The Cat o’ Nine Tails (Dario Argento, 1971)

So what’s been happening since the last time I did a Morricone Monday? Well, Michael Jackson died, of course. You may have noticed that this website was probably the only media outlet in the world that didn’t register some kind of tribute to the self-proclaimed “King of Pop”, and we’re not going to do that now (I don’t think it could be easily incorporated into a review of a Dario Argento film). But, “King of the Convoluted Intro” as I am, the point I am scrambling to get to is that the overwhelming response to Jackson’s death overshadowed several other news stories, including another celebrity passing; that of Karl Malden. I didn’t discover this sad news until a few days ago, so starring in today’s film as he does, I’d like to make this Morricone Monday a belated tribute to the big man himself. More on Karl Malden later.

The last time we checked in on Dario Argento, he had just released his debut feature, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, to great critical acclaim and commercial success. Obviously adopting the true and tested policy of “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it”, Argento would re-enlist Ennio Morricone to score his second film, and perhaps needless to say, like Bird… it would be another Giallo. That first film caused the popularity of the Italian murder mystery subgenre to sky rocket at home, as well as giving it a profile internationally. Argento’s second film, The Cat o’ Nine Tails, would provide the middle link in a thematic trilogy of Gialli that makes up the first stage of the director’s career (we’ll look at his third film, Four Flies on Grey Velvet, in the coming weeks). But how does it measure up to it’s predecessor?

The Cat o’ Nine Tails is just one of those (many) Giallos that has a plot that doesn’t quite add up, but here goes… Karl Malden stars as Arno, a blind puzzle maker who lives, and forms a cute if slightly questionable double act with, an orphaned little girl. One night the twosome are out walking when Malden, with his heightened senses, overhears a shady conversation between a scientist and a threatening, unknown figure outside a genetics lab. The next day there’s been a break-in at the lab, and newspaper man Giordani arrives on the scene. When Arno later learns that the scientist he overheard the night before has been mysteriously pushed under a train, he seeks out the assistance of the reporter, and the two resolve to solve the mystery together. Naturally enough, there are many more plot twists, not to mention several murders, to come, before Argento calls time on the whole thing with a sour and purposefully ambiguous finale which leaves certain pieces of the puzzle still in flux.

Dario Argento often cites The Cat o’ Nine Tails as his least favourite of all his films, and many of his fans hold a similar opinion. While I think this is simply ridiculous, based on the fact that Argento has not made a good film since 1993′s Trauma, I do have to concede that Cat… is certainly not one of the “King of Horror”‘s best. I feel this is partly to do with the plot, but not with regards to how confusing it can be (this is a Giallo, after all, confusion is par for the course), rather the story is often a little dry. Unlike Bird…, and the later Four Flies on Grey Velvet, The Cat o’ Nine Tails, with it’s trio of leading protagonists, lacks the nightmarish, existential, one-man-against-the-odds feel of the very best Gialli. Also the hokey scientific espionage at the centre of the murder spree leaves the film occassionally feeling a little trite and something akin to a John Grisham novel.

Having said that, plot certainly isn’t everything in a Dario Argento film, and there are numerous nasty and brauva set-pieces that rank with the director’s very best. The opening “train push” murder will linger grimly in the mind of anyone (like me!) who stands a good, oh, 6 foot away from the edge of the platform when a train is approaching. There is also a terrific sequence in which a character is locked in a mausoleum with the killer on the prowl outside that’ll be an equally big hit with claustrophobics. Wimps everywhere (like me!) will also wince at the film’s brilliantly staged, but grisly climax, which involves something rather painful-looking occuring in an elevator shaft. We also see some of Argento’s cryptic artistic flourishes develop on from his first film, most notably the mysterious, blood red retina which flashes onscreen before a murder takes place, and which calls to mind some of the visual motifs he would employ in his later masterwork, Profondo Rosso.

Another of The Cat o’ Nine Tails undeniable strengths is that of the character of the blind puzzle maker, Arno. To have a character deprived of sight attempting to solve a murder mystery is a touch of genius, and gives the sleuthing in Cat… an added depth. To make him a puzzle maker, too, is almost doubly inspired (there is no cat, nor whips, in the film incidentally, the title is a reference to the number of clues Arno unearths surrounding the murders). Arno is, of course, brilliantly played by Karl Malden, and adds up to one of Argento’s more sympathetic and believable characters.

1912-2009

Karl Malden would be the first international star to appear in a Dario Argento film (ahead of the likes of David Hemmings, Donald Pleasance, and Max von Sydow), and he should be instantly recognisable to any self-respecting film fan. In an odd way, Malden is most famous for providing the de facto conscience of wild and salacious Marlon Brando, appearing as he does in sizeable supporting roles in two of the acting legend’s most famous films; A Streetcar Named Desire and On the Waterfront. With his hulking, gentle giant demeanour, Malden creates the perfect foil for Marlon’s frenzied method acting, emerging as the most sympathetic character (dim-witted, well-intentioned best friend and courageous priest, respectively) in both films. He later put in another wonderful supporting turn in the wacky, Brando-directed One-Eyed Jacks. The Cat o’ Nine Tails was to mark Malden’s only role in a Euro horror film, but he did find the time to chalk up an appearance in the Spanish mafia revenge romp, Summertime Killer, just one of many films to partly-inspire Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill. The year after Cat…, Malden took on one of his most enduring roles, that of Detective Mike Stone in the long-running cop series, The Streets of San Francisco, opposite Michael Douglas.

When we looked at The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, we decided that it’s sinister, yet sumptuous, score was Ennio Morricone’s best work for Dario Argento. So how does the music for The Cat o’ Nine Tails measure up? Let’s hand over to Aneet miaow… I mean “now”.

Welcome to Monday Morricone Madness!!! We know its been a while but don’t worry as we’re back with a bang!! With more Morricone features being planned in light of  Quentin Tarantino’s patronage to the Maestro on his new film ‘Inglorious Basterds’, there’s no better time to discover the magical world of Ennio Morricone!

As Alan is on his hols, we’ve managed to rope in the lovely Paul from the lovely LoveLockAndLoad to step in to Al’s big ol’ shoes (not literally - but he does have big shoes) this week and tell us all about Sergio Corbucci’s 1970′s classic ‘Companeros’. With myself casting a critical over the soundtrack afterwards, it makes for a cracking Monday Morricone Madness comeback. So Paul, who’s this Franco Nero fella I keep hearing about?

Back in the sixties, on the soundstages of Cinecittà or throughout the vast open spaces of Almería, you couldn’t spit without hitting a Sergio directing a spaghetti Western. Of course, the work of Sergio Leone is considered to be pinnacle of the genre, but what about the lesser known, but in many ways equally talented Sergios Sollima and Corbucci? Outside of the film cognoscenti, Sollima and Corbucci aren’t afforded the same level of respect as Leone; this is probably due to the fact that both endured careers that saw them pursue the path of journeymen directors, working within many different genres, rather than being synonymous with just one, like Leone has since become. Leone’s ‘Dollars’ trilogy was incredibly popular throughout the world, and with a massive share of the profits from the second and third films in the series, the auteur was soon wealthy enough to become incredibly choosy when picking projects. To Sollima and Corbucci, filmmaking was a job that paid the bills, and while both directors had had their fair share of artistic triumphs and box office hits, most of them were modest by comparison to those of Leone.

While Leone is often credited as the originator of the Italian Western, some of his peers had been making them a good few years before, Corbucci included, with his first, RED PASTURES released a year before A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS. It wasn’t however until the release of DJANGO in 1966 that Corbucci’s credentials as a filmmaker became clear for all to see. DJANGO has a much darker tone than that of Leone’s westerns and is far more brutal. In fact, the film’s violence proved so problematic that it remained banned by the British censor until the early 1990s. As commercially successful as it was innovative and audacious, DJANGO would not only establish the prominence of its director, but that of the film’s grey-eyed star, Franco Nero. Nero, who had languished in supporting roles previously, found his career as a leading man taking off almost over night.

 Nero and Corbucci were soon reunited when the pair embarked upon IL MERCENARIO (THE MERCENARY aka A PROFESSIONAL GUN) a couple of years later, though due to it being co-financed by a US studio, United Artists, it’s far lighter in tone than DJANGO and far less subversive.  IL MERCENARIO finds Nero playing Sergei Kowalski, a Polish immigrant mercenary who becomes entangled in a plot that involves shipments of silver, Mexican revolutionaries lead by Paco (Tony Musante – best known as the lead in Dario Argento’s debut, THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE) and Curly and Sebastian (played by Jack Palance and José Canalejas, respectively), a pair of gay hired killers. While never pushing the envelope quite like DJANGO had, IL MECENARIO is a fun film and one that’s definitely worth seeking out. Nero’s character is a likeable lead and there’s a typically majestic score by Ennio Morricone, cues from which were later reused in KILL BILL films almost four decades later.

IL MERCENARIO’s greatest legacy is that its storyline serves as a template for Corbucci’s COMPAÑEROS (aka VAMOS A MATAR, COMPAÑEROS). Made in 1970 and again featuring Franco Nero as the lead, COMPAÑEROS follows IL MERCENARIO’s set-up quite closely. Nero stars as Yolaf Petersen, a Swedish arms dealer who becomes embroiled in a scheme with a Mexican General to rob a safe belonging to rebels. In order to do so, Petersen must first spring the rebel leader Professor Xantos (Fernando Rey) from a US prison, as he is the only person known to have the safe’s combination. Reluctantly and under false pretenses, Petersen is paired with Basco (Tomas Milian), the rebel leader, and the duo cross the border into the States. However, the tables are soon turned when after busting Xantos out of prison, a deal is made between the shady General and US officials, resulting in the hiring of one-armed, pot-smoking killer, John (Palance again), who is dispatched to murder Xantos.

 Nero and Palance are playing the same characters essentially, with Milian filling Musante’s shoes. With COMPAÑEROS, rather than being a boring rehash of IL MERCENARIO, Corbucci managed to surpass the earlier film in almost every possible way. For starters Nero and Milian make a far more appealing duo than that of the pairing in the previous film. There’s plenty of humour in the banter between the two characters which is quite far removed from anything seen in Cobrucci’s films up to this point and one would assume this may have been borne out of a desire to ape the success of THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY. There was humour present throughout IL MERCENARIO (which was co-written by UGLY’s co-writer, Luciano Vincenzoni) but is by far more successful here. Palance’s John is altogether quirkier here too, spending much of the film pie-eyed and in the company of his pet Falcon. Corbucci’s himself also seems far more assured as a director than he did when making IL MERCENARIO too, as COMPAÑEROS is faster paced and far more action-packed. Once again Morricone provides a suitably infectious score, with a main theme that stands as one of my own personal favourites.

COMPAÑEROS has dated impeccably and is a film that and something for everyone. There is no DVD currently available in the UK, but the US disc is region free and easy to find on Amazon. The film is presented in its original Technovision widescreen ratio and looks sumptuous. The feature is accompanied by interviews with Nero and Milian and the original trailer. (Paul Alaoui)

A big, big thank you to Paul! I should send Alan away on holiday more often! Arf!

 COMPANEROS was collaboration number six for Morricone and Corbucci. With the Maestro being famously associated with’ Sergio ‘Mr Spaghetti Westerns’ Leone , his incredible output for Corbucci is somewhat overlooked .His scores for IL GRADE SILENZIO and IL MERCENARIO are two of his finest and accomplished works.

 Close friend and long-term collaborator Bruno Nicolai (who also worked on IL GRANDE SILENZIO) conducted the score, providing style and quality which illuminates Morricone’s original compositions. Whenever Corbucci and Morricone get together, it’s always a memorable and joyous adventure and this Monday Morricone Madness is no exception.

 The music is a perfect accompaniment to the rip-roaring action on screen. As Paul mentioned earlier, the film is laced with humour and the light heartedness that Morricone undertakes adds a gentle and playful tone to the film. His trademark sound for Leone also features heavily. The fuzzy, twangy guitars, whistling banjos, the feral shrieks from ‘THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE UGLY’ all appear. The sound rattles and soars within the ragged location captured beautifully by the cinematographer Alejandro Ulloa. Most memorable is the galloping, haunting and slightly melancholic title theme. This will stay with you for a long time.

Overall, this is one of Morricone’s best (but we say that on every Monday Morricone Monday, don’t we?). It’s a passionate, imperious display from Il Maestro. It’s worth adding COMPANEROS to your Morricone collection as it has the versatility and character that epitomizes the film. Effortless, charming and simply unforgettable, this is an outstanding and enthralling effort. It will also make you shout ‘COMPANEROS!!’ for a week or two. This isn’t a bad thing, believe me.

Once again we say, ‘Maestro, we salute you!’

Here’s the aforementioned opening title theme…

Danger: Diabolik (Mario Bava, 1968)

Hands up who likes Austin Powers? Well, I know I do! Not the wretched sequels of course, but the first film in the series, which was an incredibly smart and rather heartfelt parody of a period of filmmaking stretching from the mid to late 60s. With the Cold War approaching its 20th year, international espionage and patriotic derring-do were still popular motifs in the movies. As the aesthetic influence of the psychedelic era began to seep into the mainstream, however, many spy films and television series’ were given a brand new zany and surreal coat of paint. James Bond led the way in Cold War fiction, and references to that franchise are easy to spot in Austin Powers, but there are many nods to other, less well-known big and small screen staples of the 60s which belong to a rather more kinky and flamboyant stable; Modesty Blaise, Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine, The Avengers, Adam Adamant Lives! etc. What makes the cinematic debut of Mike Myers most enduring creation so enjoyable is its blatant, goofy joy at recreating everything that made these films and TV shows so memorable. It is a parody dripping with love and nostalgia, as opposed to mere ridicule, and just as well, as those very films it sets out to parody were already more than aware of their own ridiculousness; witness Our Man Flint or Dean Martin’s Matt Helm series. It truly was a cheeky, crazy and unique age in cinema’s recent history.

My favourite film of that era (one that admittedly doesn’t get a direct reference in Austin Powers, at least not one that I can spot) is also directed by one of my all-time favourite directors, Mario Bava; it is the downright dazzling Danger: Diabolik. Appropriately enough many of these visually rich and cartoonish creations of the late 60s were themselves based on comic books (including the aforementioned Modesty Blaise, while the successful Batman TV series ran from 1966 to 1968), and Danger: Diabolik was already a long-running and phenomenonly popular comic book serial in Italy before someone decided to turn it into a film. That someone was legendary uber-producer Dino De Laurentiis, who had recently captured the zeitgeist perfectly with the highly influential Barbarella, which was also adapted from a comic title. The Italian enlisted his compatriot Bava (who had just overseen a Dr. Goldfoot sequel) to take care of the directing duties, and he really couldn’t have found a better man for the job.

Mario Bava brings Diabolik to the screen brilliantly in an episodic film essentially comprising of three tall-tales torn directly from the pages of the original comic books themselves. Unusually for the central protagonist from a colourful adventure romp of it’s era, Diabolik himself is neither superhero nor super-spy; rather he is a dastardly master villain. Despite this he does contain definite elements of both Batman and Bond, being a suave, hi-tech cave-dwelling, master of disguise and gadgetry. Unlike messrs Wayne and James, however, Diabolik employs his physical skills and fancy contraptions for pure unadulterated naughtiness, possessing a particular predilection for nicking stuff of extraordinarily high value. In the film’s first third he steals $10 million, in the second act he nabs a priceless emerald necklace, and for his grand finale he single-handedly capsizes the Italian economy and pinches 10 tonnes of gold! It has often been noted that, in stark contrast to the righteous and noble stars of the American comic universe, the Italian equivalents were often shady and, well, frankly diabolical types. The theory is that, post-World War II, the Americans saw themselves as champions of justice and upholders of peace, traits reflected in the likes of Superman and, most notably, Captain America. The Italians on the other hand, defeated in the war under the guidance of an evil, fascist government, were finding themselves attracted to the antics of anti-heroes; characters who could shake up the establishment and challenge government goons, two things that Diabolik accomplishes with dark panache in his film debut.

There is an oft-told anecdote concerning the working relationship between Mario Bava and Dino De Laurentiis at the start of the making of this film. De Laurentiis had spent the then still lavish amount of $4 million on the same year’s Barbarella and offered Bava, who was more used to the frugal world of low-budget filmmaking, the same amount to bring in the Diabolik film. Super Mario declined this offer and ended up completing Danger: Diabolik for the bargain price of $500,000; an even bigger bargain when you take into account that Diabolik is actually considerably more than just eight times more visually stunning a film than Barbarella is, and vastly superior all round, to boot. I can’t really decide if Danger: Diabolik is my favourite Bava film or not, but it would definitely make my top three. In terms of direction, it’s definitely one of the most quintessentially ”Bava” films he ever made; an entrancing tableaux of jagged framing, fish-eye lenses, foggy filters, and ravishing lighting. It is astounding that it cost so little to make as Diabolik’s subterranean lair alone knocks anything in the modern Batman franchise into a cocked hat. A true master with early special effects, Bava realised many of his elaborate and impressive sets using matte painting techniques. The entire film is a daring and inventive dream, with memorable sequences coming thick and fast; a futuristic identikit machine renders perfect pop art pictures during a groovy musical interlude, Diabolik beats a mid-air confession out of an opponent after falling from a plane, and the brilliantly orchestrated climactic scene which out-Goldfingers even Bond himself in terms of grotesque and grandiose comeuppance. Bava is often congratulated by hardcore comic book fans for Danger: Diabolik being the one adaptation that is truest to the nuances of the art form. It should be no surprise, then, that the great man himself was a talented and respected comic book artist in his life outside of film (similarly the great Federico Fellini began by illustrating comics, a passion which remained with him throughout his life. What is it with these Italians?), although disappointingly he would turn down the offer to helm a Diabolik sequel, citing annoyance with the imposing De Laurentiis as his reason.

Danger: Diabolik is a perfectly cast film as well, with the seriously sharp and instantly recognisable features of the late John Philip Law glaring out from behind the title character’s trademark fetish mask. Law also made an appearance in Barbarella, and starred in a handful of other cult favourites, including Roger Corman’s Von Richtofen and Brown, and The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. Another of Diabolik’s notable dissimilarities to James Bond is that, unlike the misogynistic state-funded murderer, the Italian super-thief is not a dirty shagger, in fact he is a surprisingly settled one-woman man. That woman is sidekick Eva Kant, whose all-too easy catchability proves to be a rare chink in the Diabolik armour. Mega-star Catherine Deneuve was originally cast in this role until Bava surprisingly sacked her, paving the way for Austria-born Italian genre veteran Marisa Mell to make Eva her own, and the chemistry between her and Law is undeniable. Deneuve’s erstwhile Belle de Jour co-star Michel Piccoli fared better under Bava, however, and his performance as Diabolik’s police nemesis is a deadpan joy. Piccoli is one of my favourite actors of all-time and his filmography boasts several iconic high points, including Godard’s seductive satire on filmmaking, Le Mepris, and mental modern day caveman caper Themroc (check it out, it’s fucking insane!). King of the cads Terry-Thomas (Oh, yes! One of everyone’s favourite actors of all-time, surely) also appears as a bungling politician, and Bond’s Thunderball villain, Adolfo Celi, tries his luck here against Diabolik as a rival crook. It is worth noting that every actor in Danger: Diabolik plays their part admirably straight, and the sensuous, surreal vibe of the film is enhanced by the fact that it never slips into lazy camp, unlike many of it’s close contemporaries (hello, Barbarella!).

It’s not just Austin Powers that successfully channels the kaleidoscopic kookiness of the late 60s, and I would recommend Roman Coppola’s overlooked and underseen 2001 film CQ to any Danger: Diabolik fan. Francis Ford’s son’s only film so far, it covers the making of a fictional, Danger: Diabolik-style romp, entitled Codename: Dragonfly, and contains many clever homages to Mario Bava’s film. Another notable recent appearance of Diabolik in the mainstream media came with The Beastie Boys’ video for their 1998 single ‘Body Movin”, which features actual footage from the film with their track laid over the top. They needn’t have bothered, frankly, as the only musical accompaniment Danger: Diabolik needs is it’s own superb Ennio Morricone soundtrack, perhaps surprisingly the only time Il Maestro ever collaborated with Bava. Here comes Aneet to tell us all about it…

The Great Silence (Sergio Corbucci, 1968)

There are certain films that have endings so unique, distinctive and downright unexpected that these endings often become the most famous thing about the films themselves. Think Planet of the Apes. Think The Wicker Man. Think Don’t Look Now. The last 5 or 10 minutes of all those films are so infamous that they are considered fair game for such activities as open discussion in Channel 4 list programmes, parody in lazy comedy sketch shows, and in the case of the former two, are even incorporated into the video and DVD box artwork. It can’t be just me that is slightly bitter about the fact that I saw all three of those films for the first time fully aware of what was going to happen in the end?

On the other hand, there are some films (the cited examples included, admittedly) with unexpected denouements that almost have to be revealed if a proper and thorough discussion of those films can take place. In order to get the full flavour of this week’s Morricone Monday movie, I’m going to have to give away the ending. So, in true BBC-news-reader-before-Match-of-the-Day-stylee, please look away now if you don’t want to know the final result of The Great Silence.

The bad guys win. Yes, that’s right… The bad guys win. A dirty posse of brutal bounty hunters remorselessly, and bloodily, gun down the hero, his love interest, and scores of innocents, before riding off into the, well not quite ”sunset” exactly, but they do get away with it completely. An unusual climax to any Western, I’m sure you”ll agree, even one spawned from the genre’s crazy, existential continental cousin, the Spaghetti Western. To find out how this remarkable resolution is reached, however, let’s journey back to the very beginning.

The ending is not the only thing atypical about The Great Silence; it is also distinctive for being one of only a small handful of snowbound Westerns (see also McCabe & Mrs Miller, and Pale Rider), set as it is in Utah, during the Great Blizzard of 1899. A mute and moody gunslinger, helpfully named Silence, moseys into the town of Snowhill, where the poorer inhabitants have been made homeless and forced to take to the mountains. With not a penny between them, they begin to steal food from the town, and at one point are reduced to pinching a passerby’s horse for a spot of lunch. Worse than that even, they are being ruthlessly picked off for profit by a merciless gang of bounty hunters, led by the crazy and strangely fey, also helpfully named, Loco. Firmly on the side of the mountain dwellers and fully aware of how the law has been twisted to suit the murderous bounty hunters, Silence cleverly provokes his new-found enemies before killing them, meaning he can claim self-defence every time.

At first we think Silence, working in tandem with Snowhill’s new sheriff, has arrived in town to selflessly assist these hungry thieves in the mountains, but it soon becomes clear he has both a past and an agenda. Well, this is a Spaghetti Western, after all. In the sort of intense and ultra-melodramatic flashback sequence that only this genre can deliver we learn that Silence was rendered mute by the knife of the very same corrupt business man who is currently signing the blood-stained cheques for Loco and his crooked accomplices. Our hero also shacks up with a local lady who has recently been made a widow by Loco, and is also after revenge. Will the new lovers put an end to Loco’s reign of terror? Will the poor townspeople confined to the mountains return to their homes and live in happiness once more? Erm, no. I’ve already told you that they all get shot by the bounty hunters in the end!

There are many people for whom the end of The Great Silence is the best thing about it. For them it is a unique and mind-shattering twist; a brauva masterstroke and an ingeniuous ace-up-the-sleeve. I am not one of these people. I have never been convinced by the end of The Great Silence. It just doesn’t work for me. As far as I can see it is little more than an exercise in deliberately downbeat contrivance. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I have a problem with downbeat endings generally, on the contrary. I fully agree with Roman Polanski (perhaps the master of the memorably downbeat ending) that films with overly-contrived happy endings ultimately aren’t worth seeing, but at the same time some films do have to deliver certain things to their viewers; particularly genre films, like Spaghetti Westerns.

Spaghetti Westerns deal in very particular conventions, and The Great Silence is no different. It’s not that it isn’t a intelligent and exemplary Spaghetti Western (it very much is, more on that in a second), it’s just that it still promises the same things that all other Westerns do - vengenace for the hero, comeuppance for the villians, peace for the frontier town - and it’s failure to deliver these things feels rather forced, and makes the director, Sergio Corbucci, come across as a bit of a spoilsport, frankly. It would have been much better had Corbucci aimed for something a bit more bittersweet (Silence and Loco both die, say, but the mountain people survive), rather than bludgeon us full-on in the face with an almost sadistically depressing finale. Every time I watch The Great Silence I can’t help but feel that the final scene as somehow been wiped, and I’m left miserably staring into a gaping chasm of open-endedness (indeed, an alternative “happy” ending was filmed for certain territories, but it is far from satisfactory itself; it would seem Corbucci just wouldn’t hear of letting Silence survive).

That other notable snow-covered Western, McCabe & Mrs Miller, does manage to successfully pull off a rather morbid ending in which the hero perishes (to a Leonard Cohen soundtrack, no less!); but then, it was directed by idiosyncratic iconoclast Robert Altman. Sergio Corbucci is no Robert Altman, but he is a great director in his own right and, after Sergio Leone, is arguably the Spaghetti Western’s tastiest talent. Up there with Eastwood’s Man with No Name as the genre’s leading icon is Franco Nero’s coffin-dragging gunman, Django, who made his bloody and brilliant debut in Corbucci’s 1966 film of the same name. Where Leone’s Westerns were witty and sly, Corbucci’s would be brutal and gothic, and The Great Silence with it’s violent, often almost religious imagery (battered and bloody hands are a recurring motif) is no different. But as noted earlier, it is also an often thoughtful and even political film. The way that Corbucci portrays the law as having been corrupted to serve the vicious and greedy, and condemn the innocent and needy, is nothing short of inspired. The underlying message that those who engage in crime in violent areas often do so out of necessity is one that many could do with heeding today. Silence’s almost lulling his prey into firing at him, as well as his enforced, erm, silence (which could almost be a parody of the traditional Spaghetti Western anti-hero) are both enjoyable and memorable ploys, to boot.

As if all that weren’t enough The Great Silence also boasts two cracking, charismatic leads; sleek, sophisticated Jean-Louis Trintignant as Silence (something of a specialist when it comes to arch oddballs, see also The Conformist) and legendary psychotic Klaus Kinski as Loco (something of a specialist when it comes to playing weird villains in Westerns, see also For a Few Dollars More). Several Corbucci Spaghetti Westerns boast sublime soundtracks by the genre’s in-house composer, Ennio Morricone, and as should already be clear, this one does too. We’ll tell you about some of the other ones in later weeks, but for now, here comes Aneet to give you the noise on The Great Silence. I hope she won’t mind me giving away the ending, but… It turns out she rather likes it!

Yes Alan. I do like it but it’s all rather sad, isn’t it? Anyway, listeners…

During my ‘years’ of doing Morricone Monday, I’ve noticed the more unusual and challenging the film, the more stunning and simple the Maestro’s score is.

Considered by Morricone aficionados to be one of the best Italian Western scores of all time, The Great Silence bears all the hallmarks of a Morricone classic.

The film’s bleak snow setting drifts the soundtrack to majestic and whimsical heights. Between the soft sound textures of the title theme to the atmospheric Prima Che Volino I Corvi, the score has a haunting and melancholic quality to it, leaving the listener slightly wistful and well, quite sad.

Musically, Morricone certainly matches the evocative and downbeat visual mood of the film. Trademark Spaghetti Western sounds linger with unforgettable sorrow, the strings soar and the percussion rattles with precision and solitude which the likes have not been really heard before or since

 But before you start thinking that this sounds like the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard, the soundtrack induces a lovely, warm slightly bittersweet feeling. If a soundtrack could wrap you up in a blanket in the coldest winter, this would be it. As mentioned before The Big Silence is a truly  beautiful soundtrack and like snowflakes swirl and glide around you with fragile elegance. Essential.

 Here’s the astonishing title track – Il Grande Silenzio (Restless)

The Battle of Algiers (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966)

There are two kinds of 100 Greatest Ever-type film lists, aren’t there? First of all, there are the ones voted for by the general public. These generally appear in magazines like Total Film or are broadcast in whopping 3 to 4 hour specials on Channel 4. The kind of lists that are ALWAYS topped by The Godfather or Star Wars, with The fucking Shawshank Redemption (seriously, why is it so popular?) and Jaws duking it out for bronze. Further on down, you’ll always get decent enough popular fare like The Terminator rubbing shoulders with classics like Citizen Kane or The Bicycle Thieves; films that the sort of people who vote in these things probably only feel like they should be voting for, and may not even like that much. Then you’ll always get something ridiculously recent and fluffy like, say, Mama Mia! sitting comfortably dozens of places above Rebel Without a Cause and Jules et Jim.

Of course, you should never ask the general public to vote for anything (The X Factor, general elections…), so much more interesting then, are the other breed of Greatest Ever Film-type lists; the ones voted for by critics and filmmakers themselves. These are a semi-regular feature in publications like Sight and Sound and Time Out, and until very recently, Citizen Kane ruled the roost apparently indefatigably. Latterly it seems to have lost it’s standing, and The Godfather (loved by everyone!), Vertigo and The Rules of The Game are now just as likely to be crowned top dog. Other staples of these high-brow countdowns include 8 1/2, Tokyo Story and The Battle of Algiers. It was on such lists that I first became aware of that last title, although I had already heard it’s mesmerising, militant title theme on countless Morricone compilations.

For a long, long time The Battle of Algiers was not an easy film to find, and despite universal critical approval, it wasn’t a film that many people really seemed to say anything about. A French-language film released in the mid-60s that didn’t belong to the Nouvelle Vague. An Italian Neo-Realist film released nearly 10 years after that movement had peaked. One thing was certain, however, The Battle of Algiers was a very controversial film, and had been banned in France for many years following it’s release. There were even some dark mutterings that it was even a film that promoted, supported and idealised terrorism.

When you actually get round to seeing it (which I did after tracking down the ultra-rare Tartan video release), you quickly realise that, far from idealising terrorism, The Battle of Algiers is (and I won’t say simply, as it is no mean feat) the most honest film about terrorism, it’s causes and effects, ever made. Chances are, it’ll remain the most honest film about terrorism ever made forever. There’s no better example of the absolute hash that filmmakers of any political-leaning or nationality can make of the subject of terrorism than to look at the slew of appallingly misguided films made about the situation in Northern Ireland. Even the recent German-made take on the wave of terror created by the Red Army Faction in the 70s and 80s, The Baader-Meinhoff Complex, was hopelessly cliched and off the mark. So what is it that makes The Battle of Algiers so good?

One of the main reasons it’s so popular with critics and filmmakers is that it’s both shot and staged to absolute perfection. With remarkable neutrality it tells the story of revolutionary cells emerging from the claustrophobic and impoverished environs of the Algiers Casbah quarter, during the last days of French rule in Algeria. Naturally enough, the European settlers fight back against this new wave of violence, which in turn provokes a greater response from the Algerian liberation movement. Very soon a crack team of French paratroopers, headed by the charismatic but ethically suspect Col. Mathieu, are called in to strike the final blow against the revolutionary movement. The film’s finale, and history itself, both serve to show however, that no matter who wins the battle of Algiers, the end result of the war is a foregone conclusion.

The genius of The Battle of Algiers is that it is unhysterical, unemotional and unbiased about the events that it depicts, and this coupled with director Gillo Pontecorvo’s previously acknowledged brilliantly shot, almost newsreel-like “action” sequences, makes it as close to being a documentary as a piece of fiction can be. It is, of course, closely based on actual events, and even stars one of the leaders of the real-life Algerian liberation movement, Saadi Yacef, loosely playing himself. Despite this level of cooperation with the Algerian side, Pontecorvo never expresses too much or too little sympathy for either party, with the actions of both being questioned. Even the aforementioned Col. Mathieu, despite using strong arm tactics such as torture to quash the terrorist violence, is not lazily portrayed as a villain. Rather, he is seen as a millitary professional simply trying to restore order in a desperate, and possibly hopeless, situation.

Algeria gained independance from France in 1962, and many other countries and causes came to see The Battle of Algiers as something of a testament to the success of that particular freedom movement. This was undoubtedly not the intention of those who made it, but the film would become notorious as a clarion call to arms in troubled times; with the global decolonisation process approaching fever pitch in the 1960s, The Battle of Algiers served as a raw reminder of the murky and painful death that imperialism was condemned to die. As already noted, the French government banned the film until the late-70s (never shy on banning films that touch a raw nerve, the French government; see also Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory), but it would never lose it’s reputation as cinema’s last word on the use of violence, rightfully or wrongfully, in the struggle for freedom. As such, The Battle of Algiers rose again in the wake of 9/11 and the subsequent occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. The Pentagon even invited top military brass to a private screening in 2003. Many in the English media would look to the film for both questions and answers following 7/7, as well, and there are now several high-quality DVD releases widely available.

The Battle of Algiers is more than just a political/historical artefact (no matter how relevant), and deserves to be chiefly remembered as a stellar piece of filmmaking. It is one of the few films that you can confidentally and unreservedly name as one of the greatest ever made as it is practically perfect and positively peerless; no wonder it’s on all them lists I was banging on about. Gillo Pontecorvo was not a director who could ever be described as prolific, he passed away in 2006, but his two other films of note are both worth seeing. His first film to garner international acclaim, Kapo, was a thoughtful depiction of life, and death, in a concentration camp. The film he would follow The Battle of Algiers with, Burn!, is suitably explosive and incendiary and, while not quite up to it’s predecessor’s standards, is vastly underrated and should be much more widely known. It also has an excellent Ennio Morricone soundtrack, and thus will feature in a future Morricone Monday. Speaking of which…

Hey, Aneet! Do you know the story about Pontecorvo going round Morricone’s house one day when they were working on The Battle of Algiers? The director was whistling a tune he had in mind for one of the main themes but, unbeknownst to him, Morricone was sitting on his balcony and heard him. By the time Gillo had got up to Ennio’s flat, Il Maestro was sat at the piano pretending that he had come up with the exact same tune! What a joker, that Morricone!

Ha Ha!  Thank you Alan for a delightful story!

Asked several years ago if there were any other scores that gave him satisfaction during a period when his Western work was the focus of so much attention, Morricone offered some examples. “I have to cite the Battle of Algiers, which Gillo Pontecorvo directed in 1965. The musical score I composed for that movie was very simple”.  Simple but also powerful and emotionally direct.

Two Mules for Sister Sara (Don Siegel, 1970)

Anyone fancy playing a quick game of Going for Gold (semi-legendary UK quiz show in which contestants had to guess the identity of someone or something from a brief spoken description) as a “fun” way to introduce this week’s Morricone scored motion picture?

Thought not, but we will anyway. I’ll be Henry Kelly…

“What am I? I am a western…”

What’s that you said? High Noon? Sorry, that’s wrong.

“What am I? I am a western, starring Clint Eastwood…”

Unforgiven? Wrong again, I’m afraid.

“What am I? I am a western, starring Clint Eastwood, with music by Ennio Morricone…”

A Fistful of Dollars? No. For a Few Dollars More? No. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly? Thrice no!

I am, in fact, Two Mules for Sister Sara; easily the least renowned Clint Eastwood western that features music by Ennio Morricone of them all! I may not even be close to being half as good a film as anything in the Dollars trilogy, but at least my soundtrack can sit comfortably with the very best music featured in those earlier films.

If ever an actor and composer were interminably linked in the minds of the general public, either consciously or otherwise, then that actor is Clint Eastwood and that composer is Ennio Morricone. Indeed, if ever film and music generally were so interminably linked in the minds of the general public, it would have to be Morricone’s unique, memorable and truly phenomenal contribution to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, with only the scores for Psycho and Jaws coming close in the fame stakes. Depending on how you choose to look at it then, it is either somewhat surprising that Eastwood and Morricone’s paths did not cross more frequently thereafter, or not surprising at all. Surprising because, arguably, Morricone’s music was equally as responsible for making Eastwood the icon he undeniably is as Sergio Leone’s writing and direction, and not surprising at all as the notoriously headstrong Clint would not want to become too closely associated with anything that might hinder his escape from the spaghetti western badlands to mainstream Hollywood acceptance.

I’m not 100% sure exactly how Ennio Morricone came to work on Two Mules for Sister Sara, but the director here is not his frequent partner Sergio Leone, rather it is Don Siegel. Following The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Eastwood would never work with Leone again (although he would continue to acknowledge his influence, dedicating 1992′s Unforgiven to the Italian, as well as to Siegel). Striving to establish himself as a big name, the one-time Man With No Name would collaborate with Hollywood veteran Siegel (then most famous for 1956′s Invasion of the Body Snatchers) on a run of five remarkably successful films in 11 years. Coogan’s Bluff was their first joint effort, in 1968, and Two Mules for Sister Sara was their second. And although gunslinging icon Eastwood would continue to direct and act in westerns throughout his career, this would be the only one he would make with Siegel.

Two Mules for Sister Sara sees Eastwood playing Hogan (a man with a name, although perhaps he would have been better off without one), a typically grizzled drifter, drifting through post-imperial Mexico, who saves a damsel in distress from the lecherous claws of three dirty gringos. Amazed to witness that after he has rescued her she turns out to be a nun, the Sister Sara of the title, the carefree and stubbornly atheist Hogan resolves to get rid of her ASAP. However, the Sister soon reveals there is more to her than meets the eye, and she is a wanted woman due to her involvement in helping the Mexicans fight the occupying French army. Hogan agrees to help her after he is promised a chunk of gallic loot, and the two embark on a journey to a far away French garrison town, bickering predictably along the way.

And that’s basically your lot, barring a big, surprisingly bloody, battle at the end, and a twist that you’ll probably see coming in the first 20 minutes. Although the revolutionary element almost links it to the Zapata western movement popular in the continent at the time (see Leone’s A Fistful of Dynamite), the production is too American, Siegel himself too conservative, and the story too careful for the film to be any kind of leftist clarion call (with the Mexicans conveniently fighting the French, as opposed to the Americans; historically their deadliest enemy by far). It also lacks the surreal, lawless brutality and wild invention of Leone and the best of the spaghetti westerns. Rather it’s a routine, if still fun, traditional star vehicle, that with a few tweaks could have been any time from roughly 1930 onwards with, say, John Wayne and anyone from Marguerite Churchill to Angie Dickinson playing the leads.

Which takes us neatly on to the issue of casting… Clint Eastwood plays exactly the same character in this film that he plays in all of his films; Clint Eastwood. This is brilliant if you love Clint Eastwood (which I do), and not so great if you don’t (loads of people I know don’t). More problematic is Shirley MacLaine as Sister Sara. A bona fide star, oozing charisma and possessing ample comic timing, MacLaine is nevertheless too gosh darn cute ‘n’ kooky to put in a credible turn in a western, and on a few occassions this piece of awkward miscasting threatens to blow the already paper-thin premise wide open. Tough and sultry Elizabeth Taylor was originally attached to the film until a dispute over her fee erupted, and she would have proved a much better foil for Eastwood. Likewise spunky Jane Fonda, then a fast-rising star, and elegant Jeanne Moreau, who had already made a handful of Hollywood films by 1970.

Ultimately, Two Mules for Sister Sara is yer typical Don Siegel film; expertly made and entertaining enough to be worth watching once, but not really anything extraordinary (with the exception of the aforementioned Body Snatchers and Charley Varrick). The following year the Eastwood/Siegel partnership would make both the creepy and bizarre The Beguiled, and their definitive collaboration, the legendary reactionary cop romp, Dirty Harry. It would be a further 23 years before Eastwood would again appear in a film with an Ennio Morricone soundrack, when director Wolfgang Petersen and his star selected Il Maestro to write the score for the political action thriller, In the Line of Fire.

Incidentally, Two Mules for Sister Sara may be the least known western starring Clint Eastwood with an Ennio Morricone soundtrack, but it is far from being the most obscure film starring Clint Eastwood with an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. That prize easily goes to Le Streghe, one of those anthologies of short films by renowned Euro auteurs that were briefly fashionable in the early 60s (1963′s Ro.Go.Pa.G being the most famous example), in which the still Italy-based Eastwood is directed by none other than Bicycle Thieves legend Vittorio De Sica!

But yeah, the best thing about Two Mules for Sister Sara is its soundtrack… I must have told you about the time I rode a mule through the Nevada desert, Aneet. Bet you can’t guess which piece of Morricone music was playing in my head as I rode along?

Was it ‘The Good The Bad and The Ugly’? Or was it this underrated gem from the Maestro? What was that? It was ‘The Good, The Bad and the Ugly’? Oh well…  Never mind….

‘Two Mules For Sister Sara’ normally divides Morricone fans – you either think it’s annoying or you’ll think it’s intriguing and light-hearted. I (and certainly Alan) fall into the latter category.  The soundtrack is overlooked for a variety of reasons. Mainly it suffers unfair comparisons with the Maestro’s sublime 1978 score to ‘Days of Heaven’. Fans normally lump the two together because a) they are both two distinctive Leone-less westerns – but with Morricone included and b) they both shared a double headed audio CD re-release in 1995. I know that sounds absurd but such was the cult of the Maestro’s score to Terrence Malick’s masterpiece, some fans dismissed Two Mules as fodder as some (I said some!) ‘2-4-1′ Morricone releases normally are. The other reason (which Alan touched upon) is the film isn’t that great. If the film is so-so, the soundtrack rarely gets remembered but sometimes it does (I mean, Alan and I remember this) but I digress.

 Musically, Morricone doesn’t put a foot wrong. It has your usual Spaghetti Western guitar twangs, vast and lush orchestration all done with your typical Morricone flourish. Maclaine’s scenes sparkle and are memorable with the musical underscore the Maestro provides but it’s the action scenes that really stay in your mind (the final lengthy battle scene a case in point.) and that’s not even mentioning the incredible title music.

What I admire most about the title theme is that it represents the story in the most subtle and remarkable way. Hang on! Let me explain. You can split the track into two parts – the first part is mysterious, beautiful, and sparse and it also represents the isolation and vastness of the desert and the second part is galloping, dangerous, mischievous even and expresses moments of genuine surprise and excitement. If you know the film, you can apply my not-so crackpot theory with devastating effect (LOL!). The two parts represent ‘Sister Sara’ if you get my drift.

Anyway, here is the aforementioned title theme. As with the film the soundtrack is not that essential to be a prominent feature in your Morricone collection but the dazzling title theme is.

The Thing (John Carpenter, 1982)

When Aneet and myself challenged each other to name our Top 5 favourite film composers recently(that’s the sort of crazy shit we get up to), rather interestingly, other than the legendary Ennio Morricone, subject of our regular Monday salutes, the only “scorer” we picked in common was John Carpenter. The horror and sci-fi master is a director of such overwhelming talent (even if he has gone somewhat off the boil in the last, say, 20 odd years or so) that it is often easy to forget what a distinct and ingenuous writer of film music he is. His uniquely sinister, synth-heavy compositions have helped to create nail-biting tension and menacing atmosphere in almost all of the many films and television programmes he has directed in his long career, with only a small handful of exceptions. One highly notable exception, however, is his 1982 film, The Thing, which is worthy of our attention today as he only went and got Ennio Morricone to do the music for him!

As we’ve already established, John Carpenter is one multi-talented git, particularly when it comes to music and films. In fact, he packed in his promising career as a rock musician in order to concentrate on directing his bloody brilliant films. Kicking off with groovy sci-fi fable, Dark Star (for which he composed an awesome country ballad title song), in 1974, Carpenter would write, direct, and score a bona fide classic every year or so for the next 7 years, culminating in 1981′s incredible futuristic thriller, Escape from New York. After exerting so much energy, not to mention displaying so much ability, for so long, you can’t blame Carpenter for wanting to share the workload on his next film. As already mentioned, Morricone was on board to provide the score, and the film itself would not be a Carpenter original, but instead a remake of 1951′s Howard Hawks-produced The Thing from Another World.

One of the, erm, things that first leaps to mind when I think about The Thing, is it’s eye-catching and distinctive logo, with the film’s title literally burning onto the screen (handsomely incorporated into the above revival poster, by American poster artist Tyler Stout). This logo and title sequence actually appear in the original version of the film, and indeed mega-Hawks fan Carpenter saw fit to use them to eerie effect on a living room TV screen in his horror classic, Halloween. It was a masterstroke of Carpenter’s to faithfully re-use such an incredible design, not to mention highly appropriate, as The Thing is that rare, um, thing; a remake that manages to be even better than the original, whilst simultenously remaining true to everything that made the original so great in the first place.

As in the original, the relatively simple plot of Carpenter’s film concerns an American scientific research team camped out in the Antarctic, which stumbles upon a malevolent and irrepressible, shapeshifting extraterrestrial. In both films the teams have to use their wits to destroy the dangerous creature, but the remake conducts this battle between man and alien in a much darker pitch. Even though Howard Hawks wasn’t fully behind the camera for the original, the earlier film still bears several distinctive “Hawksian” traits. The director is noted for his favoured pairing of charming, if often befuddled, male professional and pragmatic, yet eccentric, sassy “gal” as his lead players in almost all of his films (Bringing Up Baby and His Girl Friday being the most famous examples). The Thing from Another World also features this combination in the guise of news reporter Scotty and spunky secretary Nikki Nicholson, trapped together in their mission to destroy the sinister visitor. John Carpenter, quite correctly, doesn’t recognise the south pole as an appropriate, or particularly likely, arena in which to engage in a snappy battle of the sexes, and dismisses these characters completely. In their place we get likeable, wise-cracking Kurt Russell as a tough nut helicopter pilot who soon discovers he’s completely on his own, surrounded by shady boffins, with a terrifying, metamorphising monster on the loose.

The Thing from Another World is one of those films that’s often used as an example of sci-fi as allegory. Like it’s genre bredren, Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, which appeared 5 years later, Hawks’ film is often cited as a metaphor for the imagined threat of communism on America at the time. Whether or not this really rings true, The Thing from Another World is a rather reactionary film, with the scientists involved in the expedition proving as villianous as the alien itself in their underhand mission to keep the interplanetary enemy alive for self-serving reasons. Carpenter does away with this mankind vs science riff also, and instead creates an atmosphere in which absolutely no one can be trusted, and the entire team share an overwhelming, apocalyptic fear of the creature reaching the outside world. The 1951 film has also been recognised as mirroring the cancer scare that hit America at the time, with the titular “thing” being read by some as a disease that can’t be cured (at least not at first). Similarly, some have seen the remake (released in 1982, remember) as being about the newly acknowledged AIDs epidemic, with a tense, hair-raising scene involving a round of emergency blood tests to flush out the creature, being the most apparent representation of this theme, and a typically, expertly directed Carpenter set-piece, to boot.

Another common trait between the two films is their use of special effects. The Thing from Another World was one of the very first films to have one of it’s actors appear to be on fire from head to foot. While this is common practise as a piece of stunt work today (and can be witnessed pretty much every Saturday night on Casualty), this was a staggering technical innovation in the early 50s, and had audiences screaming in terror. John Carpenter cleverly identifies the use of special effects as a real strong point in the original, and the ultra-gory anamotronics on display in his take on the tale have deservedly achieved a semi-legendary status. When I was growing up, The Thing was THE film for special effects, and even today they have lost none of their power to shock and disturb. The aforementioned blood test aside, the most famous effect is that of the camp doctor (as in RESEARCH camp, not Larry Grayson camp) in the process of defibrillating a wounded colleague. Little does the doc know, however, that the very man is he trying to revive is actually the shapeshifting thing, and a huge set of gnashers rip through the man’s body to tear the medic’s arms off! This unsavoury tour-de-force is a double joy to watch bearing in mind that not one single frame of it is computer-generated. The whole brutal ordeal is created by a combination of painstakingly put together stop motion effects, and the admittedly rather non-PC method of employing a real-life double amputee to stand-in for the freshly chomped doctor. They sure don’t make them like they used to!

So yeah, like Martin Scorsese’s take on Cape Fear (for example), a remake that actually manages to improve upon the original. How often does that happen? Sadly, about as often as John Carpenter makes a decent film these days. Immediately after the truly tremendous The Thing, his work wildly veered between the good (Starman, Big Trouble in Little China), the bad (Christine, They Live) and the so-so (Prince of Darkness, Memoirs of an Invisible Man). In the 90s he tried his hand at another remake, this time Village of the Damned, with markedly lesser results than The Thing, and his latest three films have all been truly awful (Escape from L.A., Vampires, Ghosts of Mars). Still, with some fresh work in the pipeline for the first time since the turn of the century, you wouldn’t rule out a comeback from one of the world’s greatest living directors. It’s also worth noting that Carpenter himself has recently been the victim of several turgid remakes, with spectacularly lazy and inferior rehashes of Assault on Precinct 13, Halloween, and The Fog all appearing in recent years. Next up, believe it or not, is The Thing. A remake of a remake!

But, what about Ennio Morrricone’s score? Aneet, shake that “Thing”!

I’d rather not shake any ‘Thing’ Alan but I will give you a rundown of Morricone’s ‘Thing’ hang on, that doesn’t sound right….

Anyway, as Morricone scores go, ‘The Thing’ is certainly one of the Maestro’s most unsettling, unnerving, and damn right scariest pieces of work to date. Perfectly complimenting Carpenter’s bleak visual landscape with eerie electronic menace it’s impossible to imagine any scene from the film without hearing the creeping horror of the score.

Morricone uses sparseness of sound to devastating effect. From the opening titles (Humanity Part 1) to the final scene (Despair), he manages to craft a sense of unease by conjuring up images of vast wilderness, loneliness and the fear of the unknown by making the compositions cold and stark. It howls and it leaves you with a real sense of desolation, claustrophobia, fear – and if you listened to it on your own at night like I just did scared shitless (sorry for the bad language – this is a family website after all). I personally think that this is one of Morricone’s bravest and challenging works of his career, since it highlights his incredible ability to adapt to different genres, decades and sounds with subtlety and intelligence which the film required.

‘The Thing’ should be recognised as one of the greatest horror film scores of all time. Since the film wasn’t well received (damn you E.T!) as well as the falling out between Carpenter and Morricone (I think there’s a theme going on here, Ennio) over Carpenter’s use of his own compositions for several scene cues rather than using Morricone’s entire score (well, Alan did say that John was a workaholic or control freak – you decide) led the film and music being misunderstood and overlooked.

So, go out and find the ‘Thing’ for yourselves but before I go here’s the brooding and chilling Humanity (Part 2). Be scared and keep watching the skies…..

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (Dario Argento, 1970)

Ennio Morricone is most famous for his work with Sergio Leone. Si? The films of Dario Argento are most closely associated with the music of Italian prog-rock monsters, Goblin. No? However, if we set aside these widely known and universally acclaimed creative partnerships for a moment, it may come as something of a surprise to see how many times Morricone and Argento themselves have collaborated.

Their paths first crossed when the then-film critic Dario Argento, along with the already established director Bernardo Bertolucci, were roped in to help dream up the epic, majestic and inventive scenario for Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West (Argento, Bertolucci and Leone writing a film together! Who do we get doing that these days? Matt Damon and Ben Affleck?). Ennio Morricone did the legendary, haunting score for that film, of course, and after it’s release, Argento presumably pulled Il Maestro to one side and asked him if he might consider writing a spot of music for his first film. Morricone agreed, and it would be the first of five collaborations between the two.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is Dario Argento’s first film, and it is also one of his very finest. The giallo genre (covered in some detail here) was already established and had been popular in Italy for some time by 1970, but the release and subsequent phenomenal success of The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is generally credited with ushering in the golden age of the giallo in terms of box office returns, and also of creating a profile for this somewhat bizarre and niche genre overseas. After the critical and commercial success of his first film, Argento’s name (along with that of his mentor, Mario Bava) would become synonymous with the giallo genre, and it is a field he continues to operate in (to some extent or other) to this day.

But a very large part of what makes Dario Argento’s giallo films so great is that they are as influenced by the director’s own particular, peculiar traits as they are by those of the genre itself. Often referred to as the “Italian Hitchcock”, that nickname is perhaps most relevant as a clue to Argento’s dark and masterful talent, rather than for indicating any similarities between the two director’s films (which are most often only superficially similar, anyway). Dario Argento at the very top of his game can conjure up films which both dazzle the eye and assault the senses in ways that the viewer will find both awe-inspiring as well as terrifying. He is a modern master of perverse, suspenseful storytelling, and the undisputed king of the cruel, calculated set-piece. Much of his unique and fiendish brilliance is already on full display on his very first feature.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, like all giallos, is a bloodier, kinkier take on the classic murder mystery format popularised by American writers such as Fredric Brown (on whose short story, The Screaming Mimi, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is partially based). The mystery here revolves around American writer Sam Dalmas, who having been living it up and getting very little work done in Rome, is getting ready to head back home to the States (a trusty giallo standby; the bewildered foreigner abroad). Dilly-dallying back to his flat one night, Dalmas happens to walk past an art gallery where he witnesses a woman being attacked by a masked assailant with a knife. Attempting to break into the gallery to save the woman, the American is accidentally trapped in between two glass sliding doors and forced helplessly to watch the attack. Fortunately, the woman survives, but after the police arrive and free him, the previously homeward bound Sam has his passport taken off him and is told to go nowhere as he is now a valuable witness. With little else to do, he tries to unravel the mystery of the attacker’s identity, who could well also be the same knife-welding maniac currently partaking in a manic murder spree all over the city. It isn’t too long before Sam gets a little too mixed up in the mystery and finds his own life is in danger.

A classic giallo scenario then, but that brief synopsis alone should give a hint as to how much of a vintage Dario Argento masterpiece The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is. Only Argento would dream up such a diabolical means for having his protagonist helplessly, horrifically trapped and forced to watch a brutal attempted murder (this is another source for the Hitchcock comparisons; they are undeniably two of cinema’s most enthusiastic voyeurs). And anyone who has seen Profondo Rosso will recognise an Argento speciality in his having Sam seeing a key piece of evidence at the scene of the crime, but not quite being able to remember what it was, and having it haunt his mind until the truth is finally revealed during the brilliant, bloody climax. Unlike Profondo Rosso, however, Argento is not yet so accomplished as to be able to stand the giallo on its head completely, so instead he makes The Bird with the Crystal an exemplary, textbook example of the genre for the most part, and peppers it with skilfully orchestrated sequences of nail-biting suspense. My personal favourite scene from the film is one in which Sam chases a yellow mac-clad would-be assassin into a hotel lobby, only to find it is unexpectedly filled to capacity with men wearing similar yellow raincoats!

Dario Argento would make two more excellent giallos straight after The Bird with the Crystal Plumage; The Cat o’ Nine Tails, and Four Flies on Grey Velvet, both of which Ennio Morricone would return to compose the music for. Argento would then take a break from the horror/thriller genre to make his now impossible to find western, The Five Days, before returning to the giallo with bloody zeal on Profondo Rosso in 1975. That incredible comeback would mark the beginning of Argento’s partnership with Goblin, but he and Morricone would regroup for two further projects in the 90s, The Stendhal Syndrome and an unorthodox take on the tale of The Phantom of the Opera. Sadly, although Morricone’s music for both of these films is rather fine, they are two of Argento’s weakest and most mishandled efforts.

The soundtracks to all three of Argento’s early giallos make for fantastic listening, but The Bird with the Crystal Plumage almost certainly represents the pinnacle of the Argento-Morricone partnership. What do you reckon, Aneet?

It certainly does Alan!

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is one of Morricone’s ground-breaking and intriguing soundtracks to date. It’s certainly one of the most important in regards of the relationship between Argento and Morricone, as only a year later the two would have a major falling out over the soundtrack to Four Flies on Grey Velvet which led to Goblin becoming Argento’s main composers.

Breaking the conventions of your usual horror score of screeching strings and winds with the breathy innocence of a solo woman’s voice – the solo woman being the wonderful Edda Dell’Orso and what sounds like the Swingle Sisters on lithium, contrasting both against another resulting in a swirling, percussive soundwash. Morricone perfectly compliments the crazy screen happenings with hypnotic intensity. From the spine chilling stalker scenes to the upbeat jazz/rock tracks for the chase scenes – every scene has added suspense and a sophisticated edge that took the movie to levels way above your average giallo.

What makes this score so spectacular is its haunting individuality and its influence on other composers and filmmakers. Alex Cox once commented on the similarities of this score with Pino Donaggio’s score to Brian DePalma’s 1984 warped Hitchcockian-inspired thriller ‘Body Double’. With both films reliant on the visual and the sound to compliment each other in order to enhance the plot as well as the rather violent nature of the films he has certainly got a point. DePalma would later use Morricone as his composer in his later career (these films being ‘The Untouchables’, ‘Casualties of War’ and ‘Mission to Mars’), which only adds to the illustrious list of directors that the Maestro has worked with.

So hopefully me and Alan have persuaded you to go out and buy both the film and soundtrack. If you’re still not convinced here’s the slightly scary title theme. Once again we salute you Maestro! See you next week for another instalment of Monday Morricone Madness!

A Fistful of Dynamite (Sergio Leone, 1971)

Of all the many directors Ennio Morricone collaborated with and whose films he contributed his astounding talents to, without doubt the one his music is most synonymous with is Sergio Leone. Widely and rightfully acknowledged as one of the most imaginitive and influential film directors of all time, Leone nevertheless presided over a relatively slight filmography, boasting a modest 7 films in 22 years. Even ultra-meticulous recluse Stanley Kubrick pips him by one title in the same time frame. But of course, it’s all about quality, rather than quantity, isn’t it? The mark of which the names of both Kubrick and Leone are guaranteed as good as. And what better way to ensure your film oozes quality than to sign up Ennio Morricone to do the music? Which is what Leone did, for every major film he made, and the results would become legendary.

My personal favourite of all the scores Morricone turned in for Leone (and perhaps my favourite Morricone score of them all) is the moving, majestic, yet often strange and comical set he provided for A Fistful of Dynamite. The film itself, however, does not have a particular high standing in Leone’s oeuvre, and were it not for his obscure sword ‘n’ sandals debut, The Colossus of Rhodes (the only film of Leone’s without a Morricone score), it would undoubtedly be his least known film (I don’t know anyone, or have even heard of anyone, who has seen The Colossus of Rhodes, despite the fact that it is now freely available on DVD as part of Warner Bros. “Camp Classics” series. For fuck’s sake). I don’t really know exactly why A Fistful of Dynamite is so underseen and, apparently, unloved. It could be for one or two reasons that I can think of, firstly that no one seems to be sure of what it’s called. Leone himself both wrote and filmed it under the title Duck, You Sucker!, a somewhat comedic line uttered at several points during the film. The Italian insisted that this was a common, popular phrase in the United States, despite the American members of his cast assuring him that it most certainly wasn’t. Even if it had been, it’s still a rather clunky, throwaway title, and it’s little wonder that the studio instead first toyed with Once Upon a Time… the Revolution, before settling on A Fistful of Dynamite, to release it under (both titles referring to earlier films in the Leone canon).

Another reason why it may be so overlooked is that some folks are perhaps uncertain of its legitimacy as a fully-fledged Leone film. Not a part of the mega-famous “Dollars” trilogy, and arriving three years after the star-studded Once Upon a Time in the West, Leone hadn’t even wanted to direct A Fistful of Dynamite himself, and the list of potential alternative helmers is mind-boggling. Both Peter Bogdanovich and Sam Peckinpah were onboard to direct at one point or other, before Leone eventually handed the reins to his regular assistant director, Giancarlo Santi. Leone only ended up taking on full directing duties after stars James Coburn and Rod Steiger refused to be in it if he didn’t. They themselves weren’t original choices either, with Leone originally hiring Jason Robards and Eli Wallach in their respective roles, and even that after the names of Malcolm McDowell and none other than Clint Eastwood had been floating around for a time as well.

Unlike the 1973 spaghetti western spoof, My Name is Nobody (for which he only guest-directed the opening and closing scenes), A Fistful of Dynamite IS a bona fide Sergio Leone film, however. Also unlike My Name is Nobody, A Fistful of Dynamite is not a “comedy” film. I had always thought that it was, and had always lumped it in with that later film, for some reason. I think this is partly why, despite being a massive Leone fan, it took me a while to actually seek out and watch A Fistful of Dynamite. I was immeasurably, profoundly surprised when I did get round to seeing it, as it is, while admittedly a very funny film in places, a powerful and poetic masterpiece above all else. In my opinion at least, A Fistful of Dynamite is as good as anything Sergio Leone has ever done, making it as good as Once Upon a Time in the West and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly; better than, the still absolutely amazing, A Fistful of Dollars and For a Few Dollars More; and considerably better than the overrated (in my opinion… etc.) Once Upon a Time in America.

The plot concerns a family of Mexican bandits, headed by cunning patriarch Rod Steiger, who after hijacking and plundering a stage coach in the superbly played opening sequence (giving the balletic intro to Once Upon a Time in the West a run for it’s money), encounter runaway Irish freedom fighter and explosives expert, James Coburn. Kitted out with all manner of new fangled technology (including a motorbike, western revivionism ahoy!), Coburn finds himself strongarmed into the services of Steiger and clan, who believe he can help them to perform an audacious bank-raid. It soon transpires that Coburn himself is manipulating Steiger, however, and is subtly coerceing his apolitical peasant pal into working for the fledgling Mexican revolution. Will the greedy bandido grow a heart and help the struggle, or will he take the money and run, revolution be damned?

A Fistful of Dynamite is easily identifiable as one of the wave of politically-minded, left-leaning westerns that were popular at the time, a uniquely socialist movement in modern pulp cinema, commonly, collectively referred to as the “Zapata” western. Generally set in Mexico, these films tend to use the bitter and hard-fought Mexican Revolution of 1910 as an allegory for more modern disputes and struggles (Vietnam, Angola, Cuba et al). Other notable entries include the trailblazing The Big Gundown, from 1966, the excellent A Bullet for the General, and, to a lesser extent, Gillo Pontecorvo’s only film of note other The Battle of Algiers, the suitably incendiary Burn!, which is set in a 1700s Portuguese colony, but which bears enough similarity in terms of plot and message to be included. A Fistful of Dynamite is the masterpiece of this subgenre, and it is also Sergio Leone’s most thoughtful and thought-provoking film. The film’s message is handled brilliantly, and it is a masterstoke of Leone’s supreme storytelling skills that he initially invites to laugh at and cheer on Steiger’s grubby, money-grabbing antics, before slowly pulling us into the world of the revolution, poignantly stressing it’s vital importance, something which slowly dawns on us as well as the central protagonist. Unlike a lot of the other Zapata films, however, A Fistful of Dynamite is not dreamily idealistic, and shows it’s revolutionaries as both brutal and ruthless, how easily this sits with you depends on how much you sympathise with (trendy dictator of the hour) Chairman Mao’s philosophy that revolution by it’s very nature is violent and unpleasant, a notion fully quoted onscreen before the film’s title sequence.

If you haven’t seen A Fistful of Dynamite, I really can’t recommend it highly enough. It manages the all-too rare hat-trick of being all at once affecting, action-packed and amusing (not least as a result of messrs Coburn and Steiger’s occassionally corny Irish and Mexican accents). Morricone’s music is naturally a real strong point too, with a sequence employing the dazzling, dreamy title theme over a nostalgic flashback to Coburn’s native Ireland proving as memorable a meeting of Morricone’s music and moving images as any other, including the infamously intense finale of Once Upon a Time in the West.

But here comes Aneet to tell you more…

“I saw you sleeping on your desk. I heard you snoring on your rocking chair. But this beautiful music, the wonderful songs, please tell me when will you compose this? Best wishes from Leone to Morricone.”

And thank god that Sergio gently harassed Ennio to make one of his most interesting and bravest scores to Leone’s epic and vivid film. Generally overlooked by the casual Morricone fan but greatly revered by those who truly love their films and soundtracks, ‘Fistful Of Dynmite’ is an underrated gem which has plenty of hidden and surreal charms.

Everyone knows the prolific and magical partnership of Leone and Morricone (they were classmates at school) and it’s on ‘Fistful of Dynamite’ that you can see and hear a partnership that is totally harmonious, confident and dare I say it fun. The pair changed the landscape of the Western but Morricone had a profound impact on other composers with his work for Leone and it’s on this score that you can hear the Maestro really push and test the boundaries of the Spaghetti Western.

The score itself encompasses many emotions and styles – from the whimsical and comic to the sincere and emotive, each track harnesses the illustrious feel of the movie. The opener ‘Todesmelodie’ featuring the wonderful Edda Dell’Orso is breezy, comforting and features Morricone’s revolutionary use of female vocals as an instrument with orchestral elegance with extraordinary results. Tracks such as ‘The Beggar’s March’ and ‘Joking Apart’ shows off Morricone’s deft use of unorthodox instruments with humour and warmth. I could go on forever about the soundtrack but you guys are probably reading this on your lunch breaks and have to check the latest transfer deals but one final thing I will say about Morricone’s score for ‘Fistful Of Dynamite/Duck You Sucker/Duk Digs, Fjols’ etc, is that the soundtrack is truly wonderful and is definitely one of the Maestro’s strongest pieces of work. As I said it’s just one example. I mean if it was only one we wouldn’t have Morricone Mondays would we? Anyway, here’s the aforementioned ‘Todemelodie’. Once again Maestro we salute you!

Exorcist II: The Heretic (John Boorman, 1977)

I am somewhat notorious in certain circles for preferring Exorcist II: The Heretic to the original Exorcist. The first film, in fact, is a film I downright dislike, so as far as I’m concerned anyway, it wouldn’t be too hard for any sequel to be at least fractionally superior to the original. As it happens, however, I think Exorcist II is a pretty fantastic film in its own right and it certainly isn’t deserving of the bad reputation it has acquired.

When Warner Bros. took the then still somwhat bold move to commission a sequel to what remains to this day their most successful ever production, the studio had envisioned a low-budget cheapie, which would rehash the storyline of the original film, and use up any footage left over by its director, William Friedkin. What they got instead couldn’t have been any further removed from that initial, lazy synopsis. With Friedkin unwilling to return for part two, Warners instead signed up part-English gentleman, part visionary madman John Boorman; a huge, commanding name in Hollywood at the time with a string of trailblazing, bona fide hits behind him, including Point Blank, Hell In The Pacific and Deliverance. Moreover, Boorman’s most recent effort had been warped sci-fi fable Zardoz, which is perhaps still the most insane mainstream film of all time, a grand and dazzling head-fuck, featuring a post-Bond Sean Connery, clambering all over a magical emasculated future, clad in a bright red nappy. They could at least, then, expect their new director to turn in something different.

And different is what they most certainly got. Eschewing the schlock horror theatrics of the earlier film, Boorman instead takes us on an admittedly often shambolic, rambling, metaphysical, spiritual adventure romp. Linda Blair reprises the role of Regan, who four years on from her possession, is now receiving psychiatric treatment to help her confront her all too literal demons. She has also developed a startling knack for healing the sick and seemingly incurable, which puts her into contact with troubled priest Father Lamont (Richard Burton). Lamont has been studying the writings of Father Merrin, the titular exorcist of the first film, and is on a mission to vanquish the demon Pazazu, who apparently possesses people with special healing powers, such as Regan in the earlier film, in an attempt to destroy them. This quest leads Lamont and Regan on an epic and darkly psychedelic journey, taking in both darkest Africa and the very recesses of the mind, via pilgrimage, telepathy and religious vision, before culminating in a showdown back on the infamous steps on which Regan’s first exorcism reached a grisly climax four years before.

However, they aren’t the actual “Exorcist steps”, as for one reason or another Boorman and his crew were refused permission to film there and as much as I like Exorcist II, it is a film that is noticeably hamstrung by production problems. The most notorious and evident example of this is the massive re-editing job done on the film to make its storyline more comprehensible, following poor test-screening results. As many noted at the time however, these changes served only to make Exorcist II even more incomprehensible and it would seem that the film that John Boorman really wanted to make was far too ambitious and laden with ideas to ever really get off the ground. This doesn’t necessarily cripple Exorcist II completely, however, and as protracted and confused as it often is, it still throws up more in the way of interesting ideas than its predecessor and indeed many notable films of the 1970s; with the core theme of miraculous good inevitably drawing upon itself unspeakable evil being particularly strong. One of the reasons it generated such feelings of contempt and disappointment on its release was Boorman’s decision to steer the film away from all-out horror and make it something a little more brooding and intellectual. As noted, he didn’t quite pull this off, but he still manages to serve up a visual feast of a film, creating a creepy, magical atmosphere that manages to be grand, dreamy and moody all at the same time. The cast, despite many members not quite firing on all cylinders, is quite a treat too, counting the aforementioned Blair (likeable and believable as the teenaged Regan), Burton (evidently worse for the booze), Louise Fletcher, James Earl Jones and a returning Max Von Sydow.

How much you like Exorcist II may depend largely on if you can swallow some of its often strange and elaborate set-pieces, a prime example being an early appearance made by Pazazu via an odd telepathy/mind-reading/hypnosis machine thingy. I know a lot of people who howl with derisive laughter at the very mention of this scene, but I really rather admire the baffling strangeness of it, and doff my cap to Joh Boorman for trying something different. After all, anybody can throw a bucket of cold pea soup at the screen, a la William Friedkin in the first film. Indeed, much of the bad press attached to Exorcist II was generated thanks to some graceless gutter-sniping by notorious dickhead Friedkin and author William Peter Blatty, who wrote the novel on which The Exorcist was based. Friedkin even took it upon himself to personally insult Boorman, but these attacks were no doubt inspired by more than a tad of jealousy, as Boorman was and is an infinitely more talented director than Friedkin could ever dream of being and despite being rather flawed, Exorcist II: The Heretic is more interesting, rewarding and weirdly enjoyable than any film William Friedkin has ever made (with the possible exception of The French Connection – what about the video to Laura Brannigan’s ‘Self Control’? Eh, Alan? – Aneet. That’s not a film, Aneet, but it is quality. Cruising is pretty good, too - Alan). We should also dispel the notion that the film was a catastrophic flop on release. Despite being Warner Bros. most expensive production to date at the time, Exorcist II comfortably made back over double it’s budget. That’s more than any of William Friedkin’s post-Exorcist films can say! 

So ignore the pompous and unimaginative critics of this authentic mega-budget curio and give Exorcist II: The Heretic another go. Even if all else fails, you’re guaranteed to enjoy one of Ennio Morricone’s greatest ever soundtracks. Take it away, Aneet.

Facing the mammoth task of following the huge success of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells as well as trying to capture the three well documented themes of the film (as the liner notes explain -tribalism of the African rituals, the standard musical staples of the horror movie and a dreamlike weightlessness linked to redemption and the triumph of good over evil.), Morricone responded with one his finest scores of all time.

 The late seventies didn’t bode well with our Ennio, his stock was falling and he was struggling to adapt and evolve his signature sound. It was on Exorcist II that he was able to combine elements of his golden 60′s period with something new entirely. Believe it or not, Exorcist II was his first Hollywood score but it was not his first experience with crazy demonic possession movies – check out his absolutely gorgeous score for Alberto De Martino’s 1974 Exorcist rip-off L’Antichristo.

The remarkable thing about Morricone’s score – and why it remains such a key soundtrack of his career is because of the versatility and beguiling brilliance of each track as well being the blueprint for many of his future compositions (e.g. shades of ‘Interrupted Melody’ can be heard on Once Upon A Time In America). The scope and sound of this soundtrack never ceases to amaze me – from the sumptuous ‘Regan’s Theme’ to the insane psychedelic rocker ‘Magic And Ecstasy’ as well as the intricate and bewitching African drums and rhythms. It’s an album of extremes, from the abstract to the intimate, the comforting to the down-right scary (and to the unintentional hilarity) – it pretty much sums up the film too. Maestro – we salute you!!

Till next week’s Morricone Madness, I’ve left you with a track off the album that wasn’t actually featured in the movie but only on the trailers and half-way through the end-credits (so there was a reason to sit through the end!) it’s the aforementioned mad-fuzz nightmare ‘Magic And Ecstasy’.