Middling
60s Capers
by Kristin Battestella
Despite name stars and decent
production values, this trio of black and white mysteries from the
sixties is surprisingly middle of the road. Rather than cinematic
flair, each feels more like an overlong anthology entry. Ouch, but
pity. đ€·đ»♀️
Cash on Demand
– Carols, snow, and holiday atmosphere at the bank two days before
Christmas set the scene for this 1961 black and white Hammer heist.
Bowler hat wearing banker Peter Cushing wants the office to be
dignified not festive, and he won't donate to the Christmas party
fund. He's not there to ingratiate himself with subordinates and
demands efficiency – threatening to see his manager never works in
the financial sector again over an innocuous $10 mistake. The
employees object to his embezzlement suspicions, but unexpected
insurance investigator Andre Morell (Watson to Cushing's Holmes in
Hammer's The
Hound of Baskervilles)
knows all about the tension among the bank personnel. The con artist
has done his homework on the holiday deposits, and frantic phone
calls lead to kidnapping and blackmail schemes to open the vault. Our
insurance impostor recounts the signals and briefcases for the
exchange with such menace, but there's no need for brutality –
heists can be smooth and sociable while he's sipping tea with his
feet up on the desk. On the ball Cushing descends to weak and
pleading, emasculated and disrespected in the tense one on ones. This
is, however, a very slow, talkative piece with all outside action
told rather than seen. The two room bank setting is fine taut, but
the previous teleplay source is apparent, the camerawork too plain,
and incidental bank minutiae clutters what should be clever theft
ploys. Window washers and honking fire trucks passing better create a
few startles as the staff nonchalantly lets this thief into the vault
unaware. Money bags, spinning locks, and filling luggage with loot
lead to flashing light bulb alerts, fiddling with the keys, and
thirty second alarm resets. Follow ups with the insurance company and
fifteen minute phone check ins are well done when the actual heist
happens, and our smooth talker intends to walk right out with a cool
$100K. Crisscrossed signals, panic, nervous police bluffs, handcuffs
– it takes a crime for crusty Cushing to unravel and unite with his
staff to best the ruse and realize people are more important than
money. This eighty minute version seems long or unevenly paced with
superfluous employees and wasted time on obvious yet muddled slip ups
in the rushed resolution. Fortunately, the bank balance turnabouts
make for an unusual holiday morality tale for fans of the cast.
Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace
– A dead body washes up beneath London Bridge as Terence Fisher
directs Christopher Lee (also both of the Hammer The Hound of Baskervilles)
in this international 1962 production loosely based upon Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle's The
Valley of Fear.
Already the set up is superfluous with pretentious kids, a meddling
housekeeper, and a simple sounding board Watson who needs Holmes to
spell out clues with shadow puppets. The story is repetitive and
disjointed with no point of view – deliberately trying to be obtuse
with a Sherlock in disguise yet expecting the audience to be Holmes
well versed. If you don't know Moriarty is our nemesis, Holmes looks
obsessed for accusing a respected academic of murder. He disappears
without informing Watson, whose unnecessary comic relief makes one
wonder which scenes are important if at all while ominous moments
implicate Moriarty just because the plot says so. Egyptology thefts,
country estates, affairs, shootings – most of the Doyle nuggets
happen off screen while we watch anonymous scuffles at the pub.
Coming or going over clues and phone calls again follow the plot
rather than real deduction, and we're supposed to like Holmes mocking
the incompetent Scotland Yard because the anachronistic swanky jazz
more fitting for a fifties noir than the late Victorian setting tells
us so. While this looks the cluttered 221B Baker Street part, the
crimes feel more like three murder vignettes and the auctions, sewer
stakeouts, and car heists are meandering and confusing. Holmes can
break into Moriarty's lair and mess with the mummies just because
he's Holmes. How does his mailing himself the necklace that he stole
from Moriarty prove that Moriarty stole it in the first place? It's
easy to zone out on the lookalike ensemble's exposition away from
Holmes, for the one on one secrets, alibis, and villainous
tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘtes
are
more
interesting once we get Holmes in his deerstalker and stylish plaid
cape. Lee provides the commanding wit and haughty air. His clever
mannerisms change with each obvious mustache or eye patch disguise.
We'll see Lee as Holmes again, however the lack of his own booming
voice thanks to unfortunate dubbing practices contributes to the
overall meh here. This is not an introductory eighty odd minutes but
more like the second in a series where the audience is supposed to
know the literature already. Though annoying for Holmes completists,
this is really only for the Doyle devoted and Lee connoisseurs.
Stop Me Before I Kill –
Swanky
cars and jazz on the radio leads to shattered windshields and a
ruined wedding day in this 1960 black and white Hammer noir directed
by Val Guest (The
Quartermass Xperiment) from
the novel The
Full Treatment. Months
after the accident, our former race car driver still suffers mentally
– unable to get behind the wheel and
panicking on the highway. Although their relationship is feisty and
his wife is supportive, his mood swings begat controlling
compulsions, bruises, and stranglings amid the kisses. Intriguing
visuals, up close zooms, shadowed faces, and cigarette mannerisms
accent some very compelling segments alongside lux locales and
continental suave disrupted by the hectic headlights, wheel
clutching, honking horns, and peeling tires. Our husband is
suspicious of the double talking psychiatrist they meet on the
Riviera; dinner parties invoke further anxiety and aggression while
the Mrs. makes the pleasantries. Friends tell him this lack of
confidence is all in his mind and he admits he's behaving like a
child, for a real man would seek help before harming his wife. Not
being able to hold her without wanting to strangle her, newlyweds
sleeping separately, and solo skinny dipping provide a whiff of
then-scandalous as the through the binoculars viewpoint and dominance
from above camera angles add to the audience voyeurism. We wonder
what will set him off next, and his reluctance with our cheeky
psychiatrist leads to angry, outwitting psychoanalysis as doctor and
patient each contemplate how she should be killed and the gruesome
dismemberment to follow once the bloody deed is done. Unfortunately,
suspenseful breakthroughs are drawn out to the point of deflation
with little regression therapy progress – the speedometer, her
crucifix, and who was to blame for the accident are straightforward
rather than shocking. The bloody bathroom with the appearance of a
crime is obviously a fix, yet he's suddenly ready to race the Grand
Prix again? Wife Diane Cilento's (Tom
Jones)
absence in latter half of the film shows until Riviera lookalikes,
vehicular twists, deceptions, guns, and garrotes escalate. This
should be much more chilling than it is, but the audience always
knows what's what and there's not enough charisma or intensity to
overcome the overlong, divided focus between the domestic jeopardy
and the ulterior psychiatry.
