Reviews

Michael Carreras often attempted to broaden Hammer's repertoire during his terms there and most of the company's artistic triumphs, and interesting misfires, can be laid at his feet. THE TWO FACES OF DR JEKYLL was a serious attempt to move the Gothics beyond the traditional limits expected of Hammer that failed due to the gap between intention and execution. Having pioneered SHE and ONE MILLIONS YEARS BC and put Hammer into the Summer family crowd pleaser market - and anticipating the modern Hollywood blockbuster - Carreras took advantage of hammer's relationship with Dennis Wheatley not to churn out another Black magic Chiller but a curious mish-mash of soap-opera, disaster movie, nautical adventure and sci-fantasy.

Eric Porter was hotter than a murder weapon at the time with his portrayal of the tormented, cuckolded Soames Forsyth on the BBC (and had become something of a sex symbol in the process - despite, or because of, his rough treatment of his capricious wife, Irene) so Hammer thought it worth taking a chance on him as leading man material - as they had Peter Cushing - instead of Christopher Lee or a fading American star. Porter was a top drawer classical actor - I had the good fortune to see his Malvolio in TWELFTH NIGHT at Stratford - and he has a convincingly craggy sea-faring face and a natural authority, and ain't half-bad as a man of action at the climax. His captain could give Cushing's Baron Frankenstein a few lessons in monomania - he fails to tell his crew (including, inevitably, Michael Ripper) about the dangerous cargo of Phophor B they carry. Having been beaten to the punch by Benito Carruther's sleazy character to sleep with Hildegard Knef, he cares very little when the man is carried off by an octopus. I doubt whether Porter lingered too long over the film on his CV but he's a first-rate lead and although he made an excellent Moriarity in the Granada series, might have been an intriguing Holmes. The women characters are unusually complex for Hammer. Hildegard Knef looked every inch a MILF and conveys the weary melancholy of a beaten-down woman who's had to compromise herself in the name of survival. Suzanne Leigh is one of Hammer's finest and most underrated bitches - look at the smirk she gives her hated father Nigel Stock when Porter berates him - and opens her thighs for anything with a pulse including the Sparks, Benito, and on-the-wagon Harry. Sadly, both fade from centre-stage at the climax - but there is compensation in the form of Dana Gillespie. We've suffered enough childish double-entendres with those gas balloons she wears for now, but she is a striking beauty and, as Hammer weren't overly concerned with the thespian ability of their ladies, it seems strange she never made another one for them - Christopher Lee could have sunk his fangs into her certainly. I suspect she's dubbed, but she certainly takes Harry's mind off the booze.

The plot structure is oddly similar to FROM DUSK TIL DAWN with the plot starting off as one genre and taking an unexpected detour in fantasy-land. Nonetheless, it remains a curio in Hammer's output (and an indication of what ZEPPELINS VS PTEROCATYLS might have looked like had it been made) and remains the guiltiest of pleasures.

Hammer's inevitable take on the classic Leroux tale has taken a critical pasting in recent times and did little to enhance Terence Fisher's career at the time. But it has aged nicely and stands revealed today as an interesting attempt to try something new in the Gothic genre before the clichés were set in stone by the decade's end. Nowawdays, its notorious for the fact that Cary Grant was reportedly lined up for the film. Whether he was to play the Phantom or the hero is left vague. I can see him as Harry Hunter charmingly wooing Christine in the cab, but Grant - accustomed to the sophisticatedly sexy banter of his Hitchcock films - might have baulked at Elder's generic on-the-nose dialogue. Edward De Souza acquits himself well in the role of the young hero - traditionally the most thankless role in any horror - and is a strong, charming central screen presence to hold your attention during the lengthy expository scenes. Heather Sears - accustomed to playing abused ingenues in films like ROOM AT THE TOP and SONS AND LOVERS makes an appealing Christine - she had to be more than the cleavage on legs of most Hammer starlets - and ideally cast as Joan of Arc in the opera.

Herbert Lom's voice is an instrument of dramatic beauty and is shown off to its best advantage when the actor is masked. The concept of the Phantom is flawed by having his as a disfigured composer out for revenge instead of Lon Chaney's deformed freak from birth. Chaney's Erik had a crazed, monomaniacal stalkerish quality with his Christine whereas Petrie sees her only as the ideal vehicle for his artistic ambitions. At times, he acts like a protective Father-figure for the heroine. Christopher Lee would have been interesting in the role - being able to mime-act behind a mask and sing opera - but Lom brings gravity and presence to the part. Of the rest of the cast, Michael Gough has his best Hammer performance as the lecehrous, opportunistic Lord D'arcey whose type can clearly be seen in the singing and theatrical profession to this day - as well as certain further education establishments. It has received some criticism for its alleged cheapness but, actually, to these eyes, it looks more lavish than many Hammers with location filming at Wimbledon theatre giving a grand sense of scale and the bustling London Streets outside full of convincingly rendered extras.

Its ironic that hammer's regular composer James Bernard never got to score this one film where music is so important. I wonder if Edwin Astley ever considered mounting "THE TRAGEDY OF JOAN OF ARC" professionally outside the confines of this film. The ending with Joan alone on stage before submitting herself to the flames is truly moving and we understand why Lom's Phantom sheds a tear.

The life of the egocentric one gets the big screen treatment - another feather in his cap, and one to put over Shanks, Busby, Mercer, Allison, Paisley etc. The fact he shares the spotlight with Don Revie would be his only disappointment. One may find the numerous anachronisms and inaccuracies distracting, i.e. Dave Mackay had left Derby before Clough and Taylor's resignation, and that 5-0 Leeds triumph came the year after County's championship triumph (or robbery as devout Geldard Enders would maintain) - I know, I was there that great day wallowing in revenge for the previous year's injustices.

Without resorting to caricature, Sheen effortlessly conveys Clough's rampant narcissism and hubris. His obsession with Revie is portrayed as something he needs to work out of his system before getting his life back on keel. Revie is depicted as such a cartoon villain that one is almost disappointed that he doesn't appear clad in top hat and black cloak, chuckling evilly as he twirls his moustache and ties Cloughs' two sons to the railway line. Colm Meaney is uncanny in his depiction of the Elland Road supremo and his face captures the haunted look of the man who must have felt the fates were against him at times. Spall seems physically miscast as Taylor but puts across the fact that Pete was Clough's often unheeded moral conscience - a fact illustrated by how Clough went to the bad in his later years at Forest when Taylor wasn't around. Jim Broadbent is every provincial businessman made good as Sam Longson who must have needed the patience of a saint in his latter years at Derby.

Occasionally, the script's pace works against it. Clough and Taylor have barely signed the contract with Mike Bamber when they're off to Majorca. It might have been better to have a scene or two showing their tribulations at Brighton which increased Clough's desire to snatch at the first decent offer that came his way. I still remember hearing the humiliating defeat they suffered at home to Bristol Rovers on the coach back from Elland Road on the radio - and the ensuing hysterical laughter. To think, one year later, we were laughing the other side of our faces.

I can't believe nobody has commented upon this already. It was shown once on ITV and everyone at school seemed to have watched it. Although Warren Mitchell occasionally allows Alf Garnett to show through, it's perfectly in keeping with the character since Fred Midway probably started out from a background like Garnett's. Unlike Alf, however, Fred has no intention of living under a dozen or so Prime Ministers and been poor under everyone. He is a ruthless social climber who will sink to any cheap trick. The opening scene is priceless as it opens on Fred laboriously writing a letter that seems to be about a bereavement but is, in fact, an anonymous letter to his boss implicating a work rival in an adulterous affair with the boss's wife. Promoted in his place, Fred embarks on a scheme to elevate his family (newly-moved out of his terraced house and into the suburbs) even further, in the words of the Scaffolds' title song "All the way up, and a little bit higher". A priceless cast of comedy actors helps along the fun with Richard Briers as one of the many chinless wonders he played during this period before The Good Life changed his career forever and the pricelessly pompous Bill Fraser. Vanessa Howard proves what a shame her career did not develop further owing to the collapse of the British film industry as she proved she could play sex kittens with claws in this and the films she appeared in for Freddie Francis and Amicus. One memorable scene has the squabbling Midway's realising that their neighbours can hear their noise and instead put on a great show of laughing - they attack the screen laughing manically - an image not easily forgotten. In the end, just as it looks as if Fred's schemes have come to naught, he latches upon the shapely figure of Valerie Leon's PA for boss Frank Thornton and comes upon the obvious conclusion - and the closing image of Fred laughing in triumph is a truly chilling sight. A shame the British film industry couldn't keep turning out low budget comedies like this unless they had TV connections.

Recently shown in all its sleazy glory on BBC 's British B season, this leans heavily on the Hollywood classic THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE - indeed Sandra Dore's character would aspire to the glamour of a Lana Turner. It follows the template of the hot sexy young wife using her hunky but dumb young stud to eliminate her inconvenient older husband but adds a few ingredients of its own. Marilyn tends be too whiny to be sympathetic and Maxwell Reed (a pin-up of his day) manages to convey the fall-guy mechanic's infatuation and confusion as his lover increasingly takes him for granted. The film throws in the added complication of the character of Rose who nurtures unrequited lesbian feelings for Marilyn but the actress's reading of her lines is monotonous and unfeeling - trying to be downtrodden, she merely comes across as vacuous and a bad actress. An unrecognisably young Ferdy Mayne crops up as a sleazy, flashy hustler who woos Marilyn with promises of the high life but skedaddles when she grows too serious. Best actor is Leslie Dwyer = Mr Partridge himself - as the cuckolded hubbie who comes to a predictable end. British B films ended to reflect the seedy down-at-heels side of England - mostly because they couldn't afford to gloss things up. In a way, they paved the way for the kitchen sink films of the late 5's- early 60's. However, they lacked actors who looked the part like Albert Finney and Tom Courtney. They had to settle for Maxwell Reed. Dwyer looks the part and inhabits his character more convincingly than the others.

I couldn't believe it when I heard the above saying from Lucan's lips as he thanked a woman. Though the film hardly operates on the same level as Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein, it passes an hour or two quite amiably. Bela is clearly happy to be back in front of a film camera for the first time in years - even a low budget British one - and he effortlessly conveys his old authority and a sense of fun - he comes across as an enjoyably hammy British version of a Batman TV Series supervillain. Lucan is relatively restrained in this outing compared to past ones. The splendid book VAMPIRE OVER London; BELA LUGOSI IN Britain indicates his personal troubles over his estranged partner Kitty Mcshane, and one can only wonder if this is the reason why. The duo's stage act usually climaxed in plate throwing and this is compensated for by a madcap crockery-crashing slapstick sequence with Bela's henchmen. Dora Bryan is a more than adequate foil for Lucan.

Editing necessary for MY SON THE VAMPIRE means we lose Lucan's one musical number early on in the film. Also, the romance between the kidnapped Loretti and her Naval officer is underplayed to say the least - he keeps getting bonked on the head by various characters. Graham Moffat is also missing from the print. The ending is curious in that we contrast Riley's madcap race to stop the Vampire enduring various crashes and appropriated forms of transport on the way while Von Houson is actually seen gunning down two constables - a bit strong for a juvenile comedy.

The immediate postwar period was a time of apprenticeship for celebrated British comedy stars like the Goons and Tony Hancock who were learning and honing their trade upon being demobbed from the army. By 1951, they were ready to take on the entertainment establishment and sweep aside the old stars like Lucan - in much the same way the Beatles and their ilk were ready in 1963 to change the face of the British music industry. The brief resurgence of popularity Lucan and Mcshane enjoyed prior to this film proved to be a last fling at glory. A whole new wave of innovative British comedy was ready to sweep them aside. Lucan was more truthful than he knew when - at the climax of this film - he sputters "This is the end!" Both Lucan and Lugosi were enjoying a last stab at greatness in an age where they were already anachronisms.

By the time this belated TV spin-off appeared, Captain Scarlet had come and gone and Thunderbirds was yesterday's news. Such was the shallow fickle values of us kids back in the 60's. I was very surprised to see this announced for production in TV TORNADO. I recall the vast amount of hype the original film received and assumed for years it had been a box-office success. However, the whole Anderson supermarionation empire was in its decline as fashions changed by the late 60's. Joe 90 was to appear to a less-than-rapturous reception and The Secret Service was virtually stillborn. At least Joe got his own comic and a Big Rat toy. All I recall of The Secret Service was a clip on Magpie and a Sweet cigarette picture card of the Rev Unwin. This might not have mattered so much if the Anderson's had learnt the lesson of the previous film. How many producers get the opportunity to make a sequel to a film that flopped? While the plot against the Tracey's by Black Phantom (is it really a suddenly vain toupeed Hood?) is a more satisfyingly personal drama as opposed to the Zero X launch, the whole plot is, again, a bog-standard TV episode dragged out with whimsical foreign interludes that exercised the model makers ingenuity but fatally kill any sense of pace. The finale of the Skyship delicately balanced on the aerial wrenches up the tension but is too little too late - and it drops onto a missile base for added pyrotechnic value. I recall some publicity being raised on national TV news by the live-action shots of the bi-plane roaring over an unfinished motorway. I suspect Anderson was more interested in these as a calling card to show he could handle live-action as opposed to puppetry so - like The Secret Service - this serves as a transitional film to the human-based melodramatics of the 70's with UFO and Space 1999. While Anderson could handle full-sized action, endowing his non-marionette figures with any breath of humanity often proved beyond him.

I well remember this from my childhood. It received quite a bit of hype at the time with a full colour photo story book and the story serialised in TV21. The cinema in Malton I watched it in seemed fairly well packed and I recall everyone laughing when parker respectfully took off his cap having dispatched the Hood in his getaway craft. Years later, I was surprised to hear it had flopped at the box office - especially when a sequel followed 2 years later. Looking back, I can see why. The opening of Zero X been put together seems to take forever as does the inquest afterwards. At least the otherwise lamentable live action film had the good sense to open on a rescue mission unconnected to the main storyline - Bond-like. Perhaps if the mission had been a more personal one for the Trace family - perhaps a trap set by the Hood to destroy them once and for all - it might avoid the understandable criticism of being a TV episode stretched out beyond endurance. As with the other films, the least interesting member of the Tracey family - Alan - is made the star. The Cliff Richard interlude is too obviously padding - why not go for the Beatles? Also, the small screen tends to be kinder to the often lamentable, rock-jawed dialogue than the big screen. Fro Four Feather Falls, onward, Gerry Andeson's series' functioned as small screen parodies of big screen Hollywood heroics. We even see Gordon Tracey's visible arm joins while he goes swimming in the Trace island pool. For all that, the climax with Alan hanging on for grim death to the undercarriage of Zero X shows that the Anderson's mastery of spectacle and larger-than-life action remains undiminished. Gerry should be rewarded for his unique contribution to British cultural life - as great in its way as Walt Disney's.

I recall seeing this on the BBC one Saturday morning and have never seen it since. The presence of Hartnell as a water bailiff was enough to spark by interest but he has few scenes. The bulk of the narrative falls on wily poacher Donald Houston as he is enlisted by enemy agents Anton Diffring and Alan Cuthbertson (not to mention Delphi Lawrence) to smuggle them across to Europe before they're arrested for murder - they shoot a security guard in the opening scene as they steal secrets from an office. A pleasant if unremarkable time-waster with a surprisingly brutal fight at the climax between Houston and the baddies - he gets the girl at the end. Its astonishing that such an obvious B quota quickie should attract such a decent cast but its a pity we don't have the film industry to churn out such films nowadays.

This film occupies a significant stage of Hancock's life and career - the moment it all went wrong. His first post-Galton and Simson project has gone down as the moment when hubris ran rampant and he fatally cast himself adrift from the totems that had secured his success. Hancock probably thought that a distinguished writer such as Philip Oakes was a step-up from Ray and Alan, but the art of TV comedy writing is a very difficult, considerably underestimated one. Galton and Simpson benefited from the break with Steptoe and Son but Oakes, and the others who followed, could not help but subliminally be influenced by their writing of the East Cheam buffoon, only - like those who followed Eddie Braben writing for Morecambe and Wise - their version was a shallow facsimile of the sparkling original that took the catchphrases but none of the depth or understanding. Whereas THE REBEL should nowadays be regarded as a minor classic of Britfilm comedy and a worthy glass display case of a considerable comic talent at the top of its game, THE PUNCH AND JUDY MAN is an interesting misfire. One can clearly see that Hancock was aiming for a more cinema verite style of comedy away from the Astrakhan coat and phrases like "stone me!". But the tone varies too much and the overwhelming sense of melancholy overwhelms the proceedings - especially when viewed in hindsight. Some gags are astonishingly vulgar and crude for the Lad Himself - the flowers up the china pig's orifice and the two-fingered salute. The scene with the boy in downing the ice cream sundae is worthy of Chaplin, but the one where Hancock dances about in the street and inadvertently wanders into a lingerie shop looks too much like inspiration running dry and devising a visual set-piece for the film's trailer. Elsewhere, the annoying of the Yaks with the hatches in the restaurant is a sequence that catches fire but the bread roll throwing at the finale falls flat (why not go the whole hog and use custard pies?

Instead of playing the overreaching buffoon with ambitions beyond his reach, Hancock played a character content with his lot in life - however trivial. He works well with Sylvia Syms and his comedic talents had yet to be irretrievably ruined by booze and his mental turmoil. But, even in the midst of the squalor that his later life became, it was impossible to dislike him and once can only respect the Lad Himself for attempting to broaden his horizons.

What can I say? My childhood favourite Marvel superhero gets a movie worthy of his name and is probably second only to Spiderman 2 as the best Marvel film yet. The offbeat, yet interesting casting of Downey Jr as Tony Stark - as offbeat as Kelsey Grammar as Beast - provides as character study that keeps you hooked through the expository scenes. Manchild Stark is sleazily likable enough and Downey conveys a jaded world-weary tone with his posture during the scene with the pole-dancing stewardesses. This is a man ripe for a fall and his scenes with the Afghans have all the urgency of an Oliver Stone movie. Yinsen is interestingly expanded upon from the Oriental original to an intriguing figure who gives Stark his heart back in more than one sense of the word. The original grey armour is plausibly rough-hewn and its nice to see Stark is a ruthless combattant who has no qualms about sending baddies off to a nasty end - how does that match with an Avengers oath. My one complaint is that there are few action scenes for shellhead. The story of how Stane develops his Iron Monger armour is a nice twist and Jeff Bridges - an unlikely choice for the main baddie - comes across as an intriguing variant on John Huston in Chinatown - outward bonhomie occasionally slipping to show the dangerously hollow man underneath. Gwynneth Paltrow has a gawky charm as the lovelorn but unappreciated Pepper Potts though I'm more of a Bethan Cabe man myself and the final clash with Stane is bog-standard - but roll on the sequels.

As much as Joe respected and idolised Spector, he would have resented the above remark. Spector worked in up-to-date state-of-the-art multi-million dollar studios in LA while Joe cranked them out from a 3-storey flat above a leather goods shop in a particular downmarketarea of North London. Spector concentrated all his efforts on a handful of numbers to ensure sublime pop perfection. Meek churned them out at virtually a rate of one a week (significantly, he produced few albums - even by his top-selling artists). That Meek thrived in the few pre-Beatles' years of the 60's is also significant. Rock n'roll was an indigenous musical form to the States - evolving out of native forms such as country and western and r n'b. In Britain not only was it a learnt form - so were the musical genres it evolved from. Everyone was trying to emulate America from a standing start and so it was hardly surprising that, with honourable exceptions like Johnny Kidd and the Pirates first few rockers and billy Fury's "Sound of Fury" LP, most of it was a pale shadow of the Yanks. Its main practitioners were callow, inexperienced kids - not the experienced, authoritative Jazz musicians Joe worked with in the 50's - so this was fertile ground for a man of Joe's control freak nature - and unbridled libido. Joe's music - without its roots in African-American musical forms - represents an intriguing dead end in British rock. When the Beatles and Stones burst upon the scene, rock was still a learnt musical form in Britain, but they had learnt it in greater depth and understanding as well as offshoots like Motown. A cursory listen to the 4 CD RGM LEGACY confirms that Joe really needed was a songwriter on the order of Jagger-Richard or Ray Davies - even a Reg Presley. He briefly kept pace with the Honeycombs joyous HAVE I THE RIGHT but - like too many of Joe's acts - they hadn't the staying power to capitalise on its success. The fact that the Tornados were prevented from a lucrative tour of the States by the jealousy of their co-manager Larry Parnes highlights the ramshackle cottage industry state of the British pop scene at that point in time. Who knows if the Yanks would have embraced Heinz, Roger, Clem, Alan and George as they did John, Paul, George and Ringo? Joe's main Achilles heel was his business sense. He had none. For all the hindsight criticism of Brian Epstein, the Beatles were all living in nice big houses in stockbroker belt by the mid-60's with few reported occasions of them sharing plate of egg and chips in a transport café as the Tornados did while Telstar was at its height. Joe's later freak beat recordings have passed into legend - probably because they reflected the increasing turmoil of his mental state. DIGGING FOR GOLD and YOU'RE HOLDING ME DOWN cannot be listened to without an awareness of what was going on in Joe's life (and head) at this juncture. He could have done with Spector's quality control. For every SOMETHING I'VE GOT TO TELL YOU, MY FRIEND BOBBY or EARLY BIRD that should have charted, there were too many that should never have seen the inside of a recording studio. Still, this excellent documentary was a worthy of Joe's life and - having enjoyed Nick Moran's and James Hicks' play - cannot wait for the film version.

Karloff aSt the Monster, Lee and Lugosi as the Count, Lon Chaney jr as the Wolfman, Cushing as the Baron and Tod as Fleet Street's most notorious barber! Certain horror stars are destined to be associated with certain roles and Mr slaughter would forever be identified with Sweeney Todd. Provincial theatregoers and the outlying suburbs of London could be guaranteed a welter of blood - or beetroot juice - whenever Tod came to town for a 2-week residency. By the 30's, he was established as a star turn, having British B films built around him - his old-school melodramas being mostly rewritten from their stage versions to prominently feature him - see Jeffrey Richards excellent article on Slaughter in the book THE UNKNOWN 30'S.

Despite the distancing device of a prologue and epilogue in a modern barbers, the film holds up extremely well. The sailor's battle with the natives at Trader Patterson's shows the grasp of the film's budget exceeding its reach. But all the staples of Victorian melodrama are present - the villain, the hero and heroine, the older man (usually a disapproving Father of the heroine) and a comic couple. Modern day audiences may feel decidedly queasy about the film's maltreatment of Tobias Wragg. Threatened and intimidated by Todd, cheerfully guzzling down god-knows-what in Mrs Lovatt's pies and forced to wear the heroine's clothes - he must have grown into an adult certifiable for treatment. The ending is contrived with Johanna rushing - unconvincingly disguised as a boy - to Sweeney's barbershop and being left to perish in the flames as the villain covers his tracks. Even more unlikely is the way Sweeney stays to watch his emporium go up in flames instead of fleeing with his riches, then rushing in for an ill-advised fight with Jack Ingestre (who adopts a convincing Yorkshire accent for his farmer disguise). The tipping chair was adopted to prevent us actually seeing any throat slitting but it results in a suitably ironic finale as the unconscious Todd is despatched to the inferno below. There is now an official Tod Slaughter website so log on and lend your support to the greatest villain British acting ever produced.

Forget Karloff & Lugosi. Forget Cushing & Lee, even Price and the Chaneys. Tod is king of horror for one very important reason - he quite evidently enjoys his work. This was the first Tod film I saw and - having heard so much about him prior to this - I feared disappointment. No worries. Despite the cardboard settings and woeful support cast, from the moment he strides masterfully in, we are in the capable hands of a classic film villain. The opening murder with the eerie wolf howl on the soundtracks sets the scene perfectly and then we are treated to an acting masterclass from the great man himself. Whether innocently acting the concerned friend, lecherously trying to sneak a kiss from the heroine, threatening his low-life confederates with a grisly end if they cross him or, worst of all, holding somewhat one-sided conversations with his demented foster brother, Tod holds the film together. The Chevalier is underplayed by Tod compared to Sweeney Todd - but seldom has one man wiggled his eyebrows to more sinister effect. It's a great pity that Universal studios didn't try to to entice him over for their classic horror cycle - Tod would've made a far more spirited Dracula than John Carradine in the later sequels and can't you just see him going toe to toe with Basil Rathbone's Sherlock Holmes. Shame nobody thought of putting him up against Arthur Wontner's in the UK. The double-exposure effects for the appearance of the "face" are well done for their time and the whole film compares favourably with the Universal classics of the period.

The production values are far higher than is normal for a British quota quickie of the period. The contrast between the spacious elegant rooms of the moneyed classes and the clutter of the Blind Rat - with a wealth of extras and charming Parisian detail such as the dancers - more than foreshadows the class-consciousness Hammer brought to its gothics a few decades later. So does the violent action with Lucien using an oil lamp to devastating effect - his disguise as "Renard" could have been a bit more convincing - and Tod making a sudden getaway by leaping from the window of the scientist's house and swimming the Seine to safety. John Warwick and Marjorie Taylor make an appealing couple - although Warwick is no match for Eric Portman in the earlier melodramas - and George King is improving as a director with a tightly edited montage of tense faces as the "corpse" slowly stirs into action to write its incriminating message. Tod is less of a central figure with whom we are expected to side with - even through his setbacks - as Stephen Hawke and Sir Percival Glyde were, but is still a marvellously blackhearted villain, as seen in his unsporting behaviour at the duel with pistols with Lucien. This is his finest film.