HOT RODS TO HELL: if, by hell, you mean watching this film

HOT RODS TO HELL is an absolute camp classic!
From the atrocious dialogue to the even more atrocious acting the film is a total treat from start to finish.
My particular favorites are the abysmal performances by the film's two veteran stars, both well past their prime and experienced enough to have known better than to associate themselves with this embarrassing B movie project.

Dana Andrews had made a name for himself in the 1940s as a stolid leading man in classics such as 'Laura', 'A Walk in the Sun' and 'The Best Years of Our Lives.' But by 1967 his best years were decades behind him and he was reduced to accepting parts like Tom Phillips, the emasculated father of a family terrorised by a gang of hot rod driving teenage yobs in the Californian desert. An earlier car accident has left Tom a frightened man, lacking both the courage and the resources to defend his wife Peg (Jeanne Crain), young son and teenage daughter from these young hooligans. In fact his manhood's so shrivelled there's not even fly in his pants!
The part's not much of a stretch for Andrews. Never one of Hollywood's most dynamic or expressive of actors, here he looks washed out and washed up. Even the very visible over-abundance of make-up can't hide his deathly pallor and bad dye job. But his appearance is nothing compared to his diction. For the most part he sounds like a man trying to speak while also attempting to keep hold of a pair of insecurely glued dentures. Some lines are so slurred as to be practically incomprehensible. Andrews had a well publicised battle with alcoholism and I wouldn't be surprised to learn he was in the midst of that war while shooting this film.
Co-star Crain makes a game attempt to match him with a delivery style normally only heard on particularly cheesy late night infomercials for weight loss products. Each line oozes an exaggerated fake sincerity topped only by her even more exaggerated reactions to the various dilemmas she finds herself in. Her acting is just so plain awful it's difficult to believe she was a seasoned professional gainfully employed in Hollywood since 1943. Her performance here would embarrass an amateur pantomime production.

Honorable mentions go to Laurie Mock who plays the part of the Phillips teenage daughter like a clueless actress responding to the director's off-camera coaching calls ("look frightened - more frightened, now look infatuated - more infatuated, ok, now look frightened again" etc etc), and Paul Bertoya as Duke, the least menacing menacing teenage hoodlum in cinema history. Quite what either of them saw in the other is beyond me.
Perhaps what's most shocking is that HOT RODS TO HELL was released by MGM - the king of the Hollywood studios! the home of Gable, Garbo, Gardner, Gene Kelly, Judy Garland and more stars than there are in heaven! That the studio put its name to this piece of exploitation trash says more about the state of American society in the 60s than the story it tells ever could.

PEOPLE WILL TALK: and talk and talk and talk..........

Cary Grant rarely made missteps when choosing his films but boy did he fall flat on his ass with PEOPLE WILL TALK.
It's an hour and fifty minutes of pompous, self indulgent, self-important, boring hot air.

Right from the opening titles this film screams "prestigious studio art house project" produced with the sole intention of demonstrating that, despite frequent appearances to the contrary, Hollywood  (and Twentieth Century Fox in particular) knew that culture wasn't spelt with a K.From the name checks for Brahms and Wagner, and studio head Darryl F.Zanuck's 'produced by' credit, to the three pages of explanatory text, it's obvious this isn't going to be just another middle-brow Cary Grant comedy drama. THIS IS SERIOUS ART!
It's also practically unwatchable.
Grant's portrayal of the slightly Christ-like, ludicrously named Dr Noah Praetorius is unforgivably dull. He regurgitates the ponderous dialogue in a flat,monotonous drone, and his tendency to pontification made me want to punch him in the mouth just to shut him up and wipe that expression of smug superiority off his face (which, by the way, is inexplicably tanned to a deep shade of mahogany)..That none of the other characters in the film reach this same conclusion is because they're all equally annoying.
In particular Jeanne Crain, as the object of his affections, matches him line for pretentious line of badly written, overly theatrical dialogue.Neither of them are remotely credible as real people - they're philosophical debates on legs.
Add to this Olympic gold medal-grade windbaggery a plot that is as confused as it is uninteresting and the result is turkey so unappealing not even the President would pardon it for Thanksgiving.