem to have lost my way..."

This film really has no right to be as brilliant as it is. On paper it's worryingly retro even at the time, with not only the bringing back of Sean Connery, which seems desperate, but even getting Shirley Bassey to do the theme tune. And there's that boggling thought of why on earth a British agent is working in the USA, where both the CIA and FBI exist. Plus, it's suddenly the '70s, and the fashions are suddenly rubbish. And yes, against the odds, for the third film in a row we have a work of absolute brilliance?

How do they manage it? Well, the script is superb, a never-ending series of brilliant set pieces. Connery is brilliant, too. Oh, at 41 he suddenly looks much older than he should, certainly too old for the part, and you can't believe it's only been four years since You Only Live Twice. But he's still Connery.

Then we have the splendid Messrs Wint and Kidd, however godawful the cut of their suits. We have the splendid Jill St John. We have Charles Gray, fresh from a bit part in You Only Live Twice, as a fine Blofeld, albeit with a puzzlingly full head of hair.

Oh, and the great Sid Haig is in it somewhere, although I'm buggered if I know where. Joseph Furst is in it, fellow '60s Doctor Who fans. We get Vegas, lots of the Nevada desert, Bond in a moon buggy, an epic car chase with American cop cars (something the Bond films had to do!) and more of the now traditional space stuff by Blofeld. It's also nice to see the character of Q being used as outright comic relief, cheating at Vegas with gadgets. It suits the character perfectly and Desmond Llewelyn is brilliant.

Surely Blofeld is really dead? And surely this run of quality can't last? But for this film, at least, the series is in rude health.

Countess Dracula (1971)

"Countess Dracula! Countess Dracula!"

Meh. I like me a good Hammer, but this is the most forgettable sort of early '70s stuff. Doing a film based on the notorious Elizabeth Bathory is not a bad idea in theory but the plot is perfunctory, the script tired and Ingrid Pitt, wonderful though she is, doesn't have the charisma to carry a film otherwise full of nonentities, excepting the ever-fab Peter Jeffrey in a minor role and some delightful scenery chewing from Maurice Denham. Overall, it's a Hammer worth skipping. Even the title is crowbarred in.

Any interesting points? Well, the costumes look good, and no doubt are accurate for early 17th century Hungary. The history is a bit off: Elizabeth Bathory was active as a serial killer between 1590 and 1610 (a much longer period!!!) but the film, with Turks encroaching on Vienna, seems to be set in the 1680s. And, of course, whereas the real Bathory may not have committed the murders to stay young at all, in the film she is actually rejuvenated. But beyond that and an incongruous bit of bawdiness with boobies in the tavern (the real world has pubs; cinematic Central Europe has "taverns") there's not much to say about it.

Next!

The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971)

“A brass unicorn has been catapulted across a London street and impaled an eminent surgeon. Words fail me, gentlemen.”

This is the last review I’ll be doing in this strange, alcohol-fuelled, work-free interregnum between Christmas and New Year and, indeed, my last review of 2011. In 2012 I’ll go back to the usual schedule, continuing with the Buffyverse and (mostly) a film on Saturdays. I’ll also be reviewing certain programmes pretty much as they air in the UK- Doctor Who, obviously, but also, starting next week, Sherlock. In the meantime, here’s a fun little movie review that I didn’t have to think too hard about.

This is the perfect movie to watch if you have a certain sense of humour and you don’t want anything too heavy; it spends ninety minutes doing nothing but mocking its own tropes. Phibes (played, with the expected brilliance, by Vincent Price) has an absurd lack of any real motive for his ridiculously over-theatrical crimes, and that every little intricate little thing goes to plan is utterly unrealistic, but all of this is gleefully thrown in our faces; the film knows exactly what it’s doing. That Phibes is just a take on a certain archetype is shown near the end as he reveals his true, horrifying, Lon Chaney-esque face, and starts playing the organ in an obvious reference to Universal’s silent version of Phantom of the Opera. Yep, this is more of that metatextual fun that I love so much.

The police are hilarious, too; nice, decent, but with all the plodding incompetence that tradition leads us to expect from the Yard. For all that Trout (a great performance from Peter Jeffrey) is a thoroughly decent, put-upon chap (his interactions with his superior are the funniest thing about the film, mainly because his superior is only saying what the audience thinks!), he cocks every single thing up at every single opportunity.

All of the surgeons are subject to a certain amount of mockery too, and none more so than Terry-Thomas’ lecherous old man.  This is not a film that exactly treats authority figures with respect; in fact the gleeful grotesqueness of the various methods of dispatch is the film’s main selling point, as the audience has fun trying to guess how the theme of the Ten Plagues of Egypt, revealed quite earlier on, will show itself in the murders. The chap being impaled by a brass unicorn is the best, but many of them are quite horrific, especially the frog mask. Given the otherwise light tone of the film, there’s something particularly nasty about this one.

Still, it’s a superbly entertaining, and rather undemanding, piece of entertainment. One thing, though; who was Vulnavia?