Archive for The Smiler with the Knife

The Sunday Intertitle: Wolfdunnit?

Posted in Fashion, FILM, literature, Mythology, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2018 by dcairns

Today, for the Hammer & AMicus Blogathon, I’m looking at THE BEAST MUST DIE. No, not this one —

I haven’t seen the 1952 version of Nicholas Blake’s novel, but I have read the novel. Blake was the pen-name of Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis, father of Daniel, who moonlighted as a crime novelist. This his only book to have been adapted for the cinema, but his The Smiler With the Knife NEARLY became Orson Welles’ first film.

Not this one either ~

Claude Chabrol’s version of the same book is pretty good. Going by the cast list of the Argentinian version, it shares with Chabrol the unusual feature of eliminating the character of the detective. Blake/Day-Lewis created such a compelling pair of opposing characters in this story that his usual toff detective, Nigel Strangeways, just gets in the way. And in Smiler, he’s almost completely sidelined, his adventurous wife taking centre stage (Welles hoped to cast Lucille Ball, with himself as homegrown fascist villain).

But no, Amicus head Milton Subotsky chose to adapt a short story by Star Trek writer James Blish and give it Blake’s title (a biblical quotation) — but it’s STILL a country house detective story, with a slight twist. There will be spoilers ahead.

Taking this challenge seriously, I’m basically live-blogging this so you can see if I’m able to ID the skin-changer. Who’s hairy on the inside at this weekend party?

In my experience, seventies werewolves tend to wear plaid shirts, like lumberjacks (perhaps harking back to WOLFBLOOD, the silent movie combining lycanthropy and lumberjacking which I wrote about here. The first lumberthrope movie? So I’ll be watching this one waiting for someone to turn up in an ugly shirt, My money’s on Michael Gambon as the cast member likeliest to display hideous fashion sense. But I am aware of a complicating factor: the movie was also released, in an attempt to cash in on the blacksploitation craze, as BLACK WEREWOLF, which would seem to narrow the choices down to Calvin Lockhart and Marlene Clark. And is, quite frankly, a terrible title for a whodunnit.

We begin with a freeze-fame of our werewolf — ALSO a terrible spoiler — and the insinuating tones of Valentine Dyall, purring a redundant VO which is also spelled out in superimposed titles.

Helicopter shot over what looks like Scottish heather, but may in fact be the grounds of Shepperton, and Calvin Coolidge Lockhart is being hunted by a private army and a helicopter, through a wood wired for sound by Anton Diffring who sits aloof in a control room with a video wall.

This movie is THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND avant la lettre, isn’t it? Which is to say, Ten Little Indians with a video wall. I wonder if Robert Ludlum saw it and thought, “Needs a better title!”

The cast contains Dumbledore II, Ernst Stavros Blofeld (again), Ganja Meda, Irving Amadeus, the Grand Moff Tarkin and Reinhard Heydrich, so it’s quite a house party.

Two cast members lack iconic signature roles — but Ciaran Madden would reunite with Dumbledore Michael Gambon in 1992 when she played Mm. Maigret to his titular sleuth, and Tom Chadbon has a memorable bit part in JUGGERNAUT (“I’d spent it, hadn’t I?”) though of course I find all the bit parts memorable in that one.

Chadbon, whose voice here fluctuates between early Malcolm McDowell and anorak on the bus man, is an absolute joy in his puffy shirts.

The dialogue is a hoot — “One of our guests is a werewolf: I know it,” intones Lockhart. “Then why did you INVITE them?” asks his wife, quite reasonably. What adds to the strangeness is that most of the cast are either playing the wrong nationality — Anton Diffring is being Polish, Peter Cushing German — or are dubbed — Marlene Clark has been revoiced by Scottish jazz singer and actress Annie Ross, who performed the same service for Britt Ekland in THE WICKER MAN — or just have naturally amusing voices, like Chadbon and Gray (whose voice we’re used to hearing come out of Jack Hawkins’ mouth).

Anton sips his Bailey’s and gazes at his video wall like a kind of Thomas Jerome Teuton.

Director Paul Annett was an experienced second unit man for TV, shooting the location action sequences on film for British shows that would revert to video as soon as the characters moved indoors. For his sins, he does provide an endless car chase between Lockhart and Gambon that saps my will to live whenever I try to watch this movie. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember who the werewolf is — the car chase always defeats me. Well, this time, I’m as obsessed as Lockhart to get to the bottom of this, lacking only the attractive high cheekbones (with Lockhart and Cushing and Diffring and even Gray, this film sports perhaps the finest assemblage of cheekbones ever captured on celluloid — a thespic Himalayan range of facial promontories).

“Lost in time… and lost in space… and meaning…”

When the movie isn’t doing helicopter chases and such, Annett and ace cameraman Jack Hildyard (BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI) manage a lot of stylish and dynamic shooting, prone to zoom abuse, it’s true, but it’s 1973 after all… it’s fair to say the movie does resemble a glossy TV thriller of the period (e.g. The Persuaders) more than a horror movie. Well Subotsky liked monsters but not gore or sex or violence or anything too disturbing…

Much of the film consists of Lockhart and Diffring spying on the guest bedrooms, searching for signs of incipient werewolfism in the invitees. As Anton watches Chadbon strip to the waist, he muses, “Lots of men have hair on their chests,” projecting the suave confidence of a man who knows whereof he speaks. “And on the backs of their hands?” objects Lockhart, as if this were the unlikeliest thing on earth. He’s never met Len Deighton.

The eyes, quite apart from being the windows of the soul, are the tasty bit.

After the first killing — offscreen, but leaving a gory aftermath — we see all their guests in their PJs — Charles Gray sports a vivid paisley dressing gown, and Gambon once again goes for a subtle but distinct check. The rules of fashion dictate he MUST be the wolfman in their midst!

But at dinner, he wears a brown velvet smoking jacket and a shirt with a collar of startling wingspan. Not a check in sight.

Gambon is definitely soft on werewolves, though — his first act as Dumbledore was to hire a lycan schoolmaster.

I bloody hate day for night photography, personally.

Like THE DEVIL RIDES OUT, this movie shares cast members with the almighty INCENSE FOR THE DAMNED, two of them this time (Lockhart & Cushing).

The Sunday Intertitle this week is from The Werewolf Break, where Valentine Dyall — The Man in Black — returns on the soundtrack to invite us to guess who the shaggy killer is.

 

It’s twenty past werewolf.

And in fact the ending pulls off quite a few cunning twists — I wasn’t emotionally engaged enough to really care who’s wolfie, but the reversals and revelations pile on top of one another turn it into quite a nice conclusion. Here comes the spoilers — first hairy hand is spotted on Marlene Clark, so that her hubbie has to administer the silver bullet, and then it turns out she’s been cross-infected by a golden retriever who’d been gored by the ORIGINAL werewolf —

— an Alsatian in a woolly waistcoat, finally revealed as —

 
 

BLOODY MICHAEL GAMBON! I KNEW IT!

This has been an entry in the Hammer Amicus Blogathon run by Cinematic Catharsis and  Real Weegie Midget Reviews.

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Cosy Crime

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2016 by dcairns

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Fiona was having a tough time — she concussed herself on a door frame, and she quite her job after it became intolerable — and was looking for something light to read. I recommended some nice English murders.

First up was Anthony Berkeley’s The Poisoned Chocolates Case, which I first heard about through David Bordwell’s site. DB is a mystery fan, which makes sense as he’s fascinated by the art of construction — stories, sequences, compositions. And Berkeley is a master of construction, delivering in this book a mystery which arrives at a fresh solution in every chapter. The whodunnit seems to be an art form which attained decadence at once, with baroque twists coming into play immediately — Agatha Christie pulled off most of the major outrages (the detective did it; the narrator did it; everybody did it), while John Dickson Carr (AKA Carter Dixon) was content to perform infinite, mad variations on the locked room/impossible crime scenario. But Berkeley, a better stylist with a deeper interest in character psychology, combined outrageously twisty narratives with humour and a degree of emotional depth.

Like Christie and Carr, he had two main detectives, the mousey Mr. Chitterwick and the more flamboyant Roger Sheringham. The name Roger Sheringham is so rosy and British it makes me smile just to type it. Both appear as dueling criminologists in The Poisoned Chocolates Case, and Chitterwick takes centre stage in The Piccadilly Murder, in which he witnesses what only later turns out to be a murder. He’s a funny little character and his adventures are lightly likeable, but Trial and Error is something more — Chitterwick is reduced to a supporting role while the protagonist is Mr. Todhunter, a rumpled bachelor who, upon learning he has a terminal aneurysm, resolves to rid the world of an outstanding human pest as a kind of farewell act — a humanitarian murder (for a crime writer, Berkeley is surprisingly pro-murder). The problem arises not with the crime itself, which goes quite smoothly after some difficulty in selective a worthy target (the year is 1937: Hitler and Mussolini are both considered). But an innocent man is suspected, then arrested, then convicted, and Todhunter finds he has staged his homicide too well — with no proof, he cannot convince anyone of his guilt, and Scotland Yard regard him as a crank. Enter Mr. Chitterwick.

The book is funny, devilishly clever (with only a couple of awkward moments where things have to be carefully arranged to conceal twists, and the trickery doesn’t quite convince), and the mild-mannered assassin is a delightful figure — Berkeley fairly puts him through the ringer.

Sheringham dominates in The Silk Stocking Murders, an early (1928) serial killer yarn which I’ve just begun (this 1941 thriller rips it off actionably), Panic Party, and The Second Shot. Ever ludic, Berkeley strands his cast of suspects in the first book on a desert island and has Sheringham grumpily refuse to do any investigating at all for the entire length of the book, on the grounds that heightening the atmosphere of mutual suspicion would be disastrous. Civilisation breaks down anyway, with distressing scenes reminiscent of both Lord of the Flies and THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL — usually, in these things, decorum is preserved even in the face of any number of lead-pipe-in-the-library assassinations. In the last chapter, rescued from the island, Roger clears up the case in a few sentences, but does nothing about it.

The Second Shot is equally odd — narrated by Cyril Pinkerton, a pathological prig, it builds up an atmosphere of anxiety until its intensely annoying lead character comes to seem pathetic, loveable and vulnerable, enmeshed as he is in a web of circumstantial evidence. Entering at the halfway mark, Sheringham makes things even hotter for him, shamelessly bullying the prissy squirt, clearing his name and even playing cupid in a charmingly unlikely romance. There’s a first-rate cad character also, for fans of cads (and aren’t we all?).

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Berkeley, like Carr, also wrote under pseudonyms, and as Francis Iles he’s the author of Before the Fact, filmed by Hitchcock as SUSPICION, and Malice Aforethought, which also tempted Hitch. Fiona and I fondly remember a 70s BBC adaptation with Hywel Bennett (it’s on YouTube). Truffaut’s book approvingly quotes the opening sentence: “It was not until several weeks after he had decided to murder his wife that Dr Bickleigh took any active steps in the matter.” Better yet, it goes on, “Naturally his decision did not arrive ready-made. It evolved gradually, the fruit of much wistful cogitation.” Wistful cogitation is very fine indeed.

Fiona also followed me in reading Nicholas Blake’s The Smiler with the Knife, which Orson Welles once considered adapting, and became hungry for more Georgia Strangeways adventures. Sadly, Blake (AKA poet laureate and actor-dad Cecil Day Lewis) doesn’t seem to have provided any, using her as red herring in one book and muse to amateur sleuth Nigel Strangeways in at best a couple more (The Beast Must Die being the best-known). Minute for Murder is a very good Strangeways yarn, set in the Ministry of Morale, a thinly-veiled version of the Ministry of Information where the author spent the war. Blake has a weakness for coincidence, but once you accept the premise that the MOM is a hotbed of adultery, espionage, blackmail and murder, it’s a psychologically acute, entertaining and even emotional thriller, featuring a British spy who operates in drag and delights in camping it up. It feels like Day Lewis, who we can assume didn’t normally get out much, was reinvigorated by his wartime experience, deskbound thought it was. Sadly, we learn in this one that Georgia Strangeways has been killed in the blitz.
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In The Whisper in the Gloom, Strangeways has a new romantic interest, sculptor Clare Massinger, so I’m not sure why Blake rendered him single. This one hinges on outrageous contrivance, such as a small boy acquiring a clue which seems to be his own name and age: Bert Hale, 12. This grabs the attention, but turns out to mean something quite different, and the coincidence has no alibi — characters in the book regularly dismiss some apparent situations as being unbelievable, which just makes the glaring improbability at the book’s core even more ludicrous. But there’s fun stuff with the kids reminiscent of HUE AND CRY, and a climax borrowed wholesale from Hitchcock’s THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH (which the Master was just about to remake). When the Disneyland TV show adapted this, they called it The Kids Who Knew Too Much. True to form, Strangeways does not appear. Was ever a detective so prone to being deleted from his own adventures?

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Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 25, 2016 by dcairns

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Finally reading The Smiler with the Knife, written by Nicholas Blake (who was really the poet Cecil Day-Lewis, father of Daniel) in 1939, immediately optioned by RKO and briefly developed by Orson Welles as his Hollywood debut, after THE HEART OF DARKNESS fell through and before CITIZEN KANE came through. It’s an item in Welles bios that always intrigued me.

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Years ago I read Blake’s The Beast Must Die, which has no relation to the Amicus werewolf whodunnit (spoiler: the werewolf dunnit), but which was decently filmed by Chabrol as QUE LA BETE MEURE in 1969, and as LA BESTIA DEBE MORIR in 1952 by my man Roman Vinoly Barreto. The best bit of the book is a lengthy confession written by a man plotting the murder of the motorist who drunkenly killed his child. Then Blake’s posh private eye, Nigel Strangeways comes along and solves it, and the story devolves into a conventional country house kind of thriller, sitting uncomfortably with the raw emotion of the killer POV sequence. Chabrol certainly noticed that, and excised Strangeways from his movie altogether. I haven’t been able to see the Barreto, but he may have done the same, or maybe he just changed the names. Has Nigel Strangeways ever made it to the screen?

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Poor Nigel is largely absent from The Smiler with the Knife too, with his wife Georgia, intrepid explorer, taking centre stage, going underground to unmask a fascist plot to take over Britain — the aristocratic leader of the secret society falls in love with her and she has to betray and outwit him. Events rapidly overtook the novel with the outbreak of war, but Welles planned to relocate the story to America, with the villain a Howard Hughes type. Ironic, since Hughes would end up owning RKO.

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Welles also included, according to Joseph McBride’s Whatever Happened to Orson Welles?, a Hearst-like newspaper baron called W.N. Howells — now, presumably Welles had in mind for himself the big bad guy role, whose character has quite a bit in common with his eventual role in THE STRANGER (secret fascist hiding in plain view, in love with a woman who does not share his sinister sympathies), but “W.N. Howells” sounds so much like a misheard “Orson Welles” that it’s hard to believe he wasn’t already sizing up the part for himself.

Blake/Day-Lewis makes his main villain a romantic millionaire figure, toying humorously with the affections of countless women but falling dangerously in love with Georgia. He also ends up blinded in a fire she starts, anticipating Welles role as Rochester in JANE AYRE EYRE. His styling as an “attractive brute” type may have been a stretch for Orson, but no doubt appealed, and one aspect of his description, his “oddly lumbering, bear-like gait,” fits Welles, no twinkletoes, to a tee.

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Nobody seems to have produced a really detailed synopsis of Welles’ adaptation, and it’s not published or available to read online, but I recall (correctly, I hope) that Welles wanted Lucille Ball for the lead. This would have changed Georgia’s character considerably, and a good thing too — Blake/Day-Lewis has to work hard to even begin to make plausible her role as an undercover agent when she’s well-known as the daughter-in-law of a Scotland Yard commissioner whose job is to expose the conspirators. I imagine Welles making her much more of a regular working girl, perhaps anticipating her role in the delightful 1947 thriller LURED (Douglas Sirk), in which she plays a taxi dancer going undercover to snare a serial killer.

The latter part of the book is a very Hitchcockian chase thriller, in the 39 STEPS mode. Welles had some kind of inherent antipathy to Hitchcock, co-existing with an attraction to often similar material (but what attracted him about it was obviously quite different). It would have been fascinating to see what he’d make of this.

Oh well, we’ll just have to make do with CITIZEN KANE.