THE TOWERING INFERNO 1974

"Did you leave a cigarette burning?"

Here in L.A., one of our tallest downtown skyscrapers has an attraction that allows visitors to ride a slide from its 70^th to 69^th floor: an enclosed, apparent glass slide attached to the outside of the building. In other words, one gets to pay for the privilege of crapping one's pants 1,000 feet in the air.

But back in the '70s, those of us in search of less first-hand high-rise thrills were happy to content ourselves with The Towering Inferno: producer Irwin Allen's $14 million follow-up to his wildly successful The Poseidon Adventure (1972). It was 1974, and the disaster film craze was in full swing. October saw the release of Airport '75 ("The stewardess is flying the plane!"); November gave us Earthquake ("In Sensurround!"), and we saw the year out with the big  December Christmas release, The Towering Inferno.

Everything about The Towering Inferno was a one-upmanship of the standard disaster film. It was adapted from not one, but two novels (The Tower by Richard Martin Stern & The Glass Inferno by Thomas N. Scortia and Frank M. Robinson); it boasted two directors (John Guillermin for the acting, Irwin Allen for the action); and was such a massively expensive undertaking that it brought about the historic collaboration of Warner Bros. and 20^th Century-Fox (successfully circumventing a replay of the "Dueling Harlows" situation of 1965 when competing studios raced to release two films about actress Jean Harlow at the same time). The Towering Inferno was to be Hollywood's heavily-hyped holiday season release, promising to be the ultimate "Big, Bigger, Biggest!" cherry atop the disaster film catastrophe cake.

And, as it turns out, The Towering Inferno—which garnered eight Academy Award nominations and became one of the year's highest-grossing films—did indeed represent the genre at its peak. Its sheer scope, star-wattage, and pull-out-the-stops excesses signifying perhaps the most to which the genre could ever reasonably aspire. Its ambitious scale and overall professional (albeit, old-fashioned) competency standing as something of a bellwether for the genre's eventual decline into oversaturation, mediocrity, and unintentional self-parody.

"It's out of control and it's coming your way!"

Truer words were never spoken. On the evening of the gala dedication ceremony for The Glass Tower—San Francisco's newest skyscraper and the tallest building in the world—an electrical fire breaks out in a utility room (Building developer: "You're not familiar with the many modern safety systems we have designed into this building"); faster than you can say "Titanic," all hell breaks loose…literally. To quote the film's ad copy, "One tiny spark becomes a night of blazing suspense" as 300 well-heeled revelers in highly flammable '70s synthetics become trapped on the building's top floor with nothing but Maureen McGovern for entertainment, and ever-diminishing options available for escape. What to do? What to do?

Panic at the Disco

Well, what The Towering Inferno does (and very well, thank you) is to let this open-flame potboiler play out in a manner not dissimilar to that of an old Busby Berkeley musical. The tried-and-true pattern for those films was to introduce the players, hastily establish their superficial-to-inconsequential interrelationships and conflicts, then spend the rest of the movie interspersing the formulaic narrative complications and resolutions between musical numbers of intensifying extravagance and excess. A little plot, a musical number...a little more plot, a slightly bigger musical number, etc.; …all leading to a big, splashy finale featuring multitudes of people until, finally, all ends well with a romantic clinch at fade-out.

The Towering Inferno follows this pattern pretty closely…only with explosions, falls from great heights, and gruesome, fiery deaths taking the place of production numbers. The result is a disaster film clocking in at over 2 ½ hours that, while occasionally getting bogged down in technical dialogue and repetition (eliminate all the footage of firefighters climbing stairs, and this movie would be about 60 minutes), moves at a surprisingly brisk and exciting pace.

Since the title already clues us in that the building is going to go up like a matchstick, the film doesn't waste any time trying to build false suspense by pretending to be about anything else. We're introduced to the setting, The Glass Tower: a near-literal imposing erection jutting phallically from the testicular San Francisco hills. A building whose façade is shimmering gold and whose interior is an eye-strain symphony of '70s game-show orange. Residents occupy the floors above the 81^st, and lower floors are devoted to commercial tenants (including the building's developer, Duncan Enterprises—they of the Starship Enterprise interior design and bedroom-equipped executive offices). With the "where" established, The Towering Inferno moves on to introducing the "who" by means of cinema shorthand: aka clichés.

Paul Newman as Doug Roberts - "The Architect"

First, we get the hero architect (Newman). We know he's the hero because while everyone else wears suits and ties, he's the lone maverick in orange and suede. Cut from the same iconoclastic mold as those confrontational individualists in the Winston cigarette ads of the day ("I don't smoke to be like everybody else" was typical ad copy). Newman and his trademark squint play a sun-bronzed Thoreau ready to say goodbye to his lucrative career so he can live the simple life in Mendocino County and "Sleep like a winner."

Faye Dunaway as Susan Franklin, "The Girlfriend"

The curvy speedbump preventing Newman from beating as hasty a retreat to the good life as he'd like is magazine editor Faye Dunaway. The movie poster identifies her as "the girlfriend," and that's precisely the breadth, scope, and function of her role in the film. Randy Paul Newman wants to runaway with Dunaway to a place where their hypothetical children "…can run around and grow and be free." But post-afternoon delight, the career-minded Dunaway informs him that she's just been offered a much longed-for promotion ("That's nice…," is his invalidating response). Newman wants her to be with him (and do what? we ask ourselves), but Dunaway, perhaps anticipating what lies in store for her in Network, is not keen to give her executive promotion the kiss-off so soon. Guess which one of the two isn't placed in the position of having to make a decision?

William Holden as James Duncan "The Builder"

The tempter to Newman's antagonist is boss William Holden. He tries to persuade Newman to stay so that together they can build bigger and better firetraps—I mean, skyscrapers…all over the world. But Holden is a man of questionable integrity with dollar signs in his eyes. Something we can all easily observe for ourselves thanks to his ginormous eyeglasses.

Steve McQueen as Michael O'Hallorhan "The Fire Chief"

Once things start to heat up, good guy fireman Steve McQueen arrives on the scene as the film's moral mentor. His duty is to deliver a lot of common-sense, life-saving fire safety advice to the audience, finger wag at the corporate bottom-liners, and serve as the occasional big prick to Newman's vulnerable, exposed, quivering conscience.

Richard Chamberlain as Roger Simmons "The Son-In-Law"

The villain of the piece is electrical contractor Richard Chamberlain. The big bad guy tipoff being that within minutes of his entrance, he delivers a Neely O'Hara-ish speech about not needing God or anybody else's help, and how he didn't get through life on a pass because of his good cheekbones and damn classy looks. (Although, in truth, Chamberlain's snare-drum-tight face has been pulled so taut, his exceptional cheekbones genuinely look in danger of cutting straight through the flesh.) Chamberlain's snakish character is written as such an unrelentingly rotten ol' meanie; at any moment, one expects him to materialize in a cape and top hat, twirling a mustache.

Susan Blakely as Patty Simmons "The Wife"

To make him seem even meaner, Chamberlain is given a Good Woman (Susan Blakely); a beautiful but unaccountably loyal spouse given to hurt looks, aqueous glances, and a knack for saying precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time. That she also happens to be the boss's daughter adds a backstory of guile and purpose-fucking to Chamberlain's already slimy resume.

Now we come to the supporting characters. The ones who exist primarily to drum up additional human interest, boost the potential body count, and attract the ancillary demographics necessary to make a movie this costly into a hit. 

O.J. Simpson as Jernigan "The Murderer"...oops! I mean "The Security Man"

For ethnic appeal and to draw the athletic supporters, there's football player, would-be Hertz pitchman, and future felon O.J. Simpson as the tower's chief of security. On the plus side, at least he's not one of those noble, self-sacrificing, first-to-die Black characters Hollywood holds so dear. On the minus, the man gives a performance of kindling-level woodenness. 

Jennifer Jones as Lisolette Mueller "The Widow"
Fred Astaire as Harlee Claiborne "The Con Man"

For the classic Hollywood fans, we have Golden Years love interests, Fred Astaire and Jennifer Jones as an adorable, twinkly-wrinkly couple. He's a fraud bonds salesman, so Astaire gets to mine the charming chicanery of Airport's Ada Quonset (and, like Helen Hayes in that film, win himself an Oscar nomination in the process). Playing a good-hearted widow with lots of dough, Oscar-winner Jennifer Jones, last seen on movie screens embarrassing herself in the youth-flick exploitationer Angel, Angel, Down We Go (1969), gets to mine the selfless sympathy factor of The Poseidon Adventure's Belle Rosen (Shelley Winters). 

Robert Wagner as Dan Bigelow "The Publicity Man"
Susan Flannery as Lorrie "The Secretary"

And what would a disaster film be without a dose of sex=death guilt retribution? Overemployed non-entity Robert Wagner plays an executive who goes to great (read: fatal) pains to conceal the far from earth-shattering fact that he's boffing his secretary (Days of Our Lives star Susan Flannery). The high degree of secrecy these two engage in doesn't make much sense. They turn off their phones, lie to co-workers, and do not tell anyone where they are. Why? Neither appears to be married, it's the sexual revolution '70s, and Wagner's company obliges by outfitting his office with a big ol', tackily decorated bedroom. It would make more sense for this couple to dispense with all the needless extracurricular subterfuge and simply put the sexual overtime on their time cards.

Rounding out The Towering Inferno's parade of potentially soon-to-be-incinerated stars is the equally-innocuous Robert Vaughn (far right) as a senator, and, balancing a tower of her own, Irwin Allen's paramour of 14 years (and soon to be Mrs. Allen) actress Sheila Mathews as the mayor's way-too-many-close-ups-for-the-size-of-her-role wife.

Did I mention there are also children and a cat? Yes, children and animals are as inevitable in disaster movies as Oscar-bait theme songs (this film's "We May Never Love Like This Again" actually hooked the prize). As the ubiquitous pet in need of rescue, we have Elke, the cat. And as what appear to be the only children in the entire building, there's Bobby Brady (Mike Lookinland) and a little girl who has trouble not looking into the camera lens (Carlena Gower). 

As a side note, I have to say I'm personally indebted to that little camera-staring girl. Had Jennifer Jones not been obliged to hoist that tyke around on her hip in take after take for weeks upon end, the late Miss Jones wouldn't have developed the enduring lower back problems that necessitated her seeking out my services as a personal trainer in the '90s. Jones' back ultimately improved, and I got the opportunity to briefly know one of my favorite movie stars. So…thanks, kid!

Once the cast and conflicts are assembled—honorable mention going to the two buddy cops and Carlos, the bartender who never takes a break (Sanford & Sons' Gregory Sierra)—it's just a matter of rolling out the catastrophes and conflagrations. Something The Towering Inferno manages rather spectacularly and as regularly as clockwork.

The bulk of The Towering Inferno is comprised of variations on the following:

1. Hey! There's a fire!

2. Deny, deny, deny.

3. Get those people outta there!

4. No, not that way!
5. Boom!

6. Is it me, or is it really hot in here?

7. Climb, climb, climb!

8. Whoops! There goes the stairwell/elevator/helicopter/breeches buoy.
9. Faye Dunaway consoling terrified guests (i.e., extras) by ensuring their heads are turned well away from the terrifying gaze of the camera.

"There, there...I won't let that nasty old cameraman get at you." 

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

"For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like." 

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie 

Amended: If you like disaster movies, The Towering Inferno is one of the best examples of the genre you're likely to find. Thank you, Miss Brodie.

If asked to pick the disaster movie I get the biggest kick out of, The Poseidon Adventure gets my vote for pure entertainment and camp value—it's like the Valley of the Dolls of disaster films. But when it comes to genuine drama, breathtaking stunts, spectacular effects, and the kind of larger-than-life scale that makes you feel like a kid oohing and ahhing over the sheer magnitude of the undertaking; The Towering Inferno really delivers the goods. 

Seeing it now, it's a good deal talkier, tin-eared, and over-infatuated with the detailed minutiae of firefighting than I remember; but its clear-cut objective is so simple there's almost a purity to it. It simply wants to be one of the biggest, most exciting, star-studded, thrill-a-minute adventure spectacles ever committed to film. And it succeeds!

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

In the cynical, serious, often dark, frequently downright bizarre atmosphere of New Hollywood '70s cinema, you have no idea what a breath of fresh air these mindless disaster movies were. They were Hollywood at its most formulaic and old-fashioned, and that's precisely what I loved about them. 

Being a San Francisco kid (teen, actually), I was especially excited about the release of The Towering Inferno because news of its production came out about a year after the completion of the controversial Transamerica Pyramid, then, at 48-stories, the tallest building in the city. 

The San Francisco skyline was changing—The Embarcadero also had a 45-story high-rise and more on the way—and there was great concern as to the soundness of so many tall buildings in a city as earthquake-prone as S.F. (I remember a local radio station promoted itself with the slogan "The city that waits to die listens to...." Yikes! That always bothered the hell out of me).

Like many films that achieve success by striking just the right chord of anxiety at the right time, The Towering Inferno had the feel of immediacy about it. A feeling I latched onto and ran with.

I was so taken with this movie I made a point of making sure I'd read BOTH novels before the film came out; I tacked up homemade posters promoting the movie on the bulletin board in my high school's library; I bought every movie magazine that had even the most minor article or photo about it: and when I walked home from school, I always went the route that took me by the movie theater with the advance posters and lobby cards on display.

The Towering Inferno had its West Coast premiere at San Francisco's Alexandria Theater on Thursday, December 19th, and a friend and I desperately wanted to go to gawk from the sidelines (Lights! Music! Stars! Celebrities! Television! Radio!), but that idea was nixed because it was a school night. We eventually saw The Towering Inferno during its opening weekend and were absolutely floored. Even then, there was no mistaking it for a great film or anything, but it was one of those eye-popping "event" movie experiences I'll never forget. I saw the film at least four times over that Christmas holiday, and for many years after, I kept the souvenir program I'd purchased at the first screening.

PERFORMANCES
When people get prickly over criticism of their favorite disaster movies, a typical defense is that no one goes to these movies to see great acting. Well, that's not altogether true. You may not go expecting Sarah Bernhardt-level emoting, but you do rely on a certain level of competent credibility in the performances to heighten the experience and draw you into the narrative. In the same way that believable stunts and convincing special effects enhance a film's thrill, actors capable of making sketchily drawn characters seem real enough to care about are invaluable assets. If you don't think so, take a look at Irwin Allen's The Swarm sometime.

For my money, Faye Dunaway stands out as the most overqualified for her role, Steve McQueen the most compelling, and Paul Newman is just a pleasure to look at...period. But by and large, I think everyone in the film acquits themselves nicely, with Academy Award-nominated Fred Astaire being a sentimental favorite.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY
As big a fan of the genre as I was in the '70s, disaster movies hold a curious place for me now. When I'm not enjoying them purely for their camp and/or nostalgia value, I'm struck by how quickly they went from being entertaining action/adventure films to being these somewhat morbid "body count" spectacles. Latter films in the played-out genre seemed to exist solely to showcase the means and number of elaborately-staged deaths. 

On a purely personal, subjective note, one of my favorite things about The Towering Inferno is its setting. The tower itself is genuinely impressive, what with all those flames shooting out of it at dazzlingly photogenic angles. And the interior decor is so hideous, it's actually something of a pleasure to see it all go up in flames. The glam fan in me loves that this high-rise catastrophe takes place during a ritzy formal function. The result: the film is a virtual symphony of billowing chiffon, feather boas, clunky platform disco shoes, and towering hair sculptures.

Given a nothing role, Faye Dunaway and her legendary bone structure (and that
amazing dress) still effortlessly managed to upstage everything else

From a film buff's perspective, it's also a great deal of fun seeing if you catch and count which stars in the film have worked with each other in the past (hint: Love is a Many Splendored Thing) or would again in the future (hint: Airport '79).
The Towering Inferno endures for me as the last of the genre to be sincere enough to play it straight and attempt to balance human drama with spectacular action.

BONUS MATERIAL

The Towering Inferno - 1974

Angel, Angel, Down We Go -1969

A regular reader of this blog (Thanks, Wille!) brought to my attention that the gown Jennifer Jones wears in The Towering Inferno (top image) bears a resemblance to an outfit she wears in 1969's Angel, Angel, Down We Go (bottom image). Jones' Towering Inferno gown was designed by longtime Irwin Allen costume designer Paul Zastupnevich. The outfit she wears in the lower photo is actually an evening pants suit with a tunic top designed by five-time Oscar-nominated costume designer Renie (pronounced Renay... wouldn't you know it?). You can see costume sketches for The Towering Inferno by clicking on the link to The Irwin Allen News Network below.

The internet offers a wealth of sources for those interested in reading about the production, the rivalries, and all manner of behind-the-scenes trivia regarding The Towering Inferno.

The Towering Inferno Archive
The Irwin Allen News Network

Gossip: Paul Newman Meets Steve McQueen

Poseidon's Underworld: The Towering Inferno

The film was so popular a student drew from it
 for audition material in Alan Parker's Fame (1980)

Burn, Baby, Burn
Gotta love that this movie inspired the 1976 disco classic Disco Inferno by The Trammps

Copyright © Ken Anderson 2009 - 20016

THE NIGHT DIGGER 1971

In the little-known (but much-beloved by me) psychological thriller The Night Digger (The Road Builder in the UK), Patricia Neal portrays Maura Prince, a 43-year-old recovering stroke survivor who works part-time at a hospital helping other stroke victims relearn to speak. That the 44-year-old Patricia Neal had, in 1965, actually suffered a series of debilitating strokes which left her having to relearn how to walk and talk, adds a layer of autobiographical poignancy to both her character and performance.

Single and childless, Maura is what was once known as a spinster. A spinster who, when not stealing away for those brief-but-rewarding two hours a week at the hospital, is at the harried beck and call of her blind and ailing adoptive mother Edith Prince (Pamela Brown). The two women live alone in a somewhat secluded area in the Berkshire district of England in a cavernous old Victorian mansion whose facade, much like Maura herself, shows the wear of years of neglect and abuse. 

Patricia Neal as Maura Prince

Pamela Brown as Mrs. Edith Prince

Nicholas Clay as Billy Jarvis

Left with both a limp and frozen hand from her stroke, Maura dresses dowdily, looks older than her age, and walks with the weighted-down posture and downcast eyes of the defeated. She's a woman with a broken spirit, only part of which can be said to be attributable to her disability.
Yet in spite of the air of forlorn resignation which seems to follow her around like a personal storm cloud, Maura is surprisingly clear-minded and unsentimental about her lot in life. She harbors no illusions as to why, at age 15, she was adopted by the newly widowed Mrs. Prince (to serve as the elder woman’s free-of-charge live-in maid, cook, nurse, and whipping post); nor does she kid herself as to why she has allowed herself to be subjected to the interfering dominance of her mother for so many years.

Guilt and a sense of duty play a part, for it was her mother who nursed Maura back to health following her stroke. A stroke she had the misfortune of suffering mere months after running away (escaping?) with a man who would later come to abandon her. Yes, guilt and duty play a part, but loneliness seals the bargain. Maura submits to her mother’s strong-willed dominance simply because she has nothing and no one else in her life.

Together, these women live a life of claustrophobic co-dependency in an atmosphere of by-now-routine rituals of passive-aggressive resentment: Maura taking silent, unseen delight in her mother’s food-scattering efforts to feed herself; Edith basking in private, sadistic satisfaction whenever she's granted the opportunity to inflict some petty inconvenience on her daughter.

While gossipy Edith—who’s not above feigning a heart attack to get her way—shares the companionship of two equally talebearing neighbors (Jean Anderson & Graham Crowden); Maura, beyond her duties at the hospital, lives a life solitary and internal. But if her sunlit, pink-hued, hyperfeminine, and meticulously cared-for bedroom is any indication, one can safely assume Maura’s inner life is a vividly romantic one.

See No Evil and Hear No Evil get an earful from Speak No Evil

If there's nothing real to gossip about, Edith and best friends Millicent McMurtrey
 (Anderson) and Mr. Bolton (Crowden) sometimes have to resort to invention

Into this stifling yet drafty environment rides Billy Jarvis (Nicholas Clay), a boy of 20 who mysteriously turns up at precisely the moment the women are in need of someone to perform gardening and maintenance chores around the house. Claiming to be a friend of a friend’s nephew, it’s obvious from the start that Billy is a facile (if not particularly adroit) liar, but the means by which he actually comes to know of this particular job opportunity remains one of the many mysteries surrounding the young man's arrival.

Ever the skeptic, Maura sees easily through Billy's lies, but Edith—if perhaps only to annoy Maura—finds herself charmed by the boy's hard-luck stories (invalid mother died in a fire) and sincere avowals of religious fealty (a lie which later comes to bite him on the ass). After half-convincing herself that Billy might actually be a distant relative...a delusional leap of faith more designed to silence local gossip, Edith invites the boy to stay on as their unpaid laborer/houseguest. In Maura’s room, no less. Understandably overjoyed, Billy, who's been living an itinerant existence as a road builder, moves in immediately, his only possessions being his motorbike and a mysterious bundle secured by a leather harness (“Your Bible and prayer book, I suppose?” Maura sarcastically intones).

When forced to give up her room to the handyman, it's revealed that everything about Maura's room stands in stark contrast to the dark, drab, disarray of the rest of the house. It's our first indication that Maura, like Billy, might be quite different than she first appears.

The introduction into the household of an additional target for Edith’s whip-cracking has the unforeseen result of creating a tacit bond between the appreciative Billy and the emotionally guarded Maura. An empathetic, almost maternal-filial bond that comes to threaten the long-established dynamic between Maura and her mother. A bond that soon evolves into something eminently deeper, infinitely more complex, and ultimately, with the town suddenly terrorized by a serial killer known as The Traveling Maniac, ominous and macabre.  

The Night Digger is an unusual film. An odd, not-to-everyone's-taste motion picture in many ways deserving of its exploitative advertising tagline "A tale of the strange and perverse."  And while it's not a perfect film--a fact most evident in the somewhat rushed feel of the film's third act--the sublime deliberateness of its earlier scenes, combined with the richness of its characterizations, gives the film the feel of an undiscovered, underappreciated gem. (The Night Digger had a troubled shoot involving much script-tinkering and clashes with the composer. Neither Neal nor Dahl were pleased with the results, labeling the final edit "pornographic.")

Saddled with a terrible title and somewhat misleading marketing campaign more befitting a grindhouse slasher or exercise in hagsploitation; The Night Digger is a film so unusual I'm not entirely sure it would have found an audience even if its US distributors had not given up on it so quickly.

The Night Digger is an atmospheric suspense film more in line with art-house thrillers like Robert Altman's Images (1972) or unconventional character dramas like Michael Apted's The Triple Echo (1972). Critics have commented upon similarities to Claude Chabrol's Le Boucher (1971), but when I first saw The Night Digger, the films it most evoked for me were Night Must Fall (particularly the 1964 Albert Finney remake of the 1937 classic), and especially Altman's (again) That Cold Day in the Park. What The Night Digger shares with the 1969 Sandy Dennis starrer is a quality I'm drawn to in so many of my favorite films from the late-'60s/early-'70s: a willingness to allow a story to go to unexpected places. The Night Digger is an intriguing, emotionally provocative thriller containing just enough touches of humor and humanity to offset its pitch-black edges. 

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

I’ve little doubt that the things I love the most about The Night Digger are precisely the things that contributed to it being a film 1971 audiences (and its US distributor, MGM) showed so little interest in that it wound up being shelved not long after brief playoffs in limited markets. For me, The Night Digger's chief appeal is in the way it doesn’t settle easily into any particular genre classification.
Promoted as a psychological suspense thriller, The Night Digger, with its measured, seriocomic tone and glum atmosphere of neurosis and dread, is a compellingly effective Hitchcockian melodrama (a major asset being its terrifically creepy score by eight-time Hitchcock composer Bernard Herrmann). But the “thriller” nomenclature doesn’t fully allow for the fact that the film is at its strongest and most affecting when focused on the interplay of the characters.
At these moments, The Night Digger is a sensitively observed character drama about the despairing interactions of damaged people. People disabled in ways both visible and concealed who allow their lives to be ruled, ruined, or possibly reclaimed by their infirmity. This angle of the film is, for me, its most rewarding, for it effectively invests you in the fates of its characters before things start to shift into full-tilt weirdness. Once the unconventional love story starts to merge with the disturbing serial killer subplot, it's too late...you're hooked.

The emotional burden of dysfunction - be it physical, emotional, psychological, or sexual -
is at the core of Roald Dahl's unsettling screenplay for The Night Digger

The Night Digger’s offbeat tone and jet-black comedy are largely owed to the contributions of screenwriter Roald Dahl (You Only Live Twice, The Witches, Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory). The story goes that Dahl purchased the rights to Joy Cowley’s 1967 novel Nest in a Falling Tree expressly for wife Patricia Neal (whom he painstakingly nursed back to health following her stroke), after her Oscar-nominated return to the screen in The Subject Was Roses (1968) failed to yield further job offers.

It’s Dahl who devised the film's serial killer plotline (not present at all in Cowley’s book) and rewrote the character of Maura as a stroke survivor. These revisions create effectively disorienting tonal shifts in the film's narrative reminiscent of Willy Wonka's terrifying boat ride or the introduction of the memorably terrifying Child Catcher into his otherwise sweet and sunny Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. In The Night Digger, these tonal shifts—some delicate, others shockingly abrupt—play out with a sinister purposefulness well-suited to the film’s atmosphere of intensifying unease. Every time you think you’ve figured out where The Night Digger is headed, it throws you a curve.

Peter Sallis and Yootha Joyce as Reverend Palafox and Mrs. Palafox
contribute a hilarious bit as the objects of spurious speculation 

Movies fail for all sorts of reasons, but one of The Night Digger’s biggest hurdles had to have been the fact that an audience most receptive to a movie starring Patricia Neal was also an audience least likely to be welcoming of the film's nudity, violence, and lurid themes. Conversely, those in search of the kind of bloody mayhem normally associated with an R-rated serial-killer movie must have felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under them when confronted with a quaint senior citizen suspenser about a lonely spinster and her elderly mum.
So, how then is it that The Night Digger ranks as one of my favorite films? I guess because I fit the seldom-courted “sentimental dirty old man” demographic.

PERFORMANCES
Both Patricia Neal (The Fountainhead) and Pamela Brown (Secret Ceremony) give truly fine performances in The Night Digger. Neal, who usually commands every scene she's in with that marvelous voice and natural acting style, is given fair and equal support in Pamela Brown, an endlessly resourceful actress with an uncanny ability to convey multiple dimensions of her somewhat reprehensible character all at once. I absolutely adore Patricia Neal and think she gives a performance worthy of another Oscar nomination (had anyone actually seen the film) playing a strong woman who's come to define herself by her weaknesses.
The mother/daughter scenes she shares with Brown are so good (like watching an absorbing two-character stage play) I confess to having initially felt a twinge of regret once the story necessitated the introduction of a supporting cast. Happily, as I so often find to be the case with UK films made during this time, the level of talent assembled for the supporting cast (especially Jean Anderson) is beyond impressive.

Making his film debut in The Night Digger is the late Nicholas Clay (Evil Under The Sun), a favorite actor whose genuine talent I tend to undervalue because of his looks and his (blessed) tendency to take on roles requiring him to appear in various states of undress. The Night Digger sets a fine career precedent, nudity-wise, but it’s nice to report he also gives a solid and very engaging performance here, rounding out an overall exceptional cast.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS
I saw The Night Digger for the first time just a few years ago when it aired on TCM, but I remember wanting to see it back when it opened in San Francisco in 1971. At the time I didn’t really know who Patricia Neal was (her Maxim coffee ads and Waltons TV movie would come later) but my eye was caught by the newspaper ad and I was fascinated. Unfortunately, the ad also happened to catch my mother’s eye, the prominent presence of the word “perverse” in the ad copy effectively putting the kibosh on any hopes I had of finding out what this creepy-looking film with the cryptic title was all about.

It took a while, but in finally having the opportunity to see The Night Digger (several decades past that must-be-17-years-of-age hurdle), it's clear to me that I would have liked it in’71, but I’m positive it's provided me with a much richer experience seeing it today.
Always a sucker for films about the intrinsic human need to connect and the agony we put ourselves through trying to convince ourselves otherwise; there's a poignancy and pathos to the plight of the film’s characters that would have likely been a bit over my head as an adolescent. What the film has to say about the paradox of growth: that growing up inevitability leads to separation/that growing closer invariably increases one’s chances of being hurt—strikes the kind of emotional chord with me today that is unlikely to have been stirred at all at when I was twelve.

Similarly, I'm fairly sure that as a young man, I'd have taken the more gruesome elements of the story out of context. That is to say, I'd likely have looked upon the film's structure - which is to juxtapose scenes of inhumanity with moving passages of emotional longing - as being merely dramatic or "action-packed."

Having lived long enough to understand that part of life is making peace with the eternal coexistence of the gentle and the monstrous (the latter too often a result of a lack of the former); the violent events in The Night Digger don't feel as arbitrary to me as they might have. On the whole, what I like about the film and what I take away from it (and this is 100% my subjective take on a film I love, not a recommendation) is that it resonates with me as a nightmare fable about the life-defining events of our lives and how we choose to be ruled by them, or ultimately choose to grow to rule over ourselves.

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2016

VALENTINO 1977

"But if you've got the story, why do you want the truth?"

Though the question is asked of a newspaper reporter by a character in this, Ken Russell’s 11^th feature film, the above-quoted inquiry could well be one posed to movie audiences by any director daring (foolhardy?) enough to venture into the shark-infested waters of the biographical film.
Biopics and their dubious degrees of accuracy have, in all probability, been the topic of comment and controversy since as far back as Georges Halot's Execution of Joan of Arc (1898). Taken to task for their myth-making, fact-manipulation, and outright fabrication; biographical movies have always walked a tightrope straddling documentary and wholesale fiction. At their best, they humanize and give dimension to otherwise remote historical figures, presenting their subjects' lives and achievements in some kind of social or cultural context. At their worst, they’re misleading works of absolute fiction, pawning off hoary narrative clichés as truth by method of thumbtacking real names onto over-familiar narrative archetypes and hackneyed tropes.

Rudolf Nureyev as Valentino in Ken Russell's artful recreation of the 1921 silent,
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Entertainment industry figures, with their brand-name familiarity, built-in glamour, fame-idolatry, success-ethic traditionalism, and potential for soapy melodrama and scandalous sex; have always been popular choices for biopics. This in spite of the fact that they also court the potential for embarrassing impersonations, cheap-looking reenactments, actors looking absolutely nothing like the person they're portraying, and a public over-awareness of personal history that wreaks havoc with any desire to deviate from the facts.
But while an anachronistic, out-of-whole-cloth piece of movie fabrication like 1965's Harlow (which barely seems to take place on this planet, let alone the Hollywood of the 1930's) can be painful to watch, the truth is that a blatant disregard for historical accuracy doesn't automatically doom a biopic any more than just-the-facts-ma'am verisimilitude guarantees its success.

Rudolf Nureyev and Leslie Caron in a prototypically
stylized Ken Russell take on All Nazimova's 1921 silent film Camille

Biographical movies are a sub-genre unto themselves, and as such, unlike documentaries, their very nature presupposes and accommodates the application of a contrived dramatic structure (order, if you will) to otherwise haphazard real-life events. And while in many instances this only serves to make the already tenuous connection between the subjectivity of truth and the relative weightlessness of facts even more tangential; it at least provides filmmakers with the latitude to invest historical "truth" with a little creative ingenuity.

I've always held that the employment of a deliberate artistic sensibility is what accounts for the phenomenon which makes a brilliantly crafted, yet highly fictionalized and historically inaccurate film like Bonnie and Clyde (1967) somehow "feel" more fact-based and realistic than say, Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid; an equally fictionalized film based on the lives of historic figures, which (due to its adherence to the conventions of the western "buddy picture") feels positively artificial.

If one of the main differences between a documentary and a biopic is that the documentary strives to take an "as is" approach while the biopic demands a distinct point of view; then I find I’m always willing to surrender a certain (flexible) degree of historical truth when a filmmaker has a creative and artistically valid reason to use the biographical film format to illuminate a broader human truth.

Rudolf Nureyev as Rudolph Valentino

Michelle Phillips as Natasha Rambova 

Leslie Caron as Alla Nazimova

Felicity Kendal as June Mathis

Seymour Cassell as George Ullman

In the interest of truth-in-advertising, the title of this film should really be Ken Russell’s Valentino. Making few allusions to historical accuracy beyond its costuming (the brilliant Shirley Russell) and art direction (Philip Harrison); Valentino bears Ken Russell's pyretic, idiosyncratic stamp on every eye-popping frame. Something which turns out to be a very good thing, indeed, since the script— penned by Russell and Mardik Martin (New York, New York)—so often allows the film's central enigma, Rudolph Valentino himself, to go MIA for long periods of time. Even when he's onscreen.

Silent film legend Rudolph Valentino, dubbed "The Great Lover" by his legions of female fans, seemed a shoo-in subject for the biopic treatment in the nostalgia-besotted '70s. But much in the way Fellini’s Casanova—released in the US about six months prior to Valentino—disappointed and alienated audiences by its almost perverse refusal to satisfy expectations (the public anticipated an extravagantly romantic roundelay about the famed 18^th century womanizer,  but what they got was an intensely anti-erotic meditation on the soul-killing effects of loveless sex); Ken Russell’s neutered, demythologizing approach to the legend of Valentino left audiences bewildered.

Valentino paying tribute to Nijinsky's Afternoon of a Faun for Nazimova's camera

As envisioned by Russell, Rudolph Valentino (Russian ballet star Rudolf Nureyev, grappling with an Italian accent and surrendering somewhere around Transylvania) is a moral innocent who only dreams of owning an orange grove, victimized by Hollywood's venal greed and the grasping self-interests of the women drawn to him. Indeed, Victim of Romance, the name of the solo album released by Valentino co-star and former The Mamas & The Papas songstress Michelle Phillips a few months before the film's premiere (Tie-in…cha-ching!), would have made for a dandy Valentino subtitle.

When introduced, Rudolph Valentino makes living as a taxi-dancer for lonely society ladies, but lives by his own Old-World code of honor: “They buy my flattery and my time, but my love is not for sale!” He holds women in high regard (he answers a starlet’s penitent confession of sexual promiscuity with, "All women are meant to be loved.”), but his irresistibility to the opposite sex—combined with a tendency to surrender all-too-easily to his own romantic fancies—makes him an easy mark for users and manipulators. Which, in this film, turns out to be everybody...women, most fatefully. 

Leland Palmer as Marjorie Tain, Valentino's ever-inebriated exhibition dance partner

"Well, God help you, junior. If you ever have anything worth taking,
some bright bitch is gonna give you the ride of your life!"

The film depicts Valentino’s rise from tango dancer to matinee idol as a largely passive journey, the dashing and occasionally unintelligible ladies man buffeted along by fate, circumstance, and the dominant whims and ambitions of the women who cross his path. From discovery to stardom, two marriages, studio suspension, a bigamy scandal, artistic pretensions (we never learn if he even thinks of himself as talented), to his death at thirty-one; Valentino is seldom depicted as the catalyst for anything that happens to him.

Even his reputation as The Great Lover is chiefly a PR creation born of the effect his masculine beauty and physical grace has on a newly liberated female population, giddily exercising the prerogative of male objectification. In portraying the silent screen Latin Lover as but a passenger in the vehicle life, Valentino often suggests a Brilliantined Joe Dallesandro prototype: the androgynously beautiful male of enticingly ambiguous sexuality, possessed of just the right amount of charismatic vacuousness upon which one can freely project fantasies of desire.

Depending on the Kindness of Strangers
Carol Kane as a silent screen siren who gives Valentino a leg-up in the movie business

Meanwhile, Valentino’s own desires are routinely presented as ineffectual, asexual, or latently homosexual. This leaves him only two dominant character traits: 1) His dream to have his own orange grove, and 2) A prickly, “he doth protest too much” sense of outrage whenever aspersions are cast on his masculinity. And indeed, speculation about the true nature of Valentino’s sexual orientation crops up so often in this movie it becomes the film's defining leitmotif.
I personally find it intriguing that Russell chose to depict Valentino as a man as elusive to himself as he is to his fans. A man certain of his sense of honor, but little else. The only problem with limiting so many of Valentino's most dynamic scenes to sequences of inflamed outbursts over having his masculinity impugned is that Valentino (at least as realized in Nureyev's haughty indignation) doesn't come across like an honorable man defending his name so much as an on-the-defensive closet-case (a la, Liberace) always a little too at-the-ready to fight and publicly proclaim his heterosexuality.

Is He or Isn't He?
Valentino teaches Nijinsky (Royal Ballet dancer Anthony Dowell) the tango. Nijinsky would have his own eponymous biographical film three years later

With the women in his life posited as the shapers of Rudolph Valentino’s destiny, Ken Russell is free to abandon the traditional rags-to-riches/disillusion-to-reclamation format of most biopics and instead takes a page from the Citizen Kane handbook: Valentino's life is told in flashback via the unreliable narrators who represent the most important women in his life.
The women: socialite Bianca de Saulles (Emily Bolton); screenwriter June Mathis (Kendal); actress Alla Nazimova (Caron); and designer/Nazimova protégée/ Valentino 2nd wife Natasha Rambova – nee Winifred Shaughnessy– (Phillips).  All have come to pay their final (in some instances, self-serving) respects to Valentino at the New York funeral home where his body lies in ostentatious display.

Each woman, in turn, is grilled by a motley phalanx of cartoonishly boorish “Noo Yawk” reporters straight out of The Front Page; the multi-character narration providing, if not exactly illuminating insight into the deceased, then an enlightening view of the deep chasm that can exist between a man and his public image. It also provides Russell ample opportunity to make several interesting (if relentlessly cynical) points about identity, gender, sex, image, art, commerce, and the fanaticism of fame-culture.

Linda Thorson as restauranter Billie Streeter & Emily Bolton as socialite Bianca de Saulles

Using the funeral home and the attendant public pandemonium surrounding Valentino's death as a framing device between flashbacks, this otherwise refreshing emphasis on the female perspective is dampened by the fact that, when contrasted with Valentino's genteel malleability and honest motives, the broad strokes with which some of these women are painted has them veering toward caricatures, or worse, grotesques.

Once the flashbacks have ended and the film fades out on the solemn image of Valentino's corpse lying on a slab in the morgue, only then does it dawn that Ken Russell has pulled off the audacious feat of making a movie about a world-renowned lover that is, in itself, thoroughly devoid of love or romance. You think back over the film and realize that at no time does Valentino ever realize any of his romantic dreams, or even successfully carry out a seduction. (Even the film's most explicit "love scene" is a masturbatory parody of fan-worship, with a star-struck actress realizing her dream of being alone with The Great Lover, yet only able to work herself into an orgasmic frenzy by ignoring the real, flesh-and-blood article and losing herself in solitary fantasy.)

Emotionally Isolated
Valentino and actress Lorna Sinclair (Penelope Milford) depicted 
as sexual strangers joined in isolated fantasy

If the difference between a documentary and a biographical film is the insertion of a point of view, then in the case of Valentino, Ken Russell's would appear to be using the life story of one of the film industry's earliest superstars to dismantle the myth of fame and celebrity-worship. Also, to maybe ask us to examine what difference exists, if any, between "the story" and the truth, and if in the end it really matters.

The heads of United Artists, MGM, and Paramount discuss 
how best they can profit from Valentino's death 

RECEPTION

Valentino was released amidst much publicity fanfare in October of 1977. Bolstered by a sexy poster which emphasized the erotic potential of the subject matter and the film debut of its lead (Nureyev IS Valentino!), it arrived at the tail-end of a spate of nostalgia-laced movies about the film industry: The Day of the Locust-‘75, Won Ton Ton: The Dog Who Saved Hollywood-’76, The Last Tycoon- ’76, and Nickelodeon- ’76. Unfortunately, it also followed on the heels of several poorly-received nostalgia-laced Hollywood biopics—Gable & Lombard, Goodbye Norma Jean, W.C. Fields & Me - all 1976—a downturn in the trend that suggested perhaps audiences had had their fill of Marcel waves and art deco.

Budgeted at $5 million, Valentino was Russell’s most expensive film to date. And on a personal note, I was over the moon with anticipation. At this point in time, I was already a huge Ken Russell fan, though, discounting his BBC TV documentary on Isadora Duncan that aired on PBS, I had only seen three of his films: The Boy Friend, Tommy, and Lisztomania. Valentino was Russell’s follow-up to 1975s Lisztomania, a boxoffice flop that lost the director a bit of the Hollywood cachet he’d earned following the breakout success of Tommy.

I saw Valentino its opening weekend at the Royal Theater on Polk Street in San Francisco. The 100% male—read: gay—audience made me feel like I was in a porno theater. Advance publicity for Valentino suggested a return to the Ken Russell of Women in Love, Mahler, or Savage Messiah, but the audience I saw it with that day was wired for the camp overkill of Lisztomania. From the moment Nureyev opened his mouth and the film began its drag parade of unsubtle, highly-stylized performances, Valentino became a victim of its excesses.

Rudy, The Pink Powder Puff
Nightclub chorus girls sing a song lamenting the emasculation of the American male

REACTION

I was 19 and in film school when I saw Valentino (translated: very-self serious and pretentious) and I recall sitting in that theater feeling as though everyone around me had been sent some kind of prep notes on the movie that I’d failed to receive. Here I was taking it all in with deadly sober earnestness, while all around me people were cracking up at Nureyev’s uncertain acting, Phillips’ flat line readings, the curiously dubbed-sound of many of the voices, and the whiplash shifts from broad comedy to melodrama. Picking up on every line of bitchy dialogue and every glimmer of homoerotic subtext, the audience wasn't laughing AT Valentino so much as operating from a not wholly unsubstantiated assumption that Russell couldn't possibly be expecting us to take any of this seriously.

I was so thrown by the experience I left the theater not at all impressed with the film and returned the following week to find out if  my reaction had been unduly influenced by the audience (by then word of mouth had begun to spread and I had the place almost to myself).  I could have saved myself the money. I remained steadfast in my initial assessment of the impeccable, often breathtaking period detail and costuming; I appreciated the bitter satire and cynicism, and I honestly loved the larger points the film broached in its brutal evisceration of show business and Hollywood in particular. 

Valentino is blessed with a large and talented cast (Huntz Hall and Felicity Kendal are especially good).
But my favorite performance belongs to Leslie Caron. Playing actress Alla Nazimova
as a woman intoxicated by her own theatricality, Caron fits Russell's style to a T

But I had a better understanding of the source of all that audience derision. The movie just fails to gel as human drama (nor, given the pitch of the performances, opera). But not because of the camp or overkill (although I could have done without that prison scene). Valentino rates as flawed Ken Russell for me because in its 2-hours-plus running time, only two brief scenes—one with Leland Palmer, the other, Carol Kane—ever touched on recognizably human emotions in a way that drew me into the story.

Jennie Linden (Ursula in Russell's Women in Love) contributes a hilarious
cameo as Agnes Ayres, Valentino's desert love-interest in The Sheik

THE STUFF OF DREAMS
Watching Valentino for the purpose of this essay was my first time seeing the film in nearly 40 years.
Has the film improved? Well, no. The same weaknesses still prevent it from being one I'd rank among Ken Russell's best.
Has my opinion of Valentino changed? Considerably.
The passing of so many years has made me more aware of how much Valentino is a product of its time. Its cold point of view reflecting the pervasive post-Watergate cynicism and revisionist nostalgia that influenced so many movies of the day (The Day of the Locust, New York New York). Its anti-eroticism, reflective of a late-'70s cultural disenchantment with the idyllic promise of the sexual revolution, falls in line with a spate of films whose themes challenged the notion of consequence-free hedonism (Saturday Night Fever, Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and the aforementioned Fellini's Casanova). In 1977, I was far too callow for cynicism, and 19-year-olds, by nature, have only the faintest acquaintance with the meaning of consequences.

Perhaps it's my age or perhaps it's because Hollywood today is fresh out of ideas and only knows how to remake things; but Valentino, though far from perfect, feels like a much smarter film than I once gave it credit for. It's still an emotionally remote experience for me, but it clearly strives to be about much more than just the life of the late Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d'Antonguella (whew!). It's a film with a point of view, it's the result of a consistent creative vision, and...although it only intermittently succeeds in getting them across....it's a movie of ideas. Besides, sub-par Ken Russell is still head and shoulders over the best work of many directors I can think of.

Ken Russell makes an unbilled cameo as Rex Ingram, director of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Tony-nominated actor Mark Baker plays Andrew, the beleaguered assistant director 

BONUS MATERIAL

Many of Valentino's films -  including The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The Sheik, and Camille, are available to watch on YouTube. 

By all accounts, the making of Valentino was an unpleasant experience for nearly all involved. To read about Nureyev's distrust of Russell, Russell's crumbling marriage, the mutual animosity between Phillips and Nureyev, how Russell came to appear in the film, and the story behind that deleted funeral scene plot twist---I suggest the following books:

Ken Russell's Films by Ken Hanke
Phallic Frenzy- Ken Russell & His Films  by Joseph Lanza


AUTOGRAPH FILES

Have absolutely no recollection of when I got this autograph of Carol Kane in 1978.
Worse, I asked her to sign the inside of a paperback copy of Harold Robbins' The Lonely Lady

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2016