Flicks

with Jeremy Littlejohn

The Wellington Festival drew to a close on Sunday with only two films having been screened especially for the occasion; a very meagre contribution in view of the amount of effort exhibited by the organisers of other art forms. Both of them were presented by the owners of the Paramount, with the assistance of the Wellington Film Society, which only goes to show how tittle moguls like kerridge care about anything other than the loot. Admittedly "To Love a Maori" may not have been worth showing, but had they offered something akin to "Peau d' Ane".

("Donkey Skin"), it would have done their flagging public image no end of good.

"Peau d'Ane", in spite of its being shown for one day only, was a little winner. Fairytales, when produced lavishly enough, have magic enough and this was no exception. Based on a well known French fable remarkably similar to our own "Cinderella", it traces the meteoric progress of a cast-off daughter as she tosses off her rags and snatches the heart of a conveniently handy Prince Charming — droll, yes, but these things have to start somewhere Some magnificent constumes, e.g. a dress the colour of the weather, and some astounding sets nestle around an unusually relaxed Catherine Deneuve. This added to a light-hearted script which finds place for objects like cigarctic lighters and helicopters makes the film both very funny and very good to watch. If you were stoned you could get lost in all that colour. A few political issues make ill-fated appearances, admittedly, and some sugar lump strings clutter up the soundtrack; nonetheless it was a shame that this enterprising effort from Jacques Demy saw only one day's screening. It deserved more.

By comparison, Kerridge Odeon's big release of the week is a no holdsbarred bummer. "Play it again Sam" begins with a little treat for the audience in the form of the last moments of "Casablanca" with Humphrey Bogart giving Ingrid Berman his "I'm no man for you — I'm harder than bourbon and bourbon don't mix with soft satin sheets'. At the end of the film we see the same sequence in the hands of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton; and in between we see the most highly rated comedian in the U.S. make an utter fool of himself. The idea of the little man who idolises Bogart failing to score on every count until he stops pretending has substance enough for a guest spot on the Flip Wilson show, but it hasn't got the legs for a two hour feature film. Fully conscious of this, Allen and his cohorts fuck around in pursuit of a few cheap laughs which come off only occasionally and reach the end of this dreary hotch potch of Bogart, Chaplain and Neil Simon with little more than their embarrassment to show for it. Only Jerry Lacy as Bogart himself seems unperturbed by the dismal nature of the proceedings, but even this nicely done impersonation is list in Allen's plethora of 'clumsy me' routines. And by itself it doesn't justify watching this sad procession of all-too-predictable gags. Too much ho-hum and too many dead horses I feel.

Horror fans won't get much more from the St James' present offering — "Four flies on velvet" is not a horror film at all, but rather a vacuous Italian thriller, with lots of trendy decor and a tenth-rate script to justify it, and "Tales from the Crypt" is a thoroughly predictable imitation of the Hammer formula. Admittedly the latter is quite stylish, with many name actors (particularly Sir Ralph Richardson and Patrick Magee) performing reasonably well, but those who have seen "Dr Horror's House of Terror" (Hammer c. 1965) will have seen it all before.

The Lido promises more Sunday night goodies to follow last Sunday's "Battle of Algiers" . . . "Alyse and Chloe" this week and Nicholas Roeg's follow up to "Performance", the anthropologically-orientated "Walkabout" set in the outback of Australia. It's a pity that films of this order aren't finding their way onto week screens.