The art of the double bill, part four
Odds & Ends
Challenging the kidneys. A major Christmas release in 1966, John Frankenheimer’s Grand Prix was heavily promoted and poised to become the event of the season. That is until people saw it and the reviews came in. After a run of high-minded hits—Birdman of Alcatraz, The Manchurian Candidate, Seven Days in May, and The Train (sorry: Seconds was no hit)—the costly racecar drama flopped. I remember seeing it on opening weekend, barely able to get through its plodding three (3) hours. The decision to reissue it with the meat and potatoes Dirty Dozen seems insane: Robert Aldrich’s lively knuckle-dragger was no slouch in length, clocking in at two-and-one-half hours. But at least it moved and offered some memorable moments with Lee Marvin, an overwrought John Cassavetes, a malnourished Donald Sutherland, and Clint Walker as ‘Posey.’
Medusa in stereo. After Brute Force, Naked City, and Thieves’ Highway Jules Dassin went to Europe (troubles with HUAC) and began well enough with Night and the City and Rififi. But he fell in with Melina Mercouri and never looked back. (Would he have turned to stone?) She bulges like a volcanic hallucination of depravity, a coarse, unsettling beast seemingly capable of any decadent act. This is not to reflect on her personal and political life; but her screen image is, to these eyes, ghastly even in those uncomfortable moments of feigned refinement. Never on Sunday is irritating, made worse by an appalling performance by the director—the scenes of Dassin staring at Melina’s reactions are among the most embarrassing things I’ve ever witnessed. Topkapi is simply inept, with her popping those spooky eyes for the camera. (Will we turn to stone?) That both pictures were tremendous hits can only be attributed to postwar stress.
Chop socky. This ad commemorates one of the last visits my high school friends and I made to a drive-in. After we got our drivers licenses, the ‘open air’ became a new venue for adolescent shenanigans and cinematic indulgence. We’d load up coolers full of beer, get nickel bags, raid the concession stand for buckets of oily popcorn and greasy chili dogs. And see movies. Lots of movies. Most of them have faded from memory, but there are some that stand out. Hot Potato is a title not easily forgotten; and Enter the Dragon is still a good action picture. Soon after this night, we disbanded and went to universities in different areas of the country. Some of us became successes, others floundered, and there were those who simply maintained or got lost.
La la la—Nice Lady! The Martin & Lewis pictures of the 1950s continued playing in theaters in the early ‘60s, but I never cared for them save for that weird shot of the blinking eye on the golf ball in The Caddy. As a kid I liked Jerry Lewis—much to the chagrin of my parents, who fancied themselves cultivated but were merely faux nouvelle riche. He cracked me up, except when he thought he was Chaplin and got all gooey and maudlin. Jerry increasingly fell out of favor as the decade progressed, but I still remember seeing Don’t Raise the Bridge, Lower the River and The Big Mouth and Way, Way Out in packed theaters.
Read more of The Art of the Double Bill:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Challenging the kidneys. A major Christmas release in 1966, John Frankenheimer’s Grand Prix was heavily promoted and poised to become the event of the season. That is until people saw it and the reviews came in. After a run of high-minded hits—Birdman of Alcatraz, The Manchurian Candidate, Seven Days in May, and The Train (sorry: Seconds was no hit)—the costly racecar drama flopped. I remember seeing it on opening weekend, barely able to get through its plodding three (3) hours. The decision to reissue it with the meat and potatoes Dirty Dozen seems insane: Robert Aldrich’s lively knuckle-dragger was no slouch in length, clocking in at two-and-one-half hours. But at least it moved and offered some memorable moments with Lee Marvin, an overwrought John Cassavetes, a malnourished Donald Sutherland, and Clint Walker as ‘Posey.’
Click this and other images to enlarge
Medusa in stereo. After Brute Force, Naked City, and Thieves’ Highway Jules Dassin went to Europe (troubles with HUAC) and began well enough with Night and the City and Rififi. But he fell in with Melina Mercouri and never looked back. (Would he have turned to stone?) She bulges like a volcanic hallucination of depravity, a coarse, unsettling beast seemingly capable of any decadent act. This is not to reflect on her personal and political life; but her screen image is, to these eyes, ghastly even in those uncomfortable moments of feigned refinement. Never on Sunday is irritating, made worse by an appalling performance by the director—the scenes of Dassin staring at Melina’s reactions are among the most embarrassing things I’ve ever witnessed. Topkapi is simply inept, with her popping those spooky eyes for the camera. (Will we turn to stone?) That both pictures were tremendous hits can only be attributed to postwar stress.
Chop socky. This ad commemorates one of the last visits my high school friends and I made to a drive-in. After we got our drivers licenses, the ‘open air’ became a new venue for adolescent shenanigans and cinematic indulgence. We’d load up coolers full of beer, get nickel bags, raid the concession stand for buckets of oily popcorn and greasy chili dogs. And see movies. Lots of movies. Most of them have faded from memory, but there are some that stand out. Hot Potato is a title not easily forgotten; and Enter the Dragon is still a good action picture. Soon after this night, we disbanded and went to universities in different areas of the country. Some of us became successes, others floundered, and there were those who simply maintained or got lost.
La la la—Nice Lady! The Martin & Lewis pictures of the 1950s continued playing in theaters in the early ‘60s, but I never cared for them save for that weird shot of the blinking eye on the golf ball in The Caddy. As a kid I liked Jerry Lewis—much to the chagrin of my parents, who fancied themselves cultivated but were merely faux nouvelle riche. He cracked me up, except when he thought he was Chaplin and got all gooey and maudlin. Jerry increasingly fell out of favor as the decade progressed, but I still remember seeing Don’t Raise the Bridge, Lower the River and The Big Mouth and Way, Way Out in packed theaters.
Read more of The Art of the Double Bill:
Labels: Movie posters, Une affaire de Flickhead
posted by Ray Young at
8:18 PM
2 Comments:
Call me crazy, but I love Topkapi and Melina Mercouri.
Hot Potato?!?!! You got me with that one. I've never heard of it and now I'm dying to see it of course.
Shawn Levy's excellent biography of Jerry Lewis gives much insight into the anarchic attitude and incredible impact Martin & Lewis had during the 1950s in all media--films, TV, radio and clubs. The whole era comes to life in Levy's book.
Bhob
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