Early Dors

Yield to the Night (J. Lee Thompson, 1956)

J. Lee Thompson's part crime noir, part prison drama Yield to the Night (1956)* would cause a stir (no pun intended) thanks to its mistaken association with a true crime event which occurred a year prior. Thompson's soon to be wife Joan Henry, an author with first hand experience of the the penal system, would author Yield to the Night only for it to have a striking resemblance to the case of Ruth Ellis, the last woman hanged in the United Kingdom. Ardently opposed to capital punishment, Thompson abandoned the safety net of British post-war film entertainment, and delivered a gut-wrenching, judicial tale for the masses. Thompson would produce a powerful piece of art staunchly opposed to Great Britain's death penalty (which would not be fully abolished until 1969).

With such a serious premise, Yield to the Night's biggest surprise would be in its casting of the blonde bombshell Diana Dors. Described as Britain’s Marilyn Monroe (she loathed the comparison), the actress wasn't given much variety to flex her acting chops and would often be typecast into playing superficial eye candy. Her ravishing beauty, platinum blonde hair and shapely hourglass figure had unexpectedly been something of a curse. Therefore, Yield to the Night was a rare opportunity for her to show off her acting skills, along with proving to Thompson he was right to cast her. Her portrayal of condemned Mary Hilton, committing murder in the first degree before the film's opening title's even commence, and to then turn herself into a convincingly sympathetic and utterly tragic figure, makes Diana Dors an underrated actress. Her performance is a genuine eye opener. Prior to Yield to the Night, both Thompson and Dors were involved with The Weak and the Wicked (1954), another prison drama also penned by Joan Henry and based on her first hand experience being a jailbird. Dors would play a supporting role. The Weak and the Wicked's light and optimistic tone would lack the stylish grit and emotional weight inherent in its successor. Call it a dress rehearsal!

Yield to the Night's cold opening sequence has Dors travelling through central London. It's largely shot in oblique low angles, framing a sense of purpose and intensity. Our lead reaches her destination and brutally guns down a mysterious woman outside her home. We don't know who the victim is, or the motive for her premeditated murder, but we do know that our shooter is without a shadow of a doubt guilty of homicide. From herein, Yield to the Night splits into timelines: Mary Hilton in the present day, locked inside a prison cell and awaiting her execution; the other, is a series of flashbacks recollecting how she went from working behind a perfume counter to behind bars. Interestingly, it's the prison scenes which are my favourite parts of the film, and perhaps Thomspson's too, as much of the film's real commentary stems from this section — a bleak contrast to the melodrama told via flashbacks. 

Unpleasantly ghoulish are both the door with no handle in Mary's cell, which eventually opens to a room with gallows, along with a suicide watch light, continuously staying lit until it’s time for the prisoner's execution. With both of these elements being a constant reminder, it's little to wonder our film's lead undergoes so much mental anguish. Although confined alone in her cell, Mary is surrounded by a surprisingly friendly bunch of prison guards. They fuss over her constantly. A diversion of mindless chit chat, yarn spinning and card games to pass the time. It's akin to the locked up Medieval queen inside the Tower of London and with her loyal handmaidens. The dark irony of the staff keen to want Mary to be in a physically state before she's hung, is not lost in Thompson's satirical eye. Amongst these carers is MacFarlaine (Yvonne Mitchell), a sympathetic guard who finds Mary's plight all the more tragic as she befriends her. Mitchell's nuanced performance being another strong highlight.

Diana Dors undergoes an obvious physical transformation while locked in her cell. Her glamorous appearance and socially appealing persona from the outside world is replaced with the visage of a sullen woman in prison garms. Without any make-up, her face looks puffy with beads of sweat shining off her skin. Dark roots and unkempt replace her perfectly sculpted, blonde locks. Juxtaposing all this, is the process of hope turning into despair. A torturous scene is when the prison warden enters Mary's cells apparently holding a document. Much like Mary, the viewer is under the illusion this might be the urgent governmental reprieve required to save her. Alas, this is not to be. Yet, despite the oppressive doom and gloom, Mary's generally amiable persona remains unresolved. At one point she snatches a cigarette from one of the guards to avoid her getting into trouble when her superior walks in. Credit to Dors for displaying all this in her performance; proving that she really was an underrated actress in the long run.

The flashbacks aren't quite on the same level of quality as the prison scenes, sadly. They're perfectly adequate, of course, but the time jumps feel choppy in comparison to the torturously slow days inside the prison. Some unexpected humour comes from Hammer veteran Michael Ripper as a boisterous, drinking acquaintance admirably trying his best to score with Mary. More importantly, we meet Jim Lancaster (Michael Craig — for genre heads, better known as Charles Thatcher in the Ozploitation gem Turkey Shoot (1982) no less!!!) who wins over Mary's heart, and the incentive to walk out from a loveless marriage. And yet, Jim is utterly obsessed with Lucy (Mercia Shaw) —  a downgrade, in my opinion. Are you blind, mate? When he's dumped by the socialite, he hits the skids, while Mary's affections for Jim, aren't appreciated. Thus, both Mary and Jim become two obsessed individuals. Comically, Thompson's depiction of unreciprocated love and obsession feels akin to Danny Boyle's Glaswegian heroine junkies from the overrated Trainspotting (1996). Jim can't go on living without Doris, which in turn leads to him taking his own life. Biggest insult of all, is Mary reading his suicide note left behind — and it was meant for Lucy. It's the final insult to Mary and answers the questions raised during the film's opening sequence.

Not sure if Yield to the Night would rank in any top twenty prison films list if I were ever bothered to compile one. [There are way too many definitive films  —  Brute Force (1947), Le Trou (1960) The Great Escape (1963), Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion (1972), Porridge (1979), Scum (1979), Chained Heat (1983), Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky (1991), Starred Up (2013) and Brawl in Cell Block 99 (2017), would possibly be major candidates.] Regardless, Yield to the Night is still an unquestionably compelling prison drama that has earned my appreciation, along with an increased respect for its star, Diana Dors.

Caught the last half an hour of Yield to the Night around 3am on Talking Pictures TV not too long ago. Obviously made a mental note of it on account of Diana Dors playing the lead in a women's prison film, along with it being directed by the mighty J. Lee Thompson - responsible for numerous gems from each respective decade in his career — Ice Cold in Alex (1958), The Guns of Navarone (1961), Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972) and the fantastic Charles Bronson thriller 10 to Midnight (1983) are just a few worth mentioning. Hence, this film curiosity turned out to be the most rewarding bout of insomnia since seeing Max Von Sydow running around in his boxer shorts and murdering folk in The Night Visitor (1971), also late night via Talking Pictures TV. Dors claimed Yield to the Night to be one of her best films. It's hard to argue with this opinion, given how great she is it and how successfully it drives its message home. As a child of the Seventies, I'm more aware of her as a bit part actress in classic British horror films from this era, namely Theatre of Blood (1973) and From Beyond the Grave (1974) along with various comedies. More recently, however, it's been an entertaining trip seeing some of her much earlier films like Tread Softly Stranger (1958) and Passport to Shame (1958), despite only being in supporting roles. Yield to the Night is easily the biggest standout from this era I've watched thus far and proof Dors deserved to be a lead in plenty more films. A strong recommendation from me.

* No online trailer available.

Guns Don't Kill People, Cowgirls Do

Gun Crazy (Joseph H. Lewis, 1950)

Went into Joseph H. Lewis's crime thriller largely oblivious to its prestigious film noir reputation. A status posthumously given long after its initial flop. Gun Crazy (AKA Deadly is the Female, 1950), a B-movie from gambling siblings turned film producers the King Brothers, would eventually be discovered by cinephiles as a subversive indie film that was ahead of its time. I honestly thought it was going to be more of an exploitation offering, along the lines of The Violent Years (1956), to be perfectly honest.

Preceding with the young, formative years of one Barton "Bart" Tare, Gun Crazy depicts various instances where the young lad has a more than keen obsession with guns. This unhealthy interest leads to him smashing the window of a gun store to steal a hand gun. Caught by the law, he's placed on trial. Both his sister and friends recollect moments where young Bart had an aversion for killing. From feeling repulsed with himself after shooting a chick with a bb gun, to refusing to kill a mountain lion caught in his sights at the behest of his friends. Nevertheless, the kid is sent to a reform school and subsequently joins the military teaching marksmanship.

Now an adult, Bart (John Dall) meets up with his old friends and they visit a travelling carnival. It's there where he meets trickshot cowgirl Annie Laurie Starr (Peggy Cummins). It's an instant attraction between the two. The sexual chemistry between the pair as they show off their gun skills, putting each other's lives at dangerous risk, is off the hook. For anyone with an above room temperature IQ, it's plainly obvious Annie is a nutcase and in the Danger Zone. Nevertheless, Bart briefly winds up working at the same carnival to be with Annie and to earn a dollar. It's there where the sideshow clown, Bluey Bluey, lays the most profound pearls of wisdom which go unnoticed by Bart:

Bluey Bluey: It's just that some guys are born smart about women and some guys are born dumb.

Bart Tare: Some guys are born clowns.

Bluey Bluey: You were born dumb. 

 

After the gun loving lovebirds quit the carnival life and get hitched, it's not long where Annie’s expensive tastes leave them hungry and broke. And thus, a series of robberies and heists turns the newlyweds into America's most wanted outlaws.

Adapted from MacKinlay Kantor's short story of the same name, the screen play would be given the script doctor treatment by the black listed communist Dalton Trumbo (credited as Millard Kaufman). Trumbo would turn Kantor's story into a Bonnie and Clyde style tale, laden with sexual symbolism and plenty of gun toting violence. What's also noteworthy about the film's writing is how it differentiates the two characters' codas despite their obvious love for firearms. Bart may be an expert crack shot, but is awkwardly uncomfortable in committing any potential harm to anyone throughout the story. Meanwhile, Annie lacks any real kind of moral compass to keep her head straight; killing anyone who might piss her off or obstruct her. Not only a femme fatale, but an actual psychopath. This obviously results in a destructive path for the pair. Utimately leading to a thrilling and surreal finale set around a misty swamp, which had me thinking the pair were in Heaven for a split second.

Other than its sexually suggestive content, which must have drawn some controversy for its time, what makes Gun Crazy so revolutionary are some of its innovative filming techniques. The most obvious being the incredible long take shot in the back seat of our protagonists' car, before and after a bank robbery. The scene was shot with a camera mounted on a horse saddle and moved on a greased plank of wood. A makeshift steady cam. The viewer becoming an unwitting accomplice to the off-screen robbery. This ingenious scene was a result of not having the budget nor the time to film inside a bank setting. A great example of the humble B-movie creating cinematic gold.

Perhaps an overly familiar crime saga seventy-five years later, but it did pave the way for other outlaw couples in film. Breathless (1960) by the French New Wave ponce Jean Luc Goddard is a notable example. Both films feature doomed love stories and film making innovations. I wonder if Peggy Cummins's beret was what sealed the deal for the overrated auteur. Jim McBride's superior 1983 remake would reference Gun Crazy by having its two lovebirds hide from the law inside a cinema screening the film noir.

Always feel compelled in rooting for the underdog in most films. In the case of Gun Crazy, it's not only applicable for its outlaw couple running from the law and their thrilling and tension filled heists, but it's also for its incredibly modern film making style. It definitely deserves its reputation for being ahead of its time. Therefore, Gun Crazy earns the Dada Debaser seal of approval.

The Most Dangerous Gamin

Dementia (John Parker, 1953/1955)

Your host serendipitously discovered the wonders of John Parker's experimental thriller Dementia (1953/1955) accidentally confusing it with Francis Ford Coppola's Dementia 13 (1963). An unforgivable error to Coppola's stans, but a rewarding fluke for anyone with an appreciation for vintage psychotronic film, regardless. A bizarre, psychological thriller — free of any dialogue — peppered with horror elements, and shot like a stylish film noir. Visually, many parts of it reminded me of Orson Welles' Touch of Evil (1958).

After waking from a nightmare, The Gamin (Adrienne Barrett), a mentally disturbed woman and the film's heroine, wanders around skid row experiencing various surreal encounters with distinguishable nighthawks: The Evil One (Richard Barron), a sleazy pimp introduced multiple times; The Rich Man (Bruno VeSota), the Orson Welles looking sugar daddy; and The Law Enforcer (Ben Roseman), a cop on her trail, who later reappears as her father. These run-ins serve as vignettes showing off the obvious Luis Buñuel's levels of surrealism inherent in the film. A fascinating anomaly in cinema, as despite being such an outlier, its influence is profoundly evident in more celebrated films with a deeply psychological bent. Herk Harvey's Carnival of Souls (1962) and Roman Polanski's Repulsion (1965) share obvious DNA with this lesser seen horror noir.

Despite the absence of any dialogue, Dementia manages to incorporate sound and music in a creatively playful fashion. An eerie score, which would have perfectly complimented the popular science fiction flicks of its era, features a wailing female vocal courtesy of Marnie Nixon that is otherworldly. The result lends to the film's hauntingly, dreamlike atmosphere and surreal visuals. Another highlight in sound is how Shorty Rangers and his Giants' music uniquely syncs into the film. You hear the band's music playing off-screen, and then witness them playing it when The Gamin stumbles upon them in a jazzy night club. Like something the Zucker Brothers might have written for one of their spoof comedies.

The basic gist of the film was the brainchild of Parker's secretary, Adrienne Barrett, relaying an actual dream she had to the director. Not only did it spawn the film, it also managed to get Barrett, an untrained actress, into being cast in the lead role. Incidentally, despite Parker's name being credited as the film's director, according to numerous sources VeSota, alleges to have also co-directed the film (uncredited, however). Dementia was intended to be a short film, but additional scenes kept on being filmed during its production, with the finished version clocking in at just under an hour. Still a short film, regardless.

Symbolism plays heavily in Dementia. A traumatic event from our protagonist's past unfolds via a surreal graveyard scene (easily one of the major highlights from the film). In it, we our heroine's parents; her father feeling frisky, but the mother being unreceptive to his advances. The discarded cigar in an ashtray nearby, representing an adulterous incident and the subsequent ramifications of it, is hugely important to The Gamin's backstory. In a later scene, The Rich Man's stogie becomes a triggering catalyst to events in the present. This is all somewhat of a revelation for a film from the fifties. Granted, dark themes in films from this era were hardly new, just look at Charles Laughton's The Night of the Hunter (1955) for example, but they also had the advantage of smart and nuanced dialogue to get away with various details which might have been deemed inappropriate for its time.

Another fascinating element is William C. Thompson being the cinematographer for the film. The same individual who photographed numerous Edward D. Wood Jr. films also did this. You wouldn't know it, however, as the film looks astonishingly more artistically stylish compared to the B-movie fare he would make before and after (and professional, for that matter). Hence, the visual comparison to Welles' striking aforementioned noir. Amusingly, Dementia was the film Thompson worked on before The Violent Years (1956) — a personal favourite in the canon of juvenile delinquency films.

Although completed in 1953, Dementia languished in limbo for a couple of years, until Parker managed to secure an incredibly limited theatrical release. It would prove to be the one and only film he would make. However, it was later re-released with the alternative title Daughter of Horror (1957); with American TV celebrity, Ed McMahon narrating over it and addressing the lack of dialogue in the original. It's this version of the film where footage of it is playing during the cinema scene from Irvin Yeaworth and Russell Doughton's famous monster flick The Blob (1958); starring the legendary actor, Steve McQueen.

A curious oddity from the 1950s. Dementia's production history is just as strangely fascinating as the contents of the film. A weird anomaly which ought to be recognised by both film historians and genre heads as genuinely being ahead of its time. Although not quite on the same tier as the movies that it inspired, Dementia is unquestionably a remarkable effort given the talents involved, along with it being such a mind blowing discovery. It's an anachronistic film which should appeal to armchair shrinks and anyone interested in surrealist films or vintage B-movies.

Female Trouble

The Sniper (Edward Dmytryk, 1952)

Always a surprise whenever a film from the past subverts any preconceived notions you hold for a particular era in cinema. Edward Dmytryk's chilling film noir, The Sniper (1952), is one of those types of films. Much like James Landis's The Sadist (1963) being the spiritual predecessor to films like Terence Malick's Badlands (1973) and Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers (1997), The Sniper's Eddie Miller (Arthur Franz) comes across as a precursor to Norman Bates and Frank Zito.

Dmytryk's thriller largely focuses on its antagonist, a violent misogynist working as a dry cleaning deliverer. Miller is an ace shot with a rifle and ever since his release from a prison psychiactric ward, he's been resisting the urge to pull the trigger on various women who have crossed his path. Here's the interesting thing: he wants to be stopped.

What finally pushes him over the edge and turns him into a killer is when he's friendzoned by a bar musician, Jean Darr (Marie Windsor), who, after asking for a special favour from him regarding an emergency dry clean, scurries him out of her apartment when her boyfriend arrives. This results with one of the most disturbing moments of the film, when she's callously shot in the head after leaving her work.

There isn't a clear cut protagonist in The Sniper to counterbalance Eddie Miller's deranged killings; instead we're provided with various characters who might have played the part if they were give enough screen time. Adolphe Menjou is perhaps the closest to one, however, as the elderly Police Lt. Frank Kafka (I'm not joking). There's also a very late introduction of a young criminal psychiatrist played by Richard Kiley, who hardly gets to do much, other than reveal the film's liberal social message; intervention and reform from a young age.

Given its plot of a serial killer armed with a sniper rifle, and the fact that it's set in San Francisco, I can't help but think that The Sniper must have been an inspiration to Don Siegel's classic seventies thriller Dirty Harry (1971). Obviously, the major differences being the latter features a gigachad protector played by the legendary Clint Eastwood. It also contains a more conservative message; criticising the legal system that protects a suspected menace with its bureaucratic red tape. Dmytryk's takes a far more liberal and compassionate view in this regard.

Genuinely surprised a film with such a dark subject matter would ever be released by a Hollywood studio — particularly Columbia Pictures. What would have been more fitting as a low-budget exploitation film produced by the likes of B-movie legend, George Weiss back in the day, is a highly polished and thoroughly thrilling Stanley Kramer production. Thus, The Sniper is not only an excellent film noir, but a serial killer film which might have been ahead of its time.

Juvenile Hell: Part 4

Girl Gang (Robert C. Dertano, 1954)

Tooting on the old devil's lettuce has long been associated as the gateway to hard drugs, and in the case of Robert C. Dertano's Girl Gang (1954), it supports this sentiment to the fullest. Like many exploitation films from the fifties, Girl Gang purports to serve as a cautionary moral tale, but its true purpose is to titilate and sensationalise. The film follows the three basic fundamentals of vintage juvenile delinquency films: sex, drugs and rock & roll (that's four, innit?).

Girl Gang's selling point is in its title, which is about as faithful as its sincerity in social commentary. The film chiefly focuses on Joe the Big Boss, played by Timothy Farrell; a drug peddler who turns young teens into drug addicted slaves, with them resorting to crime inorder to fund their next fix. June and Jack appear as junkie lieutenants in Joe's criminal empire. They're versitile figures: from floggin' stolen cars, blackmail scams, to recruiting new blood, they help create drug addled slaves while being addicts themselves. There's also Doc Bradford, played by Buster Keaton's younger brother Harry; a struck-off doctor who oddly appears ashamed of his actions at times, yet that still doesn't stop him from being a sleazy lowlife and taking advantage of the girls.

Of course, being an unrealistic film, the things young jezebels would do for some wacky baccy is hilarious to see on screen. Any route causes for drug addiction such as poverty, trauma or mental disorder, are wholly ignored and simply conveyed by our juvenile junkies being nothing but complete morons. Take youngsters Wanda and Bill embarking on their first steps into becoming chronic weed heads, by getting caned on Joe's flea ridden sofa and press ganged into a petrol station robbery (it's always a petrol station); on a Sunday, of all days. Requiem for a Dream this ain't, but it's these unrealistic examples of youngsters being led astray which makes Girl Gang so much fun and charming. However, what Girl Gang does offer are surprisingly graphic instances of heroin use, which must have struck audiences back then as very transgressive.

Stand out scenes include a the dingy, shindig, where the teens are caned and a Jerry Lee Lewis wannabe is hammering on the piano in some dank looking garage. Hilariously, they start bustin' moves until they're  knackered and want to spark up again. A couple of them wind-up making out on some old piss-stained looking mattress; how ghetto is that? One of the girls forces one poor sod to a back room so she can get "initiated". Once in the room, an occupied light starts flashing.

As one would expect with most films involving a robbery, the heist doesn't exactly go smoothly, and our poor ruffians become fatal casualties in Joe's bumbling endeavour. The final moments of the film consist of a hilarious chase sequence where two armed cops shoot a fleeing and completely unarmed Doc Bradford in the back. Oddly reminiscent of Gene Hackman's shot in The French Connection (1971), but with a fraction of the budget and none of William Friedkin's expert direction.

Seen a few of Dertano's films and other than some recurring cast members (e.g. Farrell and Keaton), they tend to follow a familiar template: the awkward ogling over women scenes; a seedy boss pulling the strings from his den; the inevitable double-cross, a heist that goes wrong, and a righteous monologue via an authoritarian / elder to justify its intentions. These are far from honest social commentaries, but then again, neither are some of today's offerrings like Bodies, Bodies, Bodies (2022), which portrays today's youths in a similarly pathetic and dishonest manner as of those from seventy years ago, but all the more insufferably annoying due to social media culture. Girl Gang is a favourite for being Dertano's most enjoyable film watched so far in his catalogue, which marks this as another notable entry in the canon of juvenile delinquency movies.

Juvenile Hell: Part 3

The Violent Years (William Morgan, 1956)

With the return of the summer heatwave, I need to keep my movies short and sweet, and what could be better than William Morgan's crimewave classic, The Violent Years? A wildly entertaining morality tale that ticks all the right boxes for this blog. Penned by the legendary king of exploitation cinema, Ed Wood Jr, this quintessential slice of melodramatic juvenile deliquency boasts an all girl squad of uncouth tearaways. This has absolutely nothing to do with that Oscar Isaacs starring snoozefest, A Most Violent Year (2014), which is a win for everyone.

Our gang is led by a spoilt brat of an ungrateful daughter, Paula Parkins (Paul, to her girlfriends), earnestly played by Jean Moorhead. Paul(a) has a taste for conducting sticks-ups at gas stations and sexually assualting blokes on Lover's Lane for wild kicks. You see, she's a thrill seeker, and it makes her feel alive being a negative blight on society. Our eighteen-year old bad seed and her pointy bra clique (Dada Debaser is a fan of the mean muggin' Phyllis, or Phil to her goon gals, because she looks strikingly like Debi Mazar and could very well be her mum given the age of this film) are looking for the next step in the thug life, and according to their fence, Sheila, there's a big market for trashing American schools by certain foreign nations. This leads to our undisciplined foursome breaking into their school and knocking over a few chairs and smashing a window before the cops arrive. A shootout ensues, bodies are caught and Paula's cramps might be a sign she's up the duff.

As mentioned earlier, The Violent Years is very much a rich dollop of morality that puts the fear of God into anyone tempted to walk the pathway to Hell, very much in a similar vein to good ol' Cecil B. DeMille; replete with an Old Testament style closing segment by the googly eye glasses wearing, Judge Clara. Paula's rampage of destruction has not only left the local morgue working over-time, but it's also left her parents with broken hearts and an uncertain life for her new born baby. This pot-boiler noir might play the right notes on the church organ, but it was definitely made for purely exploitative reasons. The Violent Years is an excellent example of how juvenile deliquency in film has always been a source for entertainment purposes over the many decades. Paula's spoilt yet neglected upbringing bears a strinking similarity to Gillian Hills' Jennifer Linden from Beat Girl (1959), only separated by a double-murder rap.

Despite it being unintentional, I personally find that it taps into the fears of society on a young and unruly post-war generation, and poses the question of what kind of mark they would leave upon society? Ultimately, these woes would pass on from one generation to the next, but what's especially fascinating about this particular era, is that a pulp film like The Violent Years exemplifies a new breed of juveniles, in this case young women, who would eventually signify the shifting moral compass of protagonists in both homegrown and world cinema a decade later. It's one of the reasons why Dada Debaser makes a conscious effort to be way more accommodating towards exploitation cinema, regardless of its reputation, since you'll eventually find a diamond in the rough like The Violent Years.

The Violent Years (AGFA Trailer)

(William Morgan, 1956)

 

O Big Brother, Where Art Thou?

Nineteen Eighty-Four (Rudolph Cartier, 1954)

A prime candidate from twentieth century literature that has become ingrained in our cultural zeigeist would arguably have to be George Orwell's 1949 novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four. A chilling and cautionery tale set in a dystopian future where the human soul is forever controlled and oppressed by a totaliarian regime. Its influence is still felt today; from words and phrases that have become part of our lexicon, such as "doublethink" and "thoughtcrime" and "Room 101", to today's constant tracking of the masses with surveillance and the stifliing of creative freedoms via censorship. Critical thinkers and intellectuals continue to evaluate Orwell's novel, but a humble proletariat like myself has always enjoyed dystopian sci-fi. Regardless if it draws parallels to today's political and governmental ideologies, or not, its reappropriation of creative works from the past and reshaping it into a new context, is cause to take note. It took a combination of Apathy's awful song, bork football fans and Corbynistas which finally broke me and gave up on enjoying the one and only song I liked by The White Stripes.

Held off watching this the longest, as I refuse to watch 144p quality rips of Rudolph Cartier's 1954 adaptation on the YouTubes. Finally, in between their shite screenings that no-one with half-a-brain wants to see, the BFI released the blu-ray. Sadly, since it was mostly a live teleplay, only a few film inserts got the lavish high definition treatment (although what a sight they are). It's not all bad, though, since the adaptation itself is a captivating two-hour affair. 

Peter Cushing plays Winston Smith, the Outer Party drone protagonist longing to feel free from Big Brother's oppressive regime. It's perhaps the earliest leading role I've ever seen him in. Little did I know, it was based on this performance which garnered Hammer's interest in him; so it's possibly one of his most pivotol career choices. The portrayal of Citizen Smith is way more nuanced than the other interpretations I've seen thus far. It's hard to call him a "hero" in simple terms, since he admits to committing something utterly vile from his past, that I find unforgivable. Although, to be fair, it's a situation that the majority of us are blessed never ever to be placed in.

The rest of the cast are also solid, too. Yvonne Mitchell is a bit too old for my liking as Smith's love interest, but I she had good chemisty on with The Cush, not to mention an appealing introduction, regardless. Donald Pleasence has a small role as Syme, The Ministry of Truth's wordsmith, working on Newspeak adaptations of classic literature. There's also Albert Steptoe himself, Wilfrid Brambell, in not one, but two very minor roles. The always stellar André Morell plays one of Big Brother's higher-ups, O' Brien. Goes without saying that Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee are a dope combo like fish and chips, but it's worth pointing out that The Cush and Morell never fail to disappoint when together on screen. Best Holmes and Watson, in this humble blogger's opinion, but it's worth checking out Quentin Lawrence's underrated crime thriller, Cash On Demand (1961) for the spectacular performances between the pair on screen.

Of the three adaptations of Nineteen Eighty-Four that I have sat through, my favourites would be Michael Radford's decayed industrial vision released in 1984, and this, the 1954 teleplay for the BBC. Cartier's production being the most faithful of the two, but they both have their individual pros and cons. Worth taking into consideration, it was a controversial choice for Sunday night TV i fifties Great Britain. If only I could pick and mix all the elements that I like, though. Peter Cushing has a way more relatable complexity about him in his depiction of Winston Smith; while John Hurt's, as commendable as it is, feels far more linear. Yvonne Mitchell seems a bit too old as the kinky Julia and despite Andre Morrell's O'Brien being superb, it doesn't reach the level of Richard Burton's last hurrah as the chilling Inner Party member. They're both great in many respects; with their own highlights to take into account and without going on another conflicted path like my other recent post, it's worth checking out the pair of them. Can't get any more diplomatic than that, comrade.

Nineteen Eighteen-Four (Two Minutes Hate Scene)

(Rudolph Cartier, 1954)

Viva Las Vargas

Touch of Evil (Orson Welles, 1958)

 

Like a rubberball, Dada Debaser likes to bounce from one film genre to the next. Restricting one's self to just one area feels somewhat crippling in this day and age, especially whenever movie heads' appreciation for film (except musicals and French New Wave - that lot can burn!) comes at the expense of tunnelvision. Cue Dada Debaser's first classic film-noir, Orson Welles' Touch of Evil; a film that appeals to your humble host and moronic film critics alike.

 

Opted to go the same route as I did for Bob Clarke's Black Christmas (1974), since listing an assortment of what I like about the movie, rather than regurgitating the walls of sycophantic text of by the big wigs.

Touch of Evil (Opening Sequence)

(Orson Welles, 1958)

Crane Technique

Whenever Touch of Evil is ever brought up in any film discussion, without fail the long crane shot from the opening sequence will get an obligatory mention; deservedly so, I would add. Huge fan of this immersive opening sequence as it lets all the on screen action do the story telling. A logistical and technical headache made all the more difficult by the border guard actor's repeated bumbling of words. In the end he just silently moved his mouth while his dialogue was dubbed in post-production. Doesn't get mentioned as much, but I'm particularly fond of the infamous driving sequence from the film, too.

 

Shorty Wanna Be a Shutterbug

Other than the aformentioned infamous crane shot, there aren't that many actual overhead shots featured in the film. The majority of it is comprised of dutch angles, extreme close-ups and low shots; one could almost imagine that the film was shot by a crew of munchkins. Along with the highly contrasting black and white lighting, it gives the film a claustrophobic and slighly disorientating feel to it. It's perhaps the biggest reason why the film's somewhat convoluted plot feels completely secondary to me, in comparison to all the amazing visuals that unfold on the screen. An almost Faustian style bargain that would become evident in many of the Italian gialli a few years later down the line.

 

Big Bad Hank

Captain Hank Quinlan, a repugnantly obese, all-star lawman played by the larger than life, Orson Welles is the film's antagonist. As the film moves along, it becomes abundantly clear that the focus isn't really on Mike Vargas (Charlton Heston) and his wife, Sue Vargas (Janet Leigh) being caught up in a border town murder investigation, but about Quinlan's corruption and fall from grace. What's noteworthy about our antogonist, is his corrupt motive isn't financially driven, but his ignoble perversion in the pursuit of justice. This results in innocent individuals framed for crimes they did not commit and cold blooded murder. The line where he reveals his bitterness and ultimately gives his own prejudices away, can't be stressed enough how absolute power corrupts absolutely,"30 years of pounding beats and riding cars, 30 years of dirt and crummy pay. For 30 years, I gave my life to this department. And you allow this foreigner to accuse me! Answer, answer, why do I have to answer him? No sir! I won't take back that badge until the people of this county want me back!" Doubt Quinlan is the first bent lawman portrayed in film, but Welles' character certainly appears as an archetypal template in popular culture in depicting one, for sure. 

Chuck Calling Orson

While completely problematic by today's standards, white actors playing other cultures and races was the norm back then, believe it or not. A major tarnish purported against Touch of Evil in our present era is Charlton Heston playing the film's Mexican protagonist, Miguel/Mike Vargas. Perhaps the biggest criticism is Heston adopting an obvious dark skin complexion, which is hard to defend, but Quinlan's old flame, Tanya, played by Marlene Dietrich, seems remarkably exempt from criticism for pulling the same stunt in the very same picture. Adapted from Whit Masterson's (a pseudonym for the partnership duo of authors, Robert Allison Wade and H. Bill Miller) novel Badge of Evil (1956), Heston's character was originally white and swapped to latino by Welles' screenplay adaptation. Additionally, Susie Vargas was originally latina in Masterson's novel. Kind of opens a can of worms since Akim Tamiroff was Armenian, so where do we go from here? Despite the controversy, Heston, Leigh, Tamiroff and Dietrich delivered great performances, regardless.

 

 

Motel Hell

Goes without saying that Janet Leigh has a poor track record with motels. In this particular instance, being trapped in a remote motel room while being terrorised by a gang of juveniles might be a damn sight better than how she wound up in Hitchcock's Pyscho (1960). However, there's the constant threat of her possibly being drugged and gang raped by juvies, which makes her ordeal seem incredibly distressing. One of those rare moments where I find myself shouting at Janet to get the hell out of there. What I found notably shocking was the female gang leader (Mercedes McCambridge) uttering the chilling line, "I wanna watch". Might be completely alone here, but it's a quote that I believe might have been referenced by Patsy in Mark L. Lester's Class of 1984 (1982). However, the real star at the Miramar Hotel is its mentally impeded night manager, as played by Dennis Weaver. The scene where he freaks out finding a used roach is laugh out loud hilarious.

 

 

Bugeye Boo!

The hotel scene where Quinlan kills Uncle Joe Grandi (Akim Tamiroff) while Susie Vargas is lying drugged and unconscious is perhaps my favourite sequence from the film. The music sounds from the club below and the tight kinetic edited framework of Quinlan murdering Grandi while Mrs Vargas is lying in a bed, drugged and unconscious, is cinematic gold to me. All the better once Susie wakes from her slumber and is greeted by the sight of Joe Grandi's dead bulging eyes above her. Kind of commiting cinematic blasphemy since I'm bringing up The Devil with the ping pong eyeballs from Jesús Franco's ridiculously trashy Devil Hunter (1980), but that's what Grandi's corpse reminds me of from that scene.

 

Welcome to the Party, Pal!

Being an unapologetic genre movie fan, the border town location appeals to me greatly: the neon lights; the clubs and bars; loose women and general sleazy vibe, tug at my heart strings like a Jane Austen novel does to hopeless romantics. 

 

 

The Conversation

Finally, there's the tense finale where Vargas is following Quinlan's bugged accomplice into incriminating the dishonourable captain. All the more suspenseful seeing Vargas hauling a big archaic recorder receiver with him under a bridge and stumbling around oil fields to stay in range of the wire tap.

 

Signing off, amongst Welles' directorial pictures that I've seen, I find myself torn between this and the more celebrated Citizen Kane (1941). There's plenty that Touch of Evil has that appeals to me greatly that Citizen Kane does not, since it caters far more to my tastes and sensibilites than any of his other films. It's great to see this film treated far more kindly in retrospect than upon its initial release, although that's far more to do with Universal's meddling with the finished product than any of Welles' doing. Just glad that Welles' original vision for the picture was finally realised decades later.

Dada Debaser Bonus:

Although taking liberties with historical authenticity like the BBC's Peaky Blinders series, one of my favourite scenes from Tim Burton's Ed Wood (1994), is the chance meeting at a bar of Hollywood's "worst director" with its best. The scene where Ed Wood (Johnny Depp) while dressed in drag and Orson Welles (Vincent D’Onofrio) start talking about film making, the pitfalls of the studio system and the reluctance in casting Charlton Heston in Touch of Evil is pure comedy to me. In truth, it was Heston who advised Universal to have Welles direct the film. Nevertheless, no matter how fictitious this scene is, it's still a wonderful moment from one of Burton's better films:

 

Ed Wood (Ed Wood meets Orson Welles Scene)

(Tim Burton, 1994)

 

Juvenile Hell

Beat Girl (Edmond T. Gréville, 1959)

What we're gonna do right here is go back, way back, back into time. When the only people that existed were beatniks and squares. Edmond T. Gréville's British morality tale centred around spoilt, little, Kensington girl Jennifer (Gillian Hills) Linden, is a fascinating time capsule into the proto-hippies of the late fifties and early sixties. Jennifer's routine mostly consists of cotchin' in a greasy spoon with her dosser mates and listening to popstar teen idol Adam Faith strum his guitar in between rounds of milk. Jen isn't too happy with her father, since Daddy-O returned home after a long absence with his twenty-four year old, brand-spanking new French bride, Nichole. Described as "ancient", by Jen and her chums, she's livid that she now has a new stepmother and is determined to give her a tough time. She comes up trumps as she discovers mère dukes, was a "peeler" (stripper) back in the day. From there, the film switches up a gear as our right little tearaways go raving at her swanky crib and in subterranean caves. Remarkably, it's actually way cooler than that veritable crustyfest like in Matrix Reloaded (2003). Jen and chums also take time out to play "chicken the rail", by placing their noggins on a train track before an oncoming train. Splendid.

The supporting cast are a recognisable bunch of British actors from past and present. Shirley Anne Field and that bloke who was in The Mark of Satan; one of the better episodes of Hammer House of Horror, complete Jen's teen cypher. The legendary Oliver Reed has a very minor role as a rival beatnik. The always excellent, Nigel Green plays a marvellously entertaining master of ceremonies, and then you have the G.O.A.T, Christopher Lee as the sleazy club owner of Les Girls, with the most British sounding name ever - Kenny King. Edgar Wright's Last Night In Soho was amongst my favourite films from last year, so it's worth noting that the strip club featured in it took obvious inspiration from Les Girls, in both the exterior and interior scenes. 

Got to admit, I was a little uncomfortable seeing Christopher Lee playing a character trying it on with Jailbait Jennifer. The man was practically like a grandfather to me during my childhood, so it comes as a shock to the system seeing him perform a scene like that. Can't honestly say the same for his acting peers, with the notable exception of the gentleman of horror, Peter Cushing; the ying to Lee's yang. The Cush however, did stray from his moniker at times, like that time he offscreen raped Veronica Carlson in Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed (1969), and then there was his out-of-turn lead role in the utterly depraved Eyes Without A Face (1960) rip-off, Corruption (1968). Edmond T. Gréville and Christopher Lee teamed up a year later with a remake of The Hands of Orlac. That's not the only occurrence of Beat Girl's cast and crew working in other film's, since Shirley Anne Field and Oliver Reed appeared together in Hammer's 1963 sci-fi chiller The Damned. It was a much smaller network back then.

The one character that rubs me the wrong way is Jennifer's dad. Poppa Linden should have taken a page from Tony Soprano's book when laying down the rules to his daughter, and he is the major reason Jennifer turned out to be such an annoying brat. Being a successful busy architect, he seems to be away a lot, so he's either chasing French women with tattooed-looking eyebrows, or trying to realise his life's work - a post-modern city that reminds me of the ghetto flats in Highbury & Islington from my youth. The 3D model of his passion project always gets the loudest laugh from me in this film, since Dad's ego is far too big to see through the urban shithole it would be by the seventies. Jennifer calling him out on this project might be her biggest saving grace in sympathy I have for her. She deserved better from him. Money can't buy love and all that.

Admittedly, Beat Girl was not a film that grabbed me initially, but I found it an interesting curiousity over the years and became a fan after repeated viewings. It serves as an amazing look into an era of Britain that's always appealed to me; since my earliest Gen X memories of London were never transferred accurately to screen until witnessing John Landis' classic An American Werewolf in London (1981) and Dio's Rainbow in the Dark music video. Beat Girl predates all that and that's its major draw; accurate, or not. The portrayal and representation of rebellious youth in film has always been a major interest to me, largely because they are prime visual examples of the generational divide in modern human history. Obviously, Beat Girl is an exploitative example, tapping into juvenile deliquency and titalation, but I still find it a fascinating introspective into the teen angst of the Post-War generation (before they veered off into insufferable hippies); a generation that tended to berate and look down on Gen X'ers, like myself. We get to see some of that Baby Boomer psyche, and even if they're jive-talkin' beatniks, that's still a worthy reason to dig this movie out.

Gillian Hills went on to have minor appearances in Michelangelo Antonioni's Blow-Up (1966) and Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1971), but she eventually landed a major role in the Spanish giallo (should be called amarillo, am I right?) The Killer Wore Gloves (1974). Kind of kicking myself, since I used to have a bootleg DVD of it back in the day and lost it. Barely remember much of it, but I think it's the film where you hilariously see mountains in the backdrop for a film supposedly set in London. Here's hoping one of the boutique labels release a quality print of it, instead of it being only available via age-restricted blurry YouTube videos.

Finally, there seems to be a bit of confusion with Beat Girl's release date. The BFI state it as a 1959 film, while the likes of IMDb and every other resource site have it up as 1960. Based on the Gillian Hills supplemental interview on the BFI blu-ray, she states she was around fourtheen at the time of filming, which falls in line with the BFI date. From what I can gather, the film was submitted to the BBFC in 1959, but didn't gain a national release until 1960, without major cuts made to it. Opted to categorise it as a product of the fifties, otherwise I would have had to include Rocky IV: Rocky vs. Drago as a 2021 movie if I didn't stick to this same principle. Anyhow, who am I to argue with the British Film Institute over the release date of a Brit flick? Wouldn't be cool, Daddy-O.

Beat Girl (Chicken scene)

(Edmond T. Gréville, 1959)