Alfie (1966)

Alfie (Lewis Gilbert, 1966) This is the film that catapulted Michael Caine to the A-list of stars—a bit of a wonder, that, as he essays the titular lead in this character study of a complete rotter of a misogynist, a taxi-driver/chauffeur whose relationships with women are as transitory as any fare. 

 

One shouldn't be too surprised by this, I guess, as audiences have always had a tendency to gravitate to, and even admire, villains, be they "Scarface" or Darth Vader or Brando's "Wild One" or "The Godfather." Maybe it's the nature of film to be a spectator sport and with the safety of being removed from any hurtful fall-out, we can choose to imprint on "bad guys" and their assertive natures to do harm. Maybe it's just wish-fulfillment on audience's parts—"I wish I could get away with that in my own life" and especially nowadays as there's no Hays Code strictures requiring just punishments be meted out by the end of the picture. There don't need to be ramifications anymore, and in this brave new world, the heroes and villains get all mixed up. Here, the term "anti-hero" need not apply.

"I suppose you think you're gonna see the bleedin' titles now.

Well, you're not, so you can all relax..."

Caine's Alfie Elkins is no anti-hero. He's a bloke trying to make do for himself and making no apologies for it ("You've got to live for yourself in this world, not for others."), certainly not to his conquests, and certainly not to the audience, whom he addresses directly from the get-go, in mid-assignation with a married woman (he may be misogynistic, but he doesn't discriminate). In his first-person discourse* he's as cheekily blunt as he is with his ladies in question (and their questions usually revolve around commitment, something Alfie is adamant he'll have no part of—"I don't want no bird's respect - I wouldn't know what to do with it.").

So, we watch as he tramples over hearts in his own memorial parade: There's that married woman, Siddie (Millicent Martin) cheating on her husband, while Alfie goes back to his cheated-upon girlfriend Gilda (Julia Foster) who lives with him for a time, quite unhappily as he refuses to even consider "settling down" with her ("I told Gilda from the start that I ain't the marrying sort." he says by way of explanation. "And do you know what?" he continues cluelessly, "She don't mind. She's a stand-by and she knows it. And any bird that knows its place in this world can be quite content."). That must include—in addition—the manageress of his dry-cleaners, a "foot-comfort" technician, a woman named "Dora", "the odd bird that came by chance" like Carla (Shirley Anne Field)—the nurse at his convalescent home when he's diagnosed with "spots" on his lungs, the girl he picks up on the motorway (Jane Asher), the wife (Vivien Merchant) of a fellow patient (Alfie Bass) at the convalescence, and a woman, Ruby (Shelley Winters), who he chats up while taking photographs as a side-hustle.

"My understanding of women only goes as far as the pleasure. When it comes to the pain I'm like any other bloke - I don't want to know." And he doesn't want to know; if there are complications, inconveniences—like a couple pregnancies—he'll lay down the law of how it's going to be and any reluctance just spells (for him) merely the end of any consistency in his hook-up schedule. He's a hit-and-run heart-breaker, not sticking around to see the damages. Alfie...and Alfie...show the dark underbelly of "the Swingin' 60's" and what happens when the swinging stops—you're left twisting in the wind, basically; things don't look so "gear" when people are chewed up in them.

Caine plays this cad as charmingly as he can, speaking breezily without much change of expression and little irony betraying any self-awareness. For all the winking at the camera that could have been, Caine avoids it with a mostly passive expression that is betrayed by a speech-ending toothy grin or a darkness around the eyes when the situation—and they're usually those rare instances when he's not totally in control—calls for punctuation. That lack of countenance betrays an empty heart inside.

One of the themes I keep harping on throughout these posts through the years is that love is a form of insanity. It's not a disparagement, just an observation that love—and its inherent selflessness—is the one thing that can circumvent the tendency of our alligator-brains to favor self-preservation above all else. Alfie is a movie that leans into that argument to a horrific degree; his predisposition to his wants and needs (as if he needs anything or anyone) lines up with his absolute disdain for anything resembling a caring regard for other human beings. People are opportunities to be taken advantage of, not fostered. And, for awhile, that's suitable.

But, the armor around his heart does have some dents in it. When his girlfriend Gilda gets pregnant, she decides to keep the child—despite Alfie's initial reluctance—and, for a time, Alfie, uncharacteristically, accepts his role as father to little Malcolm, taking pride in his son and devoting time to him (notwithstanding that a baby in a baby carriage helps attract women). But, Gilda grows weary of his fair-weather fatherhood and leaves him to marry another man. Later, he has to actually confront the consequences of his actions, and, in trying to find another path, gets a comeuppance...of sorts...as he finds himself on the receiving end of his past behavior, leading to some soul-searching and to the film's final "What's it all about?" (Cue Burt Bacharach, sung by Cher...produced by Sonny** at least in the States-side release).

It's a tough, funny—in a black-hearted kind of way—film that breaks barriers of subject matter while also shaking its cane at the unraveling moral fabric of its society, both teasing and admonishing with the same strokes, and drives home the scrambled cliche that "Time Wounds All Heels."

* Of, course, it's in first-person—Alfie doesn't think of anybody but himself.

 

** I'm glib about it, but Burt Bacharach's end-credits song is (to my ears) the best of his song-book (reportedly, he thought so, too), providing an "on-the-nose" counter-point to everything that has gone before, with clear-eyed "let-me-spell-it-out-for-you" lyrics by Hal David. Something even non-believers can believe in.

Hell Drivers

Saturdays are "Take out the Trash" Day

Hell Drivers (Cy Endfield, 1957) British feature directed by blacklisted American director Endfield—and the first to carry his actual name and not a pseudonym*—about the rough and tumble day-to-day of short-haul truckers, battling deadlines and each other to try and meet quota and be top-driver hauling ballast (gravel) on sub-standard equipment at speeds that are break-neck, even under the best of conditions. Each driver has to make at least twelve loads a day; if they don't, they're fired. Competition is so fierce that the other drivers aren't above sabotaging each other's rigs. Work-place harassment is just part of the job and a way of life.

Into this demolition derby come Joe Yately (Stanley Baker)—call him "Tom"—who's just served a year stretch in prison and is trying to make a new honest life for himself. A position is open at Hawlett's Trucking after a driver has gone through a bad accident and although the manager, Cartley (William Hartnell) is reluctant, his secretary Lucy (Peggy Cummins of Gun Crazy) intercedes on his behalf. Tom is taken on a training run and does okay, despite near-collisions with a couple of other drivers.

The other drivers are a motley crew: there's Scottie (Gordon Jackson), Ed (Wilfrid Lawson), Dusty (Sidney James), Tinker (Alfie Bass), and Johnny (Sean Connery), all rough types who aren't above intimidating Tom—it's all in fun, after all. More receptive is Gino (Herbert Lom), an Italian (Herbert Lom?) who's in love with Lucy and wants to give the new driver a chance.

Less friendly is Red (Patrick McGoohan), the driver foreman, who always sits at the head of the table—as a rib, the drivers let Tom sit at the head and Red knocks him off his chair when he enters the room. Red is the most reckless of the drivers, does eighteen runs a day winning him a gold cigarette case, and lets it be known that no—no one—will take that case away from him, even if he has to cripple the driver to do it.

The first thing you notice, given hindsight, is the cast, early in their careers, and before they achieved their biggest success in the 1960's. Sure, there's Connery and McGoohan (who'll ride the 1960's spy-craze), but there's also Jackson from "Upstairs, Downstairs," Lom and Alfie Bass, Sidney James from the "Carry On" films, and Hartnell would become the first "Doctor Who."

But, that's not all. Playing the waitress at the driver's mess is Jill Ireland. And when Tom goes home to try to make amends, David MacCallum plays his younger brother. That's an amazing group of young actors, briefly doing washing duties in the "kitchen-sink" era of British film-making. As a result, the most subtle of the actors is star Baker, while the rest of the cast do their best to garner attention to themselves.

Lom's accent might be a little thick, but the actor who does the most egregious over-acting is a surprising one—McGoohan. He'd be known for merely quietly smoldering with a less-is-more kind of acting during his starring days, but here he's at full villainous boil, manking about like he was Richard III, hunch-shouldered and bull-headed. You hope for him to get his comeuppance early, as its a little painful to watch. When throws away a cigarette, you expect it to explode off-screen.

That aside, Endfield keeps the action going almost constantly, making it a visceral movie. Sometimes too much so. The driving scenes are viciously under-cranked, giving it an almost comic effect, rather than causing white knuckles. By the way, the cinematographer is the storied Geoffrey Unsworth, who would move on to far greater things.

Still, it's interesting to see if only for the young turks who would burn up the screen in the next decade.

* Well, it's listed as C. Raker Endfield, a slight obfuscation from how he was listed on his American films.

The Lavender Hill Mob

The Lavender Hill Mob (Charles Crichton, 1951) Light-hearted Ealing Studios "caper" film starring Alec Guinness and Stanley Holloway as two renters in a Lavender Hill brownstone, one a bored bank auditor, the other a sculptor with dreams of greater things. The two men have enough in common that a shared light-bulb goes off: why not pool their common knowledge and carry-out the perfect crime?

Why not, indeed? The time was right for it. Crichton, whose directing career would go on and on, diverting to television and cap with the absurdist A Fish Called Wanda--these films share many similarities, actually--had a knack for nailing down frothy comedies with the slightest acid-wit without seemingly like a spoil-sport. Crichton is a director whose influence is less on the comedy, which is serviceable until he wants to make a real point—more on that in a tick—but on the dry way he presents comedy, and that donnish attitude to absurdity is equally evident from the nearly forty years that spanned The Lavender Hill Mob and A Fish Called Wanda. Everything is perfectly cordial, until at some point the clock strikes four and suddenly it turns into a mad tea party, cracking the British reserve.

In The Lavender Hill Mob, that moment comes when the two ring-leaders escape with their ill-gotten gains to Paris, and in a moment of aptness take a turn around the top of the Eiffel Tower—all 360 degrees of it—in one shot (I suspect it's a process shot done in the studio as there are no other tourists up there at the time, but I could be wrong). And then, in a moment of high urgency, scamper down the Eiffel's circular stairwell in a chase to beat the tower's elevator to the ground. The result is a dizzying sequence of hand-held shots watching the men go from desperation to scampering, hooting little boys, finally reaching the ground, their world spinning. It's a freeing moment, filmically and emotionally, the circular patterns cork-screwing an indelible moment into the film's structure.

It's a fine entertainment, and although Guiness and Crichton would never work together again, The Lavender Hill Mob shows the promise of two wily co-conspirators collaborating—right up to the seamless reveal of the film's final gambit.

And speaking of promising futures, look for future film icon's: Robert Shaw can be seen in the background of the police exhibition, Desmond Llewelyn ("Q" of the Bond films) is in the Customs scene, and at the beginning of the film the very small part of "Chiquita" is played by a young ingenue by the name of Audrey Hepburn.

Audrey Hepburn's first screen appearance reaching the U.S.: The Lavender Hill Mob

The Fearless Vampire Killers

The Fearless Vampire Killers (aka The Fearless Vampire Killers: or Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are in My Neck) (Roman Polanski, 1967)  One must be patient with movie marketers; sometimes you get a concept that you simply don't know how to sell.

Take these words, for example: "A Roman Polanski Comedy."

Now, in 1966, those words might not have had the same weight as they do these days. In 1966, Polanski had made three critically-acclaimed films—Knife in the Water, Repulsion, and Cul-De-Sac—all quirky, dark, perverse films that had garnered attention at Cannes and the American Motion Picture Academy. After his first film made in Poland, Polanski had moved to France, where he found he wasn't exactly welcome being not only Polish but also jewish, so he settled in London to make The Fearless Vampire Killers, which would prove to be his entrance to America (where he would be hired by Robert Evans to make Rosemary's Baby). The Fearless Vampire Killers (which was filmed under the title that it would be released with in Europe, The Dance of the Vampires) was designed to be a comedy with the aesthetic of the Hammer Studios' style of horror film, but with some differences—the subject matter would be treated more comically, especially in dealing with the vampire tropes dealing with religion and sexuality. These would be vampires of different stripes.

Disgraced Professor Abronsius (Jack McGowran)—due to his studies of the superstitious notion of vampires—and his hapless assistant Alfred (Polanski) travel to eastern Europe to investigate the existence of vampires, and arrive, nearly frozen at a county inn in the realm of Count von Krolock (Ferdy Maine). After being properly thawed out, they discover that the inn has been suspiciously draped with strands of garlic, the better to ward off visitations by creatures of the night. The Professor is excited at the prospect of finally being able to prove his theories, but Alfred would rather not have his suspicions proven, being something of an innocent, and something more than a coward.

Alfred is the Porky Pig to Abronsius' Daffy Duck, noticing the dangers that the other blithely ignores, or worse, is encouraged about. While Abronsius is determined to prove the existence of vampires, Alfred would just as soon run away from them, or, better yet, find out that they really don't exist. Even as they were carriage into town, Abronsius sleeps while Alfred watches wild wolves pursue them—until the pack is scared off by a hunchback, who then disappears without a trace. That sort of thing can really worry a guy—one who notices, that is.

What Alfred would rather notice is a hot meal...or the girl they find taking a bath in their room—the only room at the inn with such a luxury. She's Sarah (Sharon Tate), daughter of the Jewish inn-keeper, and Alfred is instantly bitten by the love-bug. Better that than something else.

During Sarah's daily bubble-bath, she notices it starting to snow in the bathroom, and before the two vampire-hunters can intervene, the tub is empty, save for water and bubbles tainted ever so slightly by blood from her jugular—she has been abducted, apparently by Count von Krolock. The inn is set in an uproar. Shagal, the inn-keeper, is bereft, vowing revenge and before he can be restrained sets out for the Count's castle, Abronsius and Alfred make their own plans to infiltrate the Count's castle to prove he's a vampire and try to rescue Sarah.

Shagal comes back to the inn, but he's in no shape to do anything, dead from a vampire attack and frozen stiff from the from the cold trip. Before long, he'll thaw out and start his own batty behavior, pursuing the inn's chambermaid, who he'd lusted after in his previous life. One of the best jokes in the movie has the servant-girl holding up a crucifix to ward him off, to which he scoffs "Oy, do you have the wrong vampire."

When Anbrosius and Alfred get to the Count's castle, they are given a chilly welcome and accommodations by the Count, who shows them around the castle, but never tells them his plans for them. The next night will be the annual vampire's ball, and he will make them and Sarah part of the feast.

After a botched attempt to kill von Krolock and his gay son, Herbert (Iain Quarrier) who fancies Alfred, the young assistant finds Sarah, who is completely unconcerned about their fates at the evening's event. The two become locked in the castle's tower, where the Count taunts them for their stupidity and letting them know what their futures hold. The Count no longer cares to hide the fact that he's a vampire, for his plans are to infect every last human on the planet.

As a comedy, The Fearless Vampire Killers isn't very funny. Oh, it has a few conceits with the genre that are clever and, even to this day, might make a few horror fans think about how silly some of the unquestioned tropes of the vampire form are. But, those moments are few and far between. Mostly, there are moments of forced slapstick. These vampire hunters have a tendency to trip over anything in their paths and their ineptitude is in ample evidence for all to see. Perhaps that's why, when the film was released in the States, M-G-M cut ten minutes out of it and slapped on a decidedly unfunny and unnecessary cartoon opening to try and alert patrons that what they're about to see is a comedy. They also tacked on a sub-text to the title, not unlike Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove or: How I stopped Worrying and Love the Bomb. They studio's attempt to force the laughter comes off as a hamstrung effort that actually does the reverse—it's completely at odds with the atmospherics of the film.

And that's where the film's strength lies; The Fearless Vampire Killers feels more mid-European and a bit more true to its era than most of the Hammer films it emulates, and it benefits from lovingly realized cinematography from Douglas Slocombe, who gives everything an enhanced other-worldly shimmer, even if it's merely to follow the track of a stone arch-way. It has the look of a comic fairy-tale, even if its comedy doesn't hold up throughout the film.

It looks beautiful, with production values that belie the subject matter. Even if one isn't charmed or amused, one still sees a dedication to artistic aspirations that go far beyond what Polanski had achieved previously. It's no wonder Evans called him to do Rosemary's Baby, which cemented his reputation right before his world came crashing in on him...again. Polanski and Tate ended up marrying after the film was completed. You know the rest.