Blindman (1971)

          Energetic and fast-paced but also silly and a little bit trashy, this spaghetti western enjoys minor cult status because ex-Beatle Ringo Starr plays a supporting role. Yet Blindman is moderately enjoyable on its own merits. The plot is typical spaghetti-western weirdness, predicated on outlandish schemes and superhuman abilities, suggesting that star Tony Anthony (who also provided the story) studied the genre. Beyond the usual tropes of overwrought music and wild camera zooms, Blindman includes themes of heroism, pride, and revenge, all delivered by way of a lone-wolf protagonist who’s an artist with his six-shooters. As promised by the title, said protagonist is sightless, so every scene in which he hits a target is inherently ridiculous.

          Vigorously directed by Ferdinando Baldi, the picture begins with Blindman (Anthony) rolling into a small town looking for trouble. As in, he’s there to find a man named “Trouble.” Apparently that fellow knows the location of the 50 women whom Blindman purchased. To get Trouble’s attention, Blindman repeatedly shoots the bell of a church tower. After Blindman learns that the women were kidnapped by a criminal named Domingo, Blindman embarks on an adventure to recover his “property.” Turns out the ladies were imported from Europe as mail-order brides, so it’s not as if either Blindman or Domingo wants a personal harem; rather, they hope to sell the women for profit. Much of the picture comprises back-and-forth scenes during which Blindman takes the women from Domingo or vice versa, with Domingo’s brother, Candy (Starr), caught in between.

          Is this stuff as insane as it sounds? Yes and no. On a narrative level, Blindman is bizarre, since very little of what happens onscreen could actually occur in reality. Yet on an experiential level, Blindman lacks the fever-dream quality of, say, Sergio Leone’s spaghetti-western masterpieces. Anthony and Baldi take time to set up characters and situations, as if doing so will make the flick seem more credible. It does not. That said, Anthony, Baldi, and their collaborators muster a handful of decent action scenes, so the film moves along nicely. Still, there’s only so high this picture can fly, because the acting is merely serviceable, and because the film’s treatment of women is grotesque. Just because the story is set during a historical period when women were treated poorly doesn’t justify the incessant abuse of female characters or the myriad nude scenes.  

Blindman: FUNKY

Lisztomania (1975)

          With the possible exception of The Devils (1971), which employs provocative imagery while telling a meaningful story about historical persecution, the musical biopic Lisztomania is British director Ken Russell’s most outrageous movie—no small accomplishment. Lisztomania is also one of the weirdest big-budget films ever made, since it contains a man riding a giant phallus like it’s a bucking bronco, composer Richard Wagner reincarnated as a machine-gun-wielding hybrid of Frankenstein’s monster and Adolf Hitler, and a climactic battle in which composer Franz Liszt flies a fighter jet built from organ pipes that blast his music like guided missiles. Not exactly Amadeus.

          Based upon a real-life phenomenon that occurred during the career of 19th-century Hungarian composer Liszt, who reportedly drove audiences into something like the frenzied adoration later associated with 20th-century rock stars, Lisztomania opens in such a juvenile fashion that writer-director Russell makes it immediately clear he is uninterested in simply re-creating history. Liszt (Roger Daltrey) cavorts in bed with aristocrat Marie (Fiona Lewis), kissing her breasts in time with the clicks of a metronome. She repeatedly accelerates the metronome’s speed, so Liszt accelerates his smooching. Then Marie’s husband arrives, and a “comical” duel ensues, during which Liszt—clad only a s sheet he’s tied around his privates like a diaper—tries to evade the rapier with which the husband hopes to castrate Liszt. From camera angles to editing and music, the whole scene is designed to feel like a cartoon, setting the childish tone for everything that follows.

          In the course of telling a story that’s only vaguely connected to the real Lizzt’s experiences, Russell portrays Liszt as a debauched celebrity pandering to public appetites with performances that are beneath his talent, while also spending much of his private time bouncing from one woman’s bedroom to the next. Liszt’s sexual wanderings climax with a fantasy sequence during which Liszt grows the aforementioned Godzilla-sized erection—which, at one point, several women straddle simultaneously.

          As the movie drags on, the plot grows to similarly oversized proportions. On instructions from the Pope (played by Ringo Starr of the Beatles), Liszt is charged with luring his former colleague, Wagner (Paul Nicholas), back to Christianity. This doesn’t go well, because Wagner has become an evil scientist preoccupied with bringing the Norse god Thor (Rick Wakeman) to life, although Thor, for some reason, wears the costume associated with the version of the character appearing in Marvel Comics of the ’60s and ’70s. Sprinkled amid this nonsense are various scenes in which Daltrey, the lead singer of The Who and the star of Russell’s previous film, Tommy (released a few months earlier in 1975), sings original rock songs. There’s more, too, including a scene decorated with ceramic buttocks that issue smoke through their—you get the idea.

          One imagines that Russell had a grand old time generating concepts and then seeing if his production team could realize them without quitting in protest of his bad taste. Furthermore, actors play their roles with tremendous glee. However, the level of stupidity on display throughout Lisztomania is staggering. Whereas Russell’s best films are the work of a sophisticated provocateur, Lisztomania feels more like the bathroom-wall scratchings of a 13-year-old boy who giggles whenever the subject of sex is raised. Suffice to say, Russell’s lifelong devotion to classical music found more worthwhile expression elsewhere.

Lisztomania: FREAKY

The Concert for Bangladesh (1972)

          Released during the early heyday of rock-concert films and documenting one of the first major media-event benefit shows, The Concert for Bangladesh has lost none of its musical power over the years. And even if the sociopolitical issues that inspired the concert featured onscreen have long since fallen from public view, there’s still something inspiring about the way legendary musician George Harrison put his weight behind an important cause simply because he was asked to do so by a friend. That friend, of course, was the iconic Indian musician Ravi Shankar, an important influence during Harrison’s days with the Beatles and beyond. Seeing widespread famine in the Asian nation of Bangladesh, Shankar and Harrison arranged an August 1971 show featuring two historic performances—Harrison’s first important appearance as a solo artist, following a long absence from the road that began with the Beatles’ cessation of touring in 1966, and Bob Dylan’s return to the stage after a lengthy hiatus.

          While Dylan, Harrison, and Shankar serve as the show’s de facto headliners, the concert also includes contributions from an all-star backing band comprising Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Leon Russell, Ringo Starr, and the members of Badfinger, among others. (Purists will note that the movie actually merges clips from two performances that were presented on the same day in New York’s Madison Square Garden, though the film unfolds as if performances were contiguous.) Shot in a sleek but unobtrusive fashion by director Saul Swimmer and his team, The Concert for Bangladesh opens with some quick reportage explaining the circumstances of the show, then focuses on performances for the bulk of the running time. Shankar kicks things off with an epic jam of traditional Indian music that sprawls across nearly 20 minutes. Appropriate and edifying, though perhaps not thrilling for rock fans.

          Then Harrison takes the stage with his band for a ferocious run through “Wah-Wah” and a joyous version of “My Sweet Lord” (both from Harrison’s seminal All Things Must Pass). Soon the backing musicians make their presence known. Preston lays down industrial-strength gospel funk with “That’s the Way God Planned It,” while Starr amiably croons his first solo hit, “It Don’t Come Easy.” Clapton steps to the fore during “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” re-creating the fretboard pyrotechnics of the original Beatles version on which he was an uncredited guest musician. Then, after Russell plays a couple of bluesy covers and Harrison offers a lovely acoustic take on “Here Comes the Sun,” Dylan delivers a crisp set that climaxes with a trio version of “Just Like a Woman” featuring Dylan, Harrison, and Russell on vocals. Harrison closes the show just as powerfully as he opened it, and the whole rock segment flies by in a glorious rush. Like the best live shows, The Concert for Bangladesh leaves the audience on a high—a great testament to the discipline and taste that Harrison, who co-produced the movie with Allen Klein, exhibited in shaping the piece.

The Concert for Bangladesh: GROOVY

The Kids Are Alright (1979)

          Less a proper rock doc than a greatest-hits sampler plate, this colorful overview of the Who’s glory days is a relic from a bygone era of rock fandom, because the barely-there narrative style used to connect performance clips and interview snippets has become irrelevant now that casual fans can get roughly the same experience by browsing through YouTube videos. There’s a reason why surviving band members later participated in a proper career-spanning documentary, the 237-minute opus Amazing Journey: The Story of the Who (2007). Fun as its individual components might be, The Kids Are Alright lacks anything resembling substance. Assembled by fan-turned-director Jeff Stein, who shot a handful of new scenes to complement extensive archival footage, The Kids Are Alright is organized along the lines of a concert set list. Instead of presenting songs in a purely chronological manner, Stein builds a show that connects the Who’s early years as a gang of ambitious bad boys to its late-’70s reign as a collective of arena superstars.

          Much of the archival footage had been shown publicly before, of course, including TV appearances and the Who’s fiery set of the Woodstock festival. The appeal, therefore, is seeing everything in context. The Kids Are Alright loosely tracks Roger Daltrey’s evolution from a brash but unsure singer to a powerfully charismatic front man, as well as Pete Townshend’s growth from a bratty kid who snickers every time he smashes a guitar to an adult artiste who leads with his angst and his poetry. Meanwhile, bassist John Entwistle mostly lingers in the background (except for a strange bit during which he shows off his grandiose collection of guitars and uses a gold record as a shotgun target), and drummer Keith Moon treats everything like a nonstop, booze-drenched party.

          Moon’s presence gives The Kids Are Alright a small claim to historical status, since an early version of the documentary was completed just prior to Moon’s death in September 1978. In fact, the movie contains Moon’s final concert and studio performances with the band, including a partially live studio version of the potent hit “Who Are You,” which was the title song from the last full Who album featuring Moon. Elsewhere in The Kids Are Alright, Moon acts the fool during interview bits, sometimes clowning around with buddy (and fellow drummer) Ringo Starr. More impressively, Moon and his mates are at their very best during the picture’s closing number, an epic concert performance of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” that features the band’s signature laser-light accompaniment. Very much a minor blip on the continuum of rock movies, The Kids Are Alright is essential for devoted Who fans, but it’s of only mild interest to casual viewers.

The Kids Are Alright: FUNKY

The Point (1971)

          Among the myriad reasons why singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson casts such a long shadow, despite producing only a few genuine radio hits, is this made-for-television animated movie. Funny, imaginative, satirical, and thoughtful, The Point feels like the product of a deeply humane artist. When viewed in the context of Nilsson’s self-destructive life, which was filled with episodes of drunken caddishness, The Point reveals the immense complexity of Nilsson’s personality. He was a kind-hearted entertainer who enjoyed longtime friendships with luminaries including John Lennon and Ringo Starr, he was a sharp student of the human condition who wrote eccentric and memorable songs, and he was a violent-tempered asshole when he was plastered. Accordingly, it’s interesting to see how the various facets of Nilsson’s persona inform The Point.

          Nilsson created the “original fable” upon which the project was based, and then he collaborated on the making of the animated movie, cowriting the story and writing and producing the song score. Further, Nilsson generated a companion album. The movie and the album are slightly different, with one noteworthy variation being the spoken narration—although Nilsson does this task on the album, essentially telling the story as a set-up for his own songs, Nilsson does not narrate the movie. Dustin Hoffman, of all people, was the narrator of the original TV broadcast, but the currently available versions of The Point feature Ringo Starr’s voice.

          The Point takes place in a nameless mythical land where everything has a point, as in a sharp spire, until a little boy named Oblio is born with a round head. Society can’t decide what to do about something that doesn’t have a point, so the boy is shunned to the Pointless Forest. Eventually, Oblio comes to realize that he has a point, just not literally, so he teaches everyone in his world a lesson about tolerance and understanding. Although The Point basically repeats the same joke for 74 minutes, with myriad variations, the joke is so thematically rich—and the film’s execution is so endearing—that the picture remains interesting from start to finish.

          Fred Wolf, the principal creative force on the movie besides Nilsson, employs a simplistic drawing style, but he ensures that faces are rendered expressively. Combined with the way Oblio is portrayed as the living symbol of innocence, Wolf’s visual style ensures that The Point feels very much like the popular Peanuts animated specials of the ’60s and ’70s. (Even the subtle wit of the movie’s dialogue—including a gentle skewering of thick-headed grown-ups—is quite reminiscent of Peanuts.) Some lines of dialogue make thematic concerns too overt (like a bit about a man being asked whether he’d let his daughter marry a boy without a point), and some of Nilsson’s lyrical whimsy is obtuse. But when the movie really clicks, as with the key song “Me and My Arrow” (which is about Olbio’s travels with his dog, Arrow), The Point is as meaningful as it is melodic.

The Point: GROOVY

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

200 Motels (1971)

Created by eccentric rock musician Frank Zappa, the bizarre musical 200 Motels undoubtedly means more to Zappa fans and/or those habitually ingesting controlled substances, if not both. Belonging to neither group, I found almost nothing of virtue in 200 Motels. In fact, sitting through the movie’s 98 minutes—notwithstanding the passages that I’m fairly sure I slept through, but who can tell given the movie’s shambling excuse for “structure”—was an experience best described as laborious. Therefore, I can’t in good conscience suggest that plentiful redeeming qualities lurk in the wilds of 200 Motels, although it’s possible that’s true. As the saying goes, I calls ’em like I sees ‘em, and watching 200 Motels, I saw nothing but an endless barrage of self-indulgent nonsense. The title apparently refers to the temporary lodging that rockers inhabit while on tour, and Zappa drew material from the life of his on-again/off-again backing band, the Mothers of Invention. The plot (presuming there actually is one) concerns a band stopping off for mid-tour adventures in the town of Centerville, where one member leaves the group—or something like that. 200 Motels comprises lots of disassociated sketches, intercut with experimental passages that feel like bad examples of film-school endeavors (think mimes and A/V Club-style video effects), as well as a third layer of performance, during which the Mothers play with a full orchestra. Ringo Starr appears periodically, portraying a man dressed up like Frank Zappa, and the Who’s madman drummer, Keith Moon, appears every so often wearing a nun’s habit. Broadway actor Theodore Bikel pops up at regular intervals as some sort of MC in a military uniform. The real Zappa floats through the film like a ghost, mostly visible while conducting the orchestra in performance segments, Oh, and actresses playing groupies bare their breasts, because what’s a ’70s rock saga without some good, old-fashioned sexual objectification? The Mothers play songs including the interminable “Penis Dimension,” which largely comprises singing the word “penis” over and over again. It’s all quite exhausting to watch, and if there’s a central joke running through 200 Motels, it escaped me.

200 Motels: SQUARE

Let It Be (1970)

          A fascinating rock doc whose interest stems more from historical significance than cinematic merit, Let It Be came closer than any other artifact to capturing the breakup of the Beatles while it was happening. The film’s history is complex. After completing The White Album, a stressed-out Fab Four followed band member Paul McCartney’s suggestion to make a stripped-down LP featuring live-in-studio jams rather than another record filled with elaborate overdubbing. The concept eventually grew to include a visual component, with British filmmaker Michael Lindsay-Hogg recruited to shoot the recording sessions for a proposed TV special. At the time, circa early 1969, the project was titled Get Back after one of the songs slated for inclusion.

          However, the tensions that eventually broke up the band, exacerbated by the intrusion of film cameras, threw the recording sessions into disarray. Although a dramatic finale was shot, featuring a legendary rooftop performance in London that became the band’s final concert, the movie (and the album) went on the shelf while the Beatles recorded their last album, Abbey Road, and then disbanded. Thus, by the time the Get Back project was resuscitated for audio release (with superstar American producer Phil Spector hired to sweeten the raw tracks, defeating the project’s original purpose), the Beatles were effectively a memory, at least as a performing/recording entity.

          Linsday-Hogg’s footage, trimmed down to an unvarnished 81-minute snapshot for theatrical exhibition, became the antithesis of the loose celebration McCartney originally envisioned. Instead, the movie is dreary and slow, despite the inclusion of many wonderfully energetic songs, so watching the picture is like eavesdropping on the tension preceding a divorce.

          McCartney and his longtime songwriting partner, John Lennon, look as if they can’t stand each other, and they’re clearly operating on different frequencies. McCartney is a hard-driving populist eager to give the people what they want, whereas Lennon (with Yoko Oko at his side) has already transitioned into a more experimental phase in his creative life. Guitarist George Harrison actually gets in a few snippy comments against McCartney—although the ugly moment when he temporarily quit the band was left on the cutting-room floor—and easygoing drummer Ringo Starr simply looks uncomfortable.

          Still, despite the sometimes-painful studio footage, Let It Be ends on a triumphant note with the arrival of irrepressible keyboardist Billy Preston. His optimism and spirited playing seem to reset the Beatles’ brains so that, for those few glorious moments atop the Apple Records building, they actually seem to enjoy performing with each other. Good luck finding a copy of Let It Be these days, however; after a brief VHS release in the ’80s, the movie went out of print and is now mostly available via bootleg DVDs.

Let It Be: GROOVY

That’ll Be the Day (1973) & Stardust (1974)

          That’ll Be the Day and its sequel, Stardust, collectively tell the life story of a fictional “British Invasion” musician named Jim MacLaine. Compelling and evocative, the films are substantially more insightful than most rock-star pictures—freed from the usual obligation to rehash familiar episodes from the lives of real people, these movies create a pastiche reflecting the life cycle common to every self-destructive superstar.

          As the Buddy Holly-referencing title suggests, That’ll Be the Day takes place during the ’50s. Jim (played by real-life rock singer David Essex) is a tough English kid with abandonment issues—Daddy skipped out when Jim was a wee lad—and dreams of emulating his favorite American rock stars. Jim drops out of school, gets odd jobs like working at a carnival, and bonds with another testosterone-crazed youth, Mike (played by Beatles drummer Ringo Starr). That’ll Be the Day comprises atmospheric but meandering scenes of the buddies brawling and carousing, juxtaposing Jim’s bachelor adventures with his family’s expectations that he’ll get a real job and settle down.

          As written by Ray Connolly, who also penned the sequel, That’ll Be the Day is more about vibe than story, and the lead character comes across as opaque since he’s still in the process of finding himself. Nonetheless, the costuming, dialogue, locations, and period details create a highly credible texture, so at its best, That’ll Be the Day feels like a documentary capturing the vibrant pre-Beatles era in working-class England. Essex and Starr are loose and natural, and the whole cast is stocked with solid British players. However, it’s the music that really energizes the movie, because the soundtrack features amazing tunes by the Beatles, Ray Charles, the Who and others, sometimes played in their original versions as background music, and sometimes performed onscreen by musicians including the Who’s drummer, Keith Moon.

          The follow-up movie, which picks up almost immediately after That’ll Be the Day ends, features a much stronger story, and appropriately so—Stardust dramatizes what happens when Jim and his mates in a band called the Stray Cats become Beatles-type rock stars, leading to the customary onslaught of drugs, groupies, sycophants, and villainous record-company executives. There’s a great deal of continuity between the pictures, even though That’ll Be the Day director Claude Whatham was replaced for Stardust by the proficient Michael Apted. Additionally, Essex’s performance gets deeper and more complicated as his character shifts from post-adolescent angst to rock-star ennui.

          In Stardust, Jim conquers the world with the Stray Cats, ditches the band for a solo career, and eventually becomes a messianic pop-culture figure. At his apex, Jim presents an epic rock opera as a blockbuster TV special, and the project’s success transforms him into a kind of living god for his fans. Being worshipped makes Jim feel detached from society, however, so by the end of the picture, he’s a millionaire recluse living in a European castle, wandering around in a drug-addled haze while managers and promoters tempt him with lucrative comeback offers.

          Seen out of context, Stardust might seem overly melodramatic because of how far it takes the character down the path of self-indulgence, but for viewers who observed Jim’s troubled youth in That’ll Be the Day, the course he charts in Stardust seems believably sad. Once again, the music is great, with tunes by the Lovin’ Spoonful and the Righteous Brothers intermingling with perfectly crafted originals. Better still, the ending is a monster, so Stardust belongs to a select group of sequels that actually improve upon their predecessors.

That’ll Be the Day: GROOVY

Stardust: RIGHT ON

Sextette (1978)

          If there’s one scene that epitomizes the spellbinding strangeness of Sextette, a big-budget musical comedy that’s both tone-deaf and completely unfunny, it’s an extended romantic duet between the heroine and the younger man she just married. The leading lady is none other than Mae West, the notorious actress/writer who first achieved fame in the 1920s for scandalous stage shows. The bridegroom is played by Englishman Timothy Dalton, a decade before his brief run as 007. At the time, West was 84 and Dalton was 32, yet the scene features the actors sharing vocal chores (and they are chores, since neither can sing) on a lifeless, quasi-disco version of the Captain and Tennille hit “Love Will Keep Us Together.”

          Dalton’s a slim young man wearing an elegant tux, and West is an overweight senior hidden behind gallons of makeup, acres of Edith Head-designed sequined costuming, and a haze filter thick enough to trigger a smog alert. At the most ludicrous moment of this sequence, Dalton sings the laughably re-written lyric, “Young and beautiful, your looks will never be gone.” The camera then cuts to a close-up (shot from about 20 feet away) of West writhing seductively, her looks very much gone.

          And that’s pretty much the tone of this whole excruciating picture, which features an old-fashioned lark of a plot about legions of men lusting after West’s character, Marlo Manners. Marlo is a Hollywood movie star who just married her sixth husband, Great Britain’s Lord Barrington (Dalton). Their honeymoon is being celebrated by the public and documented by the media as a major event, but before the duo can (shudder) consummate their union, Marlo’s agent (Dom DeLuise) says the U.S. government wants Marlo to seduce a foreign leader (Tony Curtis) into cooperating with an international peace initiative. Meanwhile, Marlo’s fifth husband, gangster Vance Norton (George Hamilton), has resurfaced despite everyone believing him dead, and he’s intent on reclaiming Marlo’s hand.

          Also thrown into the mix are a fey fashion designer (played by The Who drummer Keith Moon), an imperious Russian film director (played by Beatles drummer Ringo Starr), real-life broadcasters Rona Barrett and Regis Philbin (as themselves), and cameo players Walter Pidgeon and George Raft. Oh, and shock-rocker Alice Cooper shows up at the end, without his trademark ghoul make-up, to (quite effectively) croon a number as a singing waiter.

          This whole mess is based upon the last play West wrote, also called Sextette, and because the play opened in 1961, questions of “why” are unavoidable. Why was a film adaptation deemed necessary almost 20 years after the play opened? Why was a West comeback deemed necessary, more than 30 years after her last starring role in a movie? And why the hell didn’t anyone realize how wrong all of this was? Answers to these puzzlers are lost to the ages, so we’re merely left with a cinematic curio. Sextette is filled with images that would be innocuous in other circumstances but are mind-warpingly bizarre given West’s advanced age: a roomful of bodybuilders flexing their muscles to curry West’s favor; a roomful of diplomats (including a stand-in for then-U.S. President Jimmy Carter) singing and dancing as West holds them in her thrall; West cooing sexual puns as she lounges in bed and drives men like Curtis, Dalton, and Hamilton to erotic distraction.

          West’s performance is abysmal, since she tries to mimic the sass of bygone days without acknowledging the passage of time; the poor woman looks close to toppling when she tries to shimmy in tight dresses. About the only good thing one can say about Sextette is that even though much of the dialogue recycles past favorites (“Why don’t you come up and see me sometime,” and so on), West had not completely lost her flair for penning ribald one-liners, like this zinger: “I’m the girl who works for Paramount all day, and Fox all night.”

Sextette: FREAKY