The brilliant poem on this ad mat for Gordon Hessler's mostly tragic Cry of the Banshee ('70) is what got me into Poe.Of course, Poe had nothing to do with Cry of the Banshee.
I'm at a loss to remember where this poem is from. It is so evocative and powerful.
In my teens, I was a member of the Dusan Makavejev cheersquad, and WR: Mysteries of the Organism ('71) was my favorite of his many works.I saw Sweet Movie at the Valhalla Cinema in Melbourne with my second ex-wife, when she was a girlfriend, and she walked out in disgust. I'm not sure what particular aspect of the film caused her to hoof it, but it made the experience less enjoyable for me because she expected me to follow her lead.
Makavejev's Montenegro ('81) spoke to me because it opened with Marianne Faithful's amazing "Ballad of Lucy Jordan", which I'd never heard before:
The morning sun touched lightly on
the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In a white suburban bedroom
in a white suburban town
And she lay there neath the covers
dreaming of a thousand lovers
til the world turned to orange
and the room went spinning round
At the age of 37
she realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorized
in her Daddy's easy chair
Her husband he's off to work
and the kids are off to school
and there were oh so many ways
for her to spend her days
She could clean the house for hours
or rearrange the flowers
or run naked through the shady street
screaming all the way
At the age of 37
she realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorized
in her Daddy's easy chair
The evening sun touched gently on
the eyes of Lucy Jordan
on the rooftop where she climbed
when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man
who reached and offered her his hand
and he led her down to the long white car
that waited past the crowd
At the age of 37
she knew she'd found forever
as she rode along through Paris
with the warm wind in her hair
Montenegro is a strange and anarchic film that I still have much fondness for.
I watched WR again recently and thought it was OK.
I watched Sweet Movie on the following night and was bored to tears. I really despised it.
Things change.
At 11 years old, I didn't enjoy Theatre of Blood ('73). I snuck into the city to see it and expected it to be about two giant puppetmasters who put on shows with human puppets. Think of the possibilities! I took the poster very literally.A decade and a half later, I enjoyed Vincent Price playing a campy actor who takes revenge on his critics.
It made me laugh a lot.
At 11, the disappointment filled my stomach like a ball of lead.
Dashing good double!The "Rapallo" cinema became the Forum 2.
In '72, I liked this second last Drac film with Lee a whole lot more than I like it now.
I still love the period opening scene with Cushing and Lee, but the Swinging London stuff makes me want to puke.
I was there, and I only had eyes for Barbara Carrera and the Beasts.I was hoping she'd lie down with the beasts, but she took advice other than mine. To her detriment.
Peter Weir's The Last Wave ('77) was my favorite Australian film until Brian Trenchard Smith's Stunt Rock ('78) and George Miller's Mad Max ('79) roared into theaters.I still like it a lot.
Richard Chamberlain returned to Australia for The Thorn Birds ('83) mini-series , which was not, unfortunately, about birds with thorny, razor wings doing a Hitchcock on Aussies.
The amazing trailer for Bluebeard ('72) played with a James Bond movie that my Dad took me to see.On the way home in the car, I had a very serious discussion with him that went something like this:
"Dad, can you really buy guillotines for killing ladies?"
"I don't think so."
"Then where did that Blackbeard (sic) guy get his?"
"Grown-ups can buy them."
"Oh."
That meant I'd have to wait eight years before placing my order.
"Dad, can you really kill two people with a chandelier?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That Blackbeard (sic) guy killed two ladies with chandeliers in his movie."
"It's just a movie."
"But could you really do it to two ladies at once?"
"I'm not sure. I've never tried it."
That wasn't helpful.
"Dad, what's falconated?"
"Pardon?"
"That Blackbeard (sic) bloke falconated a lady with a bird. How do you do that?"
"I don't think anybody really falconates people."
"Blackbeard (sic) does."
"I don't think so."
"But could you train a bird to kill a lady?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I don't know."
"You're not doing that, alright?" My father looked angry. "Smarten up."
I waited for a few minutes before popping the final question:
"Dad, can we see Blackbeard?"
"No."
And that was that. Another strike-out with the "pares".
I begged and pleaded to see this one, even though I was eight years younger than I needed to be for admittance.When I finally saw it, I was glad that it was a battle I'd lost.
Battles? You learn to pick them.
I only saw the haunting and reasonably effective Summerfield ('77) four years ago. It has mood, mystery, and magic, but it writes creative cheques that can't be cashed. The resolution is very ho-hum.As depicted in the blood-smeared ad mat (just kidding!), the most important location in the film is an island that is only accessible by a bridge.
I discovered that the island (Churchhill Island) was just two hours' drive from Melbourne, where I was living at the time. I became obsessed with it.
I invited an adventurous girlfriend to join me for a day and we headed off for some adventure.
It was a weird and wonderful experience. The bridge to the island had been recently painted and the island itself had become a modest tourist attraction, but it still retained its ambiance, and I was able to bask in the echoes of the creepy events that took place there (on film).
My companion and I spent half the day exploring fascinating areas of the tiny island and found several remote fields and sheltered nooks that were ideal for bouts of horizontal refreshment.
It was a Summer in the fields that I won't forget.
