Kidnapped (1971)

          Based on two Robert Louis Stevenson novels, Kidnapped (1886) and Catriona (1893), this medium-budgeted British adventure film gets off to a bumpy start, introducing the protagonist as a bit of a cipher while also failing to clearly explain the historical background of the Jacobite rebellion of the 17th and 18th centuries, during which Scots loyal to a deposed king waged battle against the occupational forces of the British government. However, once the movie introduces a key supporting character played by Michael Caine, the storyline achieves both clarity and vitality. By the end, when the protagonist has developed a personality and landed in the midst of a fraught sociopolitical conflict, Kidnapped becomes relatively engrossing. It helps that Caine’s performance gradually evolves from swashbuckling to something deeper, so even though there’s a bit of childish play-acting here—lots of running about with guns and swords—Caine’s natural gifts lend Kidnapped just the smidgen of gravitas it needs.

          At the beginning of the story, David Balfour (Lawrence Douglas), whose father recently died, arrives at a remote Scottish castle to claim his inheritance. He’s met by a half-crazed uncle, Ebenezer (Donald Pleasance), who tries to kill David and then arranges to have David kidnapped for indentured service on a vessel sailing to the American colonies. The boat rams a smaller ship piloted by Alan Breck (Caine), a fugitive soldier with the Jacobite cause. Circumstances including a shipwreck throw Alan and David together, so they begin a journey across the Scottish highlands, where rebels offer sanctuary even as British troops stalk Alan, who has a price on his head. Things get even more involved from there, but suffice to say that David transforms from bystander to participant, gaining a crucial role in the story of the Jacobite rebellion while also forming a life-changing friendship with the roguish Alan.

          In its best scenes, Kidnapped is an intelligent homage to the sort of pictures Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power used to make, heroism against a historical backdrop. While there’s an adequate amount of action, the focus is mostly on character interplay and political intrigue, so the climactic moment is a quiet scene of Alan choosing between national pride and personal safety. Yet one should not mistake Kidnapped for high art, since director Delbert Mann employs a workmanlike style. What’s more, the dialogue gets a bit much at times, with everything a “bonny” this or a “bonny” that. Some episodes come and go without leaving a mark, and leading lady Vivien Heilbron renders unmemorable work. Still, with Caine setting the pace and a raft of fine supporting turns—by Pleasance, Jack Hawkins, Trevor Howard, Freddie Jones, and Jack Watson—Kidnapped gets enough right to make for enjoyable viewing.

Kidnapped: GROOVY

The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970)

          A British psychological drama distinguished by a mystery element that keeps viewers guessing whether or not something supernatural is actually occurring, The Man Who Haunted Himself is very much in the mode of a Twilight Zone episode—characterization and plotting are used to generate suspense until the story reaches its outlandish conclusion. While some folks will find the larky narrative more persuasive than others, it’s always a kick to see Roger Moore testing the limits of his dramatic powers. Although he’s about as effective as the film itself, which is to say only somewhat, he commits to the material. Watching an actor who sleepwalked through some of his highest-profile movies contribute real effort is pleasurable, no matter the inconsistently of the results.

          Moore plays Hugh Pelham, a businessman whose life is stiffly regimented, from the patterns of his daily work schedule to the rhythms of his stagnant marriage. One afternoon, Hugh experiences an inexplicable seizure while driving—clunky special effects make it appear as if a phantom version of Hugh’s car appears in tandem with the real vehicle—so Hugh causes a terrible accident. On an operating table shortly afterward, Hugh dies for a moment, and then his doctors briefly see two heartbeats on an EKG monitor. Thereafter, Hugh endures several maddening incidents, such as being told he just left a room that he’s entering, suggesting that someone who looks identical to Hugh is tampering with his life. For instance, Hugh encounters a sexy photographer, Julie (Olga Georges-Picot), who claims that she’s having an affair with Hugh even though he has no recollection of sleeping with her. The filmmakers cleverly circumvent their basic storytelling problem—an unseen antagonist—and Moore does a fair job of sketching his character’s progression from bewilderment to petulance to, finally, the brink of madness.

          The movie also gets quite weird at times, especially during a long scene in which eccentric psychiatrist Dr. Harris (Freddie Jones) explains doppelganger theories to a worried-looking Hugh: While Harris repeatedly spins Hugh’s chair to keep it moving, the camera, which is positioned at an extreme low-angle, moves in tandem with Harris, creating a dizzying funhouse effect. Oh, and for an added bonus, The Man Who Haunted Himself features a line that’s quite droll in retrospect, seeing as how the picture was released two years before Moore assumed the role of a certain secret agent. While discussing corporate espionage with coworkers, Moore’s character says, “Intrigue isn’t all James Bond and her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Are you sure about that, Mr. Moore?

The Man Who Haunted Himself: GROOVY

Sitting Target (1972)

          Intense, minimalistic, and taut, the UK thriller Sitting Target showcases the singular British actor Oliver Reed at his most primal. Playing a man seething with rage and yet ultimately driven by deeper passions that don’t become evident until the very end of the story, Reed maintains an amazing level of ferocity from the first frame to the last. Make no mistake, Sitting Target is a violent revenge saga filled with chase scenes, explosions, and shootouts. Within those parameters, however, it’s credible and effective. Freddie Jones, Ian McShane, and Edward Woodward deliver excellent supporting performances while director Douglas Hickox and cinematographer Edward Scalfe employ consistently imaginative camera angles and film editor John Glen (a frequent participant in 007 movies) creates expert pacing. Best of all, the film seems quite straightforward until the aforementioned ending, which casts everything that came before in a new light. In sum, Sitting Target is more than just adrenalized escapism.

          Reed stars as Harry, a career criminal serving a long term in jail alongside fellow crook Birdy (McShane). The filmmakers introduce Harry perfectly, showing him performing a brutal exercise regimen in his dark cell—he’s perpetually ready for action. One day, Harry’s wife, Pat (Jill St. John), visits him in jail with terrible news. He’s lost his appeal, meaning he’ll be imprisoned for years. Making matters worse, Pat reveals that she’s leaving Harry for another man, whose baby she now carries. Harry responds by smashing his hand through the glass separating him from Pat and nearly strangling her to death. Determined to exact revenge for her betrayal, Harry arranges to break out of jail with Birdy and wealthy crook MacNeil (Jones). The escape sequence is terrific, generating real danger and tension while illustrating fundamental differences between the escapees. Once news of Harry’s jailbreak spreads, policeman Milton (Woodward) assumes responsibility for Pat’s safety. A cat-and-mouse game ensues, because for Harry, it’s not enough to destroy Pat. He wants her to know what’s coming.

          Sitting Target is far from perfect. A subplot of Birdy and Harry harassing a former colleague for money chews up screen time, and one scene hinges on Harry shooting a target from an enormous distance with a pistol, which seems iffy. That said, the pros outweigh the cons, no pun intended. The action scenes are strong, the overall atmosphere is believably grim, and the sheer level of testosterone surging through the movie’s veins is incredible. St. John is the weak link, giving a decorative performance and rendering a questionable British accent, though she doesn’t diminish the overall impact. FYI, UK actor Frank Finlay shares a few scenes with Reed. Not long afterward, the players joined forces for Richard Lester’s superlative adventure films The Three Musketeers (1973) and The Four Musketeers (1974).

Sitting Target: GROOVY

1980 Week: The Elephant Man

          Here’s one of my favorite bits of movie trivia—Mel Brooks is responsible for unleashing David Lynch on the world. Sort of. After expanding an American Film Institute student project into the bizarre feature Eraserhead (1977), Lynch caught the attention of a producer at Brooks’ short-lived production company, Brooksfilms. This led to Lynch getting hired as the director for The Elephant Man, which Lynch did not originate but which completely suits the filmmaker’s dark style. Thus, a connection was permanently formed between the funnyman who filled the Wild West with flatulence in Blazing Saddles (1974) and the experimentalist who combined huffing and rape in Blue Velvet (1986).

          Anyway, The Elephant Man is in some ways Lynch’s most accessible movie, even though it’s black-and-white, set during the Victorian era, and profoundly sad. Notwithstanding some flourishes during dream sequences, The Elephant Man is entirely reality-based, so Lynch doesn’t rely on any of his usual surrealist tricks. Instead, he demonstrates an extraordinary gift for stylized storytelling, because Lynch swaths this poignant narrative with a perfect aesthetic of murky shadows, silky rhythms, and undulating textures. (Lynch and his collaborators create such magical effects with editing, music, production design, and sound effects that the film seems to have a tangible pulse.) The director also guides his cast through masterful performances.

          Based on the real-life exploits of Joseph Merrick, an Englishman afflicted with neurofibromatosis, the movie tracks Merrick from the indignity of life as a circus attraction to the period during which he was accepted by polite society thanks to the patronage of a sympathetic doctor. Renamed John Merrick in the script, the character is a paragon of dignity, suffering the exploitation of cretins and the revulsion of gawkers without manifesting the rage to which he was surely entitled. The saintly portrayal tips the narrative scales, to be sure, but this approach suits the film’s overall themes: More than anything, The Elephant Man is about society’s inability to embrace unique people.

          When the story begins, Merrick (John Hurt) is kept as a virtual slave by a beastly carnival barker named Bytes (Freddie Jones). One evening, aristocratic Dr. Frederick Treves (Anthony Hopkins) sees Merrick on display and marvels at Merrick’s deformities, which include an oversized head, a misshapen spine, and various large tumors. Treves buys Merrick’s freedom and contrives to find Merrick a permanent home inside a London hospital. Later, Merrick is presented to society and shown a mixture of pity and respect that he perceives as love. Crystallizing Merrick’s acceptance is his friendship with a famous stage actress (Anne Bancroft), who visits Merrick regularly without ever evincing disgust at his appearance. The demons of Meerick’s old life aren’t so easily kept at bay, however, because Bytes and other tormenters forever threaten to ruin Merrick’s salvation.

          Despite being made with consummate craftsmanship on every level (the movie received 10 Oscar nominations), The Elephant Man is painful to watch, simply because of the amount of suffering that Merrick experiences in every scene. Yet there’s great beauty to the film, as well, particularly during the heartbreaking final sequence, which is set to Samuel Barber’s exquisite “Adagio for Strings.” Part character study, part medical mystery, and part morality tale, The Elephant Man is a singular film of tremendous power.

The Elephant Man: RIGHT ON

Son of Dracula (1974)

          In the years immediately following the demise of the Beatles, George Harrison, John Lennon, and Paul McCartney each found individual musical success, but the band’s easygoing drummer, Ringo Starr, wasn’t naturally suited to solo pop stardom. Therefore, even as he periodically released music, Starr had time for such other endeavors as acting and film producing. Starr’s cinematic hobby reached a strange climax with Son of Dracula, a comedy/horror musical featuring singer Harry Nilsson in the title role. Nilsson, a friend of Lennon’s and Starr’s who was as notable for his epic drinking as for his offbeat pop music, demonstrates zero screen presence as the modern-day heir to Count Dracula’s netherworld throne—despite performing a number of exciting tunes both onscreen and on the soundtrack (including one of his biggest hits, the mournful ballad “Without You’), Nilsson’s appearance in the film is merely a novelty. Similarly, Starr’s supporting role as Merlin the Magician (complete with the silly costume of a gigantic beard, a pointy hat covered with stars, and a robe) feels more like a lark than a proper filmic statement. Plus, the way music-industry pals including John Bonham, Peter Frampton, and Keith Moon show up during performance scenes gives Son of Dracula the feel of a show that Starr put on in his backyard.

          Buried inside Son of Dracula, however, is the skeleton of a serviceable horror movie, because the protagonist, Count Downe (Nilsson), experiences an existential crisis on the eve of taking his father’s place as King of the Monsters. Specifically, Count Downe wants to experience human emotions, so he enlists the aid of Dr. Van Helsing (Dennis Price) for a scientific process that will make Count Downe mortal. Meanwhile, scheming netherworld lieutenant Baron Von Frankenstein (Freddie Jones) wants to expose Count Downe as a traitor, thus usurping the throne. Executed without irony, this plot could have generated an adequate horror show. Alas, Son of Dracula is padded with nonsense including the aforementioned musical numbers (which are weakly justified by the contrivance that Count Downe dabbles in singing), as well as endless montages of Count Downe wandering around London. Veteran horror director Freddie Francis does an okay job of filming city streets and underground dungeons with atmospheric low angles, and composer Paul Buckmaster provides a few evocative moments of dissonant scoring, but none of these flourishes matter. As it wobbles between action, comedy, drama, horror, and music, Son of Dracula elicits no audience reaction more strongly than it elicits boredom.

Son of Dracula: LAME

Taste the Blood of Dracula (1970) & Scars of Dracula (1970) & Dracula AD 1972 (1972) & The Satanic Rites of Dracula (1973) & The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires (1974)

          By the mid-’60s, a dreary formula was in place for Hammer Films’ long-running Dracula series: Each movie contrived a laborious new mechanism for resurrecting the titular bloodsucker (Christopher Lee), and each movie ended with Drac suffering an elaborate demise. As the series progressed, Lee’s characterization became more robotic, and the filler scenes depicting various supporting characters became more tedious. By the time the ’70s arrived, even Hammer’s lush Victorian-era costumes and locations felt stale. As a result, Taste the Blood of Dracula is a routine but well-photographed entry notable only for introducing Satan worship into the series, although comic actor Roy Kinnear enlivens a few early scenes. The movie takes forever to get started (an hour passes before Drac bites his first neck), and the formula of blood, cleavage, and Gothic atmosphere is overly familiar; furthermore, Dracula’s overreliance on henchmen makes him seem more like a Bond villain than a legendary monster.
          Scars of Dracula features more of the same, but instead of Satan worship, the story pays rudimentary homage to Bram Stoker’s original Dracula novel with scenes of an unfortunate European fellow imprisoned in Drac’s castle. Reflecting how dry the creative well was at this point, the opening scene depicts a bat reviving Dracula by drooling blood onto the count’s bones. Really? Although Lee spends more time onscreen than usual in this entry, Scars of Dracula is one of Hammer’s shoddiest productions, complete with fake bats that wouldn’t pass muster in a student film.
          After a two-year hiatus, Hammer shook up the formula with Dracula AD 1972, which resurrects Dracula in present-day England, and the always-entertaining Peter Cushing returned to the series for the first time in 12 years, playing Lorimer Van Helsing, a descendant of the count’s old nemesis. The movie retains a bit of Gothic flavor by giving Dracula an abandoned old church as a lair, but most of the story takes place in the London youth scene, so lots of with-it kids party in tacky early-’70s fashions (leading lady Stephanie Beacham rocks a fierce mullet hairstyle). Campy dialogue, kitschy musical interludes, and slick camerawork make Dracula AD 1972 a guilty pleasure, and watch for raven-haired cult-favorite starlet Caroline Munro in an early role. It should also be noted that Beacham’s mesmerizing cleavage is such a focal point in Dracula AD 1972 that her breasts should’ve gotten special billing; this movie may represent the apex of Hammer leering, which is saying a lot.
          Hammer continued its new modern-day continuity with The Satanic Rites of Dracula, a Cushing-Lee romp enlivened by the presence of costar Freddie Jones, who plays a twitchy Satanist/scientist, and future Absolutely Fabulous star Joanna Lumley, taking over Beacham’s role as a Van Helsing descendant. The movie boasts an energetic score (proto-disco funk passages, lots of stabbing horns), plus slickly atmospheric wide-lens photography. There are even a couple of genuine jolts (rare in any Hammer flick), like a slo-mo attack on Lumley by several distaff vampires. The fact that the first hour of the movie plays out like an occult-themed conspiracy thriller sets the stage nicely for Lee’s dominance in the last twenty minutes; for once, Lee gets to do more than lunge at people and recoil from crosses, and he seems energized. Satanic Rites is easily the best thriller of this batch, even though it’s barely a Dracula movie in the classic sense.
          In 1974, Hammer’s Dracula series reached a bizarre conclusion with the kung fu epic The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires, a joint effort from Hammer and chop-socky specialists the Shaw Brothers. In two brief scenes, John Forbes-Robertson unimpressively stands in for the absent Lee as Dracula, while a tired-looking Cushing reprises his Van Helsing shtick for the whole dreary flick. Boring nonsense about noble Chinese martial artists engaged in brawls and swordplay against decaying vampire ghouls in ornate gold masks, 7 Vampires is the series’ absolute nadir. Plus, who knew Dracula spoke fluent Chinese?

Taste the Blood of Dracula: LAME

Scars of Dracula: LAME

Dracula AD 1972: FUNKY

The Satanic Rites of Dracula: FUNKY

The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires: SQUARE