The Birds--A Matter of Misdirection

Alfred Hitchcock’s most divisive thriller finds the Master of Suspense in magician mode. On the surface, The Birds is a traditionally-structured horror film, in which the bird attacks build progressively to three of Hitchcock’s most intense sequences. However, this is just Hitchcock performing a little playful sleight of hand with the audience. Our feathered friends play a strictly peripheral part in moving the plot along. In actuality, The Birds is a relationship movie about another memorable Hitchcock mother, her adult son, and the women who threaten to come between the two—a theme explored by Hitchcock earlier in Notorious and Psycho.

In The Birds, the son is the bland, but likable, Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor). Mitch’s mother (wonderfully played by Jessica Tandy) fears losing her son to another woman—not because of jealousy, but because she can’t stand the thought of being abandoned. Young socialite Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) views Mitch as a stable love interest, something she needs as she strives to live a more meaningful life. And Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette) is the spinster schoolteacher, willing to waste her life to be near Mitch after failing to pry him from his mother.

Mitch's mother places herself between the lovebirds,
turning her back to ignore Melanie.

These characters come together when Melanie follows Mitch to his home in Bodega Bay after a flirtatious exchange in a pet store. Melanie’s arrival coincides with the beginning of the bird attacks. It’s almost as if the birds arrive to prevent any potential love between Mitch and Melanie, perhaps an extension of Mitch’s mother’s anger at having to defeat another rival for her son’s love. (Taken to the extreme, there could a parallel between the birds and the creature created by Morbius in Forbidden Planet).

However, although the birds initially come between Mitch and Melanie, they eventually have a very different impact. They allow Melanie, who first appears spoiled and shallow, to show her courage and vulnerability. In the end, Mitch’s mother no longer sees Melanie as a threat, but as a woman worthy of her son. Once the friction between those two characters is resolved, the bird attacks stop and the movie ends. Hitchcock’s conclusion—often criticized as ambiguous—is perfectly logical.

Hitchcock goes to great lengths to misdirect his audience by disguising The Birds as a conventional thriller. Always concerned with audience expectations, the Master of Suspense told French director/film critic Francois Truffaut in Hitchcock, a brilliant collection of interviews: “I didn’t want the public to become too impatient about the birds, because that would distract them from the personal story….” For that reason, the first bird attack comes at twenty-five minutes into the film and occurs toward the end of a playful scene in which Melanie races her boat while Mitch drives along the lake road trying to beat her to the dock.


Mitch, with all the women in his life, looks
concerned after the birthday party bird attack.

From that point on, the birds become progres-sively more menacing and their appear-ances more frequent: Mitch sees them on the power lines after Melanie visits for dinner; a bird crashes into Annie’s front door and dies; birds swoop down to break up a children’s birthday party; they fly through the open flue into Mitch’s house; and Mitch’s mother finds the first human victim in a farmhouse. (I love how Hitchcock uses broken teacups in this scene to foreshadow the impending horror. Earlier, he shows Mitch’s mom picking up broken teacups after the birds-in-the-flue incident. Then, when she visits the apparently empty farmhouse, she sees broken teacups hanging on their hooks—just before discovering the bloody, eyeless body.)

Melanie trapped in the phone booth, a metaphor for
her previously sheltered, empty life.

The remainder of the film consists of the three major set pieces: the bird attack outside the school-house; the attack after the gas station blows up; and Melanie’s struggle with the birds in the attic. Again, following the classic horror film structure, Hitchcock separates each sequence with a transition scene that allows the audience to relax and catch its breath. The scene in the restaurant with the ornithologist is one of Hitch’s rare missteps in The Birds; as Truffaut points out, it goes on too long without contributing to the narrative structure. I won’t dissect the birds’ attack on the school children—it’s an iconic sequence—but I strongly recommend that Hitchcock fans seek out Dan Auiler’s Hitchcock’s Notebooks, which includes the director’s hand-drawn storyboard and notes.

Though less famous, the burning gas station sequence is no less impressive. In the midst of the terrifying chaos, Hitchcock shows Melanie protected—and trapped—inside a phone booth. This “glass cage” is a marvelous metaphor for her previously sheltered life (also symbolized by the lovebirds in the birdcage) from which she is rescued by Mitch (literally…when he pulls her from the phone booth).

The three years between Psycho and The Birds (1963) comprised the longest gap between Hitchcock films up to that point. Much of that time was spent dealing with the technical difficulties in bringing Daphne du Maurier’s short story to the screen. In Truffaut’s book, Hitchcock admits that he discovered narrative weakness in The Birds as he was shooting it. A compulsive pre-planner, who storyboarded every shot in every film, Hitchcock began to improvise during the shooting of The Birds: “The emotional siege I went through served to bring out an additional creative sense in me.”

That creative genius is captured for all to see in The Birds. From its use of bird sounds in lieu of music to its disturbing closing shot, The Birds is an atypical Hitchcock film which finds the director in a mischievous mood. He gives us a classic chiller, but then reveals that it’s all wrapping paper and that’s what inside is a relationship drama. It’s an unexpected gift and, hey, Hitchcock even includes a birthday party for us—although it’s disrupted by those darn birds!

There's nothing ambigious about the ending--the real
conflict has been resolved.

Dracula's Daughter--The Reluctant Vampire

Gloria Holden as the title character.

An intriguing--not wholly successfully--sequel, Dracula's Daughter (1936) opens with Von Helsing being arrested for the murder of Count Dracula. The investigating Scotland Yard inspector understandably questions Von Helsing's tale of vampirism and recommends he retain a barrister. Instead, the Dutch professor turns to renowned psychiatrist Jeffrey Garth (Otto Kruger), a former pupil.

The Countess stalks her next victim.

Meanwhile, Dracula's corpse is stolen from police headquarters and cremated by his daughter. Countess Marya Zaleska (Gloria Holden) believes that, with her father's destruction, "the spell is broken." Alas, she soon realizes that she still cannot resist her thirst for blood. A chance encounter with Garth convinces her that the psychiatrist may be able to help her overcome her "addiction." He agrees to treat her--without understanding the nature of her condition. Will Countess Dracula be cured? Will Von Helsing be executed for ridding the world of her evil father?

Good ideas abound in Dracula's Daughter, though the final screenplay by Garrett Fort fails to flesh out most of them out. Part of the problem can be attributed to the script's erratic development. When Universal Pictures first decided to mount a sequel to Dracula (1931), it approached screenwriter John L. Balderston, whose credits included the original, The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), and The Mummy (1932). Balderston's treatment featured an evil vampiress, the murder of a baby, and a man being devoured by a wolf. Universal rejected it.

The studio then turned to R.C. Sherriff (The Invisible Man, Goodbye Mr. Chips) and Finlay Peter Dunne to develop a new script that resurrected Dracula. Lugosi was even signed to reprise Count Dracula, with the other leads to have been played by a 25-year-old Jane Wyatt and Cesar Romero. Unfortunately, that project was shelved and Garrett Fort, one of the writers on Frankenstein (1931), was assigned to adapt Bram Stoker's short story "Dracula's Guest" (though the screenplay retains nothing from the story except for the presence of a female vampire).

Holden and Otto Kruger.

The introduction of a reluctant "monster" allows Dracula's Daughter to stand out from other 1930s monster films. It was a theme that Universal milked for more lasting success with 1940's The Wolf Man and its sequels, which featured Lon Chaney, Jr. as the unwilling werewolf. There's a distinct difference between the two, of course. Whereas Chaney transformed into a creature with pure animal instincts, Gloria Holden's vampire retains her human emotions at all times. She knows the distinction between right and wrong and constantly struggles to overcome her cravings for blood. She even goes to great lengths to secure Jeffrey Garth's aid.

Countess Zaleska's need for blood provides the film's most notorious scene. Her henchman Sandor (Irving Pichel) picks up a poor young woman from the docks and convinces the girl to pose for his mistress. Playing the part of an artist, the Countess tries to resist her insatiable appetite for blood as the girl exposes her bare shoulders and neck. Ultimately, the vampire gives in to her addiction (though we never see the bite). Based mostly on this scene, some critics have suggested the presence of an underlying lesbian theme in Dracula's Daughter (reinforced perhaps by the Countess's later abduction of Garth's female assistant).

Personally, I think this is an example of critics to trying to add context that just isn't there. Countess Zaleska follows and kills a male victim earlier in the film, so she clearly show no gender preference in her choice of victims. Her abduction of Garth's assistant (Marguerite Churchill) is motivated solely by her desire to get Garth to follow her back to Dracula's castle and join her in eternal life. I do admit that that the aforementioned scene is visually stunning, with the dark-haired Countess cloaked in black while her blonde-haired victim wears white slip.

There's a little bit of Caligari.

Gloria Holden is a commanding presence as the title character. It became her best-known role in a career that never lived up to its promising beginnings (supporting roles in The Life of Emile Zola and Test Pilot). Otto Kruger makes a serviceable hero, reminding me of one of those well-meaning scientists from a 1950s science fiction film. Edward Van Sloan, who character's name changed inexplicably from Van Helsing to Von Helsing, has little screen time. Marguerite Churchill plays her part as Garth's girl Friday mostly for comic relief, which adds nothing to the film. Irving Pichel's Sandor looks like an outcast from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

Director Lambert Hillyer was a specialist in the Western genre, known best for helming William S. Hart silent films and "Wild Bill" Elliott "B" pictures. Surprisingly, he instills Dracula's Daughter with a genuinely chilling atmosphere. He also capitalizes on the fact that, unlike the Victorian-set Dracula, his sequel takes place in contemporary times. The (then) modern cars and traditionally foggy streets provide an effective visual contrast to one another.

Dracula's Daughter cost over $278,000, a hefty budget for Universal at the time. It failed to find an audience at the box office and faded into obscurity for several decades. By the 1970s, though, it had been revived by a small group of admirers; it was even shown in a film course I took at Indiana University. While Dracula's Daughter can't compare to the finest horrors of the 1930s, it's an interesting picture that's definitely worth 70 minutes of your time.


This post is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association's Fabulous Films of the 1930s Blogathon. Check out all the great posts by CMBA bloggers by clicking here.

Fabulous Films of the 1940s Blogathon: Let Right Be Done in "The Winslow Boy"

Robert Donat as Sir Robert Morton.

When 12-year-old Ronnie Winslow is expelled from the Royal Naval Academy, his father has but one question: Did Ronnie steal the five-shilling postal order? When his son replies that he did not, Arthur Winslow, a retired upper middle-class bank accountant, sets out to prove his son's innocence.

It's a campaign that will reach the House of Commons and evolve into a passionate debate of fundamental citizen rights. Yet, it will also earn the Winslow family unwanted notoriety, put them on the brink of debt, and cause them to question one another's motives (even the normally restrained Grace Winslow accuses her husband of "pride and self-importance").

Cedric Hardwicke.

This 1948 adaptation of Terence Rattigan's hit 1946 stage play succeeds as enthralling drama and social commentary. In regard to the latter, the film's central issue is whether "a servant of the King" can sue the King. When Arthur Winslow's (Cedric Hardwicke) appeal to the Naval commandant fails, he seeks out famous solicitor Sir Robert Morton (Robert Donat). In one of the film's best scenes, Morton cross-examines Ronnie ruthlessly in the family's home. After getting the lad thoroughly flummoxed, Morton turns away to make an abrupt exit. The family assumes that hope is lost--before Sir Robert quips on his way out the door: "The boy is plainly innocent. I will take the brief."

In order to bring Ronnie's case to trial, Sir Robert must secure approval from the Attorney General through a Petition of Right. When approved, the petition is endorsed with the phrase: "Let right be done." Sir Robert's political maneuvering and inspiring speech in the House of Commons would make for an interesting film alone.

The poster stressed Donat's
billing, of course.

However, Rattigan also focuses on the impact to the family. As the legal bills mount, Arthur Winslow withdraws financial support for his older son at Oxford. Arthur's health deteriorates until his arthritis makes him wheelchair-bound. Catherine Winslow's fiance ends their engagement when his father--who finds the Winslow' notoriety socially unacceptable--threatens to stop his son's allowance. Arthur even considers firing the family maid after 24 years of loyal service.

Through all the stress, Arthur and his suffragette daughter Catherine remain the pillars of the family. Arthur's goal is simply to prove his son's innocence. Catherine, on the other hand, believes that the government has ignored a fundamental human right. Her beliefs align closely with Sir Robert's, whom she first perceives as an egotistical lawyer who views the case as an opportunity to press his own agenda. However, just like Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, Catherine later learns she has misjudged Sir Robert...and, indeed, their sparring seems to indicate a spark between the two.

Margaret Leighton in a publicity still.

Although the entire cast is impeccable, special recognition must be paid to Hardwicke, Donat, and Margaret Leighton as Catherine. A supporting performer through much of his film career, Hardwicke brings determination and depth to his role as the single-minded father who begins to question what he had done. As for Donat, who doesn't appear until 41 minutes into the film, this may be my favorite of his performances--crisp, energetic, and utterly believable. He and Leighton, whose quiet conviction is the backbone of the story, are a delightful pair and their denouement ends the film on a perfect note.

Terence Rattigan based his play on a real-life incident involving George Archer-Shee, a Royal Navy cadet accused of stealing a postal order in 1910. Archer-Shee's case made headlines, just as in The Winslow Boy, and he was eventually acquitted. His family subsequently sued the Admiralty and finally received compensation in 1911.

Although the 1948 film remains the best-known adaptation, there are at least three other versions: a 1997 BBC "filmed play" with Eric Porter (The Forsyte Saga) as Arthur; a 1989 telefilm with Gordon Jackson (Upstairs Downstairs) as Arthur and Emma Thompson as Catherine; and David Mamet's very good 1991 adaptation starring Nigel Hawthorne (Arthur), Jeremy Northam (Sir Robert), and Rebecca Pidgeon (Catherine).

Click here to check out all the great reviews in the CMBA's Fabulous Films of the 1940s Blogathon.

Classic Movie Dogathon: Greyfriars Bobby

In 1865, on Cauldbrae Farm, sheepherder Old Jock (Alex Mackenzie) travels to Edinburgh, since the family he works for can no longer afford to pay him. The family dog, a Skye Terrier named Bobby, has taken a liking to Old Jock, and the fiercely loyal canine follows the man for the 20-mile distance to Greyfriars Place. Old Jock, however, is an ailing man, and he succumbs to pneumonia. He’s buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard, where Bobby evades the cranky caretaker, Mr. Brown (Donald Crisp), and sleeps atop Old Jock’s grave.

Before long, Bobby has his routine down: He spends his nights in the kirkyard, and his days in the city, some of the hours spent at a diner that Old Jock frequented. The restaurant owner, Mr. Traill (Laurence Naismith), already acquainted with the terrier, feeds him each day – at Bobby’s own table. Bobby wins over everyone, from Mr. Traill to the city’s children and even Mr. Brown and his wife, who appreciate the terrier killing the rats in the kirkyard. It seems that everyone wants to claim Bobby as their own, but eventually it’s a matter of specifying ownership: the local authorities wish to identify an owner to pay an expensive licensing fee, or the stray dog will be taken away.

Greyfriars Bobby (1961), directed by Don Chaffey, is a Walt Disney film based on Eleanor Atkinson’s 1912 novel of the same name, from a true story about a dog in 19th-century Edinburgh who slept on his master’s grave for 14 years. Chaffey does a superb job of presenting Bobby as the film’s protagonist, keeping the camera at the dog’s level, particularly when no humans are around. Bobby is an adorable ball of fur, and there are endless shots of the dog sprinting across open land, a wonderful and delightful sight.

The movie is not as depressing as the plot might suggest. It’s an inspiring tale, not only of a dog’s loyalty and devotion, but also of the good which he instills into the people he surrounds. There’s a remarkable scene when the children, all of poor families, bring Bobby to Mr. Traill for a promised shilling. The man first feeds Bobby, and the kids are unquestionably envious that a dog is eating stew made with real chicken. Mr. Traill takes the children to the kitchen, and they have what he calls a picnic, an act which sparks a genuine relationship between the diner owner and kids. Likewise, the barely restrained animosity between Mr. Traill and Mr. Brown progressively dissipates the more time they spend with Bobby.
Highlights of the film: Old Jock sneaking Bobby into a lodging house in a knapsack; Mr. Brown’s never-ending allusions to the kirkyard regulation of “No Dogs Permitted” (even picking up Bobby at one point so that the wee dog, presumably, can read it for himself); Mr. Traill’s obvious unhappiness at the family taking Bobby back to the farm; and Mr. Brown’s wife coaxing her husband, who doesn’t hide his aversion for the terrier, into giving Bobby a bath.

Bobby steals the film, but the performances from the humans are solid all around. Naismith is especially good, particularly his scene in which he makes an argument in court against any person being Bobby’s owner and refuses to pay the fee out of principle. It’s also a treat to watch two patrons of the diner, both of whom make snide remarks about Bobby, being put in their place by Mr. Traill – including a veiled threat against a man who suggests striking the dog.

A kirkyard is not technically a graveyard, but a churchyard. This is why, in the movie, Old Jock’s former employer believes it “grand” that he’s buried there – it’s consecrated ground. (It’s chosen for the sheepherder because it’s the closest place for a proper burial.)
Crisp started in Hollywood as an actor and became a director during the silent era. He later returned to acting full time and had a successful career, earning an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for How Green Was My Valley (1941). Naismith was a regular on the TV show, The Persuaders! with Roger Moore and Tony Curtis, and also had a small part in the 007 film, Diamonds Are Forever (1971).

Chaffey is perhaps best known for his fantasy films, including Jason and the Argonauts (1963, featuring Naismith as Argos, whose ship is the Argonauts’ namesake), One Million Years B.C. (1966) and Creatures the World Forgot (1971). He also directed episodes of notable TV series, such as The Prisoner (including the first episode), Danger Man (aka Secret Agent), The Avengers, Fantasy Island, Charlie’s Angels and T.J. Hooker.
Atkinson’s book also provided the basis for the 1949 film, Challenge for Lassie. Interestingly, actor Crisp appears in the film as Jock, companion to Lassie, the Bobby substitute. Another adaptation was released in 2006 as The Adventures of Greyfriars Bobby. Bobby in this movie is a West Highland White Terrier, chosen in lieu of a Skye Terrier for purely visual reasons. Christopher Lee has a small but significant role in the film.

It’s very difficult not to associate a dog’s hanging tongue with a smile. When dogs are happy, the panting commences, and tongues invariably fall out. The canine hero of Greyfriars Bobby spends much of the film’s duration flashing his doggie smile, and it seems impossible not to smile along with him. Bobby is always by Old Jock’s side, despite not being the man’s dog, because as Mr. Traill says, “a dog chooses his own master.” Is the title of the movie a reference to everyone in the city as Bobby’s owners? It’s more likely that Bobby owns the city, from the people’s hearts to a monopoly on cuteness.

Click here to see the full schedule for the Classic Movie Dogathon.

CMBA Comedy Classics Blogathon: A Shot in the Dark

It's ironic that A Shot in the Dark, the second Panther Panther film, turned out to be the one that established the formula for the film series. It was based on the French stage play, L'Idiote, which didn't even feature Inspector Clouseau. The play was adapted for Broadway in 1961 as A Shot in the Dark and starred Walter Matthau and Julie Harris. After Peter Sellers agreed to play the lead in a 1964 film version, the actor had second thoughts. He asked Pink Panther director Blake Edwards to take over the film.

Initially, Edwards declined, but finally relented on the condition that it be revamped as a Clouseau vehicle. Sellers enthusiastically agreed and convinced the film's backers. Edwards and William Peter Blatty (who would later write The Exorcist) completely rewrote what Edwards could come to call "the unintentional Clouseau" film.

Clouseau: "You've been cutting flowers."

As with all of The Pink Panther movies, the plot is just a framework for the gags. When a murder occurs at a millionaire's country estate (where everyone seems to be having an affair), Clouseau is sent to investigate. The obvious suspect is the maid Maria (Elke Sommer), who is found in possession of the murder weapon. However, Clouseau becomes smitten with her on first sight and becomes determined to prove her innocence.

Herbert Lom with eye twitch.

A Shot in the Dark introduces several elements that would define the Pink Panther formula. Herbert Lom makes his first appearance as Commissioner Dreyfus, who is slowly driven (literally) insane by Clouseau's incompetency. Burt Kwouk makes his debut as Clouseau's valet Kato, who attacks his boss at the most inconvenient times to "strengthen Clouseau's reflexes" (or so the French detective says). A Shot in the Dark also marks the first appearance of the running gag of a killer failing to assassinate Clouseau (often at the expense of innocent bystanders). This is even the film in which Sellers perfected Clouseau's unique mangling of the English language (in a French accent). In the documentary, The Pink Panther Story, Blake Edwards recounts a weekend in which Sellers inexplicably disappeared during the production. When he returned, Sellers told Edwards that he'd met a concierge whose voice was perfect for Clouseau.

Although there are classic comedic routines in other Pink Panther films, A Shot in the Dark features three of my favorites. The first occurs when Clouseau tracks Maria to a resort that turns out to be a nudist camp. The sight of Clouseau navigating among the camp members--with a guitar hanging strategically in front of him--is brilliant visual comedy. Equally amusing in a more subtle way is the running gag of Clouseau being arrested and carted away to jail for selling balloons without a licence, hunting without a license, painting on a sidewalk without a license, and--of course--indecent exposure while fleeing from the nudist camp. Of course, Sellers isn't responsible for all the best scenes. Herbert Lom's eye ticks and muffled manic laughs are funny on their own, but the part where an irritated Dreyfus accidentally cuts off one of his fingers is a classic.

Kato stops to answer the phone
during martial arts practice.

Yet, while Lom and Kwouk are fine supporting players, A Shot in the Dark--like all Pink Panther films--belongs to Sellers. He can generate laughs simply from walking into closets, destroying a rack of billiard cues, spinning a globe, or mispronouncing a word. Paired with a director like Edwards, who understood the dynamics of physical comedy, it's no wonder that the Pink Panther movies became immensely successful.

What is amazing is that additional Pink Panther films were made at all after A Shot in the Dark. Despite their successful partnership, Sellers and Edwards frequently clashed when working together. In fact, they swore they'd never work together again after A Shot in the Dark. Yet, four years later, they made The Party, a fairly funny film with Sellers as a small-time Indian actor mistakenly invited to a posh Hollywood party.

Clouseau in disguise!

Ironically, that same year saw the release of Inspector Clouseau, which starred Alan Arkin and was directed by Bud Yorkin. It proved that audiences weren't interested in a Clouseau movie without Sellers--though it still left the door open for future Pink Panther films. Seven years later, Edwards and Sellers rebooted the franchise with The Return of the Pink Panther (1975). Its worldwide success surprised everyone--save Edwards and Sellers--and set the stage for two direct sequels and a slew of spinoff and remakes.
None of them can match A Shot in the Dark for laughs per minute and originality. In 2000, when the American Film Institute saluted great screen comedies, it ranked A Shot in the Dark at #48 among the all-time comedy classics. I might have ranked it even higher.

CMBA Guilty Pleasures Movie Blogathon: Lifeforce

Check out all the great reviews in the Classic Movie Blog Association's Guilty Pleasures Movie Blogathon.

Let's get the controversy out of the way: I'm not even sure that Lifeforce is a guilty pleasure. I don't feel guilty watching it, even though it's typically not considered a good movie. It bombed at the boxoffice and received mostly negative reviews. Still, the same can be said for many films I enjoy watching. Additionally, I am not alone in my admiration for Lifeforce. It has attracted a small cult following over the years and, if midnight movies were still in vogue at mainstream cinemas, I could see it gaining in popularity.

Lifeforce opens with the HMS Churchill, a space station, discovering a huge, pencil-shaped object in the head of Halley's Comet. Colonel Tom Carlsen leads a search party that discovers a bunch of crunchy dead creatures...plus three comatose human-looking aliens--one female and two males--enclosed in crystal-like containers. Shortly after Carlsen and crew evacuate the crystal-enclosed aliens to the Churchill, communications break down between the space station and the European Space Research Centre back on Earth.

The female alien...she's bad news!

When a rescue team is dispatched, it finds burned corpses and damaged equipment inside the Churchill. In fact, the only items not destroyed are the crystal cases with the aliens. The cases are transported to Earth, where they're stored in the Research Centre and guarded closely. Too closely, it turns out when a security guard--infatuated with the naked female alien--gets too close to the crystal container. It opens, she kisses the guard, and then sucks the energy out of him, leaving a shriveled corpse on the floor.

Learning of these events, the center's director, Dr. Fallada (Frank Finlay), proclaims: "Don't worry. A naked girl is not going to get out of this complex." A few minutes later, after she's dispatched three guards and blown out the glass front of the building, the naked alien girl walks out of it.

The life force is sucked out!

To compound the situation, it turns out that the female alien's victims come back to life after two hours, but require "regular infusions of energy" to stay alive. Wait, it gets much worse: the two male aliens escape; we learn the female creature can move from body to body; and Colonel Carlsen returns to Earth in an escape pod and reveals he has a telepathic connection with the female alien.

Intriguing ideas--some original, some derivative--zip around Lifeforce like the electric currents emitted by the "naked alien girl" (Mathilda May). The film is officially based on Colin Wilson's novel The Space Vampires, although the proceedings have a definite Nigel Kneale feel to them. In fact, part of the film's appeal is that it reminds me of Kneale's brilliant Quatermass and the Pit, both thematically and visually. Both films propose that alien beings played a role in mankind's past, both climax with thousands of homicidal "humans" running around a burning London, and both use metal to dispatch the creatures. Interestingly, Neale's earlier The Quatermass Experiment ends in Westminster Abbey while Lifeforce stages its climax in a cathedral.

There are also similarities to Mario Bava's 1965 sci fi/horror film Planet of the Vampires, which has "space vampires" taking over members of a crew. The Hidden, which appeared two years after Lifeforce, expands on the premise of the alien moving from body to body (and adds an amusing "buddy film" spin to the proceedings).

Peter Firth as Colonel Caine.

Most of the cast in Lifeforce consists of solid British thespians like Finlay, Michael Gothard, and Patrick Stewart. The standout is Peter Firth (Equus), who plays Colonel Colin Caine of the Special Air Services, a no-nonsense investigator determined to track down his quarry. Decked in a white turtleneck and leather jacket, Caine is a memorable character worthy of his own movie. As Carlsen, Steve Railsback struggles at times in what is certainly the most difficult role in the film. May, on the other hand, has little to do as the female alien--except walk around in the buff for the majority of her scenes.

Technically, the film is a hodgepodge. Henry Mancini's score has its admirers, while the visual effects are undeniably cheesy. Tobe Hooper's direction is uninspired except for the fiery climax, which contains some striking images of London being destroyed.

There are numerous versions of Lifeforce in circulation. Hooper's cut was 128 minutes, although the final version released in the U.S. ran 101 minutes. In international markets, the running time was 116 minutes (this edition was later released on video and is the one I reviewed). Part of Mancini's score was replaced by musical cues by Michael Kamen in some versions.

Derivative, imaginative, occasionally campy, always entertaining--Lifeforce might leave you feeling a little guilty. But the final verdict is that the pleasure part will trump that modicum of guilt.

Black History Month Classic Movie Blogathon: In the Heat of the Night

This racially-charged mystery, 1968’s Oscar winner for Best Picture, has aged gracefully over the years. The secret to its success can be attributed to its many layers. Peel back the mystery plot and you have a potent examination of racial tension in the South in the 1960s. Peel that back and you have a rich character study of two lonely police detectives, from completely different backgrounds, who gradually earn each other’s respect.

The film opens with a nighttime “tour” of Sparta, Mississippi, as police officer Sam Woods (Warren Oates) makes his rounds in his patrol car. He stops at a diner for a cold Coca Cola, then drives past closed shops with their bright neon signs. He pauses at a house where a young exhibitionist walks around in the nude. It’s a typical night in the sleepy little town…until Sam finds a dead body in an alley way.

The murder victim turns out to be an industrialist who planned to build a big factory in Sparta. The local police chief, Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger), quickly launches an investigation that results in the arrest of a well-dressed black man at the train station. Much to Gillespie’s dismay, he learns his prime suspect is actually a police detective from Philadelphia named Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier), who was awaiting a connecting train to Memphis. Tibb’s Philly superior tells Gillespie that Virgil is his “number one homicide expert.”

Though Gillespie doesn’t like Tibbs, he realizes that he needs help. Gillespie knows his subordinates are ineffective (they can’t even remember to oil the air conditioner) and the mayor won’t support him if he fails to find the killer quickly. Most importantly, Gillespie realizes that he’s out of his element; he just wants to run a “nice clean town” and lacks the expertise to handle a homicide investigation. For his part, Tibbs is torn—he’s eager to leave, but wouldn’t mind showing up these prejudiced, ignorant white men.

The film’s most famous scene is the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott (Larry Gates), a wealthy cotton farmer and a principal murder suspect. Their conversation begins as a calm discussion on orchids, but Endicott quickly shows his racist side when he notes his flowers are “like the Negro…they need care and feeding and cultivating.” Tibbs coolly ignores the insult and persists with probing questions. When Endicott realizes he’s under investigation for murder, he slaps Tibbs across the face. Without hesitation, Tibbs strikes him back. When an enraged Endicott asks Gillespie what he’s going to do about Tibbs’ actions, the police chief replies simply: “I don’t know.”

Seen today, the scene still works as powerful drama. It no doubt had a greater and more significant impact when In the Heat of the Night was originally released. Ironically, Tibbs’ slap wasn’t in the novel nor the original screenplay (in both, Tibbs just walks away). In a February 2009 interview with the American Academy of Achievement, Poitier said he read the script and then told producer Walter Mirisch: “I will insist that I respond to this man (Endicott) precisely as a human being would ordinarily respond to this man. And he pops me, and I'll pop him right back. And I said, if you want me to play it, you will put that in writing. And in writing you will also say that if this picture plays the South, that that scene is never, ever removed.” Mirisch agreed and a classic, landmark scene made its way into a mainstream Hollywood film.

Historical significance aside, the film’s best-played scene has Tibbs and Gillespie relaxing in the latter’s drabby home as a train whistle echoes in the distance. Drinking warm bourbon, Gillespie confesses to Tibbs that the Philly detective is the first person to see the inside of his home. Then, in an unguarded moment, Gillespie opens up about his mundane existence and isolation.

Gillespie: Don’t you get just a little lonely?

Tibbs: No lonelier than you, man.

Gillespie: Oh now, don’t get smart, Black boy. I don’t need it. No pity, thank you. No thank you.

The scene perfectly illustrates the performers’ contrasting acting styles (which is one reason why they work so well together). Steiger dramatically transforms from a sad sack looking off into a corner of room into a proud man who is offended that Tibbs would empathize with him. Poitier, meanwhile, says very little, slumping in his chair to convey exhaustion and leaning forward attentively to show interest in Gillespie.

Thanks in part to Stirling Silliphant’s excellent dialogue, In the Heat of the Night provides an ideal showcase for its two leads. Steiger, who had a tendency to overact in later movies, remains in total control here. Gillespie’s sloppy appearance, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and constant gum-chewing makes him look like a typical redneck Southern sheriff—but Steiger skillfully avoids playing the stereotype. Gillespie comes across as wily, independent, proud, prejudiced, and lonely. The performance earned Steiger a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar.

Poitier matches him scene for scene as the intelligent, proud, equally prejudiced Tibbs. He skillfully underplays the Philadelphia detective, so that when Tibbs strikes Endicott or flashes his anger toward Gillespie, those scenes catch fire. Amazingly, Poitier was not Oscar nominated, perhaps because his votes were split among three memorable 1967 performances: In the Heat of the Night, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and To Sir, With Love.

Strip away its atmospheric setting and riveting characters and In the Heat of the Night is just an average mystery. But, in this case, the plot is just a means to the ends. The film is foremost a character study of two strong-willed men (played by two actors at the peak of their careers). Secondly, it’s a portrait of Southern life in the late 1960s. Some of it may be exaggerated, but overall, screenwriter Silliphant and director Norman Jewison skillfully capture a time and a place—making the viewer feel like they’ve just experienced a visit to Sparta in the 1960s. That’s what makes the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott so powerful.

In the Heat of the Night also spawned one of the most famous lines of dialogue in movie history (the American Film Institute ranked it #16…it should have been higher). When Tibbs’ investigative skills expose a flaw in Gillespie’s initial theory about the crime, the following exchange take place:

Gillespie: Well, you're pretty sure of yourself, ain't you, Virgil? Virgil, that's a funny name for a nigger boy to come from Philadelphia. What do they call you up there?

Tibbs: They call me Mister Tibbs!

And that’s exactly what they called Virgil in two sequels in which Poitier reprised the role: They Call Me MISTER Tibbs (1970) and The Organization (1971). Sadly, neither film is very good. They transform Tibbs into a family man working in a big city—making him just another detective working the streets in a 1970s urban crime film.

In 1988, In the Heat of the Night was adapted as a television series starring Carroll O’Connor as Gillespie and Howard Rollins as Tibbs. Set in Sparta again, the show lasted for eight seasons, although Rollins was dropped after 1993 due to legal problems.

The Black History Month Classic Movie Blogathon is presented by the Classic Movie Blog Association (CMBA). Click here to visit the CMBA web site, where you'll find links to other reviews in the blogathon.