The Doberman Did It :: A Beergut Reaction to They Only Kill Their Masters (1972)

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They Only Kill Their Masters (1972) Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) / P: William Belasco / AP: Barry Mendelson / D: James Goldstone / W: Lane Slate / C: Michel Hugo / E: Edward A. Biery / M: Perry Botkin Jr. / S: James Garner, Katharine Ross, Hal Holbrook, Harry Guardino, Tom Ewell, Peter Lawford, June Allyson

Sights and Sounds :: B-Fest 2007

Photos courtesy of Josh Shepherd, Mike
Bockoven, Chris Holland and Yours Truly.

For a Full Recap of B-Fest 2007, Click Here.

Childhood's End :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to Sam Wood's King's Row (1942)

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A good town.
A good clean town.
A good town to live in.
And a good place to raise your children.
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And so reads the sign welcoming visitors and viewers to King's Row; a small mid-western town at the turn of the last century America. Maybe it is a good place, but maybe it's not as we're presented evidence to the contrary by following the lives of five such children -- Parris Mitchell, Cassie Tower, Randy Monoghan, Louise Gordon and Drake McHugh -- as they grow up, grow apart, and discover the truth when they come back together; that underneath the shiny veneer of small town idyllic life, things are pretty damn ugly underneath...


Okay, I know the film eventually has a happy ending, but, man, was this thing ever depressing to sit through. From the opening gut-punch of no one attending poor Cassie's birthday party, to her murder, to the brutal, and totally unnecessary, amputation of McHugh's legs by a vengeful doctor, could it get any worse? Don't get me wrong, the film is fascinating and really quite good despite it's, for lack of a better word, perverse and melancholy tone.


Based on Henry Belleman's novel of a small town's dirty secrets -- insanity, nymphomania, incest and sadism -- director Sam Wood and scriptwriter Casey Robinson do a pretty good job of adapting this lurid story in such a way that it not only keeps the melodramatic elements from spitting the bit, cinematically speaking, but also appeases the draconian Hayes Code rather deftly by keeping the majority of those elements in; and frankly, I think the film has one of the better uses of a violent thunderstorm as euphemism for s-e-x -- good enough that even though it couldn't have been more obvious, I didn't find myself giggling at the obviousness.


Acting wise, Robert Cummings is great as Parris, the wide-eyed hero; and Betty Field is equally impressive as the doomed Cassie. It's odd to see Maria Ouspenskaya out of her gypsy duds as Cumming's' benevolent grandmother, and even odder to see Charles Coburn shake his old fudd routine and play an outright bastard of a zealot. And give Reagan some credit, too; he was pretty good as the cad about town, McHugh; and even better when tragedy hits him hard. All politics and monkey movies aside, I knew the guy could act after watching him as the villain in Don Siegel's remake of The Killers. All of it adds up to pretty good drama that doesn't overstay it's daunting 128 minute screen-time.


King's Row (1942) First National Picture :: Warner Bros. / P: Hal B. Wallis / AP: David Lewis / D: Sam Wood / W: Casey Robinson, Henry Bellamann (novel) / C: James Wong Howe / E: Ralph Dawson / M: Erich Wolfgang Korngold / S: Ann Sheridan, Robert Cummings, Ronald Reagan, Betty Field, Claude Rains, Maria Ouspenskaya, Charles Coburn

The Ghoul Goes West :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to Mario Bava's Roy Colt and Winchester Jack (1970)

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"Dear Jack,xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Since the gang couldn't get dishonest enough to make
any money, I went looking for an honest job. Yesterday,
I punched out a cowboy. How sad! I miss our fistfightsx
very much. So long.xxxxxxxx1xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-- Your friend, Roy."

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Our film opens with our two title characters fighting over who gets to be the leader of their band of outlaws. And while these two beat the snot out of each other, the rest of the gang idly watches unenthused; obviously, they do this kinda thing a lot ... In the end, when Jack (Southwood) wins, Colt (Halsey) decides to leave his lawless days behind him and go legit. And while he's off trying to go straight, Jack manages to save Manilla (Tolo), an enterprising Indian maid -- who never met a dollar she didn't like, and a man she couldn't dupe several out of -- from a gang of vigilantes. As a reward, she let's Jack sleep with her -- after he takes an ice-water bath, and then keeps a running tab on all her *ahem* services rendered during the rest of the movie, no matter who she winds up bunking down with.


Meanwhile, Colt manages to get himself appointed Sheriff of Carson City, a mining town; and while he's off escorting a gold shipment, Jack teams up with another outlaw to find out where the lucrative mine is hidden. This outlaw in question is a psychotic Russian called the Reverend (Corra), a former disciple of Rasputin himself, who is also a massive hypochondriac with a thing for dynamite. Together, they manage to destroy half the town and steal a map to the gold, each taking half of it. Using that mistrust to his advantage, Sheriff Colt unhinges the shaky alliance by playing both sides against each other, letting the rival gangs whittle each other down to a more manageable size, as they head for the X-that-marks-the-spot and the final, fatal showdown...


Of the thirteen films included I was probably most anxious to see Roy Colt and Winchester Jack when I placed the order for both of Anchor Bay's Mario Bava box-sets awhile back. I was aware that the brilliant director/cinematographer had made some westerns but, up to that point, I had yet to see any of them. Now, my enthusiasm took a major hit when I did a little research and found out that this movie was, in fact, a parody of the genre's trappings. Uh-oh ... I mean, those of us who've sat through Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Bombs (-- and if you managed to make it to the end of that I salute you, fellow survivors --) know what I'm talking about, and if the maestro has an Achilles heel, cinematically speaking, it is with his handling of comedy, where he usually falls flat on his face. Yes, he can be funny -- when he's being morbid, sly and subtle, but when he goes all out for the laughs the results were typically pretty odious. But now, having finally seen it, I'm happy to report that as a comedic vehicle, Roy Colt and Winchester Jack, like its protagonists, is a lot more hit than miss.

Obviously a mish-mash of (and cash-in on) Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid, with a healthy side-order of The Good, the Bad & The Ugly, it didn't take long for the film to win me over. Starting with the trippy and infectious theme song provided by Umiliani and Gizzarelli, it had me laughing before the credits and initial brawl had barely finished. ("I won," says Southwood, who promptly collapses.) Halsey was a former AIP regular (Hot Rod Rumble and High School Hellcats), who moved to Italy when his domestic career stalled out, and he and Southwood (I Am Sartana, Trade Your Guns for a Coffin and A Fistful of Lead) are both likable doofs and have good chemistry together as our brawling, roguish heroes. And this was my introduction to the absurdly gorgeous Marilù Tolo (The Triumph of Hercules and Kiss the Girls and Make them Die), proud holder of my latest cinematic crush/obsession, who really commands your attention as the conniving vixen/sexpot. Her career has run the gambit of peplum, spies, spaghetti westerns, and gialli, and I look forward to tracking down as many as possible. A nod must also be given to Corrà's take on the mad Russian; that throwaway scene where he's dropping a deuce while his men are setting up an ambush is priceless and had liquid coming out my nose once I realized what that honking music cue meant.


And those actors do deserve a lot of credit because rumor has it that it didn't take Bava long to chuck Mario di Nardo's script (-- the two would collaborate on Five Dolls for an August Moon the very same year, where it's rumored Bava did the exact same thing), meaning the majority of the film was ad-libbed from the get-go and shot piecemeal. But aside from a lengthy, unnecessary, and ill-advised sidetrack to a brothel that is ultimately destroyed in an ensuing melee over a chance to bed a couple of Irish whores, the film holds together remarkably well. While watching, it's easy to tell that nobody was taking things all that seriously, so as a viewer, I won't either.


And even if the comedy leaves you flat, there are still plenty of inventive and masterful Bava strokes to take in. There's a great scene where Halsey rallies a posse to go after Jack and the Reverend, and as the camera pans with him, back and forth, as he speaks in front of the mob, we notice with each pass the crowd is thinning out until, his speech complete, he turns to face an near empty room, setting up the scenes ultimate punchline. (And yeah, it should have quit while it was ahead.) And the whole scene at the Indian burial ground -- the set-ups and camera-work -- are pure Bava. (I especially liked the scene where the camera actually "digs" for the gold.) It's also kinda cool to see how the director tried to make the Spanish coast look like Monument Valley with just some National Geographic cut-outs and a little shifty matte work.


I don't know, maybe it caught me on a good day but, in the end, I think Roy Colt and Winchester Jack is one of those movies that will only get better with repeated viewings. It is by no means the second-coming of Blazing Saddles, or as good as the Terence Hill and Bud Spencer Trinity movies, but it will go a long way to scrub the lingering after-taste of Dr. Goldfoot from your palette if you'll just give it half a chance.

Roy Colt and Winchester Jack (1970) Produzioni Atlas Consorziate (P.A.C.) :: Tigielle 33 / P: Luigi Alessi / D: Mario Bava / W: Mario di Nardo / C: Antonio Rinaldi, Mario Bava / E: Olga Pedrini / M: Piero Umiliani / S: Brett Halsey, Charles Southwood, Marilù Tolo, Teodoro Corrà

Trailer Park :: The Epic Scope and Sheer Magnitude of Cy Endfield's Zulu (1964)

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"Because we're here, lad."
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Back in 1879 Great Britain suffered one of its worst military disasters on the mountain slopes of Isandhlwanda, Natal, Africa, when 1300 Redcoats were overwhelmed and massacred by a large force of Zulu warriors. (And I pause for historical accuracy to add that the Brits were the aggressors, here.) Flush with victory, chief Cetshwayo next sent his impis, 4000 strong, to finish clearing out the invaders by destroying the outpost at Rourke's Drift; a Swedish mission doubling as a military hospital, where a small Welsh unit of barely a 100 men were stationed. This is where the film Zulu begins...

When word of the massacre reaches the mission, Lt. Chard (Baker), a Royal Engineer, abandons the bridge he was sent to build and musters the company to shore up the small outpost's defenses. Outranked by only a few months, Lt. Bromhead (Caine -- in his big screen debut), grudgingly relinquishes command of his men to Chard. And then the tension builds from the inside out as the fortifications go up and the camera lingers on the meager force back-dropped against the vast landscape, further fueled by the drunken ravings of Reverend Witt (Hawkins), who admonishes them to leave or they will all most assuredly be killed when the tide of Zulus arrive and overrun them.


Judging by the trailer I suppose you could consider Zulu as one of those old fashioned manly-men movies that could have easily been gleaned straight out of the lurid Sweats and male adventure magazines from the 1950's and '60s. Sure, it's wrought with a few historical inaccuracies but I think that's selling it a bit short. Check out the great scene early on in the film, when the brass works on their defense strategy with Ardendorff (Gert Van den Bergh), a Zulu expert and survivor of the earlier battle, and Bromhead dismisses the native levies who also died as "cowardly blacks." He is quickly rebuffed and reminded that it isn't the Grenadier Guards coming to wipe them out. Ardendorff also brought orders that they are to hold their position indefinitely, no matter what, to which Chard snipes about which "son or heir" -- who did nothing to earn their commission -- gave that asinine order. Now it's Bromhead's turn to be indignant, when he points out that they're no one's son or heir now. It's not very subtle, granted, but it does a nice job of evening out the playing field. You definitely feel the loss of humanity on both sides when the bullets and spears start flying, and you also witness bravery on both sides of the walls as well. After that the politics are left to the politicians; this is a tale of soldiers, and the only preaching comes from the inebriated Witt. And when a panicky private asks why they have to fight, the answer is simple: because we're here.


About the first third of the film is just a warm-up, dedicated to the fortifications, while the rest of the film is basically just one long, sustained battle sequence with a few brief -- and I mean brief, respites. Wave after wave of native warriors crash into the walls but are beaten back with sound strategy and superior fire power. But with every Zulu they knock down, three seem to take his place. And as the battle rages all day and into the night, with casualties mounting and most of the outpost burning or burned out, come the dawn, they all know their luck won't hold out forever. And when the sun does rise the next morning, I can only hope you all were as enthralled as I was when the Zulus sang and beat out their war chant and the Brits counter with their own hymn of defiance. Then, when the stand-off ends, and the final battle finally breaks wide open, I'll warn you that just when you think it's over it isn't as there are several surprises and one huge "Oh shit" moment still left to be unveiled.


For a guy who never really did anything like this before, director Cy Endfield, with a helpful assist from cinematographer Stephen Dade, is to be commended for his staging and execution. The battle scenes last well over and hour and, with some artful framing and extended set-ups, are truly incredible to watch. And he took the time to let us get to know some of the men -- from malingerer turned hero, Hook (Booth), to the stiff upper lip of Sgt. Bourne (Green -- who, with all apologies to Steve Reeves, made a great Hercules in Jason and the Argonauts) -- so we care what happens to them. There is some unintentional humor here, though, as the British troops are so regimented to a fault you half expect Graham Chapman -- decked out as the colonel from Monty Python -- to pop up and tell everyone to "Stop being silly" and then promptly take a Zulu spear to the chest. And to train his native extras, Endfield had to show them an old Gene Autry western so they could understand what they were doing.


As I said before, aside from a few bit parts, this was Michael Caine's big screen debut, and most of the art for the VHS and DVD covers tout this, and him, but the film really belongs to Richard Burton's drinking buddy, Stanley Baker. (And if anyone steals the movie, it's not Caine but Green.) This film was his baby, and the tough, gritty and highly combustible actor formed Diamond Films, secured financing from Joseph E. Levine, and hired the black-listed Endfield to write and direct the feature for him. Both actors do well anchoring the film, held up admirably by the supporting cast, and gives the carnage and story told here a lot of weight and emotional punch.


When it's all said and done, Zulu is not without its flaws (-- sharp eyes will spot re-animated corpses on both sides; Hook's malcontent seems anachronistically out of place; and some intentional humor misses badly), but it pluses leave the minuses choking on a lot of dust. From the actors, to the action, to one fantastic, rousing score from composer John Barry, it has something that today's big and empty blockbusters just don't have. Sure, they try the same noise and thunder (-- hell, Gladiator stole the Zulu's war chant for the "Unleash Hell" sequence), but they always seem lacking when it comes to three simple words: sheer, scope and magnitude. I don't think you can make grandeur, I think grandeur happens -- and I sure as a hell know you can't generate it on a computer. I mean, take a look at the scene when the Zulus first approach the mission. At first we don't even see them, but it sounds like the approach of an oncoming train. And when they do finally appear, that's about 700 non-CGI'd extras on the bluffs encircling the camp. So, do yourself a favor, when you track down the DVD make sure you don't get the cheaper pan-n-scan version. You need to see this thing letterboxed to fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of Zulu's epic scope.


Zulu (1964) Diamond Films :: Paramount Pictures / EP: Joseph E. Levine / P: Stanley Baker, Cy Endfield / AP: Basil Keys / D: Cy Endfield / W: John Prebble, Cy Endfield / C: Stephen Dade / E: John Jympson / M: John Barry / S: Stanley Baker, Michael Caine, Jack Hawkins, Ulla Jacobsson, James Booth, Nigel Green

Sights and Sounds :: B-Fest 2006

For the full story of B-Fest 2006, click here.