Gentlemen, there are five thousand million dollars at stake. Of course there are risks.

Gold

(1974)

Strange to think there was a time when Alistair MacLean and Wilbur Smith novels were regularly adapted for the big screen. It would be unfair of me to take swipes at their literary abilities, as I studiously avoided their page-turners as a lad. I have seen a fair few of the movies based on their works, however, and I suspect I’m not missing all that much. In most cases the finished articles have been forgettable, workmanlike productions, indistinct except to all but the fiercest devotees (okay, everyone knows Where Eagles Dare). Gold’s greatest claim to fame is closer to one of infamy; the production made the dubious choice of filming in South Africa under the apartheid regime.

Smith’s plot (he shares the screenplay credit) concerns a dastardly plan to flood a gold mine. The resulting shortages will send the stock price sky high. Since we find this out during the first 10 minutes, there’s still another 90 minutes to trudge through before the plan gets results. Most of that is taken up by Roger Moore’s dalliance with delectable Susannah York (particularly so in tennis whites and pigtails). Moore is Rod Slater, the mine’s general manager. Rod Slater is just the kind of inevitably dull, square-jawed name that heroes in yarn of this ilk always labour under. But Moore plays Slater as he plays all his roles; charm personified, with a smirking wit. Unfortunately, the part as a whole doesn’t play to his strengths. As the straight romantic lead he’s on the starchy side, even though he and York have a jolly chemistry (does Moore ever not have a smooth rapport with his co-stars?) His bedroom shenanigans leave little time for heroic stuff until the finale (action stylings have never been Rog’s strong point either) so he must make a virtue of cuckolding his boss Bradford Dillman. That’s okay, as Dillman represents the inhuman corporations, ready and willing to sacrifice a few 100 (or 1,000) mineworkers in the name of profit.

Moore made this between Live and Let Die and The Man With the Golden Gun, and the Bond connections don’t end there; Peter Hunt, former Bond editor and director of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, makes his sophomore feature while the Bond helmer throughout the ‘80s, John Glen, is the editor and second unit director. It’s clear that a sense of 007 adventuring is intended; this is a widescreen affair, introduced by a Don Black-penned theme song with Maurice Binder titles and featuring a Machiavellian plan not very far removed from the ones seen in Goldfinger and the later A View to a Kill. It also shares a feature with fellow Bond Connery’s ex-007 one-word movie titles from the period (Cuba, Meteor); it’s a bit crap. Any commentary on the status quo in South Africa is oblique, personified rather than posed as a political challenge. Not really all that surprising that they refrained from insulting their hosts.

So Slater is nominally positioned as the good (white, British) slave master, considerate of workers’ rights and butting heads with hateful racist (white, South African) Kowalski. This isn’t a film for subtle shadings, and Bernard Horsfall (who also appeared in Hunt’s solo Bond feature) manifests his intolerance through savage beatings rather than abusive language (the film is free of racist slurs, as far as I recall, so there’s no danger that will be on the side of realism; Moore even speaks of it’s apolitical qualities as if it should be a badge of pride, which is very strange).

Predictably then, black South Africans get short shrift. The one significant supporting role goes to Simon Sabela as Big King, a noble fellow who receives a gold mining helmet for bravery and gets involved in staging traditional dance numbers for the white masters (it’s very nearly that stereotypical; presumably the producers thought they needed to advertise that they’d shot on the continent by including some Zulu garb, as that’s the first thing everyone equates with Africa?) Being noble, he is also consigned to noble self-sacrifice. Moore obviously felt he was making a positive statement by shooting pictures under apartheid, as he would return to South Africa for several more features. His autobiography is equivocal over the issue, but you wouldn’t expect Rog to present a discerning examination of the moral and ethical issues involved. He appears to consider his greatest Gold achievement to be a financial one. He forwent part of his salary in order to cover the costs of a remount of the mine flooding sequences at Pinewood,. When he received no royalties as recompense, the legal wrangles that ensued resulted in his ownership of the picture. When his character claims to hate lousy gold, you can be certain it’s a sentiment Moore doesn’t share.

Hunt stages the climactic action with some aplomb; it may be set-bound, but there is a visceral quality that even Moore’s man of inaction can’t neuter. Both in the opening cave-in scenes and the finale, Hunt doesn’t stint on the ketchup. Moore’s arm is mashed into a bloody mess, there are amputations and miner’s head looks like it has been pulped (just the sort of thing to show during a Saturday afternoon on Channel 5, then). He less sure of himself during the protracted romance, clearly kicking his heels and trying to find some way to remain alert. Hence Moore and York at diner, shot through a wine glass. Or York’s leaving Moore’s house signalled by the removal of her foregrounded hat. And York’s left nipple (well, it distracted me).

The supporting cast are mostly a bunch of rotters, and their strong showing belies that they aren’t too well-served by the script. Bradford Dillman has a slight Anthony Perkins vibe, and does good work showing Steyner’s masked insecurities. He’s the reluctant underling to boss man Ray Milland (the “good” corporate, cigar-chewing and ignorant to price-rigging plan), but it’s the shot of him sitting in his car outside the hotel where Moore and York are canoodling that speaks loudest of his weaknesses. Still, he’s quite willing to let the affair continue if it means more greenbacks. The magnificent Tony Beckley (Camp Freddie in The Italian Job) plays Dillman’s Number Two, Marais. He gets the best line, “Just run along and get Santa Claus, and I’ll give him his instructions about going down the chimney”. John Gielgud picks up the cheque for a couple of days work as the ringleader. Also on the conspiratorial board is an Arab sheikh, complete with sunglasses.

The movie (which was released in December) takes place at Christmas, although it is thoroughly unfestive. The most striking scene takes place at the home a syndicate member who gets cold feet. A parcel arrives and the children gather round to discover what the present is. Then it explodes. Gold could have done with more of that sort of ballsiness and fewer longueurs. But, to an extent, it doesn’t disappoint. It’s exactly the sort of non-Bond movie you expect to see Roger Moore in during the ‘70s.

Your Mickey Mouse is one big stupid dope!

Enemy Mine (1985) (SPOILERS) The essential dynamic of Enemy Mine – sworn enemies overcome their differences to become firm friends – was a well-ploughed one when it was made, such that it led to TV Tropes assuming, since edited, that it took its title from an existing phrase (Barry Longyear, author of the 1979 novella, made it up, inspired by the 1961 David Niven film The Best of Enemies ). The Film Yearbook Volume 5 opined that that Wolfgang Petersen’s picture “ lacks the gritty sauciness of Hell in the Pacific”; John Boorman’s WWII film stranded Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune on a desert island and had them first duking it out before becoming reluctant bedfellows. Perhaps germanely, both movies were box office flops.

If I do nothing else, I will convince them that Herbert Stempel knows what won the goddam Academy Award for Best goddam Picture of 1955. That’s what I’m going to accomplish.

Quiz Show (1994) (SPOILERS) Quiz Show perfectly encapsulates a certain brand of Best Picture nominee: the staid, respectable, diligent historical episode, a morality tale in response to which the Academy can nod their heads approvingly and discerningly, feeding as it does their own vainglorious self-image about how times and attitudes have changed, in part thanks to their own virtuousness. Robert Redford’s film about the 1950s Twenty-One quiz show scandals is immaculately made, boasts a notable cast and is guided by a strong screenplay from Paul Attanasio (who, on television, had just created the seminal Homicide: Life on the Streets ), but it lacks that something extra that pushes it into truly memorable territory.

No one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.

The Matrix (1999) (SPOILERS) Twenty years on, and the articles are on the defining nature of The Matrix are piling up, most of them touching on how its world has become a reality, or maybe always was one. At the time, its premise was engaging enough, but it was the sum total of the package that cast a spell – the bullet time, the fashions, the soundtrack, the comic book-as-live-action framing and styling – not to mention it being probably the first movie to embrace and reflect the burgeoning Internet ( Hackers doesn’t really count), and subsequently to really ride the crest of the DVD boom wave. And now? Now it’s still really, really good.

Other monks will meet their deaths here. And they too will have blackened fingers. And blackened tongues.

The Name of the Rose (1986) (SPOILERS) Umberto Eco wasn’t awfully impressed by Jean Jacques-Annaud’s adaptation of his novel – or “ palimpsest of Umberto Eco’s novel ” as the opening titles announce – to the extent that he nixed further movie versions of his work. Later, he amended that view, calling it “ a nice movie ”. He also, for balance, labelled The Name of the Rose his worst novel – “ I hate this book and I hope you hate it too ”. Essentially, he was begrudging its renown at the expense of his later “ superior ” novels. I didn’t hate the novel, although I do prefer the movie, probably because I saw it first and it was everything I wanted from a medieval Sherlock Holmes movie set in a monastery and devoted to forbidden books, knowledge and opinions.

Say hello to the Scream Extractor.

Monsters, Inc. (2001) (SPOILERS) I was never the greatest fan of Monsters, Inc. , even before charges began to be levelled regarding its “true” subtext. I didn’t much care for the characters, and I particularly didn’t like the way Pixar’s directors injected their own parenting/ childhood nostalgia into their plots. Something that just seems to go on with their fare ad infinitum. Which means the Pixars I preferred tended to be the Brad Bird ones. You know, the alleged objectivist. Now, though, we learn Pixar has always been about the adrenochrome, so there’s no going back…

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies.

Watership Down (1978) (SPOILERS) I only read Watership Down recently, despite having loved the film from the first, and I was immediately impressed with how faithful, albeit inevitably compacted, Martin Rosen’s adaptation is. It manages to translate the lyrical, mythic and metaphysical qualities of Richard Adams’ novel without succumbing to dumbing down or the urge to cater for a broader or younger audience. It may be true that parents are the ones who get most concerned over the more disturbing elements of the picture but, given the maturity of the content, it remains a surprise that, as with 2001: A Space Odyssey (which may on the face of it seem like an odd bedfellow), this doesn’t garner a PG certificate. As the makers noted, Watership Down is at least in part an Exodus story, but the biblical implications extend beyond Hazel merely leading his fluffle to the titular promised land. There is a prevalent spiritual dimension to this rabbit universe, one very much

Piece by piece, the camel enters the couscous.

The Forgiven (2021) (SPOILERS) By this point, the differences between filmmaker John Michael McDonagh and his younger brother, filmmaker and playwright Martin McDonagh, are fairly clearly established. Both wear badges of irreverence and provocation in their writing, and a willingness to tackle – or take pot-shots – at bigger issues, ones that may find them dangling their toes in hot water. But Martin receives the lion’s share of the critical attention, while John is generally recognised as the slightly lesser light. Sure, some might mistake Seven Psychopaths for a John movie, and Calvary for a Martin one, but there’s a more flagrant sense of attention seeking in John’s work, and concomitantly less substance. The Forgiven is clearly aiming more in the expressly substantial vein of John’s earlier Calvary, but it ultimately bears the same kind of issues in delivery.

He tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982) (SPOILERS) I don’t love Star Trek , but I do love Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan . That probably isn’t just me, but a common refrain of many a non-devotee of the series. Although, it used to apply to The Voyage Home (the funny one, with the whales, the Star Trek even the target audience for Three Men and a Baby could enjoy). Unfortunately, its high regard has also become the desperate, self-destructive, song-and-verse, be-all-and-end-all of the overlords of the franchise itself, in whichever iteration, it seems. This is understandable to an extent, as Khan is that rare movie sequel made to transcendent effect on almost every level, and one that stands the test of time every bit as well (better, even) as when it was first unveiled.

In a few moments, you will have an experience that will seem completely real. It will be the result of your subconscious fears transformed into your conscious awareness.

Brainstorm (1983) (SPOILERS) Might Brainstorm have been the next big thing – a ground-breaking, game-changing cinematic spectacle that had as far reaching consequences as Star Wars (special effects) or Avatar (3D) – if only Douglas Trumbull had been allowed to persevere with his patented “Showscan” process (70mm film photographed and projected at 60 frames per second)? I suspect not; one only has to look at the not-so-far-removed experiment of Ang Lee with Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk , and how that went down like a bag of cold sick, to doubt that any innovation will necessarily catch on (although Trumbull at least had a narrative hinge on which to turn his “more real than real” imagery, whereas Lee’s pretty much boiled down to “because it was there”). Brainstorm ’s story is, though, like its title, possibly too cerebral, too much concerned with the consciousness and touting too little of the cloyingly affirmative that Bruce Rubin inevitably brings to his screenplays. T

They say if we go with them, we'll live forever. And that's good.

Cocoon (1985) Anyone coming across Cocoon cold might reasonably assume the involvement of Steven Spielberg in some capacity. This is a sugary, well-meaning tale of age triumphing over adversity. All thanks to the power of aliens. Substitute the elderly for children and you pretty much have the manner and Spielberg for Ron Howard and you pretty much have the approach taken to Cocoon . Howard is so damn nice, he ends up pulling his punches even on the few occasions where he attempts to introduce conflict to up the stakes. Pauline Kael began her review by expressing the view that consciously life-affirming movies are to be consciously avoided. I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you’re definitely wise to steel yourself for the worst (which, more often than not, transpires). Cocoon is as dramatically inert as the not wholly dissimilar (but much more disagreeable, which is saying something) segment of Twilight Zone: The Movie directed by Spielberg ( Kick the Can ). There

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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