Archive for Nicole Calfan

Beginnings: The String

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , on April 3, 2018 by dcairns

PERMISSION TO KILL sounds like a totally mediocre spy film and as far as I can tell that’s what it is. But as it’s going to be the latest in my occasional series of movies I only watch partway and then blog about, who knows? I can’t condemn it sight unseen. Only the title seems definitively poor.

License to Wear Clothes

The movie begins with spymaster Dirk Bogarde putting together a string of agents to perform some kind of international espionage caper. He chitchats with a naked Nicole Calfan, which is somewhat enjoyable but lacks the sexual tension it might have had if this were someone other than Dirk, who is playing it very arch indeed, and then he picks up Frederic Forrest in an art gallery, and then ~

Each agent-to-be has been introduced with a b&w slideshow image. The third is an eight-year-old French boy. Now, frankly, I’m quite happy to go through life not knowing what role he’s going to play in this caper. Maybe he has a CGI avatar who’s a ninja. Maybe he’s just good for boosting through transoms. I prefer to imagine alternatives than to be saddled with what seems likely to be a disappointing but definitive answer.

The film may be shot by Freddie Young (and it definitely is, this time) and directed by the sometimes-perfectly-competent Cy Frankel, but once you get a LeCarre-esque dour espionage drama hinting at SPY KIDS hi-jinks, it’s time to bail, and fantasise the different stupid or surprising or creepy developments that could follow.

Dyan Cannon’s Shagging Palace

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on October 19, 2012 by dcairns

Dyan Cannon’s Shagging Palace from David Cairns on Vimeo.

You need to see this. The film is Henri Verneuil’s LE CASSE, starring Belmondo, Sharif and Cannon (Dyan, not Tommy) — and cutie Nicole Calfan, Faye Dunaway’s maid in THE FOUR MUSKETEERS. It’s a very stupid but very exuberant sort-of heist movie. Belmondo and his gang (including Robert Hossein, still playing his dour, charmless stooge role from RIFIFI) steal a million in emeralds but their ride out of town doesn’t materialize, so they’re stuck in Athens with the loot and nasty copper Omar Sharif on their asses.

Belmondo takes up with Dyan to pass the time — the first thing in the clip is Dyan Cannon’s Sexy Sex Club, which is a truly happening joint, with a rotating stage that alternates red-hot lesbionic action with listless tap dance, according to whether the authorities are checking. Then you get to see the amazing split level pad (the upper level is little more than a perspex closet, but THAT TOTALLY COUNTS) with shag carpet growing out of every surface. Sinking into her Leisure Depression, with the flip of a switch, Dyan causes a purple-fuzzed drinks cabinet to RISE FROM THE FLOOR, wobbling pathetically, presumably forced upwards by a sweating prop man balancing it on his bald head. She sticks some Morricone lounge sleaze on the hi-fi, then oops, she drops her the lid of her ice bucket (but we don’t do re-takes for that kind of thing) and then Belmondo turns up and things get Adult.

Hey, Dyan can turn the lights on and off just by clapping! If Belmondo spanks her he could get temporal lobe epilepsy.

And the filmmakers have thought of that gag too.

Photocube! Erotic flip-book! Ms Cannon’s entire environment consists of stuff that would vanish within a decade (I seem to recall the same was true in SHAMUS). I picture her now revolving helplessly in a white void, the world around her gone the way of the trimphone.

How stupid is this film? In the opening heist, Belmondo produces a spectacular piece of kit — a sort of computer thing in a briefcase. One attachment resembles a hand drill, but is actually a powerful miniature X-ray video camera of the kind that doesn’t exist. JPB uses this to x-ray the safe and obtain the registration number from the inside of the door. I don’t think this would work, at all, but at any rate any normal man would be horribly irradiated by doing this for a living. But not Belmondo, who has balls like cantaloupes and sperm like tadpoles. Radiation just makes them more powerful.

Having gotten a mirror-image of the registration number on his vidscreen (because he’s filming it from the wrong side of the safe door) and lacking elementary screen-grab technology, Belmondo places a small perspex square on the screen and traces the numbers. Reversing it, he can make sense of the confusing digits and looks them up in his guide to safe registration numbers and the kind of keys that fit them. Then it transpires that his little computer-x-ray-camera-briefcase is also a key-cutting machine, and it manufactures a key for him right there.

Of course I was hooked — if the movie was willing to start off in this ridiculous fashion, where would it go next? You can insult your audience’s intelligence only so far before you find yourself making JAWS: THE REVENGE. Or you look in the mirror and see Michael Bay looking back at you with cold, dead, empty eyes.

In fact, what we get next is some shoddy plot construction, a suspense sequence in which naughty Omar practices just missing his prisoners with a pistol while drinking a series of whisky shots to make things more interesting, and some truly impressive action sequences, in which Belmondo’s willingness to risk life, limb, torso and head are exploited to spectacular effect ~

And then there’s the shagging palace.