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Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 30, 2026 by dcairns
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Shadowy reflection on duckpond — a bad omen.

Films about child murder are rare, thankfully — though not as thankfully rare as actual child murder. Truffaut’s suggestion that for a movie to show a child in peril borders on an abuse of cinematic power still seems to hold true. People just don’t want that as entertainment. It’s possible to have a low opinion of people, generally, but I have to give the many-headed mass some credit for this sign of good taste.

So EIGHT O’CLOCK WALK is unusual, especially as a British film and especially for the 50s. It’s a very modest little thriller — one might call it a little m, as opposed to Lang’s capital M. Dickie Attenborough is a nice young cabbie falsely accused, based on purely circumstantial evidence, of child murder. And this isn’t the pure act-of-insane-compulsion embodied by Peter Lorre, it’s pretty clear that this crime has a sexual component.

Strange, then, that the film should make efforts to be light and appealing, since it can’t escape a certain grimness and would have done better to lean into that. The subject was always going to be a hard sell. But it had the benefit of timeliness, and we can see that while the film isn’t really a thriller, and is too unpleasant to be entertaining in the ordinary sense, it DID make a contribution to the then-hot debate on capital punishment, by attempting to show that a set of unfortunate but not impossible circumstances could see a man railroaded to the gallows. Although this too is softened, since a happy ending is never in doubt. Perhaps the fact that the happy ending is engineered by a preposterous chance, as the defence counsel spots the real perpetrator giving sweets to a little girl while he’s having lunch, and is somehow able to intuit the man’s guilt. As with FANTASTIC VOYAGE, the phrase “It’s the bald guy!” is a useful one here.

Attenborough is certainly good, though his Christie in 10 RILLINGTON PLACE, which takes its anti-death penalty stance to the correct extreme limit, is much better. Just looking hangdog and puppyish isn’t a stretch for our Dickie, and anyway he’d already done that in LONDON BELONGS TO ME. His outsize duffel coat anticipates Carl Boehm’s in PEEPING TOM. Maybe that’s why the coppers nicked him.

I was pleased to have Cathy O’Donnell around as his wife — the script calls her Canadian, but she doesn’t sound it, but to her credit she’s tamped down and anglicised her native Oklahoma tones, so she at least sounds like someone who’s been living in London awhile.

Lance HATTER’S CASTLE Comfort directs. A key shot of a hat falling to the courtroom floor made me wonder if he always has tumbling hats in his movies — I still think fondly of deranged Scottish hatmaker Robert Newton hurling his stock at startled pedestrians while raving “I’ll MAKE ye have them!”

To end the movie cosily the film resorts to having the prosecution and defence being father and son, so a bit of quipping can occur, but the bereaved mother is still out there somewhere so at a certain point happy endings just don’t work, do they?

Things I learned, or hand confirmed: Lance Comfort is generally passable, never inspired. Bomb sites are sites of fatality, always. It’s the bald guy.

EIGHT O’CLOCK WALK stars John Hammond; Keechie; Orac; King Richard the Lion-Heart; Professor Henry Harrington; Prof. Flaherty; Prof. R. E. Walgate; Major Davies; Lady Haloran; and Wild One.

Who’s on Faust?

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 29, 2026 by dcairns
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My latest haul of second-hand stuff included THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA on DVD, DEATH OF A POET on Blu-ray, and two paperback collections of short stories by Henry Kuttner. One of the first stories I read in Ahead of Time had me reaching for the IMDb, curious to see if it had been adapted by The Twilight Zone. It hadn’t — officially.

Kuttner HAD, under the pseudonym of Lewis Padgett (good name) co-written with C.L. Moore, the source story for What You Need, starring Steve Cochran and Ernest Truex, but the story I was looking for, By These Presents, was not the credited source for the Season One episode Escape Clause, which is down as an original story by Rod Serling. That one’s directed by Mitchell Leisen and stars David Wayne and Thomas Gomez. It’s one of Rod Serling’s “funny” episodes, which let’s face it are never terribly good. There ARE some good funny episodes, but they’re not usually written by Serling, imho.

Both stories are Faustian variations. Nearly every classic sci-fi writer seems to have tried a Faust parody, and I seem to recall Walter Tevis or maybe it was Roger Zelazny made a thing out of how tiresomely familiar the trope was. Kuttner’s is above average, and includes the Faust character asking the Devil WHY he collects souls, to which His Satanic Majesty replies, “In your fall, and in the fall of every soul, I forget my own for a moment.” Which is SUPERB.

One can hardly condemn Serling for making his own comic Faustus, but the thing is, he starts from the same premise — the protag thinks he’s found a loophole, and offers to sell his soul for immortality. It looks as though Satan — known as Cadwallader in the TV version, though Gomez makes an unlikely Welshman — is stumped, since he can’t collect if the client never expires.

And it looks as though Serling, who clearly knew Kuttner’s work, has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar of plagiarism. Sure, the final twist in his TV version is different from Kuttner’s (neither is particularly great but Kuttner’s is the better), and the general developments from the starting point are basically different too. There aren’t ENOUGH developments in Serling’s script, but they’re his own.

I can see how this could happen. Serling has to keep churning the material out. His budget is tight, it’s got to be cheaper for him to write “an original” than to buy the stuff in. And the Faustian parody is an old warhorse anyway, and taking just the starting point and developing it differently isn’t the same as abducting it wholesale. Still, I think it’s highly qustionable.

I’d never heard of any allegations of plagiarism against Serling, so I got curious and immediately found this fine piece by Emily Temple, wherein we learn that Ray Bradbury thought Serling was plagiarising left right and centre from him and his friends, including Kuttner. Charles Beaumont (a frequent TZ scriptwriter) and John Collier were also cited as sources lightly pilfered from. It’s pretty bad — Serling would’ve been earning a lot more than most of these guys, though admittedly he was probably suffering more stress and smoking himself to death.

Jonathan R. Eller, quoted in the above piece, argues that Serling’s thefts were small, subtle, and right on the edge of being legitimate influence rather than overt piracy. Bradbury reckoned Serling maybe didn’t even know he was doing it. I think this example nudges over the line, Serling must have known he was pinching a premise, but he told himself, probably, that the changes he was making legitimised the acquisition of another writer’s concept. He was just wrong, is all.

Bradbury, a gent, admits the thefts were relatively modest, but his assessment of how they came about is quietly devastating — Serling was new to the genre, in over his head, and in trying to acquaint himself with the form he consumed lots of writing, didn’t digest it fully, and regurgitated some. And the implication is that he was able to fool himself into thinking he was being properly creative because he wasn’t familiar enough with this kind of writing.

It’s a shame because Escape Clause wasn’t really worth making, let alone crossing an ethical boundary for. But Thomas Gomez is REALLY good in it.

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Ironically, the cover of my edition of Kuttner’s book is itself a blatant Magritte knockoff.

Sweat and Low Down

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 28, 2026 by dcairns
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From what I could gather, Seth Holt’s STATION SIX SAHARA, screenplay by Bryan Forbes and Brian Clemens — all the Bri’s), was basically John Carpenter’s THE THING only in the desert instead of the Antarctic, and with Carroll Baker instead of a xenomorph.

That isn’t quite accurate, but it’s a start. Even before Baker turns up, in fur coat and a sports car driven by ex-husband Biff MCGuire which somehow manages to crash — BIFF! — in the middle of a totally flat expanse of wasteland, the crew of this oil well are at each others’ throats. And what throats! The perspiring wattle of Peter Van Eyck, Denholm Elliott’s clenching jawline, Mario Adorf’s hairy bull-neck. Plus Ian Bannen and Hansjörg Felmy, an actor of the Bryan Edgar Wallace school (more Bry/Bri) unknown to me, and Harry Baird.

The film is a production collaboration between Artur Brauner (the Mabuse series) and Gene Gutowski (CUL-DE-SAC) and sits somewhere in the middle. The Huis Clos atmosphere of isolated desperation mirrors the latter. The swivel-eyed character actors echo both strains.

The movie has everything except a strong ending. The rivalry between Bannen, a noisy, irritating, clownish, Scottish creep — brilliant casting — and stuffed shirt Elliot, is hilarious. Felmy is unrelentingly cool. Van Eyck, not the most expressive of actors, is very well used here. And then Baker, in an underwritten role, certainly brings the sex appeal which ought to be applying the lit match to this tinderbox of testosterone. But the explosion that comes isn’t quite as impressive as we wanted.

Holt — “a mountain of evil” per Bette Davis — was an impressive talent who never got the career he should’ve had, but stands as a weird connection between Ealing (he produced THE LADYKILLERS and directed NOWHERE TO GO, the studio’s last effort) and Hammer (THE NANNY, his best, DIABOLIQUES knock-off TASTE OF FEAR which traumatized Tom Hanks as a child, and BLOOD FROM THE MUMMY’S TOMB, on which production he died before wrapping, seemingly of hiccups).

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Some really fine compositions in this — Gerald Gibbs photographed it, with Ray Sturgess as operator. Steven Soderbergh tells us that, at this time in the UK, the operator was in charge of setting up the camera and had more to do with framing than the DoP. Both had just worked on THE LEATHER BOYS, another movie bristling with taut, charged groupings. And then both declined into rather mediocre movies.

I can’t quite pinpoint why the ending of this one doesn’t fully satisfy. I ought to be able to nail it, if I’m any good. At first I guessed that since the film is nothing if not an ensemble piece, the ending needed to take each character to the limit of their personal journey, and instead most of the arcs just sputter out. But most of them in fact have some kind of resolution which ought to satisfy. It turns out to be Van Eyck’s story, which is weird because Felmy is set up as Mr. Cool, and the character with whom we enter this hotbed of hot beds and sweaty occupants. HIS story certainly goes nowhere much. I think some kind of relay structure is intended where he hands over to PVE but this isn’t clearly signalled and anyhow PVE is too loathsome a character, though Fiona noted how he’s impressive from the back, in his boiler suit — broad shoulders and surprisingly meaty buttocks that the young Brendan Fraser might have looked at with envy, which is saying a lot.

The dissolve inadvertently suggests that Felmy has been thinking about PVE’s sitzfleisch ever since.

The Network Blu-ray we watched is a lot prettier than the dingy German disc my frame-grabs have had to come from. But it does feature another bottom, Baker’s, missing from the Network edition though glimpsed in the trailer that’s included. This petite, distant derriere reminded strongly of Francoise Dorleac’s nude scene in CUL-DE-SAC, from one of the same producers, as if Gutowski had agreed with film censor John Trevelyan the exact distance from camera a female bottom could appear at.

STATTION SIX SAHARA stars Baby Doll Meighan; Bimba; The Leper; Marcus Brody; Heinrich Gerhard; Bruno Lüdke; Captain McClain; and Big William.