Reviews

Doris Wishman and her rival contemporary Russ Meyer shared somewhat parallel careers. Both churned out a fair amount of rubbish, but somehow along the way achieved an almost cult status. Indeed, both film-makers were honoured in 1988 when no less than Jonathan Ross interviewed them and discussed their work. In the case of Ms Wishman one must judge Diary of a Nudist as her key offering, a film that was regarded as just another nudie flick when it came out in 1961. However, on closer inspection, it now comes over as a wicked satire on both nudists and the nudist film genre.

Doris has a great time here poking fun at basic naturist psyche. For instance, in one memorable scene we see two guys relaxing by the pool probably discussing sports. A naked girl wiggles up to them and they politely, almost reluctantly, give her a few words. She slinks off and they get back to the Dodgers. No suggestion the boys are gay -- just standard emotionless nudists. Ironic that their names are Bill and Ben, since even the Flowerpot Men showed more imagination. Similarly, whilst new girl Stacy is being shown round the camp by the supervisor, she's introduced to Eleanor, John, Helen and Fran who are sitting on the grass doing naked flower arranging. Although it's explained that this is important for the summer festival, one does suspect that Doris has her tongue firmly in her cheek. The main method of having an exciting time here seems to be drinking coffee and throwing endless pebbles into the stream. Stacy is also introduced to a little girl called Phyllis, but how she was conceived is an unexplained mystery.

The other target for satire is the fundamental problem faced by every nudist film in 1961. Although most of the body could be displayed on camera, the "naughty bits" had to be out of sight, which led to all manner of cover-ups, camera manoeuvres and coy posing. So, when the girls emerge from the changing hut, we see waistlines covered by first a towel, then a folded blouse, followed by a hat, a shopping bag, a newspaper and lastly (running out of camouflage ideas) another hat. There's a bizarre game of volleyball between the shorts and the no-shorts. Needless to say, the shorts are filmed from every angle, but the no-shorts only from the back. And how those girls struggle to look natural while posing behind a bush (no pun intended).

As for the technical credits, these are quite impressive with attractive photography and good sound. However, since the cast are all amateurs, the dialogue has been post-dubbed at the famous Titra Sound studio in New York. A disconcerting consequence of this is that anybody who has just seen Hercules Unchained will probably notice that Arthur and Stacy have the same dubbed voices as Steve Reeves and wicked Queen Omphale. One must also give credit to the music score which is a delight, right from the bouncing title song (composed by Doris's niece) to the cool jazz for xylophone and brass that accompanies the sun bathing and swimming. If only someone had released this as a soundtrack album, it could have been a haunting classic.

An amusing postscript came to light when old episodes of What's My Line were later repeated. Camp owner Zelda Suplee (using her real name Yolande Reed) crops up in a 1953 episode, challenging the panel to guess her occupation. Witty panellist Steve Allen had already worked out the answer when he posed the immortal question, "Would the services you provide improve my eyesight?"

My first knowledge of this film was in 1961 when I bought the soundtrack album, issued in the UK by Philips Records. I quickly realised this was a truly wonderful work, but at the same time was puzzled how I'd missed it at the pictures. The label said 1959, so was I on holiday when it came to Derby? Enquiries with a local cinema manager plus BFI Information revealed that the film had not actually arrived in England, delayed by "problems." The official reason given was that it could only be premiered at London's Dominion where South Pacific had taken over for four years, and producer Samuel Goldwyn insisted on Todd-AO equipment which was only installed at the Dominion. This was a highly dubious explanation that didn't really stand up. Were they honestly expecting us to believe that the film cost seven million dollars, but they couldn't afford a couple of new projectors at an alternative London cinema? Fortunately for me, when the film finally arrived at the Dominion in October 1962, it simultaneously had a "test" road show at the ABC in nearby Nottingham. Being so familiar with the album, I was easily impressed by the Todd-AO presentation. However, when the film went on general release on the ABC circuit in May 1963, I watched it again at the ABC Derby (in 35mm) and couldn't really see any reduction in the visual quality. Mr Goldwyn's fears, if they existed, were quite groundless and would suggest other reasons for the film's hesitancy in England. In truth, the general release proved to be half-hearted and short-lived. The advertisements focused on the lively performance of Sammy Davis Jr ("Swing with Sammy," "Sammy Steals the Show"), but the problem for Columbia Pictures was that they were really trying to release the equivalent of Verdi's Aida, a musical masterpiece certainly, but never a crowd pleaser. Witness Porgy's run in Leicester, a city of some 300,000. The ABC Leicester didn't have any time for Porgy and Bess, so the entire Leicester population had to make do with a three-day showing at the independent Westleigh cinema, a couple of miles from the city centre. Many small towns such as Coalville, Matlock, Whitby, etc. didn't even get that. This all goes to show that the 50-year controversy about withholding the film from the public has been quite unnecessary. A normal DVD release would have been bought by mainly Gershwin fans and probably watched once a year as a special treat. The arrogance and obstinacy of the Gershwin estate has pointlessly elevated this film to the rank of "cause célèbre."

When I caught up with this film in Nottingham in 1965 it was being proudly advertised as "The Film with Only Two Certificates in England!" True, at that time only Leeds and Liverpool had passed the film with a "local X." The British Board of Film Censors had rejected the film on 30 March 1960, leaving small British distributor Cross-Channel (who also released Blackjackets) with the task of persuading as many local authorities as possible to pass the film for exhibition. Cross- Channel had an initial break-through when the film was chosen for the opening run at the new Compton cinema in London's West End. As a cinema club for members only the Compton did not need certificates and duly premiered the film on 16 November 1960. Personally, I found the film fairly harmless viewing even in 1965, although the story of two drifters ogling the bored housewife next door eventually became a bit creepy. Most of the local watch committees said no, but a fair few said yes:

London Compton – Wednesday, 16 November 1960 (British premiere); LEEDS Plaza – Sunday, 20 December 1964 and week; LIVERPOOL Essoldo (London Road) – Sunday, 4 July 1965 and week; LEEDS Gainsborough – Thursday, 2 September 1965 (three days); NOTTINGHAM Moulin Rouge – Sunday, 14 November 1965 and week; LIVERPOOL Jacey Film Theatre – Sunday, 19 December 1965 and week; LIVERPOOL ABC (Walton) – Monday, 16 May 1966 (three days); WAKEFIELD ABC – Monday, 27 June 1966 (three days); WEST BROMWICH ABC – Thursday, 29 September 1966 (three days);

The mini-release must have made a good bit of income since the distributor deemed a re-issue in 1969 more than worthwhile:

BIRMINGHAM Cinephone – Sunday, 24 August 1969 for two weeks; NOTTINGHAM ABC Elite – Sunday, 5 October 1969 and week; LIVERPOOL Jacey Film Theatre – Sunday, 7 December 1969 and week;

British film distributors in the 50s and 60s would often acquire a film banned by the British Board of Film Censors and then tout it round regional authorities to get it passed for exhibition locally. The most famous example was The Wild One (1953) where Columbia managed to flout the censor's ban by getting permission to open the film in Cambridge for three weeks, then Glasgow for five weeks, and at a number of other places. Even more successful were Eros Films who persuaded 181 local authorities to pass Garden of Eden (1955). The cost of arranging so many previews for councillors was far outweighed by the box office returns, with so many people eager to see a banned film.

Grand National Film Distributors thought they had a money-maker with Russ Meyer's Lorna (1964), rejected by the BBFC on 2 February 1965. Featuring Meyer's latest top-heavy discovery Lorna Maitland, the film is actually quite well made, by no means indecent and with an odd religious message. However, most councillors thought the story of a dissatisfied housewife who finds fulfilment with an escaped rapist unsuitable even for local adults, and the film was rejected nearly everywhere – until it reached Blackburn Borough Council. For whatever reason, their watch committee considered it perfectly OK for Blackburn folk to see Lorna do her stuff. And so, on 16 January 1966 at the Essoldo circuit's Royal Cinema in Ainsworth Street, Lorna was finally unveiled in public, probably the only time the Lancashire textile town had hosted a premiere. Disappointingly, the film ran only one week, and people were not coming from all over England to see Lorna perform. Undaunted, the distributors carried on touring local authorities and, in June 1966, tried to get the film passed in Southend-on-Sea. Essex County Council said nothing doing. Like Miss Maitland in the film, Grand National probably lost their shirts.

LATER SHOWINGS: After being banned in Southend-on-Sea, Lorna was later permitted a week on the Lincolnshire coast. Lindsey district council granted Lorna a local "X" and the film ran at the ABC cinema, Cleethorpes, from Sunday, 1 December 1968.

By 1970 Son of Spartacus (now out on DVD) found itself relegated to Saturday morning matinées, which is hardly surprising since Steve Reeves here seems to be getting twice as much combat duty as in most of the other Italian epics. So much so, one could hardly miss the kiddies re-enacting his many sword fights on the way home. Grown-ups too had something to admire, especially the eye-catching Ombretta Colli who conveniently gets shipwrecked with Reeves on a beach with her costume cut to shreds. This might prove an embarrassment to Miss Colli in later years when she went into Italian politics, no doubt hoping her voters would not remember her cheesecake days.

However, it is film music fans who have most to cheer, with a score derived from no less than three of the top Italian film composers. While Son of Spartacus was being filmed in Egypt during March and April of 1962, veteran maestro Carlo Innocenzi sadly died (on March 24). His stirring main title can still be heard in the M-G-M release, and it's an impressive full orchestral version of the slow execution march for Princess Elea in Goliath Against the Giants (1961). For the opening scenes M-G-M simply recycle Innocenzi's battle music from Goliath Against the Giants, but the opening narration is accompanied by the lovely "Glauco e Antonino" track from Lavagnino's Last Days of Pompeii (1959). For the rest of the score we get a mixture of new music by Piero Piccioni (a haunting desert tune and a rousing finale march when Reeves ultimately triumphs), plus some prior Piccioni material from Duel of the Titans (1961). The Italian language version (also available on DVD) is scored by Piccioni throughout, with a different main title adapted from "Amulio" in Duel of the Titans. Piccioni's entire score, including some unused cues, can be enjoyed on a CD thanks to those dedicated vault raiders at Digitmovies

A late straggler in the long-running "why naturism is good for you" cycle, this one is no better and no worse than its numerous predecessors. We see the same coy and careful posing by sun lovers trying to be actors, plus the usual flimsy story padded out to beyond boredom. The plot involves an American guy seeking his inheritance in Europe and meeting a new girl-friend who, inevitably, turns out to be a nudist. For comic relief we hear a running commentary spoken by a toy dog with a French accent. The film was in fact shot in France, then completed and distributed in the US during 1963 by genre specialists Beaux Arts Films Inc, though in spite of their name one would hardly call them a patron of "fine arts."

Nevertheless, this film has two remarkable features worth discussing. Firstly, the British Board of Film Censors would normally grant nudist travelogues an "A" certificate (suitable for children if accompanied by an adult), ever since their 1955 fiasco when an attempt to ban Garden of Eden was overruled by 180 local councils. For whatever reason the Board decided to withhold a certificate from Her Bikini Never Got Wet, so British releasing company Gala Films had to get the Greater London Council to issue a local certificate "A" in 1966 for London showings only. I caught up with the film in Nottingham on Saturday, 10 September 1966 where it was enjoying a respectable two week run at local foreign movie house, the Moulin Rouge. As in London, the Nottingham watch committee decided to pass it with a special local certificate although they were probably baffled why they were having to sit through such innocuous nonsense. The BBFC decision was quite puzzling…. unless someone on the panel regarded naked girls and talking dogs a bit of a dodgy mixture.

The second and more surprising aspect was the main title crediting the music to Hollywood composer Peter Rugolo. Why on earth, you might ask, was a reputable film composer scoring a cheap nudie flick? And just when he was about to start work on hit TV-show The Fugitive? To answer this question one need only examine the previous masterpieces from Beaux Arts. Sure enough, their 1959 offering The Naked Venus credits the score to Arne Hasse with a music sub-credit "mambo sequence by Peter Rugolo." There is no question that Beaux Arts were plundering Rugolo's stock music, since the composer himself seemed blissfully unaware that he was writing for nudists. Rugolo registered 364 titles at ASCAP and then moved to BMI where he logged a further 508 titles. Needless to say, The Naked Venus does not figure in either repertoire….and neither does Her Bikini Never Got Wet.

At 7:05 pm on Saturday, 1 May 1976, BBC 1 showed the complete and uncut version of Sign of the Pagan. Puzzlingly, this was probably the last time that anyone was allowed to see Ludmilla Tcherina's exotic dance number. For reasons known only to the Universal studios, that whole sequence has been deleted from subsequent television showings, both on American station AMC and Britain's Channel 4. Nor do DVD releases contain the dance, even though the main title still credits Kenny Williams as choreographer, leaving viewers wondering what he could have possibly choreographed. Most surprising of all is the 2011 German DVD "special edition" which presents both the original wide screen and 4 x 3 versions. Even here, Universal have cleanly cut the dance number from both prints and both languages.

For those who have never seen the sequence, Attila has just won the palace show fight with Herculanas. After that, the Emperor commands his sister, the Princess Pulcheria, to dance for the visiting barbarians. For the first 50 seconds she performs a graceful and dignified piece of ballet which the barbarians obviously find boring. Therefore, the Emperor tells a servant, "Advise my sister this is not suited to barbarian taste." So ordered, the Princess switches to a more raunchy routine that the visitors find much more enjoyable. This lasts about two minutes. Few genre fans would argue that, in both the Hollywood and Italian epics, the exotic dance interlude is something of a highlight. We get to see beautiful girls in eye-catching costumes, always accompanied by some classy music. Indeed, the ballet score we hear (or used to hear) from Salter and Skinner in Sign of the Pagan is arguably the best music they ever composed.

Universal obviously hope no-one's going to notice what they've done, but why did they do it in the first place? One can only theorize. Perhaps the film was cut at some stage to fit into a fixed television slot. Or maybe the dance was excluded to make the film more suitable for children's matinees. Then nobody remembered to put the scene back? A somewhat wilder theory is that it's a rights issue. Remembering how the Gershwin estate, not liking the Porgy and Bess movie, have tried for years to prevent anyone seeing it, could Ludmilla Tcherina and her estate have somehow bought out this dance scene and are now withholding it because it does not enhance her memory as a classical ballerina? But surely Universal, with all their wealth, would hardly spoil one of their classics just to grab a few dollars?

Whatever the reason, most fans will agree that missing scenes in movies are a continuing source of irritation. Come on, Universal, put it back!

Sign of the Gladiator was the first Italian epic to be released by American International Pictures. In 1959 their co-founders James H. Nicholson and Samuel Z. Arkoff took careful note how arch rival Joe Levine had purchased the Steve Reeves epic Hercules for just 100,000 dollars and then made millions. So, Jim and Sam picked up another Reeves winner, Goliath and the Barbarians, plus what was to become their first Italian offering, At the Sign of Rome.

Although this one doesn't have a man with a big chest, it makes up for it with a woman of similar attributes. Anita Ekberg plays the Queen of the desert, Xenobia (spelled with an "X" in the AIP credits), and the Italian costume designers were clearly under orders to ensure that her 40-inch bosom receives maximum uncoverage. The off-the-shoulder black evening gown that she seductively wears when arraigned before the Roman Senate could well be the same dress she wore in La Dolce Vita, made the same year. For younger viewers there is plenty of action and sword play, and the battle scenes were possibly one of the first occasions that stunt men allowed themselves to be set on fire. The hero suffers a spear straight to the chest, but in true western style he's as right as rain a few scenes later.

AIP decided that Sign of the Gladiator would make a more exciting title than At the Sign of Rome, even though there wasn't a single gladiator in sight. This difficulty was solved by re-writing the opening narration in which we are told that officers and generals of the Roman army were often recruited from the ranks of gladiators and that the foremost of the ex-gladiators was chosen to lead the army against Xenobia's hordes. Unfortunately, anyone who misses the opening narration will be waiting 85 minutes for a gladiator who never shows up. New York-based Titra Sound, regarded as the best dubbing company of all time, supply the English narration and dialogue, spoken by legendary voice actors George Gonneau, Peggy Lobbin and Norman Rose.

For the music score AIP would frequently bring in Les Baxter to entirely re-score the film from beginning to end. However, for Sign of the Gladiator AIP retained the original score by Lavagnino, except for the opening and closing titles which were re-shot with fresh footage. For the main title we see a scantily-clad showgirl dancing round a flaming altar, accompanied by Lavagnino's eerie music from the scene where the hero is tortured by thirst in the desert. To accompany the end title AIP made the bold (though hardly artistic) decision to finish with a pop song. "Xenobia" was composed by future film music giant Dominic Frontiere, with lyrics by Milton Raskin. The vocalist was the dependable Bill Lee who the previous year was chosen to dub the singing voice of John Kerr in South Pacific. American International Records released "Xenobia" as a single (AIR 501), but by way of an in-house joke named the backing group as the "Al Simms Sextet." (Simms was a senior executive at AIP and in charge of the music department). Milton Raskin had an unenviable task in devising pop lyrics for an Italian epic, but this is what he came up with: "Xenobia, lovely as the night / Eyes of misty light / Holding me close to you / Xenobia, lips of flame and fire / Burning with desire / More than I ever knew / Xenobia, hear me call to you from afar / I will go wherever you are / Will you open your heart? / For this I know – I am yours if you will command / Take my arm and you'll understand / What I knew from the start / Xenobia, do you lead me on? / Will my dream be gone? / Will it fade in the blue above? / Be mine alone, Xenobia, my love…."

This film may have started out as a serious historical exercise, but by the time Miss Ekberg and AIP had finished, it was a fun entertainment movie for all the family….and highly enjoyable. More importantly, the release made a healthy profit for AIP who were then able to buy up over 50 other Italian epics, many of them going straight to another company venture -- American International Television.

This vintage television series would be almost impossible to view these days, except that a single episode was released on a half-hour video cassette. "The Hapsburg Hare" was released in the US by Kids Klassics in 1985, and in the UK by Diamond Films in 1986. Made quite cheaply in Italy in 1954, the series comes across as a fun rival of the better-known Robin Hood series made in England. There are the usual fights and duels, nothing too violent, and the beautiful ladies get chased a lot, but never caught. A mainly American and English cast take the main roles, although local star Domenico Modugno (of Volare fame) plays Athos. (Some sources indicate his lines were dubbed by George Gonneau – the future voice of Steve Reeves. Trouble is, every time Athos speaks he seems to be in another studio!).

In this episode the lovely Dawn Addams is a guest at the French court and a favourite of King Louis, but this does not please the jealous Queen Anne who utters the opening line, "What is SHE doing here?" The Three Musketeers are ordered to escort the lady back to Spain where the King can't get at her. However, her wily charms are considerable and, after giving Athos the slip, she then puts Porthos (Sebastian Cabot) to sleep by brewing him some "flower wine" – made from poppies. It's left to D'Artagnan (Jeffrey Stone) to finally outwit the femme fatale who admits, "You are much cleverer than your friends." The whole thing is a modest, but pleasant way to idle away 25 minutes and one wouldn't mind the opportunity to see some of the other 38 episodes.

Like the English series at that time, The Three Musketeers had a rousing title song, but unfortunately on this video transfer the lyrics are indecipherable, so we can't join in. The love theme by legendary Mario Nascimbene is certainly one of the composer's most beautiful, so much so that he repeated it in both The Bacchantes (1961) and Swordsman of Siena (1962). The entire music score was composed in advance, library fashion (rather than episode by episode) and Nascimbene recounts in his autobiography how daunting was the task to write 13 hours of music in little over a month, "a murderous period of work, squeezing from my brain and imagination every last musical crumb." To make matters worse, when the music was recorded by the Cinecittà Cinefonico the air conditioning at the Rome studios broke down and the summer temperatures in 1954 turned to sweltering. Top conductor Franco Ferrara, never well at the best of times, had a tough enough time, but it was Mario's copyist Donato Salone who finally had a temporary break-down. He managed to mix up all the cue sheets so that while the flute was performing the theme for the self-centred damsel, the percussion embarked on the attack of the castle; then, while the strings were accompanying the love song, the bass tuba announced the tyrant was dead! All in all, just your average day at the Rome film studios….

Of all the Italian epics, this rarely-seen example would appear to be the most forgotten and the least acclaimed. On the face of it the film's credentials are highly impressive: the story is a broad re-make of Fabiola whereby a rich Roman lady is led to believe the Christians were responsible for the murder of her father. Italy's top costume villainess Gianna Maria Canale displays her customary icy exterior whilst harbouring a secret inner passion for Spanish hunk Jorge Mistral (although neither probably knows what the other is talking about). Albertini's cinematography is visually stunning in rich colour, which has been faithfully transferred to the Cine Epico DVD in its original 2.35:1 TotalScope. The sets certainly look magnificent, if just a tiny bit suspiciously wooden, and the costumes are top of the range. For the music score the producers have persuaded distinguished composer Enzo Masetti (who also did Fabiola) to return for the re-make. And at the opulent palace in Tarsus we are treated to an energetic display by an African ballerina, then Marisa Allasio sings (or at least mimes) a lovely Carthaginian aria in Italian. So, with all this class around him, there can surely be no way for veteran director Guido Brignone to turn out one of the turkeys of 1956? Somehow, he can and he does. One could easily blame his pedestrian pace or the static camera work, but the real killer blow is Brignone's failure to stamp any authority or care on the proceedings. The resulting lack of attention to detail is noticeable as early as the main title. Masetti opens with his eloquent and sombre music for the Christians labouring on the treadmill, but the main title designer chooses a pretty desert sketch with palm trees, which would be fine if we were watching The Road to Morocco. The heroine Lea is blinded by a white-hot sword in the dungeons and spends the rest of the picture stumbling around. However, apparently thanks to some anachronistic plastic surgery in ancient Tarsus, her face shows no sign of burns or scarring whatsoever. Somebody seems to have decided that Brignone's direction of one of the sword fights was too sluggish, so we see it speeded up like in the old cliffhanger serials. The goofs just go on and on. Gianna Maria Canale meets her end being trampled to death by horses with earth spectacularly churning into the camera lens. But, when the poor lady rolls over dead, her clothes are spotless and her face has just a couple of token dabs of red paint. Towards the end Masetti runs out of time or enthusiasm (or both) and recycles his battle music from Attila the Hun. Ironically, it's only the ending when the film really comes to life. There's a well-staged chariot race to the beach where hero and villain fight it out to the death on the sands. Flavius Metellus, up to then intelligently portrayed by fine actor Rubén Rojo, elects to theatrically fall on his sword. Then, against a grand choral finale, the Christian lovers walk off into God's sunlight, but the whole thing is ruined by the end-title again using the Hope-Crosby backdrop. One is inevitably left with the conclusion that Slave Girls of Carthage, with so much talent to admire, should have been a lot, lot better.

When I saw this film in Nottingham in 1964, little did I realize that I was one of the privileged few British cinema-goers who would ever get the chance to view it. The film ran into some truly puzzling censorship and distribution problems. United Artists were apparently hoping for a mainly juvenile audience, but when it went before the British Board of Film Censors on 16 July 1963 it was saddled with an "X" certificate for adults only, unlike Jason and the Argonauts which was granted a "U" for general exhibition. UA changed the British release title to St. George and the 7 Curses, but the distributor seemed to manufacture hardly any prints and the film was unseen in most towns and cities. Unusually, there was no premiere, no press showing and no newspaper reviews. Even more unusual, given that the film was being shown to the public in cinemas, was the fact that it was not announced in either the Monthly Film Bulletin or Kinematograph Weekly. The Rank Organization gave the movie a couple of test showings, running it for a week at their Mechanics cinema in Nottingham from 24 May 1964 (just a fortnight before closing it down). A Midlands television crew, reporting on the controversy, asked people coming out if they found it scary. Although Vampira's transformation into a withered old hag was mildly horrific, and the ogre looked a bit of a beast, nobody admitted to being the slightest bit frightened. Indeed, Jason and the Argonauts was judged more frightening because the special effects were better. The only possible explanation for the British censor's categories was that he based his decisions on mood rather than content. Whereas Jason came across as straight mythological adventure, St. George seemed to be trying to mix together the slapstick (Sybil brewing potions with her conjoined stooges) and the gruesome (two knights wandering into the desert and having their faces burned off). St. George and the 7 Curses later had a week's run at the Bradford Gaumont from 13 December 1964, but really the vast majority of British film-goers had no idea it even existed.

2017 UPDATE – Since this article first appeared in 2007, I have been indebted to movie fans, film societies, librarians and even retired projectionists for throwing more light on United Artists' erratic release of St George and the 7 Curses. Whilst it is true that the original 1964 release on the Rank circuit was tiny (week-long engagements in random places like Aberdeen, Bradford, Brighton, Nottingham, Portsmouth and York), the film did enjoy a humble afterlife when it was made available to suburban independents. Unfortunately, it regularly seemed to finish up in end-of-the-road cinemas that were earmarked for demolition. The distribution had a curious regional bias with some counties not seeing the film at all, whilst Yorkshire had showings everywhere, even in the small mining villages of Thurnscoe and Woodlands. Often the film was used as a programme filler to support UA's newer releases, notably A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS in Atherstone and Tamworth, THE Satan BUG in Coventry and Kenilworth, I'LL TAKE Sweden in Coalville, Doncaster and Selby, TOM JONES in three Leicester suburbs, WHAT'S NEW PUSSYCAT in Fenton, RETURN FROM THE ASHES in Cannock, Filey, Ibstock and Uttoxeter, BILLION DOLLAR BRAIN in Earl Shilton, and KISS ME STUPID at London's Biograph. With effect from mid-1967 and into the 1970s, United Artists delivered the final humiliation by relegating St George to the Sunday circuits where he played one night stands in suburbs of Birmingham, Bristol, Glasgow, Leeds and Stoke, as well as desert outposts such as Alfreton, Eccles, Heanor, Irvine, Kilmarnock, Melton Mowbray, Oakham, Retford, Ripley, Rugeley, Skegness, Sleaford, Swadlincote and Tadcaster. United Artists clearly had very little respect for the patron saint of England, but at least we now know that this wasn't quite the Smallest British Release of All Time!

Several reviewers have noticed a similarity between Roberto Nicolosi's love theme for Black Sunday and Les Baxter's for the re-score. Baxter, in a 1981 interview, stated that it was the decision of AIP president James H. Nicholson to have their Italian imports re-scored, mainly because Nicholson was dissatisfied with the sound quality of the recordings sent over by the Rome studios. Baxter considered he had improved the recording fidelity, but emphasized that he made no claims to have improved on the original Italian composers. Indeed, Nicolosi's haunting love theme not only became the starting point for Baxter's version (beginning with the same eight notes in a lower key), but the same variation also became the title track for Baxter's orchestral album Jewels of the Sea recorded at Capitol Records on 30 November 1960. Judging from the quality of Nicolosi's and Baxter's scores for the Italian epics (The Giant of Marathon and Goliath and the Barbarians respectively), it seems unlikely that either composer would need to plagiarize the other. One final piece of trivia: fans of Baxter's score for Black Sunday can hear the whole score, remarkably, on soundtrack album BAX LB 1000, Tony Thomas's 1981 release of the Black Sabbath score, another movie scored first by Nicolosi and then re-scored by Baxter. Owing to a mix-up with the tapes from Bax Music, Tony sent the Black Sunday score out with a Black Sabbath label, cover and sleeve notes…surely one of the greatest blunders in recording history!

This is a highly entertaining Italian epic -- provided that you watch it for fun and not as a history lesson. The real Genghis Khan, historians tell us, was responsible for the deaths of some 20 million people, roughly a tenth of the known world, but in this version Roldano Lupi, bewhiskered and benign, comes across as a sort of Mongolian Father Christmas. As his evil son, Ogotai, Jack Palance has the time of his life dispensing cruelties and whippings with his usual leering relish, but he also imbues his role with a certain depth of character. Palance, carrying on where his maniac charioteer in Barabbas left off, is easily the best actor on show and more than anyone else holds the film together. By contrast, his leading lady is simply hilarious. "We Mongols..." says Anita Ekberg, looking exactly like Anita Ekberg and soon to go for a nude swim in the local river – shamelessly cashing in on her popular performance in La Dolce Vita where she waded into the Trevi Fountain. Her incongruous appearance is explained away by the fact that the Mongols abducted her from her homeland, but one wonders whether they acquired her from modern-day Sweden. Star Trek fans will be pleased to see Lawrence Montaigne, alias Spock's love rival Stonn, in an early role as an ally of Prince Stefan. (Italian references wrongly credit him as the King of Poland, but he's actually the one who changes clothes with Stefan to fool the Mongols). The remarkable score – not too well transferred in the American prints – is by film music legend Mario Nascimbene who has evidently tried to repeat the barbaric qualities of The Vikings. In his autobiography Nascimbene explains that the harsh percussion for The Mongols was achieved using ordinary household utensils. He even toured the Rome shops asking if they had a casserole dish in F-sharp or a frying pan in D-flat, and he was perhaps lucky to get out before they rang for the white coats. Back at the recording studio, conductor and friend Franco Ferrara was well accustomed to these musical eccentricities and asked if the RAI Sinfonica was always going to have a kitchens department? However, one must admit that the final score is both magnificent and ingenious. Dino Solari's choreography for the Mongol court is surprisingly erotic for its day, but disappointingly the US version has some clumsy cuts to exclude the bit where one of the male dancers gets astride and rolls round the floor with a scantily clad girl dancer. Adult ballet fans can see the uncut version on the French video release from Film Office Peplum. The battle scenes, where the Mongols are outwitted into entering a swamp where they all drown, were obviously filmed in two places. We begin in Yugoslavia where the location scenes were shot, then minutes later cut to the studio tank in Rome. Only the Italian epics can get away with this, of course, and all in all, this is a movie full of rich pickings. As long as you aren't expecting to see Henry V, it's a diverting way to spend a couple of hours.

Little seen outside Italy until its recent DVD release, this is an unusual little war film and well worth a look. The story concerns those lucky Italians who were sent to help Germany invade the Soviet Union in 1941. This seems to have been done mainly on horseback, so the resulting film is a bit like an Italian version of The Horse Soldiers, only set in Russia. The cast is excellent, and predictably we see a lot of clowning around between battles, with squeaky-voiced Gigi Reger doing a passable Chaplin, and Domenico Modugno (who later had a hit with Volare) entertaining on the guitar. Some of the Russian snow looks a bit powdery, which is understandable since the film was shot entirely at the Titanus studios in Rome. The plot is interesting and sometimes moving, even if a little implausible in the way the Russian villagers make friends with their Italian invaders. Kalina, played by the striking Tania Weber, begins by trying to machine-gun Captain Valli from the top of a bell tower, but minutes later she can hardly stay away from his sleeping quarters. Then there's a singalong where the guests perform Song of the Volga Boatmen in Italian followed by the hosts returning the favour with O Sole Mio in Russian. Everyone's buddy-buddy until those nasty Nazis come along to remind the Italians whose side they're supposed to be on. The final "heroic charge" of the title, which took place at Isbuschensky on 24 August 1942, is quite impressively staged, though clever editing is needed to disguise the budget limitations. It's touching to read in the credits that the horse Albino, who survived the charge but was blinded, was later honoured with a pension for life and looked after at a home for blind war veterans. The dedicated staff at Istitute Luce have obviously provided the best print available, and it's a fair copy save for a few wobbles on the music track. This is unfortunate since Enzo Masetti, as we now expect, has turned in another impeccable score, nicely mixing in Italian and Russian folk melodies with spectacular battle music and marches. Previously known only for Attila and Hercules, this composer's scores are gradually becoming more available, and evidence is mounting that he was very probably the best Italian film composer of them all.

I watched "The Man Who Heard Everything" only once, nearly 50 years ago, and have never seen it since, but it was one of those extraordinary tales that once seen can never be forgotten. From the Douglas Fairbanks series commissioned by NBC, it was made in England, but premiered in America in 1954. I just happened to see the first English screening on Tuesday, 10 April 1956 at 4pm on the newly opened Midlands ITV region. (I was eight, my sister was four). The half-hour story begins with Michael Gough driving along while eating a bag of sweets. He bends down to see if any are left in the bag, and crashes the car. Awaking in hospital he discovers that his powers of hearing have phenomenally increased. Visiting wife Brenda Bruce has to talk in whispers, and even the rustling of flowers is deafening. Returning home, he has to wear muffling around his head and fix mattresses round the walls to keep out the noise. The condition worsens, but the problem is not so much the volume as the "filtering through" of sounds from far away. He hears people talking in different languages from miles away, even whole countries away. Eventually --- and this is real twilight zone stuff --- he picks up the voice of a desperately lonely woman communicating to him from another planet. Luckily, crazy ear doctor Lloyd Pearson invents an operation to cure the problem, but right up to surgery the E.T. lady pleads with her would-be lover not to desert her. The writer of this forgotten masterpiece was Lawrence B. Marcus (aka Larry Marcus) who many years later would become an Oscar nominee, but this was surely his best story. Even though it was watched by an impressionable 8-year-old and would no doubt seem a bit creaky today, it still takes some beating to be remembered vividly after half a century. If anyone does get the chance to see this again, please make allowances for the fact that my review was written 50 years after the viewing!

Before directing the Italian epics, Pietro Francisci began his career with a series of documentary shorts, including this lively little film about the production and distribution of Italian newspaper "Il Popolo d'Italia." After a busy opening montage sequence following the paper's journey by van, train, aeroplane, bicycle and paperboy, we then go back to the start of the daily cycle. Reporters, editors, typesetters and typists join forces in what can only be described as frenzied activity to meet the strictly observed deadline. Finally, the presses roll, and every stage of production is accompanied by a masterful and haunting score from top Italian composer Enzo Masetti. Unfortunately, in spite of these superior production qualities, the film suffers from one overwhelming blemish. The SPECIAL EDITION of the title is being published to inform an attentive and apparently loyal population that Italy has entered the war. It is 1940, and all Italian newspapers are obliged to pay homage to Benito Mussilini. Not

only that, "Il Popolo d'Italia" was actually founded by Mussolini himself and is the official newspaper of the Italian Fascist Party. Even worse, not only is "Il Duce always right," but so are his new friends in Germany. The ending of the film is a total jaw-dropper: Masetti provides one of his heavenly choruses to sing a joyful finale, whilst on the screen we see Italian flags and swastikas billowing together against the sky, with a few words of wisdom from Il Comandante Supremo. In later years, when war documentaries were forgotten, Francisci and Masetti would team up again on hit peplums HERCULES (1957) and HERCULES UNCHAINED (1959). However, one can only wonder if they lived in some slight dread that one day skeleton-in-the-vaults SPECIAL EDITION would come back to haunt them.

As part of their season "Sit Back and Listen: Composers who Scored for Film," the Imperial War Museum in London are showing this rare documentary all this week at their excellent museum cinema. The film's main claim to fame is that it was the first ever score by film music legend 'Clifton Parker'(qv) who in later years would score more expensive war classics such as _Sink the Bismarck!(1960)_(qv). Depicting the battle training of a group of Canadian soldiers, this little short is standard Ministry of Information propaganda of the time, although it has the advantage of the Canadian rookies acting slightly better than the usual bad amateurs we see in these why-we-fight efforts. Parker's first score has its moments and is conducted by the ever-present 'Muir Mathieson'(qv) who indeed went on to conduct Parker's last score 24 years later.

Although the Italian cinema of the 1960s was noted for taking light-hearted liberties with history, this one beats the lot. Spartacus, who died in 71 BC, somehow returns to thwart a Nero impersonator in 68 AD. Maybe this Spartacus was a namesake, or even another descendant. We've already seen Steve Reeves as the Son of Spartacus, so was Peter Lupus supposed to be playing his Great-Great-Grandson? This was one of four Italian epics churned out by Lupus (alias Rock Stevens) the year before moving on to Impossible Missions, and at times the movie looks like it was made in a big hurry. The action and performances are quite good, and Piccillo's music adds a touch of class, but it's the fascinating plot that grabs the attention. Who would have thought that while Robert Taylor was deposing Peter Ustinov in Rome, over in Thrace young Kirk Douglas was helping General Galba to be the next emperor? Comic book history, of course, but still a lot of fun.

The BFI should be congratulated for restoring this previously unavailable little masterpiece, arguably the best train documentary ever made. The story of Blue Pullman's "maiden voyage" from Manchester to London is presented in vivid colour with stylish editing. After a short preamble showing the boffins at work on final trials and checks, the train gets under way with many beautifully photographed sequences shot from the air and from the driver's cab.

The master stroke, however, is the decision to dispense with the usual commentary, thus enabling the viewer to hear every note of Clifton Parker's joyous score, (why aren't CD producers fighting amongst themselves to release it?).

Perhaps the only fault with the film is that Blue Pullman, with its luxury fittings and heavenly dining car, comes over as looking a bit too beautiful -- nobody remembers dingy old British Railways looking anything like this! That apart, this is a highly enjoyable way to spend 26 minutes, so much so that one is quite sad when the journey comes to an end.