Hi—tiddly Eyetie!

by Michael Heath

They are still showing too much crap, and I refuse to endure much more of it. They've been giving the children of New Zealand, a pseudo-infantilic botch of contrived cinema that wouldn't even seem fit at an IHC Christmas party.

Charge of The Light Brigade is all Victorianal fantasies, sporty vignettes of Dickensian fashions and squalor, a [unclear: althily] coloured snitch of events leading to the great Crimean balls-up. Splendid Trevor Howard speaks Charles Wood like a trooper. Both Vanessa Redgrave and Mrs John Osborne are congruently marvellous, and the David Watkin-Peter Suschitzky department shouldn't eat so many Turkish delights. I should have taken heed of director Richardson and stayed away.

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The most exciting, and visually incredible film that I opened my eyes fully to look at was Sergio Corbucci's Navajo Joe. This is one of these Italian/Spanish affairs, that is mutilated beyond intelligence by Mr McI. It was at the St James for a week. I had never heard of it recently until a new Cahiers du Cinema wrote (if you'll forgive their pigeon-french) "Ajoute le rousseauisms aux references habitueles du w.i., celles-ci restant par aillcurs Salgari et Verdi; le tout desamorce par le serieux de Corbucci." Which is rather incredible, considering the film was an amalgamation of style and minimum of language. The camera seemed possesed by Furie-ous demons. It was built entirely on the way of the zoom, swinging back to reveal a totally different grouping or scene. Knifing and shooting in every scene. The "traditional" stuff. But even that must have seemed too much for the censor, for on a blinking he missed a beauty. Rock thudding against a face, which was pure yuck. The avenger in the style of a sort of Indian-rebel was played by Burt Reynolds, the great killer, and a lovely Italian wench who looked at Joe throughout the film, Nicoletta Machiavelli. Everyone gets killed by the end, including Joe. and the anaemic music, (rather unfortunately so, it needed the power of a Morrieone) carried the 8000 feet odd on to the end. I seem doubtful about all of this movie. It semed to have been shot on the wrong speed, so, I can hardly remember a thing about it It was so incredibly effective and please remember the director's name is Sydney Corbett.

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Gerard Oury's Don't Look Now ... we're being shot at, is a French comedy (advertised as British), in French (sometimes) and English (I think) with a French cast (usually) hiding behind English titles, wot are in English if they re not speaking French, or dubbed by same, drop jokes (mainly naughty French ones) about the body and Berlioz. A nun wearing a gasmask and the Turpinesque chappy with his squint are the highlights of this multicoloured welcomely funny Anglo-French film. Bourvil and Louis de Funes (starred in the less happy The Sucker) are perfect clowns, and Terry-Thomas enunciates. It's a new film to most shores and since they're doing so well, Rank should have the courage to release Jacques Tati's Playtime.

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King of Hearts (UA) eventually got to all those who saw it. Like the Kubrick experience, the Lets-Co-Lido was brimming with healthy varsity cinema lovers, after word of mouth got round, unprecedented since the great W'arkworth Incident.

Philippe de Broca is a latter-day Renoir at times, and his lesser efforts include, Chinese Adventures in China and to a degree That Man From Rio. He certainly lets his mood change from film to film, but King of Hearts is back in the clays of le Farceur and les Jeux de I'Amour.

Alan Bates as the bewildered soldier in a Scottish division during the German occupation of a tiny French village, is sent to uncover a bunker, and ends up with an entire asylum electing him king, and getting him married off to little Colombine (Genieveve Bujold).

It was rather like a musical Marat/Sade with overtones of Federice, and the quaintly-pantomimical surrealisms of Came. All sadly expressed on the borderlines of tears arid farce, its De Broca's loveliest effort since Male Companion, with young Pierre Lhomme's images-superbe and Georges Delerue's wonderful score adding to the charm and overall sincerity.

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The Gnome-Mobile (Walt e mort) is about jaunty cars, little people that wear nests to nothing, and Walter Brennan playing himself which must have been rather strenuous. Those Merry Dropping kids are at it again and if they don't stop Arch Wizard Stevenson will no doubt be held responsible by health authorities, let alone the '61 cinematograph Act's new certificate insert (good job there Film Unit). The super-flying matte work is unbelievable considering Miss Pickford looked more at ease talking to her easies in the 1920's. and especially when you realise no one looks in the direction of the person to whom they are addressing. I then piggy-backed out crab-wise.

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You aren't elected hedonist-supreme when its wade through Anthony Simmon's Four in The Morning (N.Z.F.S.)-time. This little English film made over four years ago doesn't startle as it should. It contains enough Kitchen sink to be labelled fiat-Lux, but adopts a speed of its own, namely impotent realism in the crawling lane. Judi Dench as the young mother with a reaming real baby, is superb, and if it wasn't for the venereal sub-plots (which have an air of rampant Lustgarten-apathy a la Tim Turner about them) this would have made a much greater impression on any person. There's a maudlin alto fluttery by John Barry, and Larry Pizer's photography (Losey's son, Gavrick, pulled the focus, so they say!) Anthony Simmons should wake up and try again if he hasn't changed his name, i.e.