Tag: Britt Ekland

Get Carter (1971)

Brutal, dark and nihilistic British gangster film removes any chance that you might fancy trying a life of crime

Director: Mike Hodges

Cast: Michael Caine (Jack Carter), Ian Hendry (Eric), John Osborne (Kinnear), Britt Ekland (Anna), Brian Mosley (Cliff Brumby), George Sewell (Con McCarty), Tony Beckley (Peter the Dutchman), Glynn Edwards (Albert Swift), Alun Armstrong (Keith), Bernard Hepton (Thorpe), Petra Markham (Doreen), Geraldine Moffat (Glenda), Dorothy White (Margaret)

It’s probably the finest British gangster film ever made. Get Carter is a cold, dark, grimy film – a punch to the solar plexus, which completely rejects any sense of charm in its gangster characters. Michael Caine called Jack Carter a shadow Caine, the man he could have become if his life had broken out slightly differently. It’s set in an unremittingly bleak Newcastle, but it feels like it might be happening in an anti-chamber of hell, with its thoroughly amoral lead barely aware he’s spiralling towards destruction. It’s a sociopathic, Jacobean revenge tragedy set among the dirt filled suburbs of Newcastle.

Jack Carter (Michael Caine) is a professional fixer for London gangster brothers. He returns to his childhood home of Newcastle after the sudden death of his brother. But he’s not satisfied with the official explanation. Instead, he dives into an investigation, in which he cares not a jot about the collateral damage he causes or the likely reaction of the underworld powers that be as he rocks the boat to destruction, trashing the lives of everyone he meets, good and bad.

Powered by an extraordinary performance of blank nihilism and cold, unexpressed fury by Caine, nominally Jack is a man motivated by the harm done to his family. However, Hodges film is so cold-eyed and realistic about the mentality of gangsters, we know it’s just an excuse. Carter is never heart-broken, he’s annoyed. His brother may have been punished and his niece (it transpires) misused, but fundamentally what motivates Carter is the affront. By taking a pop at his family, he feels they really think they can take a pop at him. How dare they: he’s Jack Carter.

Any charm Carter has, solely comes from residual affection for Caine. By any measure, Carter is an awful man (even if he has a good turn of phrase). He is a sociopath with no concern for anyone. When friendly Keith (a young Alun Armstrong) is beaten black and blue for helping Carter, how does our hero respond? Tosses a few bank notes on his bed and tells him “buy some karate lessons”. Carter sees the world solely as made up of debts, which can be discharged by money, never mind the situation. His niece throws beer over a friend? He’ll pay for the dry-clean. Keith gets bashed up: take a roll of twenties, what’s your problem?

Carter directly kills four people (and is responsible for several other deaths), all with a blank-eyed lack of reaction. There isn’t any sadism to what he does – the deaths are mostly efficient and to his mind, justified, because by taking actions against his family they disrespected him. When he locks a woman in the boot of his car, and a pair of heavies push the car into the Tyne he doesn’t bat an eyelid at her inevitable death (never mind he slept with her hours before). People who find themselves close to Jack, or drawn into his circle, suffer terribly and he literally couldn’t care less.

Get Carter is the bleakest of all gangster films, shot with an imaginative kitchen-sink beauty by Mike Hodges, which actually carries a lot more visual glory than you might expect. Drained out colours abound – there are virtually no bright primary colours in this, with the whole of Newcastle a mix of muddy browns, soot-stained greys and filthy charcoals. Hodges’ film is also dynamic and fast-paced: he throws in striking aerial and crane shots (there is a beautiful shot that follows a car chase from a bird’s eye view), but also gets down and dirty in this grainy world.

It’s an urgent, lean and mean film constantly kicking you in the shins, but told with skill and artistry. Hodges pieces together a marvellous early scene, where Carter visits local heavy Kinnear (a suave, chillingly well-spoken John Osborne): simultaneously, in one single location, two scenes (both with vital information) play out at the same time – Carter chats to Kinnear’s moll Glenda (Geraldine Moffat), picking up vital information while on the same sofa Kinnear beats his guests at cards. Everything though is perfectly clear: masterful stuff. It’s also a film crammed with small details that reward careful viewing: Carter’s bed has a cross-stitch of “What would Jesus say?” above it (I dread to think) and on his train journey, look out for a fellow passenger with a distinctive ring.

So confidently is this put together, it’s amazing to think Hodges was a first-time director. This is a film dripping with menace, but also a horrifyingly immersive camera. We are frequently thrown into the midst of the action. Carter frequently looms over the camera or is filmed in violent motion moving towards his next goal. There is not a jot of romanticism around the film: neither about the gangsters or the bleak world they operate in. Newcastle is pre-Thatcherite hellhole, with precious little glamour. Even the gangster locales – the clubs and pubs – are bashed-up and unpleasant.

Across the board, the gangsters are exposed as cruel, heartless and vile. Touches of class are ruined by everyone’s fundamental lack of class. Cliff Brumby’s (Brian Mosley) planned classy restaurant sits atop a concrete multi-story car-park. Kinnear’s (John Osborne) fancy country house is the setting of the grimmest, most depressing orgy you’re likely to see. Carter is trying his best to dress classily, but his cruelty always punctures the illusion. He’s introduced watching a porn film with his bosses in London and the film revolves around the seamy underworld of homemade porn.

The women in the film are primarily used by the gangster as props for these films, and Get Carter doesn’t shy away from the exploitative fate for women in this world. However, you can’t disagree that it takes in a bit of exploitation itself. Britt Ekland has high billing for her single scene, where she lies mostly naked on a bed pantily having phone sex with Carter (who goes about this, as all things, with a functional efficiency, at least as interested in the excited reaction of his middle-aged landlady who is sitting in the room with him while he chats on the phone). It’s undeniably a moment for us to gawp but it still feels less cold and cruel than those awful porn films.

Carter discovers his niece has found her way into these. He even sheds a tear over this: but he doesn’t care because of what has happened to her. Again it’s all about him: Carter couldn’t care less about the morals and is perfectly happy for porn to soak up other women. He’s not really that interested in his niece: it’s all about the damage to him, that a “made man” like him should have a member of his family getting boffed like a slag for others entertainment. How bloody dare they?

Get Carter understands this is a dark and soulless world, and is a film bereft of hope. Its hero is a revenge obsessed sociopath, who only smiles in the film after he has burnt everything around him down. Gangsters destroy everything they touch and care about nothing other than themselves. All debts can be settled with money, all women are toys to be used and thrown away. Death means nothing and the world is a drained-out hell of shabby houses and dirty clubs. It’s the grimmest and finest British gangster film out there. Who would want to be gangster after seeing this?

Scandal (1989)

Joanne Whalley and John Hurt get unwisely wrapped up in the Profumo affair in Scandal

Director: Michael Caton-Jones

Cast: John Hurt (Stephen Ward), Joanne Whalley (Christine Keeler), Bridget Fonda (Mandy Rice-Davies), Ian McKellen (John Profumo), Leslie Phillips (Lord Astor), Britt Ekland (Mariella Novotny), Jeroen Krabbé (Eugene Ivanov), Daniel Massey (Mervyn Griffith-Jones), Roland Gift (Johnny Edgecombe), Jean Alexander (Mrs Keeler), Deborah Grant (Valerie Hobson), Alex Norton (Inspector), Ronald Fraser (Justice Marshall), Paul Brooke (Sergeant), Keith Allen (Reporter)

In 1963 the British Government was nearly destroyed by a sex scandal. John Profumo, Minister for War, was widely suspected of conducting an affair with Christine Keeler (a former show girl turned society figure) at the same time as she was sleeping with Russian naval attaché Eugene Ivanov. Profumo denied it to the House of Commons. A few weeks later he confessed he had lied and resigned from Parliament. The scandal shook the country to the core, and led to an exhausted Harold MacMillan’s resignation as PM. As the scandal span out to reveal sex parties in country homes, the country couldn’t get enough of the discovery that large numbers of the upper classes enjoyed nothing more than swinging, orgies and indiscriminate sex laced with sado-masochism.

Scandal reconstructs the build-up to and eventual explosion of controversy around this affair, focusing on Keeler (Joanne Whalley) and Stephen Ward (John Hurt), the society osteopath and friend to the rich and famous who had worked out that if he found and coached attractive young girls, Henry Higgins-style, into engaging and fun companions, he could swiftly move up the social ladder by giving the rich and powerful people they could sleep with. When the Profumo affair blew up, it was Ward who was left holding the parcel: abandoned by his rich and powerful friends, Ward was placed on trial as a pimp, vilified in court and in the press, and eventually committed suicide the night before the court case finished (which convicted him in absentia of living off immoral earnings).

It’s this miscarriage of justice that Scandal zeroes in on – and the film does a good job of showing that Ward basically didn’t really do anything that wrong. He didn’t mistreat the girls, he thought he was helping them improve their lives and he didn’t attempt to blackmail his friends. His own sex drive seems curiously disconnected (he was clearly more of voyeur) and if anything, John Hurt (excellent as always) plays him as a slightly sad social-climber. A sort of Horace Slughorn of sex, far more excited by his bulging address book, access to the exclusive clubs of London and calling lords of the land by their matey nicknames, than by all the nooky.

Scandal however is a rather unemotional, unengaging and distant film. It’s hard to get too wrapped up in, as it too often goes for documentary checklist rather than real character engagement. On top of that, it’s often rather unclear – it’s tricky to tell the exact timelines, it’s hard to see often how some events relate to others, it’s unclear in particular how Christine Keeler’s relationship with jazz promoter and drug dealer Johnny Edgecombe led to exposure. It’s a film that’s both in love with telling the facts and so blinded by them that it doesn’t turn them into an engaging story.

But then perhaps part of this is because looking back today, it’s hard to see what all the fuss was about with the Profumo affair. After generations where government ministers have been accused of everything from toe-sucking to performing a sex act on a dead pig, it’s hard not to look at the Granddaddy of all government sex scandals and not think it rather quaint. Today it would barely merit more than few news cycles: and Profumo would certainly have been back in the cabinet within two years. Even the spy angle (was Profumo leaking secrets to Keeler, who in turn leaked them to Ivanov?) was widely (and almost immediately) discredited at the time.

Not that the seismic impact really comes across anyway in the film. This is partly because the film focuses on Ward and Keeler in particular. For the two of them, there wasn’t much at stake – until their lives were destroyed. In fact, for most of these people at the various dodgy parties – other than embarrassing tittle-tattle – there wasn’t much at stake. A film that gave more space to Profumo – and really made-clear what he was running the risk of losing here, particularly after he lied to Parliament – might have made it clearer the dangers that all involved were inadvertently running.

But that would have been to dent the film’s purpose of showing Ward and Keeler as essentially innocents abroad. Joanne Whalley has a particularly difficult job as a Keeler so thoughtless, short-sighted and self-obsessed, she verges on the dim. Whalley makes her bright, engaging and fun-loving, but never with a whiff of sense. By the time Keeler is blurting out totally unconnected Profumo facts when speaking to the police about her relationship with Edgecombe, you can tell she doesn’t have a chance.

The film’s real strength though is John Hurt’s masterful performance as Stephen Ward. Hurt’s pock-marked face and ruddy complexion (going through a difficult divorce he allegedly spent most of the filming struggling with alcoholism) and slightly sweaty desperation are perfect for the role. A natural victim as an actor, he makes Ward always slightly desperate, always trying too hard, always the grammar-school boy pushing his nose up against society’s window. He’s a super creepy Henry Higgins grooming girls for a “better life” (his genuine belief!) and getting himself an entrée into posh society at the same time.

Ward, the film argues, didn’t feel he was ever doing anything wrong – and he realises far too late that society, his posh friends and the government don’t agree. “It’ll blow over” he reassures Ivanov: totally wrong. Ward basically was a hedonist who wanted people to have a good time – and was thrilled to be invited to the party. When the shit hit the fan, he was dumped with the blame. It’s an angry note that the film – with its obsession with covering so much ground – fumbles slightly: it wants to be a searing indictment of the hypocrisy of the upper classes, but it fudges the emotional connection so much that you can’t feel it as much as you should.

Instead Scandal just sort of simmers rather than boils. It doesn’t communicate what a sea change this was in how Britain viewed its politicians and upper classes – from hereon they were always seen as men with feet of clay – and it doesn’t get the audience feeling as angry or engaged with things as you might expect. It has a lot of sex in it but (perhaps deliberately) it’s not sexy – the orgy scenes would make a great mood killer – and it seems to miss the hedonistic tone that dominated the class at the time.

There is some decent directing – a scene of Mandy Rice-Davies and Christine Keeler preparing for a night on the town is particularly well done – and some strong acting, not least from Ian McKellen is a slimy Profumo (rumour has it a recently de-closted McKellen was keen on the role as it was the most hetrosexual role he could imagine playing!). But it never quite clicks together into something really emotionally engaging. And it isn’t quite as clear and easy to follow as you need. Structuring the story as a kind of love story between virtually the only people in the story who don’t have sex together is interesting – and Hurt and Whalley are good – but it’s just not quite a good enough film for what it wants to do.

The Man with the Golden Gun (1974)

Christopher Lee and Roger Moore duel to the death in the confusing and strangely pointless The Man with the Golden Gun

Director: Guy Hamilton

Cast: Roger Moore (James Bond), Christopher Lee (Francisco Scaramanga), Britt Ekland (Mary Goodnight), Maud Adams (Andrea Anders), Bernard Lee (M), Hervé Villechaize (Nick Nack), Richard Loo (Hai Fat), Soon-Tek Oh (Lt Hip), Clifton James (JW Pepper), Desmond Llewelyn (Q)

I sat down to watch The Man with the Golden Gun having just heard the news of Roger Moore’s death. It seems an odd one to choose, as this was easily Moore’s least financially successful, and least fondly received, Bond film. But it had just been on TV, and I wanted to raise a glass (or eyebrow) to Britain’s finest.

MwtGG was very much the formula trying to find its way in a post-Connery world, with Moore’s performance an odd half way house between his later light persona and the harder edge of Connery. Anyway, the plot, such as it is: Bond is sent a bullet with his name literally on it from Francisco Scaramanga (Christopher Lee), the world’s greatest hitman who only uses golden bullets and charges a (now rather sweetly modest-sounding) $1million per hit. Bond goes to Hong Kong to find out more and gets embroiled in some complex (and not particularly interesting) back-and-forth about hijacking the world’s solar energy supply, hindered by incompetent agent Mary Goodnight (Britt Ekland). It all culminates into a duel of guns on Scaramanga’s private island.

The problem with this film isn’t so much that it’s a bit dull – it’s that it’s not really about anything at all. Does anyone really understand Scaramanga’s scheme? Even he seems confused about it. As far as I can tell it’s something to do with controlling solar energy, but how the heck he’s going to control access to the sun I don’t know. Scaramanga seems far more interested in a silly heat gun he’s got as a side installation. Anyway, whatever the heck this is about, lots of other people seem interested in it. It’s powered by “the Solex”, which looks like some sort of robotic cigarette pack. This Solex changes hands even more regularly than Bond changes love interests, but its purpose and why it’s important are such a poorly explained macguffin it’s really hard to care.

What the film is nominally about (but turns out not to be) is the duel between Scaramanga and Bond. Turns out, of course, Scaramanga doesn’t have a clue about the bullet. His motivations towards Bond are as unclear as the plot, alternating between indifference, admiration and envy. On top of that, to make a duel like this work we need the feeling Scaramanga and Bond are two sides of the same coin – that with a push at the right time in his past, Bond could have turned into the ruthless hitman Scaramanga is. This could have worked with Connery’s early Bond – or Dalton and Craig – but never do you believe Moore’s Bond has a streak of black through his soul.

This is despite some ill-fitting moments in the film, created solely in an effort to show Moore’s Bond acting tough, moments that feel horrendously out of place and against character. In particular, early in the film Bond quite viciously roughs up Andrea Anders (he slaps her, nearly breaks her arm, spies on her with the shower and threatens her with a gun in a weirdly sexual manner). It feels totally wrong for Moore’s gentle suaveness. At other points in the film, Moore plays with a hardness and general prickishness that isn’t present in his other films, and doesn’t match his light style. Throughout the film he feels annoyed at Goodnight, he pushes a kid off a boat, he treats his colleagues dismissively – it feels all the time Moore is struggling to play a Bond way against his style.

To be fair, I can see why Bond is annoyed with Goodnight: Britt Ekland is probably the nadir of Bond girl stupidity. Literally nothing she does in this film is any use, and most of the rest of the time it actively helps the villains. She’s stupid, clumsy and not funny. She’s so incompetent you need to keep double checking she is actually meant to be an MI6 agent. Ekland has indignities heaped upon her on this film, from being locked in the boot of a car, to being hidden in a cupboard by Bond mid-coitus so that he can do the nasty with Scaramanga’s girlfriend. Late on, she nearly kills Bond by backing into a button with her bottom. Ekland’s main reason for being cast was of course her physical assets in a bikini – so it’s lucky that Scaramanga keeps her on his island dressed only in a bikini for the last third of the movie. Only way to make sure she doesn’t have a weapon, doncha know!

As the plot drifts around, going either in circles or nowhere at all, the producers land Bond in a kung-fu training school in Hong Kong. Bond films as a genre have always gently ripped off as much as possible whatever was popular at that time in Hollywood (Blaxploitation in Live and Let Die, Star Wars in Moonraker, Bourne in Quantum of Solace etc. ), and so it merrily climbs on the Bruce Lee bandwagon here. Unfortunately, it’s all highly stupid and adds nothing (Scaramanga even comments in the movieabout the ludicrousness of sending Bond to a school rather than just putting a bullet in him) and hits heights of ridiculousness when the entire school of elite trainers is bested by Bond’s sidekick and two teenage schoolgirls in school uniform.

That’s another thing wrong with this movie – the wildly varying tone. So at times we get Bond chasing down leads like Philip Marlowe. Next we have him roughing up a weeping woman. We’ve got Goodnight’s buffoonery, Scaramanga’s suave cruelty… It’s all over the shop. The comic moments of the film particularly grate. Was anyone waiting for Sherrif JW Pepper’s return from Live and Let Die? Didn’t think so, he’s as funny as a bout of gonhorrea. Even some of the good moments get undermined by bizarre tonal shifts: the classic car flip stunt (which is amazing, particularly because you know they did it for real after hours of careful calculations) is overlaid with a stupid “whoop” sound effect, like a Carry On film (even Guy Hamilton subsequently said this was a terrible idea).

However, it’s not all bad – no Bond film ever really is, such is the triumph of the formula. Christopher Lee is very good – you wish he was in a much better film than this one. The late duel in the film between Scaramanga and Bond is pretty good, even if it all ends a little too easily. Scaramanga’s funhouse seems totally bizarre (why the hell does he even have this on the island next to a power plant?) but its good fun. The MI6 base on a half sunk ship off the coast of Hong Kong, with all the corridors on the wonk is an absolute triumph of design. Bernard Lee gets lots more to do than he usually does – and delivers his exasperated boss lines with a sense of dry timing.

It doesn’t change the fact, though, that this is possibly one of the weakest Bonds around. It’s not a terrible film – I enjoyed watching it, though at least part of that comes from growing up with these films, making them as familiar as family members. But it’s way down there in the Bond list. It’s a slightly tired movie, in a franchise trying to find its feet under a new lead. Tonally it’s a complete mess for large chunks of it, and manages to make its plot seem inconsequential and dull. Nothing really seems that much at stake, and Scaramanga (despite Lee’s good performance) never feels like a villain we really understand. I’ve no idea what he wants, and no idea why he should be stopped.

The Man with the Golden Gun is only worth it for a doze in front of the television on a Sunday afternoon. Thank goodness that’s the only time it’s likely to appear on your TV. And putting all else aside, Moore was a terrific Bond and an even more terrific human being. Rest in Peace.