A Law Unto Themselves

Let me start by saying that every James Bond film, be it ‘good’ or ‘bad’ (for lack of a better term), is special. Since 1962's Dr. No, Ian Fleming’s famed spy has lit up the silver screen, not only awing and entertaining (for even the most frustrating of Bond films still have those wow moments of action, or those most entertaining one liners), but also holding a magnifying glass up to the then present day – analysing current issues (such as The Cold War, The Space Race, North Korea. . . the list goes on and on). . . understanding when to be more jokey or serious, it is a measuring stick of an historical document that speaks to what was on people’s minds in that specific year. Now, you might be wondering – why oh why review Roger Spottiswoode’s 1998 film Tomorrow Never Dies – for it is arguably one of the less magical efforts in the franchise. Being a fan of all things Bond, I recently read the film’s novelization, written by Raymond Benson (who wrote three novelizations during the Pierce Brosnan era, as well as six original novels, and three short stories). . . and was quite impressed by how entertaining it was (which didn’t exactly compute with my memories of the film).

Sequels are a fickle matter. Nearly impossible to match the original’s magic in a bottle, they tend to become a greatest hits of the previous effort. . . less story and more about outdoing the first film’s visual antics – attempted appeasement for fans and more fodder for its detractors. This is no different for 1982's Death Wish II (coming to theatres a lengthy eight years later), director Michael Winner and star Charles Bronson coming together for another vile look at the seedy side of big city America. Set two years after the original, Paul Kersey (Bronson) has uprooted from New York to Los Angeles. . . the architect finding love once more, this time in the arms of reporter Geri Nichols (Jill Ireland – Bronson’s wife and frequent collaborator – a whopping 16 times). His daughter Carol (Robin Sherwood), after the heinous acts seen in the first film, is slowly making progress with her doctors – at least uttering a few quiet sentences each week.

Every once in a while, a scene, or to break it down even further, a moment, forever captures the zeitgeist of the cinema world. . . more long lasting and memorable than the movie ever could be. By now, you may have already guessed that I am talking about the breezy subway grate blowing up Marilyn Monroe’s flowy white dress (cooling her down on a hot summer’s night) in The Seven Year Itch (1955). Funnily enough, the press generated from the scene’s filming in New York City (the excitement of over five thousand fans watching them shoot and then spreading the word. . .along with the risqué-for-the-time photographs that circulated around the world) brought people into theatres to experience a moment that could never truly match up with what was broadcast. . . for the Hays code would never allow the revealing extent shown before the release to be seen on screen – though that is not to say that it is still not a fabulous clip. . . and I’m here to also say, so is the film.

A night (or matinee) at the movies isn’t what it used to be. Now, we’re lucky if we see two trailers, the rest of the lengthy pre-show being packed with commercials that frustrate – bringing the atmosphere down several notches. Drawing your attention to what you would have seen circa 1940, you would have experienced a newsreel, followed by a live action short, then an engaging cartoon. . . all of this leading into the main event (the trailers running after the film’s closing. . . if you’ve ever wondered why they are called trailers, now you know). Flashing back to August 1940, air conditioned audiences would have witnessed the visual horrors of the war – specifically, the bombing of Britain (which started in July), these realities then leading into Alice in Movieland – a short depicting the dream machine that is Hollywood leading a girl to fame and glory (a fascinating watch due to its young lead – soon to be star Joan Leslie; How to Marry a Millionaire director Jean Negulesco’s direction [this a much earlier work]; and perhaps more than anything else, a screenplay written by young journalist Ed Sullivan – long before his rise to fame).

Ranked as the 17th greatest British film of all-time by the British Film Institute (and perhaps a bit more surprisingly, finding itself on the Vatican’s top 45 “great films” – in the “art” category), 1951's The Lavender Hill Mob, written by T.E.B. Clarke (winning him the Oscar for Best Writing, Story and Screenplay) and directed by Charles Crichton (A Fish Called Wanda), is a clever send up of the crime caper. Setting out to write an authentic crime story, Clarke actually went to the Bank of England, looking for advice. The Bank formed a special committee, the screenwriter asking numerous questions as they basically laid out the only way such a heist could work (by today’s standards, this seems absolutely ludicrous), meaning that, what we see in this 1951 feature is an accurate portrayal of what it would have taken to rob this iconic institution.