Archive for Wilfred Hyde White

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde-White

Posted in FILM with tags , , , on February 26, 2016 by dcairns

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Film detective time again!

Arch-Shadowplayer Randy Cook sent me a discovery — what appears to be a nubile Wilfred Hyde-White in Rouben Mamoulian’s 1932 DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE, spotted leaving Fredric March’s opening lecture.

This is Big News in that it;s unlisted on the IMDb and would put WHW in the movies two years earlier than the IMDb would have it — and making his debut in Hollywood rather than Cricklewood.

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Biographical info on the silvery one is somewhat sparse, but we are told he embarked on a tour of South Africa in 1932. Very well — either he decided to keep travelling and took a crack at the movie capital, or else South Africa was a cover story, something young Wilfred (!) thought sounded more respectable than moviedom.

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But hang on — is it him? It looks like him, and who else could? I also applied my forensic identification expertise, which consists of one helpful tip, acquired making NATAN, in which we had to differentiate, to our own satisfaction, between a distinguished French movie producer and a series of porno actors, one with a passing resemblance. The hint is that, socially, we concentrate on the middle of the face, the eyes nose and mouth, and the general shape. But the ears have much to tell us — though they grow throughout a person’s life, they do not naturally acquire or discard lobes, and the crenellations within remain broadly consistent.

This Hyde-White-alike not only has a similar elongated visage, with similar, distinctly shaped features, his ears are a pretty close match too. What are the chances?

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The only snag is the voice, which seems not to have yet acquired the reedy, fluting, querulous, nasal, professorial tone we know from later movies — I should hate to think it was an affectation! In REMBRANDT (1936), the earliest confirmed WHW movie I have to hand, he already has it, in rudimentary form anyway. Playing a medical student, he may have thought it unhelpful and suppressed it. Anyway, your views are welcome — if you have the DVD, the scene in question is right at the start, and it’s always worth revisiting this classic anyway.

His Tropi Wife

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2016 by dcairns

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“That was, without question, the most fucked-up film I have ever seen in my life,” declared Fiona after watching SKULLDUGGERY (1970).

My human bride had been quite interested to see the pic, as it deals with the missing link, and features favourites like Edward Fox, William Marshall and Wilfred Hyde-White. And Burt Reynolds, practicing his up-the-creek manoeuvres for the forthcoming DELIVERANCE. Reynolds plays a dodgy adventurer in New Guinea who latches onto an anthropological expedition in the hopes of finding profitable phosphorous deposits. Along the way he finds lurve with Susan Clark, the sexy female anthropologist (for once, the sexy scientist seems not too removed from reality, since there have apparently always been anthropologist babes — this isn’t like Denise Richards playing a nuclear physicist in THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH) and they also find a tribe of primeval hairy people they nickname the tropi.

Now, by the time Primitive Man shows his whiskery face, the movie has already reduced itself to rubble around us, with stupid and insulting humour about the African populace, and charmless romcom tosh in which the Reynolds’ character’s blatant villainy does little to endear him. We are encouraged to leer at native girls like a teenage boy grasping his first National Geographic in his sweaty palms. The uncomfortable ethnic stuff is made still weirder by the fact that all the tropis are played by Japanese actors.

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Every image I had previously seen from this movie emphasised the female tropis’ busts, thrusting pertly from beneath their orange fur (not quite the orangutan shade, more the tangerine of Japanese people attempting to go blonde). But the movie is squeamish about ape-woman nipple, and indeed seems reluctant to offer a clear look at these crucial characters at all, as if someone, somewhere, were ashamed. Their anxiety might have more productively focussed on the script.

Burt puts the tropis to work mining phosphorus for him, paying them in tinned ham, which they love. Then the backer of the expedition seizes on the idea of the tropis as an invaluable source of slave labour, and Burt is the only one who objects. This seems inconsistent, to say the least. The scientists are apparently all for slavery, though so much of Edward Fox’s performance takes place beyond the edges of the 4:3 pan-and-scan area, it’s hard to say if he ever had more of a character arc about this. The plot now becomes a debate about whether the tropies are human, which then focusses on whether Burt’s best pal has drunkenly fathered an infant by a tropi mom. To force the issue, Burt claims to have murdered the baby, and we end up in court for an in-depth analysis of where mankind ends and the animal kingdom begins. An in-depth analysis as imagined by idiots.

Where this idiocy comes from is hard to guess, since this film is based on a book by “Vercors,” author of the classic French occupation novel La Silence de la Mer, filmed by Melville, and the screenplay is credited to Nelson Gidding who did THE HAUNTING. Neither one seems like a fool. But foolishness prevails. I suspect uncredited other hands may be to blame for the foul tonal inconsistency and brainless fumbling. This is supported by the background info that Orson Welles associate Richard Wilson was tipped from the director’s chair, his still-warm buttock imprint occupied by the sagging rump of THEM! director Gordon Douglas, whose approach to the material is not so much uncertain as absent, as if behind the glass eye of the camera lurked another glass eye, gazing blankly and without feeling.

Skullduggery from David Cairns on Vimeo.

We do have the pleasure of seeing Edward Fox react to an ape-woman flying a helicopter — I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wondered what Sir Edward’s response to such a spectacle would be — but the sheer offensive stupidity of the rest boggles the mind.

Clark attempts to prove to the court that establishing an individual’s species is more complicated than you’d think, by laying out skulls from a baboon, a chimp, a human and an aboriginal. Yes, you read correctly. The movie apparently thinks aboriginals aren’t human, or are at best some sub-species of the main branch. There’s a spirited debate between William Marshall and Wilfred Hyde-White in which Marshall is, of course, dignified and Shakespearian and Hyde-White is doddery and wry, his usual mode — all the more effective when his character turns out to be a white supremacist. The smartest thing in the film is this underplaying of evil, and it may have only come about because WHW just did what he normally did and nobody thought to stop him.

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Then the movie spoils its nanosecond of goodwill by bringing in a parodic Black Panther (he’s flown all the way from America, apparently, to make the case that the tropis, being pale skinned, prove that white people are less evolved, or something), part of the usual satirical escape clause — “Black people are prejudiced too!” — in fact, I just realized, SKULLDUGGERY bloody well *is* Bonfire of the Vanities, book and film, only it’s all gone Piltdown.

The most neglected character in all this is Topazia, the tropi wife, played by Pat Suzuki. She gets knocked up by a human (hairless variety), gives birth, loses the child, and then gets hauled into court in a cage. The film has absolutely no interest in her as a character, human or animal, despite the fact that far more happens to her than to any of the bare-faced ham-dispensers making up the upper echelons of the cast list. SKULLDUGGERY unfair to tropis.

At last — a Film of Ideas made by morons.

Night Sweats

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2015 by dcairns

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A Phantasmagoria of Fright! bawled the posters. FRAGMENT OF FEAR (1970) just about lives up to that, but it’s a more subtle, creeping paranoiac fear that you’d think. Richard Sarafian directs, right before he made VANISHING POINT, and David Hemmings stars, accompanied by wife Gayle Hunnicutt and every familiar face that could be collected into a British/European feature at the time — Philip Stone and Dave Prowse are about to do CLOCKWORK ORANGE, Arthur Lowe and Mona Washbourne are both fresh from THE BED SITTING ROOM, Wilfred Hyde-White is fresh from everything else, and Flora Robson, Yootha Joyce and Roland Culver may not be exactly fresh but they’re certainly familiar.

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Hemmings, who was yet to put on the pounds and develop his eyebrows into great cavorting caterpillars, is at his height as a leading man, looking as he always did, like a cross between Michelangelo’s David and a waxwork rabbit. He plays — with consummate skill — a recovered addict and author whose beloved aunt (Robson) is murdered in Italy. As Hemmings investigates the murder, a conspiracy is uncovered which seeks to discredit him and drive him mad — or is it all in his mind? Unlike in BLOW-UP, there definitely, definitely is a body, definitely dead, but everything else falls into doubt. Hemmings receives a threatening letter typed on his own typewriter and hears a menacing laugh recorded on his own tape deck. The criminal organisation which offed auntie has tentacles everywhere, and has a very nasty way of dealing with those who attack it.

Starting off like weak Agatha Christie — I was never convinced anyone concerned knew anything about drugs or the drug scene (Hemmings may have, but he didn’t tell the writers) — this gets better and better, reaching its crescendo at the point where you really believe there’s a massive international criminal organisation masquerading as a charity and behaving exactly like an acute case of paranoid schizophrenia. It’s good on the vertigo of the London underground escalators and the sarcasm of the British policeman (see also DEATH LINE).

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Ultimately, the story doesn’t amount to that much — but the journey is engaging. It should have been as creepy as THE TENANT, but doesn’t have the grungy visual originality. Serafian’s fish-eye lenses, used to suggest disorientation and dissociation are a rather kitsch trick, and the hallucinations, consisting mainly of substituting one character for another, aren’t that scary. It’s the slowly building sense of reality disintegrating that disturbs, aided immeasurably by Hemmings’ committed perf. The coziness of all those beloved character players crowding in from all sides, like in THE MEDUSA TOUCH or LIFEFORCE, actually blends nicely with the persecution and perspiration.

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