I shot an arrow in the air; she fell to earth in Berkeley Square.

Kind Hearts and Coronets

(1949)

Umpteenth viewing of Robert Hamer's masterpiece, which has a strong claim on the title of best comedy film ever made. Alec Guinness receives all the bouquets for his multi-performances as the D'Ascoyne family (I particularly like his suffragette Lady Agatha), but it's Dennis Price's suave, cool and witty serial killer that makes the film work.

The backbone of the plot may be a satire of the class system (apparently the novel on which it is based had as its focus anti-semitism) but it's never foregrounded so as to feel clumsy. Indeed, the film smartly juggles a number of taboo subjects; if cheerful, remorseless murder doesn't seem that outlandish a character trait today, the overt extra-marital affair conducted between Price's and Joan Greenwood's character still feels somewhat daring. Speaking of whom, Greenwood is one of the most deliciously sexy actresses ever, and certainly has the most seductive voice ever (no wonder it featured in Barbarella); her crafty Sibella is every bit the equal of Price's Louis. One of those films where every line is quotable and every scene a gem.

Hamer also directed "The Haunted Mirror" segment of Dead of Night, Father Brown and School for Scoundrels (the latter being another of my favourites); he was an alcoholic who died at only 52.

A remarkably svelte Arthur Lowe pops up as a reporter in the closing scene. The US Hays Code version of the film altered the ending to show Louis' memoirs being discovered, toned down the adultery and comments regarding the clergy and also changed "nigger" in "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe" to "sailor".

*****

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Mondo bizarro. No offence man, but you’re in way over your head.

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You’re a disgrace, sir... Weren’t you at Harrow?

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I tell you, it saw me! The hanged man’s asphyx saw me!

The Asphyx (1972) (SPOILERS) There was such a welter of British horror from the mid 60s to mid 70s, even leaving aside the Hammers and Amicuses, that it’s easy to lose track of them in the shuffle. This one, the sole directorial effort of Peter Newbrook (a cameraman for David Lean, then a cinematographer), has a strong premise and a decent cast, but it stumbles somewhat when it comes to taking that premise any place interesting. On the plus side, it largely eschews the grue. On the minus, directing clearly wasn’t Newbrook’s forte, and even aided by industry stalwart cinematographer Freddie Young (also a go-to for Lean), The Aspyhx is stylistically rather flat.

Isn’t it true, it’s easier to be a holy man on the top of a mountain?

The Razor’s Edge (1984) (SPOILERS) I’d hadn’t so much a hankering as an idle interest in finally getting round to seeing Bill Murray’s passion project. Partly because it seemed like such an odd fit. And partly because passion isn’t something you tend to associate with any Murray movie project, involving as it usually does laidback deadpan. Murray, at nigh-on peak fame – only cemented by the movie he agreed to make to make this movie – embarks on a serious-acting-chops dramatic project, an adaptation of W Somerset Maugham’s story of one man’s journey of spiritual self-discovery. It should at least be interesting, shouldn’t it? A real curio? Alas, not. The Razor’s Edge is desperately turgid.

My Doggett would have called that crazy.

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You know what I sometimes wish? I sometimes wish I were ordinary like you. Ordinary and dead like all the others.

Séance on a Wet Afternoon (1964) (SPOILERS) Bryan Forbes’ adaptation of Mark McShane’s 1961’s novel has been much acclaimed. It boasts a distinctive storyline and effective performances from its leads, accompanied by effective black-and-white cinematography from Gerry Turpin and a suitably atmospheric score from John Barry. I’m not sure Forbes makes the most of the material, however, as he underlines Séance on a Wet Afternoon ’s inherently theatrical qualities at the expense of its filmic potential.

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Schnell, you stinkers! Come on, raus!

Private’s Progress (1956) (SPOILERS) Truth be told, there’s good reason sequel I’m Alright Jack reaps the raves – it is, after all, razor sharp and entirely focussed in its satire – but Private’s Progress is no slouch either. In some respects, it makes for an easy bedfellow with such wartime larks as Norman Wisdom’s The Square Peg (one of the slapstick funny man’s better vehicles). But it’s also, typically of the Boulting Brothers’ unsentimental disposition, utterly remorseless in rebuffing any notions of romantic wartime heroism, nobility and fighting the good fight. Everyone in the British Army is entirely cynical, or terrified, or an idiot.

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