THE HOAX: intriguing drama hobbled by its own honesty

Reading the blurb for THE HOAX on the back cover of the dvd case does not encourage the production of a mouthful of anticipatory drool.

There’s little suggestion of action or excitement in the tagline “The unbelievably true story of the man who almost pulled off the biggest literary con of the 20^th century.”

The cinematic re-enactment of a literary con is not the sort of subject matter which lends itself to blockbuster box office business; and promoting it by giving away the ending before we’ve even seen the film doesn’t really help matters.

It’s not a great recipe for success.

If the makers of THE HOAX had not been so insistent on naked honesty in the promotion of their film it might have done a little better on its 2006 cinematic release. It’s not exactly an undiscovered gem but the story it tells is an interesting footnote in 1970s American history.

It concerns the legendary Howard Hughes, the eccentric billionaire who was introduced to a whole new generation of filmgoers by 'The Aviator,' and it’s doubtful that THE HOAX would have got made without that Leonardo DiCaprio-led rekindling of interest in Hughes.

DiCaprio’s film concludes its depiction of Hughes’ life in the late 1940s while he was still a public figure. THE HOAX focuses on the early 1970s when Hughes had become an enigmatic legend unseen by anyone for almost fifteen years.

This reluctance to show himself, and the myriad rumours about his bizarre behaviour which had sprung up as a consequence, are seized on by struggling author Clifford Irving (Richard Gere) and spun into an audacious scheme to make himself rich and famous.

In the fall of 1971 Irving marches into the New York offices of a respected publisher and announces that Hughes has commissioned him to co-write his official autobiography. He even produces letters signed by Hughes to support his claim.

Handwriting experts confirm the correspondence is genuine, and the publishing executives allow their visions of enormous sales (“This book will sell more copies than the Bible!” proclaims one) to override their skepticism that Hughes would choose this nobody to write his life story.

They quickly capitulate to Irving’s demands for a million dollar advance, and for the next few months he and collaborator Dick Suskind (Alfred Molina) lead the publishers and Life magazine on a merry dance as the pair invent Hughes story as they imagine he would have told it in his own words.

And as the tagline has already revealed, they almost pull it off.

It is difficult now to grasp the hold that Hughes had on the public imagination in the 1970s. Although unseen he remained a powerful presence in American life through his control and manipulation of a large number of big companies, many of which were household names.

His enormous wealth, hermit-like lifestyle and weird personal habits added to the mystique, and Clifford skilfully manipulated that mystery to make his project appear credible.

Gere is impressively understated as the ambitious author willing to go to any lengths to achieve success. Irving is not a showy part. He’s an ordinary looking guy who just happens to have a special talent for making the tallest tales sound plausible to otherwise intelligent and hardnosed business people.

Molina provides the comic relief as the nervy sidekick who allows himself to be swept along by Irving’s fantasy, and there’s an entertaining cameo by veteran actor Eli Wallach as Hughes’ longtime right hand man Noah Dietrich.

Director Lasse Hallstrom ('Chocolat,' 'The Cider House Rules') does an excellent job in wringing every last drop of drama out of what is not really a very dramatic story, and leaves us wanting to know more about Hughes and Irving. The DVD extras are, unfortunately, not the place to look for that information.

The “Making of” featurette talks too much about the film and too little about the real life people portrayed in the story, while the interview with Mike Wallace reminiscing about his “60 Minutes” interview with Irving in 1971 teases with some clips but never properly delivers.

Interesting in a low key way, THE HOAX is not essential viewing but it is most definitely worth the cost of an overnight rental.

THE PHYNX: an embarrassment of stars - and not in a good way

If The Monkees are QVC-peddled diamonique to The Beatles flawless diamonds, then THE PHYNX are the plastic, made in China, children's jewelry sold in large bins at the Dollar Tree store.
This bizarre 1970 musical comedy is very obviously designed to cash in on the success of the Pre-Fab Four but it's so bad it succeeds only in falling well short of that less than ambitious goal.

THE PHYNX are a manufactured pop group, comprising 4 minimally talented, totally charisma-free young men, who are put together by the SSA - Super Secret Agency - with the intention of infiltrating Albania and rescuing a bunch of American celebrities who have been kidnapped by the country's communist dictator.
Are you still following me?
THE PHYNX is badly written, poorly acted trash that doesn't even rise to the redeeming level of kitsch. This leaden satire is less funny than the least amusing 'Saturday Night Live' sketch, and Mike Stoller and Jerry Leiber - the men who wrote 'Jailhouse Rock,' 'Love Me' and 'King Creole' for Elvis - should be ashamed at the musical tripe they served up for THE PHYNX to sing.
But still I stuck with it and the reason was the supporting cast list. The kidnapped celebrities are actual celebrities! Director Lee H.Katzin has rounded up a 1970 Who's Who of old time Hollywood stars still upright, breathing and willing to prostitute themselves for a final chance to grasp for even a tiny portion of their former fame.
Cinema's most famous Tarzan and Jane, Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan are reunited for one brief scene; tiresome Bowery Boys Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall rehash thirty seconds of their tiresome schtick; and there's blink and you'll miss 'em appearances by Joan Blondell, Dorothy Lamour, Busby Berkeley, Andy Devine, Butterfly McQueen, Rudy Vallee, Edgar Bergen, George Jessel, Ruby Keeler, Joe Louis and even KFC founder Colonel Sanders!
Their plight as fodder in this third rate production is best summed up by Warner Bros veteran Pat O'Brien, who wearily turns to Marilyn Maxwell during the final chase scene (in a turnip wagon) and says "If only I'd played the other part I'd be in Sacramento right now (as Governor of California) and Ronald Reagan would be here." It's meant as a joke but the expression on O'Brien's face and the tone of his voice suggests otherwise.
A monumental embarrassment to everyone involved, THE PHYNX is about as close to unwatchable as it gets without actually turning off the tv.

THE SITTER: cringingly awful superbad comedy

Mere words cannot accurately describe the true awfulness of this alleged comedy.
Imagine a group of minimally talented amateurs getting the opportunity to write, produce, direct and act in a multi-million dollar mainstream Hollywood movie about a reluctant babysitter who takes his charges on a night of wild adventure through New York and you'll start to graze the surface of the awfulness.

I say minimally talented not to suggest that there are some glimmerings of talent on show here, but simply to acknowledge the fact that the boom mic stays out of shot, the camera doesn't fall over at any point, and no one blows their lines.
Star Jonah Hill should be as embarrassed as heck about his participation in this lazy, sloppy unpleasant smelling film. He can't blame the writer and director because this project is his baby. He's one of the executive producers!
What's even more explicable is that he made it immediately after his Oscar nominated turn in 'Moneyball.' That's self-inflicted reputation trashing on scale not witnessed since Cuba Gooding Jr's post 'Jerry Maguire' career.
Co-star Sam Rockwell should also be ashamed. He overacts so ridiculously he makes Hill look good in comparison - and Hill is not good in this film.
Knock off the T, E and R in the title, add in an H and you'll get a good idea what to expect from this turd.

THE WOMAN IN BLACK: a good old fashioned frightener

It's not subtle but it is effective.
THE WOMAN IN BLACK is the most genuinely scary horror film I've seen since 'The Haunting.'
That black and white classic from 1963 set a very high bar, and while THE WOMAN IN BLACK doesn't quite clear it, it does come impressively close.

Back in the day horror films managed to scare the bejesus out of us without resort to buckets of blood and gore and scantily clad co-eds foolishly deciding to split up to explore the haunted mansion/hotel/motel. THE WOMAN IN BLACK unashamedly follows in that older tradition, using manipulative devices that might uncharitably be described as cliches were they still actually being overused by the horror movie genre.
But they're not.
And, as a result, there's something refreshing in finding these tried and tested tricks still had the power to send substantial shivers from one end of my body to the other. There's the ghostly face at the upstairs window of an empty and decaying country house, a black-clad figure glimpsed just momentarily in an overgrown graveyard, the chill-inducing sensation that there's something or someone behind you in a deserted house, the face/hand/small animal that looms out of nowhere accompanied by the sound of screaming violins, the openly hostile villagers muttering inexplicable threats to the bemused outsider, mysterious figures emerging from billowing banks of fog etc etc. You know what I'm talking about.
It's more than fitting that this most retro of horror movies has been released under the Hammer Films banner - the studio that did more than any other to turn these scare tactics into cliches. Director James Watkins has created a film that is faithful to that heritage without feeling simply like a tired retread of all that came before.

In his first post Harry Potter role Daniel Radcliffe plays Arthur Kipps, a young solicitor in 1920s England who's dispatched to a remote coastal village to clear up the affairs of a recently deceased client who owned the aforementioned crumbling country house, located on an island accessible only by a causeway at low tide. Kipps already has more than a passing acquaintanceship with early death having lost his wife in childbirth, but even he isn't prepared for the smell of death which permeates the village.
Radcliffe acquits himself well in a demanding role (he's in practically every scene) and he certainly knows how to react appropriately to the numerous scares thrown at him, although I thought he was just a little too young to be entirely convincing, There's great support from Ciaran Hinds as the local squire, the only man in the village with a car, and the only person willing to assist Kipps, and there's some suitably creepy performances from various dark eyed, gothic looking kids destined to become the next victims of the titular lady in the dark garb.
Beautifully shot and suitably atmospheric, THE WOMAN IN BLACK is a solid piece of satisfyingly scary entertainment. I recommend it.

THE COMEBACK: easy listening singer in horrific movie shocker!

THE COMEBACK is one of those obscure, long forgotten films that's worth checking out not because it's an overlooked gem but because the concept is so bizarre.

What was it that convinced producer-director Pete Walker that the ideal person to star in this low-budget 1978 British horror movie would be late 60s easy listening singer Jack Jones?
Yes - Jack Jones. Mr 'Wives and Lovers.' The singer of the theme to 'The Love Boat.'
What was it about his bland singing style and inoffensive good looks that screamed "horror film actor!" to you, Mr Walker?
And what was it, Mr Jones, that made you say yes to this ridiculous script about an easy listening singer who finds himself tormented by strange nocturnal noises emanating from the gothic pile he's renting while recording his comeback album?
Was it the chance for a couple of decidedly tame sex scenes with the admittedly very attractive, pre 'Not The Nine O'Clock News' Pamela Stephenson?
Or was it the opportunity to explore new facets of your talent and spice up your comfortable, safe middle-of-the-road image?
THE COMEBACK definitely gave you the former but it did precious little for the latter. But that's not entirely your fault.
Even had you given a performance of Robert De Niro in 'Taxi Driver' proportions you would still have faced an uphill battle to save this film. THE COMEBACK never really recovers from what may just be the most boring first ten minutes ever committed to celluloid. If the intention is to build an air of mystery, suspense and fear it fails - completely and utterly. The only response it provokes is deep sleep.  
Indeed, an overwhelming sense of lethargy permeates the entire film. No one in the cast can rouse themselves sufficiently to breathe life into their one dimensional characters, or make even a half-hearted attempt to plug some of the most glaring holes in the plot.
While Jones doesn't embarrass himself as an actor he should be embarrassed about appearing in such a cheap, shoddily made production. Now that's the real horror.

NO TIME FOR COMEDY: and no chance of being entertained either

What do you get when you cross two MGM stars with Warner Bros sense of social realism and put them into a movie written by the two brothers most closely associated with the script for 'Casablanca'?
The answer is a deeply unsatisfying flop.

Rosalind Russell and James Stewart, on loan from MGM, are completely mismatched with the material, and the material is totally wrong for Warner Bros. By 1940 Warners had built a solid reputation as the studio which looked at life from the working man's point of view, which recognised that capitalism was not a perfect system but was still infinitely preferable to the alternatives, and which told it like it was. A Warner Bros film was most at home in a tenement, or a prison cell, or backstage on Broadway, and its stars spoke the language of the ordinary working man and woman.
Warner Bros was absolutely not about the sophisticated people or world portrayed in NO TIME FOR COMEDY.
Both Stewart and Russell came to Warner Bros hot off a string of successes, including 'Mr Smith Goes to Washington', 'The Shop Around the Corner', 'His Girl Friday' and 'The Women'  and one can only assume the studio was hoping some of that gold would rub off on this most un-Warner Bros-like production.
Stewart plays the ridiculously named Gaylord Esterbrook, an idealistic playwright from a small town in Iowa, whose frothy comedy about the upper classes becomes an unexpected Broadway hit. He gets hitched to the show's leading lady, Linda Paige (Rosalind Russell) and they live happily ever after until a patroness of the arts (Genevieve Tobin) persuades him to abandon his winning formula and write a tragedy instead.
The only thing less plausible than Stewart's rapid conversion from adorably naive bumpkin to jaded, pretentious artiste with delusions of grandeur is the ridiculous dialogue he's given to spout. He's palpably uncomfortable with the wordy windy lines written for him by Julius and Philip Epstein, and I got the strong sense that he didn't fully understand half of what he was saying. He disgorges words and phrases a Jimmy Stewart character just doesn't say. Director William Keighley and his superiors at Warner Bros aren't simply mishandling the Stewart persona, they're beating it to the ground and then giving it a vicious and prolonged kicking.
While Rosalind Russell is more at home in the New York society setting, her character is no more believable, and her super-cool laid back attitude to her husband's supposed philandering with Tobin's character rings completely hollow. The only member of the cast who emerges with any credibility is Charles Ruggles, wonderfully dry and resigned as Tobin's long suffering husband.
What's most surprising is just how badly wrong Warner Bros got it when they put their two borrowed stars into this project. No studio got it right 100 per cent of the time but Warners had a pretty good track record for matching stars with material and one has to wonder just what Jack Warner was thinking when he gave the go-ahead for NO TIME FOR COMEDY. The title is spot on - it's just a shame there's nothing else about this film that is.