Movie Poster Spotlight :: Foreign Jobs :: A Set of Italian Photobustas for Robert Moore's Murder By Death (1976)

Speaking frankly,  Murder By Death (1976) didn't do a whole lot for me when first encountered, but it has grown on me considerably with each successive viewing. The plot of throwing a bunch of old school literary detectives from the pages of Dashiell Hammett (Sam Spade, Nick and Nora Charles), Agatha Christie (Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot) and Earl Derr Biggers (Charlie Chan) into an Old Dark House Murder Mystery is a bit inspired as far as spoofs go, but if there is one problem with Neil Simon's script it's that all these characters crammed into one place aren't given any space to breath, with only James Coco's prissy and buffoonish take on Poirot making any real hay out of this crowded ensemble. The interplay with his chauffeur (James Cromwell) is hilarious. And Alec Guinness, of course, is hilarious but he has the advantage of interacting with everyone. The rest of the casting is spot on, mind you, I just wish they were all given just a little bit more to do.

Murder by Death (1976) Rastar Pictures :: Columbia Pictures / P: Ray Stark / AP: Roger M. Rothstein / D: Robert Moore / W: Neil Simon / C: David M. Walsh / E: John F. Burnett / M: Dave Grusin / S: Peter Falk, Alec Guinness, Peter Sellers, James Coco, Eileen Brennan, Elsa Lanchester, David Niven, Maggie Smith, Nancy Walker, Estelle Winwood, James Cromwell, Richard Narita

Hubrisween 2015 :: O is for Old Dracula (1974)

The year is 1973, and Count Dracula (Niven), feeling both the centuries of mileage and the arthritis in his fangs catching up with him, has really slowed things down and settled into a life off pampered comfort. And so, instead of going out on a nightly hunt for the blood he needs to survive, the non-living legend has turned his castle in scenic Transylvania into a haunted house tourist-trap, complete with malfunctioning frights, rubber bats, canned sound-effects, and a fake vampire with his snarky butler, Maltrevers (Bayliss), donning a tuxedo, cape, widow’s peak, and pair of fangs to entertain the guests.

But this is all a ruse to bring in live donors, who are drugged during the evening meal and then head home the following morning none the wiser and a pint of blood short. This serves two purposes for the Count: one, it keeps his personal blood bank stocked, and two, he screens each sample, looking for an extremely rare blood type he needs to revive his wife, Vampira, whose been on ice for the past fifty years after sucking the tainted blood of some diseased peasant.

And then the plot proper gets rolling when the latest batch of donors arrives: a quartet of Playboy Bunnies (Shirriff, Allan, Carlson, Bird), their escort, Angela (Linden), and a reporter, Marc Williams (Henson), there to do a spread and cover story on the ‘Most Bitable Playmate.’ Things get complicated when a servant’s rebellion forces Dracula to play himself but despite all temptation to “dig in” on this bevy of beauties he sticks with the plan. And to his glee, they find a match to revive his wife. The only problem is Maltrevers forgot to label the samples and so they’re not sure which unwitting victim was the match. 

Nonetheless, it is the blood-match that is important to the process. Thus and so, the Count just transfuses all the Playmates’ pilfered blood into the body of Vampira, who does indeed revive as hoped. But, there’s a catch. See, one of those Playmates was black and, apparently – and I’m using the film’s analogy, here – since there was a blue sock in a load of whites, well, Vampira (Graves) now has ebony skin. And if you feel that is kinda tasteless, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boils and Ghouls, believe me, you ain’t seen nothing yet…

Originally shot in 1973 under the title Vampira, this movie was director Clive Donner’s fairly crass and desperate attempt to keep the swingin’ 1960s going for just a little while longer, hoping to mine the same mod, free love vein he’d found with What’s New Pussycat (1965) and Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush (1968). The film finally found its way to the States in 1975 when American International repackaged it as Old Dracula, hoping to cash on the success of Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein (1974). It didn’t help.

Such a mess is this film, and an uncomfortable one at that, but it needn’t have been. In the right hands, we could’ve had the horror comedy version of Blazing Saddles (1974) but Donner is no Brooks, leaving the film as one giant missed opportunity. For instead of embracing the situation with, forgive me, biting social commentary, instead it’s all played as tin-pan-alley burlesque for cheap laughs. “Black is beautiful”, echoes the Count and the audience groans. And not that there’s anything wrong with that [*wink*wink*nudge*nudge* Say no more], but, Dracula would like his old wife back in the original tint. Thus and so, they pack off to London to track down all the Caucasian donors to find the one with the right blood type to go through the process again, with the hope of *sigh* bleaching out the color.

Things are even more complicated than you think for the Count, as not only is Vampira now black but she’s still grounded in the 1920s. But this is quickly rectified after Vampira and Maltrevers take in some cinema – and not just any cinema, but some Blaxploitation cinema (I think it was Welcome Home, Brother Charles so, wow), which instantaneously transforms her into a liberated, street smart and sassy jive-talking soul sister, who quickly dumps the flapper duds for something a little flashier. And with her help, the Count puts the hypno-whammy on Williams, hoping the reporter can help round up all the girls he’s looking for and collect new blood samples for them to test. (The Count attempted to get them but, forgive him, he’s a bit rusty on the whole stalk and bite thing.)

And then the movie spends the next twenty minutes or so showing Williams luring each girl to his posh pad, giving them a roofie, enticing them into bed etc. etc. etc. Things go off without a hitch until Angela, his sort of girlfriend, grows suspicious over Williams’ constant memory lapses, stumbles on the truth at the most inopportune time, and winds up trussed-up in a dumb-waiter so her captor can complete his mission.

But then things really go off the rails when Vampira, feeling oppressed, sneaks off the reservation in search of some fun – namely sleeping with Williams. Dracula catches them in the act, chastises his wife, and orders Williams to forget the encounter. They have one more victim to check, and to assure the reporter’s cooperation in ensnaring her at a massive costume ball, they take Angela hostage. Luckily for all involved, Williams has figured out Dracula’s mesmerism triggers, derails them, and does his best to protect the last donor but, outnumbered, he ultimately fails. Well, sort of. See, something goes wrong with the transfusion, namely Vampira, who bolts upright and bites Dracula in the neck before it’s finished. And with the end result of that nibble, the film hits rock bottom.

Really, movie? Really?

I honestly feel kinda bad ragging on this film so much but despite its overall silliness and carefree attitude it cannot hide how tone deaf it is. And this kinda ruins a marvelous performance by David Niven as the AARP Count Dracula, who brings his usual sense of cool suave and dry wit to the character. And the comedy between him and Bayliss as the hep help is spot on. (You kinda wish the whole movie was just about them adjusting to 1970s London.) Everyone else – Graves, Henson and Linden are fine but ultimately wasted. There are some clever bits of business, namely the hollow false-fangs being used as blood-collecting devices, and the idea of turning Castle Dracula into a blood donor Roach Motel is kinda brilliant.

And all of that is why this film is so frustrating because there is so much wasted potential; and while sifting through the evidence I think most of the blame falls on the screenwriter, Jerry Lloyd, who had spent two years working on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In, as well as the British TV comedy, Are You Being Served, which actually explains a lot in the whole throw everything at the wall and who cares what sticks; and then plugging this comedic attitude into a plot that is essentially a mash-up of Carry On Screaming (1965), The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971), Blacula (1972), and Watermelon Man (1970) results in something simply not funny enough to justify or balance out the racial bait and switch. Therefore, Old Dracula is lost in the wasteland where truly bad films that aren’t quite bad enough to be good go to rot.

Other Points of Interest:

Newspaper ads for Old Dracula at the Morgue.

What is Hubrisween? This is Hubrisween. And now, Boils and Ghouls, be sure to follow this linkage to keep track of the whole conglomeration of reviews for Hubrisween right here. Or you can always follow we collective head of knuckle on Letterboxd.

Old Dracula (1975) World Film Services :: American International Pictures / P: Jack Wiener / D: Clive Donner / W: Jeremy Lloyd / C: Anthony B. Richmond / E: Bill Butler / M: David Whitaker / S: David Niven, Teresa Graves, Peter Bayliss, Nicky Henson, Jennie Linden, Linda Hayden

A Royale Mess :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to Casino Royale (1966)

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"It's depressing that the words 'secret agent'
have become synonymous with 'sex maniac.'"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-- Bond ... James Bond

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When the casual James Bond enthusiasts list their least favorite 007 films, what you usually find lurking at the bottom are the same usual suspects; but they'll range in a different pecking order depending on personal tastes and favorite Bonds. Yeah, Roger Moore probably stuck around for about two films too many. And after Goldeneye, Pierce Brosnan's run quickly floundered and then foundered on its own F/X budget. Toiling at the bottom of most lists is usually poor Timothy Dalton's run, which, for the record, I don't truck; or On Her Majesty's Secret Service -- which I believe is actually one of the better films in the whole franchise; it was just saddled with that stiff, George Lazenby, thus branding it the red-headed stepchild of the bunch. And if OHMSS is the red-headed stepchild of the Bond franchise, then the original Casino Royale is the crazy drunken aunt, with the purple hair, who always wants a big, wet sloppy kiss at Christmas time. Gah! You can't avoid it, yes, but no family reunion would be complete without it.

  
Casino Royale was actually the first James Bond adventure published by author Ian Fleming back in 1953, and it was also the first to be adapted for the visual medium in 1954. Whoa. Wait, you ask, 1954? Yeah. See, when TV producer Gregory Ratoff bought the rights for it he decided to adapt it for the showcase anthology series Climax! Mystery Theater on CBS. E'yup. That's right: Barry Nelson and his Marine buzzcut was the first person to ever portray James "Jimmy" Bond. After that, the rights to the novel swapped hands several times over the next decade until they landed in producer Charles Feldmen's lap. And taking a cue from the immense (and repeating) box-office success of Harry Saltzman's and Albert Broccoli's adaptations of Fleming's other books for United Artists, Feldmen immediately launched plans to film Casino Royale for Columbia to cash in.


  
Initially wanting to co-produce a feature with Team EON, starring Connery, Feldmen was rebuffed. (Seems Saltzman and Broccoli weren't too thrilled with their previous joint production with Kevin McClory on Thunderball.) So, like what McClory did much later with Never Say Never Again, Feldmen decided to produce his own version (-- though unlike McClory, Feldmen could not coax Connery into starring in his vehicle). And deciding he probably couldn't out-Bond his competitors, the decision was made to skip the serious espionage business and instead go mod and poke his competitors in the eye with a satirical perforation of all those brand new spy conventions. The results were, well -- judge for yourself:


  
When the international consortium of evil known as SMERSH starts eliminating the world's top secret agents, James Bond (Niven) is called out of retirement to stem the tide. To assist him, several other fake Bonds are employed to distract and infiltrate SMERSH, including ones played by Peter Sellers, Ursula Andress, and Daliah Lavi, and help restore world order by foiling the vertically challenged Dr. Noah (Allen) and his insidious scheme to reduce the height of the entire male population of the planet to under four-feet tall. And then things get a little strange. Make that spiral out of control -- and was that Frankenstein's Monster who just clomped by?

    
Whenever I think about this movie, I clearly recall one line from Niven when asked by an associate about their next course of action, to which he replies "Get out of the bloody place before it blows up!" As a viewer, you get the exact same impression with Casino Royale as it slowly reaches critical mass. But what else would you expect from a film that took five directors, including John Huston and (-- the uncredited clean-up specialist --) Val Guest, ten scriptwriters, and a cast that includes not only Niven, Sellers, and Allen, but Orson Welles, William Holden and, Was that Peter O'Toole? That right: you'd expect a cinematic train-wreck, and that's exactly what Casino Royale most definitely is.



  
But with that kind of talent involved, you'd think the end results would be a little better than they were. Alas, but it seems while the movie was in production it was marred with so many problems and a spiraling budget it was dubbed a mini-Cleopatra -- the high-water benchmark for budget boondoggles until Costner got all wet with Waterworld. Here, things began to fall apart almost immediately when Sellers, whom the film was supposed to center on, and who wasn't too thrilled with the script's direction, proved so difficult that he was fired off the picture. Things were so bad, and Sellers and Welles despised each other so much, that the actors were shot separately then edited together for their memorable game of baccarat. Add it all up and you're amazed this discombobulated mess wound up as coherent as it did!

 
I'm not really sure when the proceedings stopped being silly and became absurd, then ridiculous, then ludicrous, and then -- dare I say it, yes I do -- kinda stupid. It fades badly after the first half hour, and then it's just an assault of peaks and valleys, giving you a bad case of the burpy-urpies before it wildly crescendos at the end -- but you still never quite get the bang you were hoping for. Tallying it up, there's about a four-groan-to-every-laugh ratio in Casino Royale. Those aren't bad odds, making it worth a gamble if you have a high tolerance for camp gone horribly, horribly wrong. There are a few comedy nuggets to be mined, here. Burt Bacharach's hideously infectious soundtrack alone is worth digging for, just don't expect the mother lode or get suckered in by all the comedic pyrite.


  
Casino Royale (1967) Famous Artists Productions :: Columbia Pictures Corporation / P: Jerry Bresler, Charles K. Feldman / AP: John Dark / D: Val Guest, Ken Hughes, John Huston, Joseph McGrath, Robert Parrish, Richard Talmadge / W: Wolf Mankowitz, John Law, Michael Sayers, Woody Allen, Val Guest, Ben Hecht, oseph Heller, Terry Southern, Billy Wilder, Peter Sellers, Ian Fleming (novel) / C: Jack Hildyard / E: Bill Lenny / M: Burt Bacharach / S: David Niven, Peter Sellers, Ursula Andress, Orson Welles, Joanna Pettet, Daliah Lavi, Deborah Kerr, William Holden, Woody Allen