After god knows how long, I’ve finally gotten around to recording a new mix. Hurrah! Simply entitled The Omega Tapes, this hour-long compilation contains the songs that have been rocking my world for the past few months or so.  From Hyetal’s superb post-dubstep electronics to 100% Silk’s Ital and Innergaze’s drugged-out disco (and lots of weird bleeps and sounds in between), I visualized this mix to be the soundtrack to one of the Omega Man’s many post-apocalyptic car cruises. Now, with the image of Charlton Heston in your head, press play…

Enjoy.

Artwork by Rich Wilson

twitter.com/rich__wilson

Best known for his scores to cult Euro crime classics such as “Roma a mano armata” (Rome Armed to the Teeth), “Napoli violenta” (Violent Naples) and the hilariously camp rip-off of The Exorcist,  “Chi Sei?” (Beyond the Door)*, Franco Micalizzi is one of the finest yet slightly overlooked Italian composers of the seventies. If you’re a newcomer to his works, then his score to Gianni Paradisi’s 1979 film Stridulum is the perfect place to start.

Without going on about the film too much (you can read about the utterly bonkers plot here), Micalizzi’s deep euro funk and disco soundtrack seeps through the craziness on screen with effortless aplomb. The undisputable highlight is the stirring epic “Running Away From Jerzy”, which has the right balance of dramatic melodies and some serious funky flute action.

Franco Micalizzi – Running Away From Jerzy

Taken from the 1979 Italian-Japanese soft sexploitation flick Dedicato Al Mare Egeo (Dedicated To The Aegean Sea), this frothy erotic number finds the Maestro at his most playful and light-hearted.

The wordless sighing melody is provided by naughty 70s pornstar Illona Saller, (“Cicciolina”) while the airy arrangement is effortlessly aided by the young Japanses violin prodigy Yoko Sato. Easy listening meets softcore, ‘Cavallina A Cavallo’ leans more towards the cheeky side than the smutty side (although the album cover suggests otherwise, ooh-err!) and is one Morricone’s most delightful and mischievous pieces of music.

Ennio Morricone – Cavallina A Cavallo

Hello everybody and welcome to our first special theme week of the year! For the next five days we’ll be looking at the saucier side of life and embracing all things Sleaze. Whether its sexy soundtracks, risque disco, or X-rated movies, this week is guaranteed to be downright filthy! And a little bit naughty.

We’ve also got some very, very special guest smut peddlers to pop by and tell us about their sleazy secrets. So stay tuned this week if you want to discover who these Sultans of Sleaze are!

Is it me or is it getting hot in here??   Here’s some racy vids to get you in the mood… BRING ON THE SLEAZE!!

The new Permanent Vacation compilation ‘Space Oddities Vol.2′, compiled by Alexis Le-Tan & Jess, is a brilliant collection of spaced-out, cosmic, groovy library music from the 70s and 80s. More psychedelic and proggy than Vol.1, it features some killer tracks from some of the finest soundtrack libraries in the world (CAM, Telemusic, Crea etc).

‘Equilibrium’ by H.Tical is a rare sound cue from Jesus Franco’s  sleazy 1973 film ‘Sinner’ and is taken from a library album entitled ‘Distortions Pop’ (see the cover). But according to Joel Martin’s excellent sleeve notes, the library album in question was a replication of an earlier commercial record on the British ‘Kaleidoscope’ label from 1971, that was entitled ‘Distortions’ by Blue Phantom. Then it was speculated that Italian composer Armando Sciascia was in fact behind the whole thing and was working under the pseudonym ‘Tical’! Confused? I certainly am.

Anyway, the track itself is a lovely, fuzzy psych number. The lonely, misty sounding organ, recalls Morricone at his finest and the gentle psych-jazz percussion softly eases the listener into a lovely cinematic calm. That sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it? Oh, sod it. Have a listen and judge for yourself.

H Tical – Equilibrium

H Tical – Equilibrium

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”.

Composer Henry Mancini  first encountered director/producer Blake Edwards in 1958. Teaming up, they began operations under the theory that dramatic background music be fresh. modern and listenable in its own right. As a result of  this attitude, Mancini went on to have incredible success with Edwards, in television (‘Peter Gunn’ and ‘Mr Lucky’) and film (‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s').

‘Experiement In Terror’ was released in 1962 and Mancini’s score is still daring and exceptional to this day. Mancini reflects the dramatic characteristics of the picture (it’s a  murder/crime /suspense/terror!! film - ask Alan for more details) – it is tense, suspenseful, thrilling and modern. To acheive these effects, Mancini exercised a great deal of ingenuity and versatility in the composition of the music and the selction of the performing instruments (including the groundbreaking use of an autoharp!).

Mancini created a genuinely exciting and interesting score for ‘Experiement In Terror’. From the haunting murder sequence (entitled ‘Nancy’) to the ‘crazy’ teenager scenes (‘The Twist’), the score displays a remarkable variety of music and mood, and is a tribute to the versatility of its composer.

So, here’s the ever-so suspicious title theme..

Henry Mancini -Experiment In Terror

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.