Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Are we a pair?

We don't doubt that some of the themes we use for our posts seem a bit contrived. Truth is, with very rare exceptions, we try to review these movies in the order we watch them, so we'll seize upon anything -- no matter how slight -- to link a pair, trio, or quartet of films together for our purposes.

That said, these next two films have so much in common, you'd almost think you'd queued up the same movie twice in a row. It surely can't be a coincidence that Mill Creek paired them on one side of a disc, for both of them:
  • have capital punishment as a central theme;
  • open with an execution, including a radio broadcast that announces it;
  • have a central character consumed by the injustice he believes he's suffered;
  • have a sweet-natured dullard as a prominent secondary character;
  • show a main character getting slashed by a broken bottle;
  • and involve the framing of an innocent man who's ultimately slated for the electric chair unless something can be done.
We're sure there are more parallels to be had -- courtroom scenes! forbidden love! -- but we trust we've made our case.



Anatomy of a Psycho (1961)

Grade: C-




Angry young man Chet (Darrell Howe) is convinced his brother was wrongfully executed (he wasn't), and seeks revenge on those responsible. But -- what a twist! -- his sister (Pamela Lincoln) is in love with the son of the man whose eyewitness testimony put their brother away. What to do?

Something about Anatomy of a Psycho reminded us of Ed Wood's The Violent Years, so we were pleasantly surprised to learn that Wood may have had a hand in the script of this one too (though the connection is speculative). Of course Anatomy of a Psycho is a better film, but it's also less fun, though at least it has a real edge to its social commentary (unlike Wood's laughable subplot in The Violent Years about communist subversion via schoolroom vandalism).

As Chet, Howe certainly paints a reasonable picture of a man so fulminating with rage as to endanger his sanity -- not to mention his chums.

And there's a cruel logic to Chet's random acts of senseless violence, all of which seem targeted at a world that views him with disdain; though Anatomy of a Psycho is ostensibly a film about an unjust execution and the ensuing paroxysms of revenge, there's clearly a class warfare element in the mix as well.

But something about Anatomy of a Psycho never really engaged us. Maybe the protagonist is too unsympathetic, or the supporting cast too interchangeable; maybe the plot is just too predictable, without enough commitment to see its premise through to a more disturbing end; or maybe we should just watch Rebel Without a Cause or The Wild One again, for a reminder of what a good film about angst-filled hoods can be like.




Buried Alive (1939)

Grade: C+



Another site refers to Buried Alive as a "prison melodrama", and that's about right. Unlike Anatomy of a Psycho -- in which characters living on the outside spend much of their time thinking about those inside -- Buried Alive is set behind bars. Though many of its setpieces happen elsewhere, the prison is the nexus of all the film's activity.

Most of the film's major characters aren't prisoners, however, but prison staff -- among them a kindly chaplain, a friendly doctor, a tormented executioner, and an enlightened warden. All are committed to the penal system and want to see it work as a means of rehabilitation, not merely punishment.

For most of the staff, only one thing occupies their mind more than the prison and its workings, and that's Nurse Joan (Beverly Roberts). Nearly every major character turns out to be in love with her, though we struggle to see the charm -- she has one of those "12-year-old boy boasting about his Pokémon" voices that suggest fried dough sold via an unpowered vehicle, if you catch our drift (and unless you're us or Andrew, you probably don't).

Of course, with all those plum specimens of upstanding bachelorhood drooling over her, Nurse Joan insists on falling for the local bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold, Johnny (Paul Wilcox), instead. Convicted of some unspecified crime, he's in for a couple years but is a model prisoner due for imminent release.

And does he like her too? Well, you be the judge:

To the film's credit, not one of the heartbroken also-rans try to undermine Joan and Johnny's love: each recognizes when he's been licked, or at least loves Joan too much to want to sabotage her happiness. 

Or maybe they're just offended seeing such a silly hat aboard a female who's only marginally spunky and certainly isn't a reporter -- who knows.

Instead, the drama in Buried Alive comes from a few unfortunate turns of events that -- coupled with the animus of an unscrupulous reporter and the jealous hatred of a sociopathic inmate -- threaten to ruin everything.

The anti-capital punishment, pro-prison reform message in Buried Alive is hard to miss. But as we've noticed in other films with a political subtext (Our Daily Bread comes to mind), it's otherwise quite optimistic about human nature. True, there will always be snakes in the grass --

-- but the film seems confident that, with the aid of courage and a little ingenuity, basic human decency will win out in the end. (Easy to do, and believe, when you're the one writing the script.)


Unfortunately the film's closing minutes are implausible enough (especially on second viewing) to risk squandering all the goodwill it's built up to that point. But Buried Alive is clearly a cut above the likes of Anatomy of a Psycho, and -- even if it takes a few missteps along the way -- its affirming vision of the world feels reasonably well-earned.

Monday, February 20, 2017

Passion killer, you're too much

By no means is this next pair of reviews our first foray into the Night Screams (sing it, Neil!) subset of the 250-pack. We've covered six of those films so far, ranging from the Sapphic musings of Kiss Me, Kill Me to the bottomless battles of Killers of the Sea (as opposed to the topless titillations of Devil Monster, with which we sometimes confuse it).

But these two films share another trait besides being part of Night Screams, since they both prominently feature pretty ladies gettin' photographed (and then offed -- not much of a spoiler, that). And yet, both are also dominated by a charismatic male actor whom we found more memorable than any of the XXs on display.



Bloody Pit of Horror (1966)

Grade: D+

Silly robes aside, there's a solid case to be made that Mickey Hargitay was actually the most attractive member of his family. We've never thought Jayne Mansfield was much of a looker, and Mariska clearly takes after her; meanwhile, though we knew Mickey was jacked, we didn't realize how pretty he was.

Somehow a mental image of one of those circus strongmen with a big mustache crept into the "Mickey Hargitay" filing drawer of our brains, but he's not Karnov- or Zangief-esque at all; if anything he looks and moves more like a dancer. His screen presence is a bit off-kilter, but no less palpable.

However, Mickey Hargitay certainly wasn't the best actor in his family -- his daughter deserves that title (even if these days SVU has reduced her to trotting out rote expressions of pained sympathy and righteous indignation, in whatever sequence is necessary to fill that episode's quota).

He gives Bloody Pit of Horror his best shot, but -- like a washed-up actor doing porn to make money -- his efforts feel out of place and, at times, faintly embarrassing.

And of course, Bloody Pit of Horror basically is porn -- torture porn, to be precise, that's allegedly adapted from the writings of de Sade. Oh, there's a framing story about a group of models and photographers who foolishly blunder upon a haunted castle and ignore numerous warning signs telling them to get the hell out.

With their blasé attitude and loose morals, they ultimately offend Hargitay -- who (now that we think about it) plays a washed-up actor, so there you go -- and thereby seal their fate. Throw in a medieval legend about the "Crimson Executioner", an obsession with bodily purity, and a handful of underlings who all wear striped shirts for some reason, and you've got a movie.

But, to vaguely evoke that famous line from 1984, the torture is the point of Bloody Pit of Horror -- not a means to an end, but an end in itself. And, well, if you're into seeing women tormented to the tune of looping Italian lounge music, then we suppose this here is your jam. It's got skewerings, slashings, burnings, an iron maiden, death by crossbow, and an elaborate setpiece involving a web of wires and the goofiest-looking spider this side of Martha's Orphanage.

As demonstrated by the persistence of shows like SVU and Criminal Minds (not to mention the recent U.S. election), virulent sexual sadism is rather fashionable these days. But while Bloody Pit of Horror is too distasteful to be laughed off, the years have dulled its edge, and -- despite some impressive sets and a fairly attractive cast -- ultimately it left us bored and disinterested.



City of Missing Girls (1941)

Grade: C+


This crisp little effort from Poverty Row manages to be a film about prostitution that never actually uses the word, nor any of its synonyms. But that's clearly the subtext -- here couched in euphemisms about "out-of-town jobs" to which the titular girls are assigned, never to return.


Swooping in to save the day is James Horton, an ambitious young A.D.A. (played by John Archer, whom we recently saw in Bowery at Midnight, and rather reminds us of Robert Sean Leonard in this appearance).

He's flanked by a philosophical old police captain (H.B. Warner) and -- could there be any doubt? -- a young, spunky female reporter, Nora Page (Astrid Allwyn). She's good-naturedly amoral in her search for front-page news, though like all spunky female reporters, she eventually sees the error of her ways.

She's also in for a grim discovery, as her father is an investor in the "Crescent School of Fine Arts" -- a talent agency that's more or less a front for the film's sex trafficking operations. So the deeper she digs, the closer she unwittingly gets to dear old Dad.

(Don't you see? This is what always happens to -- ugh -- career women. Hence why no spunky female reporter's career outlives the runtime of the film she's in, not to mention the conspicuous lack of middle-aged spunky female reporters in these movies.)

One thing that's refreshing about City of Missing Girls is the unexpected civility of the cast. Officers of the law and criminals have actual conversations, and treat each other with a degree of respect, even when hinting at the gravest of threats. And this paradoxically makes the villain King Peterson (Philip Van Zandt) seem more menacing, since like a big dog that doesn't bark, he has no need to boast to prove his power.

If you enjoy the fashionable absurdities of past decades (as opposed to the fashionable inhumanity of the present era), then City of Missing Girls offers a pleasant smorgasbord of preposterous peacockery. We get silly hats (obligatory in any film with a SFR), silly outfits, and silly dances galore.

But the real star is H.B. Warner, who's the kind of old fella we'd all love to have in our corner, and steals every scene he's in. (We suppose that's no surprise coming from a guy famous for his portrayal of Jesus -- which he pulled off the age of fifty-two!)

As Captain McVeigh, he's warm, witty, patient, sharp as a tack -- and astonishingly spry when the moment calls for it.

By our lights, McVeigh is the film's real protagonist. He's the first onscreen and last to leave, and gets most of the best lines:

Horton: "If you were a gangster and you wanted to frame somebody --"
McVeigh: "Yeah, well, I'm not a gangster, and I don't want to frame anybody. I want to go to sleep!"
Horton: "Mac, this is important!"
McVeigh: "All right, I am a gangster, I do want to frame somebody, and I don't want to go to sleep."
Horton: "All right, now who would you get to take a picture like this?"
McVeigh: "A photographer."

At heart City of Missing Girls is a formula piece, with a plot whose twists and turns hardly qualify as such. But it's still an enjoyable one, and if you don't agree, may H.B. Warner haunt you with his Duck Face of Disappointment.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

The Umbrellahead Awards: Tales of Terror Division

As promised, here's our retrospective of the 51 movies that comprise the Tales of Terror subset of our 250-film box set from Mill Creek. Some categories will reappear from past awards ceremonies (see here and here for those), while others simply didn't apply to this bunch (we really couldn't come up with anything that deserved to be called "so bad it's good"), and other categories are brand-new.

And just like last time, it's been three years and change since our most recent awards ceremony, so we hope you've worked up a head of excitement in the interim.

Now, cue or pull the strings, as you see fit, and behold our nominees:



Actual Best Movie Award:

Crimes at the Dark House
The Devil Bat
Hands of Steel
The Sadist
The Werewolf of Washington

Winner: The Sadist

There are some strong contenders in this category -- The Devil Bat may be the best Poverty Row we've seen, while Crimes at the Dark House is our favorite Tod Slaughter film so far. But anyone who read our review of The Sadist will know that we held this film in unexpectedly high esteem; Arch Hall Jr.'s completely believable performance (and James Landis's skillful direction) take The Sadist well beyond the realm of second-tier schlock into something that even a "serious" director could justly take pride in. It's far ahead of its time, and remains disturbing even in today's jaded cinematic universe.



Actual Worst Movie Award:

The Atomic Brain
Chloe, Love is Calling You
Colossus and the Headhunters
Midnight Shadow
The White Gorilla

Winner: The White Gorilla

The underlying silent film on which The White Gorilla is based was, from all appearances, actually quite good. However, everything new that the movie brings to the table is dreck, from its corny framing story to Crash Corrigan's ass-faced voyeurism. "As we watched," this film sucked.



The J/K Award:

The Ape Man
The Devil's Daughter
The Ghost Walks
The Man with Two Lives

Winner: The Ape Man

In all four of these films, something happens to completely invalidate our (and the protagonists') understanding of the film's events: it was all a dream, a play, a put-on, whatever. The Ape Man, though, takes it a step further and completely breaks the fourth wall by having the author show up at the very end and address the audience -- "Screwy idea, wasn't it?" -- in a gag straight out of a Looney Tunes short.



The Reduce, Reuse, Recycle Award:

Devil Monster
The Devil's Messenger
The White Gorilla

Winner: The Devil's Messenger

The White Gorilla is the epitome of recycling, and Devil Monster has that marvelous octopus-in-an-aquarium sequence. But if percentage of post-consumer content is the benchmark here, then the clear winner is The Devil's Messenger, which turns three episodes of a Swedish TV show into around 90% of its running time. What's left over is a paper-thin framing story -- featuring Lon Chaney Jr. as a most avuncular Satan -- that should compost nicely.



The Tell, Don't Show Award:

Curse of the Headless Horseman
Scared to Death
The White Gorilla

Winner: The White Gorilla (again)

Curse has its near-incomprehensible voiceover narration, and Scared to Death its ridiculous cutaways that come off like loading screens in a CD-ROM game. But in our house, whenever we want to invoke the kind of interminable exposition-from-afar represented by the title of this award, we simply utter the phrase "As I watched..." -- and that pretty much clinches this one for The White Gorilla.



The HI TV Award:

The Devil's Messenger
The Night America Trembled
The Peter Hurkos Story
Tales of Frankenstein

Winner: Tales of Frankenstein

What could better exemplify the ups and downs of TV than a failed pilot? Many moons ago, Good Against Evil left us with cinematic blueballs, but Tales of Frankenstein simply left us wondering who the hell thought it could be possibly be a good idea to build an ongoing TV show out of a quintessentially one-note character like Dr. F.



The Damaged-in-Transit Award:

Bowery at Midnight
Crypt of the Living Dead
Curse of the Headless Horseman
The Ghost Walks, The
Manos: The Hands of Fate
Torture Ship

Winner: Torture Ship

The feedback in Bowery at Midnight is a horrendous destroyer of speaker cones and eardrums, while Crypt, Curse, and Manos all have bizarre issues with misplaced or absent color, and The Ghost Walks suffers from a few bad edits. But Mill Creek's print of Torture Ship is missing the entire opening, and those 9-10 minutes turn out to be unexpectedly vital; one can understand what's going on without them, but without the context they provide, the film is robbed of much of its fun.



The Get Me Out of This Crazy Place Award:

Night of the Blood Beast
One Frightened Night
The Rogues Tavern
Sound of Horror
A Strange Adventure
A Walking Nightmare

Winner: A Strange Adventure

In a packed category of films that contrive to trap their protagonists in creepy old mansions, isolated research stations, or other crucibles of mayhem, we found A Strange Adventure to be the most likable and engaging of the bunch. Something about its combination of radios, activity, and radioactivity hit the spot.



The How About A Skull Instead? Award:

The Long Hair of Death
The She-Beast
Terror Creatures from the Grave

Winner: The She-Beast

If we have to watch a Barbara Steele movie, we suppose we'd pick The She-Beast -- not just because her screen time is so limited (she filmed all her scenes in one day!), but also because it has some amusing sequences and memorable imagery.



The Shittily Italy Award:

Colossus and the Headhunters
The Island Monster
The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave
Vulcan, Son of Jupiter
War of the Robots

Winner: The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave

If we're talking enjoyment, then War of the Robots would be the easy winner here. But if this category is meant to epitomize the flaws and foibles of Italian cinema, then we have to give it to Evelyn, which brews up a heady cocktail of sex, psychopathy, and incoherence.



The "Fangs for the Memories" Award:

The Bat (1926)
The Devil Bat
Condemned to Live
Vampire's Night Orgy

Winner: Condemned to Live

Only two of these films really fit the category, and between them Condemned to Live is the clear winner. Its tragic sensibility and moral complexity elevate the film -- not to the point of greatness (not even close), but at least to something distinctly superior to the usual fare, and to its predecessor The Vampire Bat.



The Protagonist is a Serial Killer Award:

Bowery at Midnight
The Crimes of Stephen Hawke
Devil's Partner
The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave
The Phantom of Soho

Winner: The Crimes of Stephen Hawke

One look at Tod Slaughter's mad, gleeful grin makes it impossible to choose anything else. He may not have the highest onscreen body count of this bunch, but he certainly has the most fun doing it, and...



The "Who Can Kill a Child?" Award:

Winner: The Crimes of Stephen Hawke (again)

...he even up and goes Mortal Kombat II on a near-toddler. Who can kill a child? Tod Slaughter can, that's who.



Special Awards for Special Campers:

The "It's Just a Simple Procedure" Award (tie):

Women who feel a frisson of mistrust when their gyno breezily assures them "This won't hurt a bit!" -- usually with an addendum of "though you may feel a slight pressure" and/or "it may be a little cold" -- will find vindication in The Head and Shock, two films in which a male doctor assures a female patient that of course he has their best interest at heart, just lie back and he'll take care of them...heh-heh-heh...

The Cause of and Solution to All of Life's Problems Award:

Whenever the cast of The Amazing Transparent Man gets downtime, they either start drinking, or start hectoring each other about drinking. Maybe it'd be easier just to keep a dry house?

The Sad Little Mushroom Award:

If only Don Sullivan's charm were enough to solve all the problems with Teenage Zombies. Why, he doesn't even sing!

The Anything but Allworthy Award (tie):

If we ever time-travel back to 19th-century England, Murder in the Red Barn and Never Too Late will have taught us that -- Tom Jones notwithstanding -- we'd do well to avoid squires like the plague. The nicer they seem, the more sinister their plans will turn out to be, so we'd rather not raise them up or adjust their attire.

The Eat Your Vegetables Award:

Somewhere a college freshman is writing a mediocre 10-page paper about how The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is "defiantly a land mark of Impressionist cinema". We're glad we don't have to write that paper, and especially glad we don't have to read it.

AWOL Award (5-way tie):

Older versions of the standalone Tales of Terror box set had Drums O'Voodoo (1934), Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1936), I Eat Your Skin (1964), Vampire Happening (1971), and The Ironbound Vampire (1997), all of which were subsequently replaced with other films. We're certainly going to seek out Sweeney Todd to continue our Tod Slaughter studies, and Drums O'Voodoo sounds like another piquant example of 1930s African-American cinema, so we missed those films in particular.

But, then again, if it weren't for the cut/replaced movies, we would've missed out on Hands of Steel. So it all kinda came out in the wash.



There we have it. Will it take us another 3+ years to do a ceremony for Night Screams? Well, we're rapidly working through our backlog, so if we don't get lazy, maybe we'll break the pattern at last.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Slaughterhouse Four

One of the pleasures of this project -- which, after all, revolves around that mammoth Mill Creek 250-movie "horror" box set, in case you've forgotten -- is discovering actors and actresses whom we might never have otherwise encountered, but who stick with us long after we finish watching their film(s). From the all-American charisma of Don Sullivan, to the proto-Cuddy charms of Evelyn Brent, to the road-trip-worthy humor of Paul Bentzen, all have earned a place in our hearts.

To this pantheon of greats (or at least memorables), we must now add another -- and if you've noticed the title of this entry, or just read our previous one, you'll already know who's stepping to the fore. We've seen four of his films so far, and unlike our usual habit, we're going to review all of them at once, en bloc:



Crimes at the Dark House (1940)

Grade: B+


The Crimes of Stephen Hawke (1936)

Grade: B


Maria Marten, or Murder in the Red Barn (1936)

Grade: C+




Never Too Late [aka It's Never Too Late to Mend] (1937)

Grade: B-



Has anyone ever made evil seem more fun than Tod Slaughter? When it comes to his characters' immortal souls, he seizes -- and palpably enjoys -- any and all opportunities to add a blot to the old escutcheon. Whether he's breaking the spines of small children, murdering pregnant women, consigning prisoners to pointless torture, or simply committing more humdrum crimes like fraud, forgery, and fornication, he simply can't conceal his glee at repeatedly and persistently doing the wrong thing.

What's more, unlike so many modern-day villains (fictional or real), Slaughter expresses no remorse or contrition whatsoever when he's finally caught and cornered (and he always is). If anything he seems relieved to finally be able to unleash the full power of his unhinged malevolence, without having to hide it under a thin veneer of English gentility.

One funny irony is that, in the four films under consideration, the most sympathetic character of the bunch is the serial killer Stephen Hawke. True, the man is a ruthless moneylender and unrepentant murderer, but at least he genuinely loves his daughter -- his adopted daughter, no less (Marjorie Taylor, who looks like she could be Jenny Toomey's grandmother or something).

Otherwise Slaughter's characters are completely devoid of conscience or scruple. For them, crimes against property (theft, mail tampering, perjury) or person (drugging, rape, murder) are all means to the same end: the thrill of power, the pleasure of deception, and the exultation of the ill-gotten gain.

And all of them elicit the same mirthful cackle, the same undisguised pleasure -- as one commenter on another site notes, "He bounces when he walks" -- and, if there's a mustache available, you can bet it's in for a twiddling.

Of course, there are downsides to playing what, in truth, is essentially the same character over and over again -- though it's a damn good character, and he was absolutely born to play it. But Slaughter's films inevitably blur together in one's mind, so that it becomes hard to recall which particular act of villainy took place in which film.
It also doesn't help that many of the same actors and actresses are recycled from film to film. Eric Portman, the "gypsy" in Maria Marten, is subsequently the daughter's love interest in Crimes of Stephen Hawke; meanwhile, D.J. Williams shows up as someone's father in three of these four films.

And Marjorie Taylor, who played Slaughter's daughter in Hawke, becomes the object of his amorous intentions in Never Too Late to Mend. (Ew.)


Adding to the confusion, Slaughter -- or his scriptwriter -- certainly has no qualms about reusing lines wholesale from film to film, e.g.:

Maria Marten: "Didn't I make you a promise, Maria? I promised to make you a bride. Don't be afraid, Maria. You shall be a bride...a bride of Death!"

Crimes at the Dark House: "So you wanted to be a bride, my dear Jessica, did you? So you shall be: a bride of Death!"

That said, the net effect is a bit like Homer's constant repetition of stereotyped formulae in the Iliad and Odyssey. (A similar phenomenon can be observed in any music venue with "Blues" in its name.)

In other words, somehow it's not really a problem. In much the same way that "clunk-clunk" and "The guest star did it" characterize the Law & Order franchise and its descendants, the self-similarity of Slaughter's films ultimately becomes part of our expectations -- as it no doubt did for audiences of his stage productions, who happily (and consensually) booed and hissed at his entrances.

Still, we're able to differentiate these films enough to know that Crimes at the Dark House, which was the first Slaughter film we saw, is also the best. Its tale of impersonation, impregnation, and conflagration offers the most complex and rewarding plot, and the secondary characters here are more fully developed than the comparatively two-dimensional figures of the other films: even minor roles get memorable moments.

Slaughter is at his most diabolical here: if we're not mistaken, this film has the highest body count of the four. Certainly its grim intentions are evident from the start, when it opens in Australia with a character getting a spike to the brain courtesy of good ol' Tod.

Crimes at the Dark House also features a scene of (very strongly) implied rape that, though not graphic in the slightest, is genuinely difficult to watch -- far more so than in a film like, say, Werewolf Woman. There's no deus ex machina or anything, just bad things happening to nice people.

Meanwhile Maria Marten is the weediest of the bunch -- though in fairness, the copy supplied to Mill Creek is missing nearly 10 minutes. If anything, though, the film's pacing is too slack, with the final act really sagging in a way that we didn't see in the other films.


Its running time is further padded by a theatrical introduction that seems intended to remind viewers of Slaughter's prominence on the stage. Complete with village musicians and a pompous MC, it's a strange conceit that hardly seems necessary. 

Even stranger is the frame around Crimes of Stephen Hawke, which begins with a short, in-studio performance by an English musical comedy duo, "Flotsam and Jetsam". If there's a purpose behind their inclusion, it completely escaped us.

Slaughter is then introduced as himself. Looking rather dapper (and conspicuously bereft of 'stache), he steps up to the mic.

After some brief remarks, the actual film begins, and this framing device is completely forgotten -- until the very end, when we cut back to the studio and Slaughter tiptoes out while his interviewer snoozes! It seems weirdly disrespectful to the great actor, almost as though Crimes of Stephen Hawke is trying to distance itself from its own existence.

Fortunately, the meat of the film is unharmed by its strange packaging, and Hawke makes up for its tepid introduction by, in its opening sequence, having Slaughter straight-up murder a little kid. Hays Code be damned, that's the stuff!

Finally there's Never Too Late, aka It's Never Too Late to Mend, based on a book that allegedly sparked major prison reform in England. As in Maria Marten, Slaughter plays a dastardly squire who fraudulently brings the wrath of the law upon a dashing young rogue -- in this case, Tom Robinson (Jack Livesey).

However, the love interest here isn't Robinson, but George Fielding (Ian Colin), an impecunious lad who's about to leave for Australia, in hopes of earning enough money to marry the girl of his dreams. The Squire tries to get rid of Fielding by framing him, but Robinson takes the fall willingly for his friend -- though if he'd known the hell that awaited him in prison, he might have had second thoughts.

Never Too Late wraps up its multiple plot threads a bit hastily, and its closing standoff isn't nearly as gratifying as the marvelously unhinged end of Crimes of Stephen Hawke (from which it cribs a few lines of dialogue). Still, it's entertaining throughout, and its cynical depiction of the lazy, venal English prison administrators is, unfortunately, as timely as ever.

It's a shame that this wonderful actor's work isn't better known, as it's such good fun to watch him stalk, caper, giggle, and bounce through his diabolical roles. We're very pleased to have two more Slaughter movies awaiting us in the box set (The Ticket of Leave Man and The Face at the Window), and are looking forward to seeking out his other available films and TV appearances as well -- not that there's all that much of it, as several of his films are lost.

We can only hope that some of that lost work -- we're curious about Darby and Joan -- reemerges from the shadows. (Heh-heh-heh...)




Next up: the third edition of the Umbrellahead Awards!