If I found The Manchurian Candidate (62) unwilling to go far enough in the treatment of its brilliant and daring concept, I certainly did not hold such opinion after watching Seconds. Despite a couple of moments when John Frankenheimer loses control of its material and over-indulges in wobbly camera movements (the wine orgy scene and, to a lesser extent, the party at home scene), Seconds is an amazingly dark and bold film for 1960s Hollywood (after all, Bonnie and Clyde (67), which represents a milestone in American cinema, was also considered dark and bold, but feels, at least to me, much tamer than Seconds), about a man who is given a chance at a new identity and a new life but slowly realizes that the change only makes him more miserable.

From the disturbing opening titles by Saul Bass to the unrepentant nerve-racking ending, Seconds takes you to some very unpleasant places, while managing to make several interesting points about midlife crises, beauty, identity, happiness and success. Some of these points resonate even more strongly today when beauty and material ‘satisfaction’ seem to be more readily accessible than ever, and increasingly at the cost of a traditional (and possibly archaic) definition of happiness. This quest for beauty is made possible by scientific advancement and Seconds reminds us of Les Yeux Sans Visage (60) and of the more recent Extreme Measures (98) in its portrayal of the brilliant scientist or doctor who too easily crosses ethical boundaries in a blind belief in the righteousness of their action.

Rock Hudson is particularly enjoyable to watch and effectively manages to make us forget a hollow reputation acquired by playing mainly in melodramatic roles. The cinematography, aside from suffering on two occasions from the already mentioned overbearing desire to create confusion, does manage nonetheless to craft a very claustrophobic and disturbing environment.

Seconds is not a perfect film, but it certainly is one that has been undeservedly forgotten and should have a place along such classics as The Manchurian Candidate, The Wicker Man (73) or even Don’t Look Now (73).

Take a bland and decent looking actor, place a silly and useless woman at his side whose sole role it is to shriek every five minutes, pair him with a crazy and hyper, but brilliant inventor, use lots of ridiculous costumes and utterly preposterous plastic and latex things like flowers, rocks, bubbly tanks and Martians, place it all in a Victorian context, and you get an unfortunately overly used recipe for making terrible Sci-Fi B movies.

I have never read this novel by HG Wells, but I sincerely hope that this film, about that crazy threesome mentioned earlier getting to the moon long before the first astronauts, has taken plenty of freedom with the original story, as i would hate to think that Wells was capable of such silliness…

This silliness is even more so highlighted when one considers that Planet of the Apes (68) and Kubrick’s 2001 (68) both came out only four years after First Men in the Moon.
The only people who are going to enjoy this film are the ones who watched it when they were children and still remember fondly the absurd Martian latex costumes. For the rest of us, well, let us just keep an open mind.

Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451, based on Bradburry’s novel of the same name, seems to exist outside of the standard city space. More reminiscent of a modern city’s inner suburbs, the architecture on display is eclectic and often cold and lacking humanity.

As with Godard’s Alphaville, the low budget of Fahrenheit 451 meant that all exterior scenes were shot on location (Maidenhead, UK). Truffaut evidently selected buildings that epitomized 1950s and 1960s urban planning gone wrong. The apartment block or tower no longer carries hope of an urban renaissance and as a solver of society’s problems.

Instead, it is portrayed as lacking beauty and humanity, a vertical cage in which to house the less privileged, and, in the context of the film, the non-conformists and dissidents.

Excerpt from Architectural Representations of the City in Science Fiction Cinema.

Godard’s Alphaville, shot on a very low budget in 1965 Paris, is the director’s take on Orwell’s 1984, capitalism, modernism and the eradication of free will through rationality and efficiency.

The city, beautifully shot by Raoul Coultard, is turned into a cold, modernist island where buildings of glass and concrete stand as an effigy to science and dehumanization. Most of the scenes are shot in modernist interiors and exteriors, which could have been designed by Le Corbusier himself. But Godard’s vision turns the modernist dream upside down and associates the architecture with the end of free will and the disappearance of non-conformity.

Unlike Lang’s vision of an ultra-modernist city of the future, with its skyscrapers reaching for the sky, Godard’s Alphaville is more spread out and few very tall buildings emerge. The elite continues to live in different areas of the city from the ‘little’ people, but the boundaries are less clearly defined and the sense of height as an association of power seems to dominate less than in Metropolis or even Things to Come. A man of his time, Godard seems to have been able to anticipate post-modernist concerns towards architecture and the city.

Excerpt from Architectural Representations of the City in Science Fiction Cinema.

This film won’t dethrone Once upon a Time in the West as my favourite western but it comes very close.

John Ford may have brought an almost boring perfection to the western genre (with Hawks, Sturges and Zinnemann adding very little in terms of novelty), but Leone (and Peckinpah) took it to a new level, one that distances itself from its predecessors through a more aggressive and much less romantic and conservative style.

Gone is the John Wayne regulated, regimented, black and white republican view of the West. This is an American West where the bad guys and the good guys are the same people, where Darwinian and animalistic forces dominate in an unforgiving and harsh environment.

Van Cleef is absorbing to watch and Wallach simply astonishing, while Eastwood’s stoicism has never looked more appropriate. The cemetery scene where Wallach looks for the tombstone remains one of my all-time favourite.

Robert Altman meet Charlie Chaplin meet Douglas Sirk. Rarely has a film been so meticulously choreographed and so beautifully shot. Tati creates a magical and sometimes mystifying ballet for our senses where most elements in the frame seem to come alive and to play a role in a visual dance rendered all the more powerful and believable through a remarkable use of sound. The beautiful cinematography makes it at times difficult to dislike this ‘modern’ city, but the absurdity of modern habits and values is appropriately conveyed through the series of comic events that befall Mr. Hulot, who epitomizes the kindness and innocence associated with more traditional, suburban values.

There is much more to this film than just its stunning black and white photography and its beautiful images of dunes merging with the sky and of bodies melting in an embrace of sand and heat. Woman of the Dunes is the journey of a man (but it could be all of us) towards understanding and fulfillment. A magnificent look at how modern society is eroding the beauty that exists in even the smallest aspects of life.

Film architecture and design has existed almost as long as cinema itself. In 1976, Leon Barsacq argued in Caligari’s Cabinet And Other Grand Illusions that the fantasist sets developed by Georges Melies at the beginning of the 20th century were a considerable improvement over anything that had been done previously in that they created a deeper reality and gave the image a more substantial meaning. He further added that cinema escaped its primitive phase once it moved away from simple backdrops to three-dimensional sets, thereby creating an architectural space within cinema[1]. Post World War I, the German Expressionists fully explored this new architectural space through the creation of sets that attempted to reflect the inner emotions of the characters in the films. And David O. Selznik’s use of the term ‘production design’ in reference to the work of the American director and set designer William Cameron Menzies on Gone with the Wind (1939), finally helped film design and architecture gain the official recognition and visibility that has since become an integral part of the cinematic experience and of the output of most film industries.

Following fairly closely the emergence of production values in the history of cinema has been the rise and acceptance of science fiction cinema. It is indisputable that the two are interconnected and that a process exists where both feed off from one another. Cinema learns from architecture and architecture learns from cinema. As far back as 1926, many architects were said to have been impressed and influenced by Metropolis (1926). Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 (1968) also apparently became a source of inspiration for the world of architecture, with the director himself having sourced a lot of his inspiration from several existing architectural and design trends and concepts. Today, terms like ‘science fiction architecture’, ‘high-tech architecture’ or ‘cyber architecture’ are commonly used to refer to a new and ‘modern’ style of architecture that draws heavily on science fiction and new technologies. For many architects, ‘science fiction is an imaginative form of design’[2], making its visualizations worth studying.

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Like so many others, Tarantino recently mentioned Melville as a major source of inspiration, a fact that can be difficult to remember while watching Kill Bill but more plausible when one fully realizes the impact that Melville has had on Cinema as a whole. Leon Morin is a treatise on religion, faith and, perhaps more simply, on some of the things that make us human. Slow, intellectual, and formal, for film buffs only!

Ken Loach’s influential docu-drama, made for the BBC in 1966, is an emotional downward ride into despair. Extremely effective, it helped raise awareness to the cause of the homeless and that of housing conditions in Britain, considerably lower at that time than in many European countries. Unfortunately, the political agenda sometimes overpowers the film, and we can’t help but feeling a little manipulated…

Dark and negative endings have never been Hollywood’s forte. The fact that The Manchurian Candidate has one does not make it automatically a good film. Despite its reputation, and despite the acting by Lansbury and some very interesting shots, the film is nevertheless fairly standard Hollywood fare with over-the-top characters and little regard for plausibility or realism.

To attempt to define the exact meaning of realism would be a useless excercise, one that would be most likely bound to fail. Countless critics and historians have offered their own interpretations over the years, providing valuable insights into the subject, but succeeding only in offering partial explanations of the concept. Through this ‘extreme relativity of the concept of realism’[1], any effort to develop a universal definition of realism becomes trivial and secondary to the more interesting study of the various branches that a desire for capturing reality can engender in art and, specifically here, in cinema.
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Tales of madness don’t come any better than this. Catherine Deneuve’s pure and flawless beauty offers the ideal canvas, the perfect opposing force, and thus, starting point, against which folly and psychosis can be depicted and exposed.

Supposedly ahead of its time due to the graphic nature of some of its content (the removal of a dead person’s face to be ‘grafted’ onto that of a living), this modern Frankenstein tale has its poetic moments but is far from captivating.

Powerful, emotional, wonderfully acted (Albert Finney is outstanding), this is a landmark in British Cinema. With Lindsay Anderson and Tony Richardson, Karel Reisz set out to free British Cinema from its artificiality and concerns with subject matters that had little to do with reality. Saturday Night offers a superb example of gritty realism with its industrial north and working class settings, and the angry and anti-establishment attitude on the part of the main protagonist.

Richard Harris’ performance in This Sporting Life is as good as any as i have ever seen. There is more to this picture than the gritty realism associated with the Free Cinema or British New Wave directors. The troubled soul of a man trying to build something for himself is laid bare in front of us, his rage, loneliness and awkwardness a pitiful but fascinating spectacle to behold. Harris brings an intensity to the role which is deeply moving. Beautiful and poetic cinematography.

British Science Fiction cinema has always lived in the shadow of its American counterpart, either as a result of a direct effort to emulate an American style to enable the films to reach broader markets or as an indirect consequence of the fact that, since the 50’s, Science Fiction cinema has been associated with America, drawing on its rich heritage of comics and magazines.

But British Science Fiction cinema has in fact a much greater legacy than is often given credit to. Since the beginning of the 20th century, various British directors and producers have explored the genre, often taking it into new directions, pushing its boundaries, and drawing on the wealth of ideas and masterful works which British Science Fiction writers like H.G Wells, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Arthur C. Clarke, John Wyndham and Michael Moorcock have produced over the years.

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After the release of Dr. Strangelove in 1964, Kubrick set his sights on Science Fiction.

At that time, America and Russia were fully engaged in a space race that had already witnessed the first men (and woman) in space, and the first unmanned probes to the moon.

The first space walks were only one year away. But more importantly, in the context of 2001, theories abounded about extra terrestrial life and the possibility of ‘alien’ intelligence in the cosmos.

Kubrick was fascinated by this concept and decided it was time to make a serious film about the relationship between Man and the Universe.

He did not take any of the previous science fiction films seriously and was eager to create a vision that would be perfectly plausible and convincing. He enlisted the help of one of the most praised science fiction writer and scientific mind of that time, Arthur C. Clarke. They embarked on 18 months of preparation, with Clarke first writing a novel based on one of his short stories from 1948 (The Sentinel).

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While The Day the Earth Caught Fire was filmed and released in 1961, the idea first came to director Val Guest in 1954, two years after England detonated its first nuclear device.

He wrote an initial screenplay, which, in spite of Guest’s established reputation thanks to films such as The Quatermass Xperiment (1955) and The Abominable Snowman (1957), was turned down by several studios before finally being accepted by British Lion.

It is therefore within a context of 50’s and early 60’s cold war and nuclear paranoia that The Day the Earth Caught Fire must be appreciated.

Recipient of a British Academy Award for best screenplay in 1961, the film is in fact a very serious treatise not only on the foolishness of nuclear activity by scientists and governments, but also on the potential impact such activities could have on the climate and on social structures.

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Unearthly Stranger (63) is a remarkable example of solid and intelligent science fiction, reminding us that low budget is not always synonymous with cheap and funny.

John Krish, whose past credits included episodes of The Avengers and The Saint, was fully aware of the limitations placed on him by a low budget, and decided to do what Val Guest did in The Day the Earth Caught Fire (61), that is, to make a sci-fi film that relies on rigorous direction, serious acting, and sharp and clever dialogues.

The result is one of the best British sci-fi films of the 60’s.

The film includes superb performances by John Neville, who continued to struggle as an actor until 1988 when Terry Gilliam cast him for the lead role in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (88), thereby revitalizing Neville’s career, and by Philip Stone who worked with Stanley Kubrick three times in a career that included mostly television.
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