By Lee Pfeiffer

The Warner Archive has released the 1960 comedy hit "Where the Boys Are" as a special edition Blu-ray.  The film looks positively quaint today but I enjoyed it in the manner that an anthropologist would if he were examining etchings on cave walls from a distant era. The film reflects the social values of the time and, not surprisingly, there is nary a minority teenager to be seen. The story concerns a group of coeds (to use a truly quaint term)- Dolores Hart, Paula Prentiss, Connie Francis and Yvette Mimieux- who make a first time pilgrimage from their snowbound college to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. Even in 1960, Fort Lauderdale was the "go to" destination for students. However, the film's impact was so significant that it increased the masses of student tourists to Fort Lauderdale exponentially over the years. One must look at the movie in the context of the time period. This was the first generation of females who were able to exert enough independence to make such a trip sans chaperones. The girls are predictably man hungry and in one cringe-inducing sequence, Paula Prentiss' character says her higher education is just a waste of time because she was put on earth to find a guy and have babies!

Still, Where the Boys Are was probably the first beach movie to at least attempt to address sexual desire among the young in a somewhat frank way. While her girlfriends flirt endlessly with hunks like George Hamilton and Jim Hutton, Yvette Mimieux's character lets down her guard and "goes all the way". The resulting sense of guilt and suicidal depression may seem overwrought today but it's genuinely frightening to imagine these were the sensibilities of the time. One doesn't know whether the film is reaffirming the validity of equating virginity with self-worth or whether it is being critical of the philosophy. In any event, the scene adds a poignancy that is lacking from most other movies of this genre. In the beginning of the movie, Dolores Hart's Merritt faces possible expulsion from school for voicing her opinion that premarital sex should not be frowned upon. The next time someone pines away about the good old days, have them watch this cinematic time capsule.

Much was made about the fact that the film was shot on location in Fort Lauderdale. In fact, the on location footage is rather fleeting and judiciously edited among the phony studios shots in order to give the impression that the cast spent much more time in Florida than they actually did. Still, the local color does give the film a leg up over the majority of cheapie beach movies that were to follow in its wake. The main attribute of the movie is the charismatic cast. The female leads are delightful to watch with Paula Prentiss and Connie Francis particularly good. (Francis' crooning of the title song sent it to the top of the charts). Among the males, Hamilton is his usual unruffled, handsome good guy who sports more grease in his hair than Jerry Lewis. Hutton plays a beatnik-type character but the jokes become predictable and weary. Frank Gorshin, in an early screen appearance, is somewhat more amusing as a jazz musician who is blind without his Coke bottle-like eyeglasses.

The Blu-ray extras have been ported over from the previous DVD release from 2002. There is a 2003 featurette with Prentiss and Francis reminiscing about the joys of making the film. The always engaging Prentiss also provides a fun commentary track and there is an original theatrical trailer and brief newsreel footage of the stars arriving in Fort Lauderdale for the world premiere. 

Where the Boys Are is by no means cinematic art, but it is a consistently entertaining look at a bygone era.

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BY TIM GREAVES

The year is 1962. Aggrieved when Algeria is granted independence by President Charles de Gaulle, the militant underground alliance known as the Organisation Armée Secrète botches an attempt to assassinate him. Within months many of the conspirators, including their top man, have been captured and executed. The remaining OAS leaders, bereft of funds, take refuge in Austria and warily decide to contract an outside professional to do the job for them. They settle on a British assassin (Edward Fox), who chooses to be identified as Jackal. The OAS orchestrate several bank robberies to cover his exorbitant fee of half a million dollars whilst the mechanics of the plotting are left entirely to Jackal's discretion. After capturing and interrogating another alliance member, the French authorities learn of Jackal's existence and, suspecting another attempt on de Gaulle's life may be imminent, they set their best man – Deputy Commissioner Claude Lebel (Michel Lonsdale) – on his tail. But Jackal is cunning and, as his carefully formulated scheme to assassinate de Gaulle approaches fruition, he moves around Europe seamlessly changing his guise and identity in a bid to stay one step ahead of Lebel.

Adapted from Frederick Forsyth's 1971 bestseller of the same name, director Fred Zinnemann's suspenseful 1973 film The Day of the Jackal is, in my opinion, one of the finest political thrillers to be carried over from page to screen. At its core it's an increasingly taut game of cat and mouse which subtly persuades its audience to champion both sides; as much as we want to see Jackal thwarted by Lebel, we can't help but admire the cucumber cool killer as his meticulous and seemingly fool-proof plan comes together. This ineluctable sharing of loyalties is in no small part down to the performances of the two lead actors. Edward Fox in his first major big screen role – arguably his best – phlegmatically dominates the proceedings. Jackal's mien is that of an urbane, unflappable English gentleman with a winning smile, but it can all disappear in the blink of an eye as witnessed in a moment early on when he deals with someone stupid enough to try to cross him; two swift, savage barehanded blows later the man is dead. Fox's performance is matched ounce for ounce by Michel Lonsdale as the savvy, resourceful policeman tasked with tracking him down. Aside from some unfortunate and slightly distracting continuity oversights relating to the artificial grey in his hair (which frequently changes in volume), Lonsdale's Lebel is a compelling screen presence and I for one would have liked to have seen him carry the role on through a series of cinematic exploits.

Cast-wise the film also benefits immeasurably from a peppering of British stalwarts – among them Derek Jacobi, Timothy West, Donald Sinden, Barrie Ingham, Eric Porter, Tony Britten, Ronald Pickup, Anton Rodgers, Maurice Denham and Edward Hardwicke – and familiar faces from Euro cinema (Vernon Dobtcheff, Howard Vernon). In a largely male populated narrative the sparse but nonetheless essential female contingent appears in the shape of Olga Georges-Picot (The Man Who Haunted Himself) and Delphine Seyrig (Daughters of Darkness).

Kicking off with some expository narration and then thrusting the audience headlong into the bungled attempt on President de Gaulle's life, director Zinnemann sustains high tension from the outset. Once the collaborative government forces ascertain that Jackal intends to target de Gaulle in Paris, a palpable sense of apprehension builds as we dot back and forth between frustrated government officials – furrowed brows becoming increasingly sweat-sheened as they puff nervously on their cigarettes – and Jackal going about his preparations completely unflustered. The climax is located on the Champs-Élysées in the midst of the Liberation Day parade and, as Lebel pushes through the hundreds of milling spectators futilely trying to spot his man – whilst, in a nearby building, Jackal is positioning himself to dispense the death shot – doubt begins to creep in that this will end happily. Incidentally, these scenes were filmed during a real parade and more than a few members of the public can be noted looking directly into camera as Lonsdale moves among them. 

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By Lee Pfeiffer

Vinegar Syndrome (we love the name) is a DVD label that specializes in preserving and restoring vintage cinematic erotica and other cult films. Their most recent coup is the release of a double feature on Blu-ray consisting of Russ Meyer's 1964 adaptation of Fanny Hill along with Albert Zugsmith's bizarre 1967 Western comedy The Phantom Gunslinger. The dual package generously provides both films on DVD as well as their Blu-ray editions. Russ Meyer was already well-known as both a cheesecake photographer for "men's magazines" as well as a director of soft-cover sex films that generally showcased young women who were super-amply endowed. Ever the opportunist, he teamed with producer Zugsmith in 1964 for Fanny Hill, which was based on a notorious 18th century novel that chronicled the sexual escapades of a promiscuous young woman. Such was the book's controversial impact that when it was reprinted in the early 1960s it was banned in some quarters for obscenity. The publisher and civil libertarians contested the ruling and the subsequent court battle put ol' Fanny right in the midst of the contemporary news cycle. Zugsmith, who was a producer of some repute (The Incredible Shrinking Man, Touch of Evil) had by this point concentrated on low-brow exploitation fare. He reasoned that if the country was up in arms over a two hundred year old book, audiences would go wild over a film adaptation of the story. The plot centers on Fanny (Leticia Roman) as a buxom blonde farm girl who arrives in London, naive and clueless about the ways of the world. She is quickly "adopted" by Mrs. Brown (Miriam Hopkins), a seemingly benevolent older woman who is, in fact, a madame who wants to exploit Fanny's innocence by turning her into a prostitute. What she doesn't count on is just how naive Fanny is. Even when residing with numerous other ladies of the night, she fails to catch on to the fact that the place is a bordello. Mrs. Brown tries on several occasions to financially benefit from renting the young virgin to any number of eager patrons, but fate always intervenes before the act can be consummated. When Fanny falls in love with Charles (Ulli Lommel), a dashing and chivalrous young sailor, Mrs. Brown arranges for him to be kidnapped and taken out of the country. Thinking her lover has abandoned her, Fanny becomes despondent and out of grief agrees to marry a loathsome nobleman. As the ceremony begins, Fanny's betrothed manages to escape and make his way to the wedding where the film climaxes in a crazy, slap-stick filled brawl.  Viewers may be puzzled by the almost complete absence of eroticism in the film, along with relatively few lingering shots of semi-dressed young women. The whole enterprise is so chaste it could be shown today on the Disney Channel. This was due to the fact that Zugsmith and Meyer clashed over the content of the film, with Zugsmith insisting that comedy should be emphasized over sexual content. Meyer finished the film but justifiably regarded it as a low-grade entry on his list of cinematic achievements. What emerged is a Jerry Lewis-like farce with zany sequences in which people swing from chandeliers, cross dress and engage in various forms of mayhem. In retrospect, it seems inconceivable that the film was deemed controversial even in 1964. Zugsmith filmed the movie in West Germany using local actors for supporting roles. Although the three leads-Roman, Hopkins and Lommel- perform admirable given the circumstances, the supporting cast is encouraged to play even the most minor moments in absurd, over-the-top manner. The result is that the film's primary legacy is as an interesting relic of a bygone era when "naughty" films could still raise eyebrow without delivering much in the way of genuine eroticism. 

The second entry on the DVD "double feature" is even more bizarre and makes Fanny Hill look like Last Tango in Paris in comparison. The Phantom Gunslinger was shot in Mexico as a vehicle for Albert Zugsmith to prove he was a triple threat talent, with the erstwhile fellow producing, co-writing and directing the resulting disaster. It's clear that without someone like Russ Meyer to at least try to restrain Zugsmith's instincts for broad slapstick, the project was doomed from the start. The plot, such as it is, finds a small Western town taken over by a gang of notorious outlaws. They cause some mild mayhem but mostly seem content to gorge themselves on sumptuous feasts in between flirting with the local saloon girls. The local sheriff is terrified and runs away, turning his badge over to Bill (Troy Donahue), a hunky dimwit who sets about trying to wrest control of the town from the raucous outlaws. That's about as deep as the story line goes. Zugsmith pads the film with so much slapstick it makes the average Three Stooges skit look like the work of Noel Coward. The film is certainly one of the most bizarre of its era and its hard to know whether it was ever even released theatrically in America. There is a painful element to watching Troy Donahue at this stage in his career. Only a few years earlier, he was deemed a bankable star by major studios. Whatever desperate measures persuaded him to be involved in this enterprise will probably never be known but perhaps he was inspired by the success of Clint Eastwood's spaghetti westerns. Eastwood went to Spain and collaborated with a genius named Sergio Leone. Donahue went to Mexico and was saddled with Albert Zugsmith. Such are the cruel ironies of fate. The Phantom Gunslinger is so repetitive in its gags that one is reminded that this is the kind of film they invented the fast forward remote control feature for.  

BY TIM GREAVES

Psycho is considered by many to be Alfred Hitchcock's crowning achievement. Although I'd suggest there are several other titles that could justifiably vie for that accolade, there's no disputing that it ranks as a premium couple of hours of suspenseful drama that still packs a punch 57 years on from its release. I can only begin to imagine the impact the burgeoning ill-ease and kinky twist reveal had on unsuspecting audiences back in 1960.

Nowadays it's practically a given that a box office hit will result in a hastily mounted sequel, but back then it was almost unheard of, besides which Psycho delivered a self-contained story with a satisfying conclusion, so there really wasn't any need for augmentation. (To be fair though, one could say that about fistfuls of superfluous sequels today.) In any event, as follow-ups go 1983's Psycho II rubs shoulders with the best of them; yes, it's superfluous, but director Richard Franklin's film wipes out any suspicions of a cash-raking exercise by delivering a beautifully tailored narrative that dovetails impeccably with its ancestor. In fact it’s such a well-considered continuation that one could almost believe it had been planned right from the start. It isn't just good, it's really good.

Opening with a slightly pared down replay of that shower murder from Hitchcock's film, as the camera pans to the window and comes to rest on the edifice that is the Bates house, the image subtly transitions from the black & white of the original to colour. And so begins a tale bristling with devilish twists, one that's almost as thrilling as the first and that unexpectedly weighs in with a hefty emotional payload.

22 years ago Fairvale motelier Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) was arrested following several brutal knife murders – including that of larcenous Marion Crane – and the discovery that as a child he'd poisoned his overbearing Mother. Due to his state of mind he was declared not guilty of murder and incarcerated in an institution for the criminally insane. Now, much to the ire of Marion's sister, Lila (Vera Miles), Norman has been pronounced fit for release. He arrives back at the family owned motel to find that an oily state-appointed manager, Toomey (Dennis Franz), has allowed it to devolve into a dive patronised by unsavoury clientele. Norman sacks Toomey and sets about doing the place up, intending to relaunch it as a respectable establishment. To make ends meet in the interim he gets a part-time job at a nearby diner where he meets and takes a shine to down-on-her-luck waitress Mary (Meg Tilly) and he subsequently offers her lodgings. Although she's aware of Norman's past – there's not a soul in Fairvale who isn't – she's desperate and so, with some trepidation, accepts. As Norman's affection for Mary warms, so the first of a series of notes from his dead Mother appears. Next come the phone calls. And then people around Norman begin to die, each falling victim to a shadowy, knife-wielding figure. Has the rehabilitation process not been the success it first appeared? Are the messages from Mother all in Norman's head? Or is someone messing with him, trying to retrigger his insanity? Whatever the case, Norman quickly begins to unravel...

Having previously directed a couple of efficient chillers in his native Australia – 1978's Patrick and 1981's Roadgames – Richard Franklin's decision to take on a sequel to one of cinema history's most venerated films for his American debut was a bold and ambitious one. Fortunately, Psycho II proved a decent critical and box office success. It boasts a sharp, intelligent script by Tom Holland, who would go on to helm some fine chillers of his own (among them Fright Night and Child's Play), and who appears fleetingly here as a police deputy.

Anthony Perkins – slipping back into Norman Bates' loafers with such ease that it's almost as if he never vacated them – gets the cream of the dialogue, including some splashes of black humour, for example when Norman, former knife murderer, nervously falters in his enunciation of the word “cutlery”. The script also rather daringly turns Norman into a figure of sympathy as he tries to fit back into civilised society, struggling valiantly to quell the re-emergence of his former homicidal impulses whilst external forces seem to conspire against him. There's a wonderful scene which finds Mary comforting Norman and he tells her that she smells like toasted cheese sandwiches, kindling one of the few happy memories of his mostly bereft childhood; if it sounds a bit corny on paper, it's actually remarkably poignant. 

BY HANK REINEKE

With a screenplay penned by an otherwise obscure advertising copywriter named Ceri Jones (adapted from an original story by director Gary Sherman), the premise of Death Line is rather simple. Late night travelers on London’s famed underground tubes have been disappearing with alarming regularity from the Russell Square Tube Station. Two young, unmarried collegians, Alex Campbell (David Ladd) and Patricia Wilson (Sharon Gurney), unwittingly get themselves entangled into the mystery when they find an unconscious, well-dressed fop lying comatose on the lower steps of the station. They alert a wary and hesitant policeman to investigate, but the slumped body – whose wallet had earlier identified the body as Sir James Manfred, O.B.E. - is suddenly nowhere to be found.

We soon learn that Manfred (James Cossins) is merely the latest delicacy in the supper plans of a gruesome character billed only as “The Man.” Even putting his cannibalistic appetite aside, “The Man” (Hugh Armstrong) still cuts a pretty morbid figure. Filthy, ragged, and with skin tone that’s both beyond the pale and ravaged with festering sores (think of the iconic and disheveled – but still healthier appearing - figure that graces the cover of Jethro Tull’s seminal Aqualung LP), this mostly mute subterranean has – somewhat reluctantly - become the last surviving offspring of a band of tunnel dwellers.

There’s a back story here, of course. It seems that during the construction of the South London tube in 1892, there was an unfortunate cave-in that entombed a team of construction workers. The company contracted to build that particular section of this nineteenth century subway went immediately into bankruptcy, coldheartedly making no attempt to rescue those (apparently) mixed-sex workers trapped in the dank and rat infested arc-shaped tunnels.

This was unfortunate as some of those abandoned not only managed to survive, but to reproduce and flourish (more or less) by eating the flesh of their less fortunate comrades. It’s never adequately explained why in the eighty years between the tunnel collapse of 1892 and the film’s current date of 1972, the youngest and last surviving of the mining offspring has lost all of their language skills aside from a grunting, guttural mimic of the rail line’s oft-repeated conductor’s phrase “Mind the Doors.” Likewise, it’s never explained why – while searching out potential future meals on the underground platforms - the “trapped” tunnelers simply didn’t walk up the stairwells and out into the sunshine. Of course, if they had, there would be no drama. Certainly romancing University students Campbell and Wilson wouldn’t have been begrudgingly dragged into the on-going police investigation – much in the manner of Fred and Daphne from the old Scooby Doo cartoon series. To some degree it hardly matters. They’re window dressing. British actor Donald Pleasence is the true star of this vehicle, bringing more than a dollop of churlish intensity to his blue collar character, Inspector Calhoun. Pleasence is a decidedly old-school policeman, a cantankerous, prudish sort who continually badgers his secretary for cups of tea. He also relishes belittling and sneering at young Campbell and his generation’s immoral lifestyles, live-in girlfriends, and hippie mindset. He’s particularly disdainful of privileged middle-class kids dabbling in the political protest movements of the day.

To be fair, Calhoun shows little regard for the more well-heeled citizens of Britain either, tossing more than a few cynical barbs at the newly deceased snob James Manfred, O.B.E. He also possesses an almost pathological antipathy toward M.I.5. He views the organization not as an ally but more as a smug, self-important competitor in his street level fight against crime.

Though horror film icon Christopher Lee gets a feature billing in Death Line, his role is relatively small and the single scene he does appear in does little to move the narrative forward. Producer Paul Maslansky had previously worked with Lee on a number of films (including the very atmospheric and spooky black and white chiller Castle of the Living Dead). It was through Maslansky that Lee was cast as Pleasence’s smirking antagonist, the condescending and derby-topped Stratton-Villiers of M.I.5.

Though the two actors would only share a single scene together – oddly, the pair would only share the briefest of moments seen together on the big screen – Maslansky recalled Lee gladly accepting the small role if only to work with Pleasence, an actor he much admired. The young American actor, David Ladd, was also duly impressed by Pleasence, describing him as the consummate “actor’s actor.” He found working alongside him somewhat “intimidating.” Ladd is the younger brother of Oscar-winning producer Alan Ladd, Jr., and was certainly no leading man in Britain. He had previously worked mostly in the U.S. as a child actor. Though Ladd’s role of Alex Campbell was originally purposed for a British actor, the producers thought having an American in the part might make the film an easier sell in the States.

BY LEE PFEIFFER

Stories about troubled cops or ex-cops still have a foothold in movies and TV shows -- almost to the point where you wonder why so these emotionally vulnerable men and women chose a stressful career in law enforcement in the first place.  Private eyes, on the other hand, are almost an extinct species on the screen, after great media popularity in the 1950s and intermittent periods of audience demand since then. Maybe, as fantasy figures who embody power, personal integrity, and social conscience, trenchcoated PIs have been displaced and replaced by superheroes. The hero of Hal Ashby’s “8 Million Ways to Die” (1986), Matt Scudder (Jeff Bridges), begins as a policeman but becomes an unlicensed, free-lance gumshoe in the course of the story. A detective with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Office, Scudder serves a warrant on a suspected drug trafficker in the opening scenes of the film. When the suspect attacks another deputy with a baseball bat, Scudder fatally shoots him in front of his wife and children. Either out of remorse for killing the suspect or out of anger for being raked over the coals by Internal Affairs for using his gun (the movie is a little hazy on this point), Scudder quits the force and becomes an alcoholic. Deciding to clean up his act after his wife and daughter move out, Scudder joins Alcoholics Anonymous, where another attendee at a meeting, an attractive woman, slips him a note with a name and phone number. These developments all take place within the first few minutes of the picture.

From the staging, the audience initially thinks that the woman is flirting with Scudder and giving him her personal information. (Nowadays, she’d Tweet -- were the 1980s really that long ago?) But it turns out that the name and phone number belong to the woman’s friend, Sunny (Alexandra Paul), a prostitute. Sunny offers a job to Scudder as a go-between with her pimp, Chance (Randy Brooks). Sunny wants out of the life but she’s afraid to approach Chance herself. Scudder agrees to represent her. Chance tells him that Sunny is free to go: he doesn’t control her and she can do what she wants. But then Sunny is abducted off the street and brutally murdered while Scudder watches helplessly. Scudder goes on a bender, but revenge gives him a motive for going on the wagon again. He’s convinced that Chance was the murderer, and he wants to bring him to justice, but as he confronts Chance and gathers other clues, his suspicions turn to Angel (Andy Garcia), a high-living Colombian cocaine kingpin. Scudder enlists another hooker, Sarah (Rosanna Arquette) to help him get close to Angel. The previous tragedy of a woman horribly murdered while under Scudder’s care threatens to repeat itself. Sarah, a shotgun held under her chin, becomes leverage for Angel as Scudder tries to entrap him by instigating a raid on his multi-million dollar cache of coke.

The story behind “8 Million Ways to Die,” (1986) Ashby’s final, troubled film, arguably is more interesting than the movie itself. The initial script by Oliver Stone, adapted from a 1982 novel by Lawrence Block, went through at least two rewrites, one by an uncredited Robert Towne. As director, Ashby encouraged the actors to improvise many scenes. Some accounts say that Ashby did so in a spirit of creative collaboration, others contend that he’d simply lost interest in the job after ongoing interference by the producers. Many of the scenes stumble around with the actors improvising dialogue that sounds like what might emerge from drama-school tryouts where hopefuls are encouraged to “talk about your character’s feelings.” In a showdown between Scudder and Angel, Bridges and Garcia set a record for the number of F-bombs shouted in a given time period. Ashby’s supporters claim that “8 Million Ways to Die” would have been a good film, rather than an exasperating but sometimes interesting failure, if he’d been allowed to oversee post-production, choose the best of multiple takes from certain scenes, and rearrange the story to better frame it as a journey of redemption as seen through Scudder’s eyes.

Kino Lorber’s Blu-ray edition of “8 Million Ways to Die” is rich in special features, including an informative audio commentary by film historians Howard S. Berger and Nathaniel Thompson, and new interviews with Garcia, Paul, Arquette, and Block. All three actors are collegial and engaged, but Garcia, especially, reminisces about the movie eloquently and warmly; it’s unfortunate that most younger viewers, now, probably know the handsome actor best for his commercials with George Clooney, hawking Nespresso. Block talks about meeting with Stone early on, and wryly notes that the producers had concerns about the logic of retaining the title of the novel. The book had been set in New York City, and the title had been a play on the tagline for the classic, NYC-based Naked City TV series (“There are eight million stories . . .”). But the script relocated the action to Los Angeles, where the population falls short of eight million people. The producers decided to keep the title when they calculated that, if you counted the number of residents in the entire LA metro area, you’d come up with about eight million.

Berger and Thompson note that the film was a commercial flop in initial release (I remember seeing it in a nearly empty theater, the first week it played), but gradually picked up an audience from VHS and pay-cable through the late ‘80s. Is it sexist to wonder whether many of those home-video watchers were guy teens who sneaked the cassette to fast-forward and freeze-frame to Alexandra Paul’s brief, full-fontal nude scene?

The Kino Lorber Blu-ray includes a reversible cover sleeve with alternate poster art on both sides.  The main side reproduces the poster showing Bridges and Arquette against a pastel-neon sunset and a waving palm tree.  The color scheme, I’m certain, was designed to entice fans of TV’s “Miami Vice,” the hottest ticket in pop culture at the time.

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(Fred Blosser is the author of "Pulp Slam: Rip-Roarin' Tales of Mystery, Murder and Mayhem. Click here to order from Amazon) 

BY LEE PFEIFFER

The good folks at the esteemed boutique video label First Run Features are generally known for making available films that relate to important and usually sobering social issues. Every now and then, however, they delve into areas that are considerably more light-hearted in nature. First Run has recently overseen the theatrical release of the acclaimed new documentary "Vince Giordano: There's a Future in the Past" by directors Dave Davidson and Amber Edwards. The film has now been released on DVD. Giordano may not be a household name but he's a living legend among jazz purists who are devoted to the music of the 1920s and 1930s- the kind of upbeat, immortal tunes popularized by Paul Whiteman, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong.  Giordano plays to packed houses at Manhattan venues where he performs with his band, the Nighhawks, which he formed decades ago. Like many creative types, he is eccentric, to be sure. The film's glimpses into his personal life reveals that he lives modestly in two adjoining houses in a middle class neighborhood of Brooklyn. Giordano bought the house next door many years ago to accommodate his ever-increasing collection of sheet music and memorabilia that has obsessed him since childhood. The collection is meticulously cataloged in so many filing cabinets that his house resembles the Library of Congress. Floor-to-ceiling paperwork pertaining to his musical heroes permeates the place. You won't find any evidence in Giordano's abode that indicates the existence of rock 'n roll or even the glory days of crooners like Sinatra and Crosby. He is completely devoted to the golden era of jazz and works tirelessly to keep up with finding gigs that will help him keep his sizable band employed. 

The film opens with the band delighting in audiences at their long-time Manhattan home, the nightclub Sofia's which was located in the historic Edison Hotel off of Times Square (the same venue where Luca Brasi made the ominous walk to his doom in "The Godfather".)  For many years the Nighthawks performed here in the cozy venue, filling the room with the joy of the big band sound. I had seen them there several years ago and, despite not being a jazz enthusiast myself, I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer exuberance of the band. The film follows Giordano's travails as the leader of the Nighthawks- including informing the band members on camera that Sofia's is being forced out of business by landlords who have raised the rent to $2 million a year. Ever-resourceful, he finds them a new home at a club called Iguana- but there are countless  other frustrations involved in moving so many people to so many gigs far and wide. Many band members have been with Giordano for many years, some for decades. They relate how the sheer challenges of keeping on top of all of his responsibilities has sometimes caused him to break up the band, only to reunite them shortly thereafter. Giordano seems to have no other interests in his life than jazz and the Nighthawks. He is like an Evangelist in terms of spreading the word about the music and artists that he so reveres. His efforts are clearly paying off. We see him attract young people at the Newport Jazz Festival and at New York's famed private club for the arts, The Players, where he is one of the headline acts at the New York Hot Summer Jazz Festival. Giordano is part mother hen and part drill instructor to his band members. He refers to himself as "The King of Schlep" in regard to the fact that at age 65 he still loads and unloads the vast amount of equipment necessary for every show, carrying it all around in a rather weather-beaten van. He's like a modern version of Willie Lohman, feeling his age perhaps, but ever-devoted to his profession.  He relies on his right arm, Carol Jean Hughes, to help him keep track of the enormous amount of paperwork and logistical support that goes into running the band. Giordano shows a grumpy side when things go wrong:  a misplaced mouthpiece or a miscommunication that sees him setting up the entire band at the Players only to be told to dismantle everything because another band is scheduled to go on before him. But he's clearly in his element and delighting when playing in front of appreciative audiences. The band's prominence hit new heights with their Grammy-winning work on the HBO series "Boardwalk Empire" and the film includes clips from one of the segments in which the Nighthawks appear on camera. There is also extensive footage of David Johansen rehearsing with the band for the series. Giordano also coordinates a triumphant celebration of the 90th anniversary of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" and performs it at the same venue in which it premiered on the exact date of the anniversary in front of a cheering audience. The film also mentions that Giordano has worked with Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen, appearing on camera in musical scenes in their films.

"Vince Giordano: There's a Future in the Past" is a sweet-natured movie that was funded by grants and private donations. Directors Davidson and Edwards wisely allow ample screen time to show the Nighthawks performing- and the interviews with band members are especially interesting, giving a perspective of people who have not gotten rich but clearly enjoy what they do. Vince Giordano comes across as a New York original- the kind of guy you would like to sit down with at a bar for a few hours. However, that seems unlikely since the workaholic musician strikes me as the kind of obsessive who couldn't bring himself to stop studying and playing music long enough to drain down a couple of cold ones. The documentary is terrific on all levels- just like any performance by Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks.  

The DVD boasts an excellent transfer and a trailer gallery of other First Run features available on DVD, though strangely it does not include the trailer for the Giordano film.   

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BY LEE PFEIFFER

In the 1960s European cinema went mad for a style of filmmaking called portmanteau, which is a movie that consists of several short stories united by a common theme. One such film was the 1964 release "Les plus belles escroqueries du monde", released in English language nations as "The World's Most Beautiful Swindlers". The charm of such movies was that they generally gathered diverse, well-known filmmakers who contributed individual segments in their own unique style. The Olive Films Blu-ray edition of "Swindlers" showcases the work of four directors in generally whimsical tales that involve men and women who circumvent the law for their own personal gain. First up is a tale set in Tokyo, directed by Hiromichi Horikawa. Future James Bond girl Mie Hama plays a young woman who is frustrated by her "career" of working as a hostess in a bar where her duties are to keep male customers engaged in conversation. When she meets a middle-aged, wealthy eccentric (Ken Mitsuda), who walks around with a fortune in cash in a black bag, she sees an opportunity to exploit him using her sexual charms. She convinces him to allow her into his apartment where the lonely man is immediately entranced by her. However, he is embarrassed when she discovers he wears false teeth- and he makes the mistake of informing her they are extremely valuable because they are made of precious metals. When he conveniently succumbs to a fatal heart attack, the girl realizes that absconding with his cash would make her the obvious perpetrator of a crime, so she steals his dentures before calling the police to report the death. The "sting in the tail" ending, however, may be about dentures but it lacks sufficient bite when the young woman gets her just desserts in an unexpected way. Hama is a charming screen presence and its nice to see her in an early role. Director Horikawa squanders the opportunity to showcase the visual splendors of Tokyo by largely confining the action to interiors. However, the segment is reasonably entertaining. 

Japanese poster that played up the charms of Mie Hama.

The second episode is directed by Ugo Gregoretti and is probably the most satisfying of the lot.  Set in Naples, it involves a prostitute (Gabriella Giorgetti) who has been dumped by her lover and who is now homeless and desperate for money. She is befriended by one of her clients, a shy, kindly law student who devises a scheme in which she can legally marry a poor, elderly man who lives in a city-run shelter. This will provide her with the legal protections she needs to ply her trade and no longer be harassed by police. (The segment dwells on the archaic codes of morality that affected every man and woman who lived in Naples at the time). Things seem to go well until she jilts her ancient "groom" and her slavish law student in order to reunite with her cruel ex-boyfriend, who uses the marriage scheme to set up his own business. Before long, it is thriving as he acts as a manager to set up prostitutes in sham marriages to poor old men. The ironic ending in which poetic justice is meted out to both the hooker and her lover is rather clever and amusing. The third segment, directed by Claude Chabrol involves a team of young, good-looking swindlers ( Jean-Pierre Cassel and Catherine Deneuve among them) who have a chance encounter with a rich, obnoxious German (Francis Blanche), who has an obsession with the Eiffel Tower and who maintains a collection of memorabilia relating to the legendary edifice. They convince him to come to Paris, where they have set up an elaborate phony corporate operation under the pretense that they have been solicited by Parisian officials to find someone suitable to sell the Eiffel Tower to. The gullible German is giddy with glee at the prospect of owning the landmark building. There are some funny moments in which he is guided around Paris by his "business partners" and wined and dined by them, even though he ends up paying the tab for everyone. The segment shows a lot of promise but fizzles out with an abrupt and completely unsatisfactory ending that makes one wonder if Chabrol had run out of film or a brisk wind swept away the last few pages of the script. In any event, the bland finale compromises the amusing scenes that precede it. The final segment, set in Marrakesh, Morocco, is directed by the estimable Jean-Luc Godard and features Jean Seberg as an American journalist who comes into possession of counterfeit money. The police inform her that a counterfeiting ring is wreaking havoc on the local economy. Intrigued, she manages to track down the culprit, who agrees to an being interviewed by her (not a very smart move if you're a wanted man). The counterfeiter (Charles Denner) is a local peasant with a somnambulistic personality who justifies his actions by explaining that he uses his ill-gotten gains to help poor people. The segment starts off intriguingly with some exotic shots of Marrakesh but quickly devolves into pretentious, nearly incomprehensible blather. Godard keeps the entire latter half of the story confined to a back alley and presents the counterfeiter in a series of boring closeups. One can only assume that Godard simply wanted a free holiday in Morocco, as the segment is a complete snooze and ends the film on a bland note.

BY JOHN M. WHALEN

It is only in the stories others tell about us, the legends they create, that we can achieve any sort of immortality. And even though the stories may not be completely true, it is better to keep them alive than to let them die. For when they die, we die with them. Such seems to be the theme of “Barbarosa” (1982), a sly, subtle film from director Fred Schepisi and screenwriter William D. Witliff, about two men on the run in the desert in Old Mexico. One is Karl Westover (Gary Busey), a young farm boy running from an old man who is determined to shoot him on sight in revenge for killing one of his sons. Karl insists it was an accident. The other is a legendary outlaw who has been at war for years with a Mexican family that gave him the name Barbarosa (Willie Nelson), which means Red Beard in Spanish.

No sooner do the two men meet than a Mexican with a gun charges Barbarosa. The grizzled, bearded outlaw stands calmly as a bullet marks his cheek and puts a hole in the brim of his sombrero. He coolly shoots and kills his assailant, a member of the Zuvalla family. Barbarosa explains he’s managed to survive by killing at least half a dozen male members of the Zuvalla family over the last 15 years. The two men—the farm boy and the outlaw—are in the same predicament, both hunted men. Barbarosa reluctantly decides to take the young, inexperienced fugitive under his wing and teach him the tricks of the outlaw trade.

The pairing of Busey with Willie is unusual casting to say the least, and watching them play off each other is quite a treat. The mercurial Busey, even then notorious for cutting up on the set, manages to keep himself in check long enough to make his farm boy turned outlaw believable, and Willy is just laid-back Willie, perfectly suited to play the laconic bandido.

One of the first things Barbarosa teaches him is how to kill a man with a gun. First, he says, point it like you’re pointing your finger. Second squeeze the trigger gently “like you’re holding your sore pecker.” Third: “Always stand still until you’re done shooting,” he explains. “Nothin’ scares a man more than for you to be standin’ still when you should be runnin’ like a spotted-assed ape.” Barbarosa is a font of such outlaw wisdom. When Carl tells him about his trouble back home, he says, “Well, the Mexicans got a saying – ‘What cannot be remedied must be endured.’”

Meanwhile back at the Zuvalla Rancho, Don Braulio Zuvalla (the great Gilbert Roland in his last film), after learning of the death of the man Barbarosa killed, selects another young member of the family to seek out and kill Barbarosa “Bring me his cojones,” he says. “Bring them to me on a stick.” Young Eduardo (Danny De La Paz) accepts the task, vowing not to return until he’s done as the don has asked.

Screenwriter Witliff, whose other work for the screen includes the “Lonesome Dove” TV series, “The Black Stallion,” and “Legends of the Fall,” slowly pays out Barbarosa’s backstory in small pieces as the action moves forward. It isn’t until midway through the film we hear the Don’s version of what happened between the two men. Barbarosa had been a Texas Ranger who saved the Don’s life and became a family friend but then married the don’s daughter without his consent. Barbarosa’s wife, Josephina, is played by Mexican actress Isela Vega, best known for playing Elita in Sam Peckinpah’s masterpiece “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” (1974). Karl and his outlaw partner sneak into the rancho to give Josephina some money. Karl overhears the Don telling the assembled children the story, and learns that Barbarosa had cold-bloodedly shot off the Don’s leg at the knee, and slashed the throats of two of his sons. The Don says the once honey-colored beard was now red with blood. “Barbarosa!” one of the children cries. The Don tells them Barbarosa is the devil himself and as long as they live they must hunt for Barbarosa and one day finally kill him.

When Don Braulio later discovers Barbarosa within his hacienda, the two men face each other. “Damn you for all the misery, you’ve caused,” Barbarosa mutters. “All I ever wanted to do is be a part of this family.” Don Braulio tells him: “And are you not part of this family?” The bitter feud, the endless killing, has bonded the Don and the outlaw together forever.

The second half of the film deals with Karl’s problems with the old man who is gunning for him. Karl returns home to find his father and sister alone and in bad health. There is a confrontation with his pursuer and later Barbarosa shows up and the two team up once again. But young Eduardo is still in pursuit and there is a final showdown with Barbarosa. I won’t reveal the ending, except to say that before the film is over we learn Barbarosa’s version of what happened with the Zuvalla family and we come to understand the violence that happened so many years ago. By the end of the film, Karl has grown from naïve farm boy to experienced outlaw in his own right. The events that transpire at the story’s conclusion give him no choice but to become part of the legend of Barbarosa himself.

Scorpion Releasing has done an excellent job presenting the film in its first-ever wide screen release in the U.S. The 1080 p transfer to Blu-Ray displays the movie in its original 2.35:1 theatrical aspect ratio. The picture is sharp and clear and does justice to director Schepisi’s fondness for long-distance shots of the Mexican landscape in which the characters sometimes appear as mere dots on the screen. The disc contains several bonus features, including interviews with Schepisi, and cast members Alma Martinez and Danny De La Paz. There is also a trailer and a separate audio track for listening to Bruce Smeaton’s music score. “Barbarosa” is highly recommended.

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BY LEE PFEIFFER

S'more Entertainment has released two rare 1965 interviews with Jerry Lewis that appeared on David Susskind's "Open End" chat show. The B&W videotaped broadcasts are shown in their entirety sans original commercials. According to the informative liner notes by Susskind biographer Stephen Battaglio, Susskind, a successful TV film producer of "highbrow" content,  and Lewis had a previous relationship: Susskind had been the agent for Martin and Lewis in the 1950s. Their relationship soured in later years partly because Susskind was critical of actors in general, especially those who dared to produce and direct their own movies. None of that tension comes across in the interview but it still makes for a rather riveting experience. "Open End" was one of many talk shows during the 1960s that appealed to viewers' intellect. The primary objective wasn't to make news, get laughs or have a guest promote his or her latest venture. This is obvious in the Lewis shows- he isn't asked about what he is currently working on nor does he attempt to insert a plug for anything into the interview. Rather, Lewis- who was never lacking in self-esteem when it came to his career accomplishments as a filmmaker- seems to relish the opportunity to show his serious, personal side. Susskind proves to be the perfect interviewer- he asks intelligent questions then shuts up and gives his guest ample time to answer them, uninterrupted. Notably, the camera is rarely on the host and most often on the guest. Such techniques may seem quaint today but one wishes more of them were being employed.

In the first interview Susskind never questions Lewis about his films and only discusses the Hollywood aspect of Lewis's life in big picture terms. Lewis opines that he isn't part of the Hollywood party scene because he was obsessed with it as a young man. Instead, he says he prefers to simply go home and be with his family after leaving the studio.  Lewis does defend Hollywood against its bad reputation, pointing out that the industry is filled with kind and generous people who devote their lives to bringing entertainment to millions of people. It's clear that family was always of paramount importance to Lewis. At the time he had six sons ranging from an infant to 19 year-old Gary, who had recently launched a successful career with Gary Lewis and the Playboys rock band, Jerry stresses in the interview how he and his (then) wife Patty attempt to provide a normal life for them. Susskind challenges him in that regard, pointing out Lewis's penchant for excessive spending and the fact that the family is living in Louis B. Mayer's former home, a 33-room estate that Lewis paid for with a check for $500,000. Lewis grapples with the paradox but admits that it's hard to try to explain why 33 rooms are necessary even for a big family. He says that much of his penchant for big spending is probably a psychological need to rebel against his humble past. Raised in a very modest home in New Jersey, Lewis's mom and dad (both alive at the time of this interview) were hard-working show business people who had a vaudeville act. Lewis remembers the pain of what that lifestyle meant: long hours, constant travel and little money because his father was a poor businessman. Most poignantly, Lewis recalls having attended fifteen schools in his childhood and the on-going pain he still feels from his humiliation at being left back one year in grammar school. (He describes a system that seems intentionally designed to psychologically wound such children.) He confesses to owning hundreds of suits and pairs of shoes but tries to mitigate his compulsion by pointing out he ultimately gives many of his possessions away to charity. At times Lewis comes across as a human paradox. He's humble, he's a bragger, he admits to being an egomaniac but at other times comes across as a sincere, down-to-earth husband and father who ascribes to an old-fashioned ethic of working hard to provide for those who are dependent upon him. Susskind asks him about the challenges of living in an interdenominational marriage (he's Jewish, his wife Catholic). Lewis responds with candor and explains that both he and his wife were patient and understanding with the other's beliefs and try to objectively expose their kids to both religions. (He also makes some comments about his parents' lack of tolerance for the situation which they probably didn't appreciate being broadcast on national television). Given the social mores of the era, it's probably not surprising that Lewis held to a traditional view that the man is the head of the household. He confesses to being insecure about letting his wife be alone for any length of time with another man and prohibiting her from even dancing with anyone but him. "Leave her alone- she belongs to me!" is how he would address any man who dared to inquire about a dance with his wife. Such misogynistic statements would seem outrageous today but in Lewis's defense, they were much more the norm in 1965. 

BY DOUG OSWALD

Charles Bronson portrays a veteran secret service agent tasked with protecting the First Lady in “Assassination,” now on Blu-ray from Kino Lorber. Jill Ireland is Lara Royce Craig, the First Lady under the protection of Jay “Killy” Killian (Bronson). His assignment to protect her is a bit of a demotion and a disappointment for Killian, but he makes the best of it along with his partner, agent Charlotte Chang (Jan Gan Boyd), who also happens to have a serious crush on Killian.

Killian believes someone is trying to murder the First Lady, but nobody believes him, including Lara. She takes an instant dislike to “Killy” in spite of his saving her life on several occasions, one of which results in her suffering a black eye after a would-be assassin disguised as a motorcycle cop tries to shoot her. Making matters worse for Killian is Lara’s habit of trying to slip away from his protection. Veteran TV and movie actor Michael Ansara is on hand as Senator Bunsen, who may be able to help Killian find the killers.

Killian and Charlotte find time to rendezvous, but their love affair is brief as they continue their search for those trying to murder the First Lady. Eventually Lara comes around and starts to trust Killian after it becomes obvious her life is in jeopardy and the clues may lead all the way to her husband. She departs with Killian to hide out in the country in order to buy a little time and ferret out the killers who also happen to be part of a terrorist conspiracy. The mayhem that ensues includes a motorcycle chase, a helicopter and surface- to- air missiles. In the end, the head of the conspiracy is revealed and the movie comes to a satisfying, if predictable conclusion.

“Assassination” may not be one of the classics in Bronson’s long list of movie credits, but it is typical of the movies that would define the later part of his career in the 1980s. Bronson is unique among movie actors in that he represented his own genre. It must be said, however, that prior to being an action movie icon, he distinguished himself as a supporting actor in prestigious productions such as “The Magnificent Seven,” ,“The Great Escape,” “Battle of the Bulge,” “The Dirty Dozen” and “Once Upon a Time in the West”.

Thankfully, Bronson was busy throughout the 70s, 80s and into the 90s making dozens of action and crime thrillers starting with “Rider on the Rain” (1970) and continuing through the final movie in the "Death Wish" series, “Death Wish V: The Face of Death,” in 1994. Many of these movies- “Chato’s Land,” “The Mechanic,” “Mr. Majestic,” “Death Wish,” “Hard Times” and “Breakout Pass” (to name just a few highlights)- defined action thrillers and westerns during this period and continue to do so to this day, while cementing Bronson’s reputation as one of the actors of the period whose movies garner repeat viewing and discussion.

Bronson also worked with several great and often overlooked directors during this period including Michael Winner, J. Lee Thompson, Peter Hunt, Richard Fleischer, Walter Hill, Richard Donner and Don Siegel. Bronson and the filmmakers he worked with proved to be the right combination for his fan base during this prolific period, even if critics rarely saw much merit to these populist productions.

“Assassination” is the final feature film by Peter Hunt, director of “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” and “Shout at the Devil,” who also worked with Bronson and Lee Marvin on “Death Hunt.” This is also the last of 14 movies Jill Ireland co-starred in with her real life husband, Bronson. Sadly, she died three years later in 1990.

The Kino Blu-ray looks and sounds very good with an 88 minute running time. The disc features trailers for this and three other Bronson titles. “Assassination” is comfort food for Charles Bronson fans and is recommended for fans of 80s action movies.

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BY DOUG OSWALD

Frances McDormand and Brian Cox reveal a “Hidden Agenda” in the political thriller about British brutality in Northern Ireland. The movie opens during a pro-British parade in Belfast as two men describe the details of their torture at the hands of local police. Human rights activists Paul Sullivan (Brad Dourif) and Ingrid Jessner (McDormand) have just completed their investigation and about to return to America after releasing their report. In the early morning prior to their departure, Paul returns a call and meets secretly with a possible IRA terrorist who has evidence of police brutality and a British cover-up. Paul is murdered by members of a British security team who then cover up his death and steal the evidence in his possession, a tape containing details of a conspiracy.

As the shooting death of Paul makes the news along with the possibility that illegal police tactics were used, the British government sends an internal investigative team from England to investigate the local Belfast police. Kerrigan (Brian Cox) leads the investigation and is confronted by local police who are everything but cooperative. He works with Ingrid to unravel the conspiracy which leads back to the British government and the missing tape recording with confessions by those involved.

“Hidden Agenda” was released in 1990 and the viewer is informed that the time and place is “Belfast: A few years ago.” The movie makes brief references to the “Birmingham Six” and “Guildford Four,” innocent people who were recipients of brutal police interrogation techniques in order to obtain what were later revealed as false confessions in the aftermath of a 1974 London terrorist bombing which killed 21 and injured 182. The “Guildford Four” case was dramatized in the 1993 movie “In the Name of the Father” featuring Daniel Day-Lewis as Gerry Conlon. They were all released just prior to and shortly after the release of “Hidden Agenda” which may be why “a few years ago” was included in light of recent actual events in 1990 which unfolded while the movie was in production and prior to its release.

The movie has an almost documentary feel by using what appear to be non-actors in various on-location scenes throughout the film. As the story unfolds, the action sometimes feels like its part of a live news broadcast. The movie was directed by Ken Loach, who is known for using a naturalistic style and encouraging improvisation between his actors to give his films a realistic feel that I think works to great effect.. Much of his work throughout the 1980s prior to “Hidden Agenda” was directing documentaries and those techniques are apparent here.

It’s only when Cox and McDormand appear on-screen that the movie feels less improvised and more like a standard mainstream film. Maybe that’s partly because both actors, while relatively unknown back in 1990, are very recognizable to movie audiences today. “Hidden Agenda” arrived a few years before McDormand’s breakthrough role as Marge in the 1986 thriller “Fargo.” Brian Cox was well known to TV audiences in the UK and as the first actor to play Dr. Hannibal Lector in director Michael Mann’s under-rated 1986 thriller, “Manhunter.” After a memorable supporting part in 1975s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Dourif remains one of the great underrated character actors.

The 24-hour cable news cycle was also relatively new back in 1990 and maybe that has an effect on the way we view a movie like “Hidden Agenda” today, given that we have become accustomed to watching events unfold in our living room on a daily basis. Whether one appreciates Loach’s technique is ultimately for the viewer to decide.

The 108 minute thriller looks and sounds very good and features an understated score by Stewart Copeland. This Blu-ray release by Kino Lorber also includes the trailer.

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BY JEREMY CARR

Alfred Hitchcock may have directed The Paradine Case, the 1947 adaptation of Robert Smythe Hichens’ 1933 novel, but the film is most clearly a David O. Selznick production. It was his coveted property, he wrote the screenplay (with contributions from Alma Reville, James Bridie, and an uncredited Ben Hecht), and the movie itself discloses far more of its producer’s temperament than it does its director’s. The Paradine Case was, in fact, the last film made by the British-born master as part of his seven-year contract with Selznick, and by most accounts, Hitchcock’s heart just wasn’t in it. Unfortunately, it shows.

But this is no slipshod motion picture. Selznick spared no expense—the completed film cost almost as much as Gone with the Wind—and the entire project is built on quality and class. Set in London, in “the recent past,” The Paradine Case stars an always-dashing Gregory Peck as Anthony Keane, a renowned English barrister enlisted to defend the enigmatic Maddalena Anna Paradine (Alida Valli, in her Hollywood unveiling). Accused of poisoning her wealthy husband, Maddalena accepts the indictment with what Charles Laughton’s sleazy Judge Lord Thomas Horfield calls a “mystic charm.” Mystic or otherwise, her charm certainly works its magic on Keane. Much to the uneasy chagrin of his kindly and patient wife Gay (Ann Todd, in a radiant and undervalued performance), Keane grows obsessed with the case and inordinately besotted with Maddalena; she is “too fine a woman” to be capable of murder. He vainly tries to pin the homicide on the family’s servant, André Latour (Louis Jourdan, also his American debut), but that tactic doesn’t stick. Eventually, Maddalena comes to the defense of the shadowy André (he is literally concealed in shadows during his introduction) and the complex backstory of all involved comes to light.

Starting in a realm of elegance, wealth, and refined manners (before settling mostly in a flavorless courtroom), Valli plays Maddalena with an unnervingly unaffected reserve, suspiciously never losing her composure until the very end. Her inscrutable face reveals little more than trouble, especially for Keane. She is one of the finer ambiguous characters to come from a Hitchcock film; referred to as “no ordinary woman,” Maddalena may not be a classically cool blonde, but she is as icy as they come. By contrast, Peck descends from jovial and spontaneous to fixated and strained.

The Paradine Case is a very talky film, and subsequently, much of its success depends on the aptitude of its cast. While Ethel Barrymore received the film’s only Academy Award nomination, for her disturbing/disturbed supporting turn as Lady Sophie Horfield, the actorly spotlight ultimately falls on Valli and Peck, neither of whom were first choices. Hitchcock wanted Greta Garbo for Maddalena (the actress was also apparently Hichens’ inspiration), but she declined the offer. As did Laurence Olivier, first pick for Keane. Other names for each part were bandied about; Selznick settled on Valli, based on her burgeoning international stardom, and Hitchcock suggested Peck, based on their achievement two years prior with Spellbound.

Hitchcock felt the film suffered from miscasting across the board, yet in the end, among The Paradine Case’s strongest points of praise is the interplay between Valli and Peck. It’s a tragically malicious one-sided infatuation, but to watch his blind emotional descent and her shrewd manipulation is astonishing, particularly when one realizes as much as he may be shaping her testimony, directing her alibi as it were, it is she who holds the guiding hand. However, because The Paradine Case is at its best when focusing on this one-on-one interaction, that there is a murder mystery developing becomes something of an afterthought. Character behavior, as curious as it sometimes is, often usurps the overriding crime at the core of the picture.

Given the ample budget, Hitchcock and cinematographer Lee Garmes (Oscar-winning DP of the stunning Shanghai Express, 1932) fashion a handsomely lit and impeccably framed series of events; close-ups are luxurious, wider shots are perfectly balanced. But while there are moments of devious Hitchcockian touches—cunning glances and jarring movements—the film evokes less filmic tension than his more engaged work. Though he used four cameras during the court sequences, enabling him to experiment with long single takes from a variety of angles, his technical inventiveness is largely restricted, by the scenario and the settings. He wouldn’t let enclosed spaces hinder him in the future (see Rope and Rear Window), but here, even when Keane just goes to visit rural Cumberland, it’s like a breath of fresh air.

The Paradine Case was not a box office hit, and it’s fairly easy to see why. Any Hitchcock film is worth watching, but there are only select titles that demand to be seen. Hampered by glaring issues (an overbearing score by Franz Waxman) and minor annoyances (one character’s needless cross examination play-by-play), this is not one of them.

Featuring a solid audio-visual transfer, The Paradine Case is now available on Blu-ray from Kino Lorber. The disc also includes a commentary with film historians Stephen Rebello and Bill Krohn, excerpts from the famous Hitchcock/Truffaut conversations, an interview between Hitchcock and Peter Bogdanovich, a short piece with Peck’s two children, and “The Paradine Case: Radio Play.”

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