A few thoughts on Love & Friendship - Reviews #237

CINEMA: Love & Friendship (Whit Stillman, 2016) - Ah, Whit Stillman. It's so great to have one of America's best ever writer-directors back making movies again, and this one's a wonder. Jane Austen has been an influence since the beginning (his first and greatest movie, Metropolitan, is a rom-com in which love flourishes between two Austen fans), and for his fifth film he's presenting the author's first serious work: an epistolary novella written before her six major works, and only published posthumously.

Adapting it freely enough to humanise its widowed, magnificently selfish anti-heroine (Kate Beckinsale), Stillman retains plenty of Austen's acerbic gags, as Lady Susan plays all those around her off against one another in order to get rich, comfortable and laid. I saw the movie at the Curzon Chelsea yesterday, complete with a post-film Q&A with Stillman and Beckinsale, and the director spoke about how he has tried to revive '20s and '30s tricks lost to the grammar of cinema, like iris-ins and a climactic roll-call of characters, complete with clips. That's not all, though: there's also the spirit of Pre-Code and screwball comedy alive here: the ending is pure Jean Harlow vehicle (with more than a hint of Red-Headed Woman), and the debuting Tom Bennett plays a hilariously and distinctively thick posho who'd be very much at home in, say, Merrily We Live.

Stillman also acknowledged the debt he owes to the 1995 version of Sense and Sensibility (a film he was slated to direct, after Rob Reiner and before eventual choice Ang Lee), and that's apparent throughout: its sets and its cinematography are virtual facsimiles of that earlier classic, which is by far Austen adaptation on the big screen so far, with inventions that even improve upon her novel. The feel of this film is very different though, mirroring its protagonist, who's caustic, brutal and duplicitous, where Emma Thompson's Elinor was gentle, wise and human. Beckinsale's slightly synthetic Hollywood glamour is an odd fit, imported back into a British period setting, but her performance is unexpectedly excellent, particularly her pitch-perfect comic delivery: she grandstands when she needs to, tips a wink to us at times, but often tosses away her barbs in a way that makes them even funnier.

The rest of the cast is great too. Morfydd Clark captures the right balance between childishness and burgeoning self-worth as Lady Susan's daughter, Xavier Samuel is suitably sensuous and endearingly naïve as our anti-heroine's next conquest, and Thick of It regular Justin Edwards exhibits his usual exceptional comic timing, as a singularly agreeable man whose wife (the excellent Emma Greenwell) hates Beckinsale's guts. In the bit parts, James Fleet (who also appeared in Lee's Sense and Sensibility) hits the sweet spot between pomposity, likeability and general impotence, Chloe Sevigny is fun as Beckinsale's American confidante (the pair re-uniting 18 years on from Stillman's Last Days of Disco) and Bennett steals every scene he goes near, as a vastly wealthy idiot with some extremely incorrect preconceptions.

I was incredibly excited when I heard this movie was in the works, and I'm delighted that it didn't disappoint, its short shooting schedule (entirely in Dublin) and small budget nowhere in evidence, except perhaps to lend it the same zippy, breakneck feel as The Thin Man, a film with the same modern, offhand sensibility, and delirious sense of fun. It'll take me another couple of viewings to catch all the gags, and to decide − as with Damsels in Distress − whether it's another Stillman masterpiece, or merely a terrific movie, and I simply can't wait. (4/4)

I also had a very quick chat with Whit Stillman. All my life goals are now completed.

Damsels in Distress - Reviews #111

The first night of the Bradford International Film Festival, featuring a singing frog, some magic glasses and the triumphant return of the great Whit Stillman.

CINEMA: Damsels in Distress (Whit Stillman, 2011)

Whit Stillman is back. The writer-director of Metropolitan, Barcelona and The Last Days of Disco was thought to have retired, his career having not stirred since 1999. But no. Apparently he’s just been writing scripts that no-one would fund. Until this one.

Damsels in Distress is a college comedy about a group of girls – all named after flowers, as it happens – who spot vulnerable new additions to the roster and try to help them, through their Suicide Prevention Centre (“They say with illness, prevention is nine-tenths the cure. With suicide, it’s actually ten-tenths.”) There’s no counselling or medication, just free doughnuts, unlicensed aromatherapy and tap dancing. A whiff of free motel soap does prove to be a pleasant contrast to the nasally-damaging sensory assault of frat boys, but the other methods are less successful, as student “conmen” keep pretending to be depressed for the free food. This being college, and this being Stillman, plenty of the story also regards romantic entanglements – with frat boys, a “playboy-or-operator-type” and a Spanish religious zealot.

The film is brimming over with that unique, hilarious Stillman dialogue we’ve been missing for the last 13 years: cool people “lacking humanity”, confusion over the spelling of the name “Zorro”, and references to a time before anyone “started being nice to weird and unpopular kids”. He’s a wildly subversive writer, with a distinctive and fiercely individual viewpoint, seeing everything from a fresh angle. In Metropolitan his characters criticised “public transport snobs” who wouldn’t take taxis, called socialist philosophers “patronising” and pontificated on the discreet, oft-overlooked charm of the bourgeoisie. In Barcelona, the virtues and vices of American imperialism were dissected in typically offbeat fashion. And in The Last Days of Disco, Stillman espoused the theory that the death of Bambi’s mother was a formative incident for an entire generation that consequently embraced animal rights. It makes you think that Stillman would make one hell of an essayist. He’s certainly one hell of a filmmaker. Here he offers an absurdist take on pushy parents and laments the degeneration of homosexual culture, from Wilde to macho posturing.

As always, he gives his characters absurd, unforgettable back stories. In the past we’ve had a supposedly gifted student fail a crucial exam because a girl kept snapping her bra strap, and the tragic tale of Polly Perkins (“It’s a composite – like New York Magazine does”), which shed light on the many wrongdoings of Metropolitan’s heinous Rick von Sloneker. Here there are several, including those of queen bee Violet (Greta Gerwig), slickster Charlie and the blank-faced Thor, who’s going to “hit the books really hard” in order to learn his colours. Stillman makes much in his films of affectations and the projected image: in The Last Days of Disco, Chris Eigeman pretended to be gay for convenience’s sake, while Chloe Sevigny made a Scrooge McDuck-themed hash of playing it sexy. There are big lies again here, as Stillman returns to his favourite theme: the search for identity and a purpose in life. These are characters in flux: they change and solidify before our eyes. And then, quite often, they pair off.

It’s hard to describe the plot of Damsels in Distress. Really it’s the antithesis of formula filmmaking: novelistic and unpredictable, with constant diversions and twists you can’t anticipate, as in real life. And in a sense it is like real life, only with better dialogue and a taste for the fantastical. Stillman has always had a delightfully unselfconscious fondness for dancing. His films have had limbo competitions, “bible-dancing”, a formal dance and an entire film based around disco, with a climax set to Love Train, in which people shimmy along a train carriage. In Damsels, all Gerwig wants to do in life is help people – and start an international dance craze. Her unskilled jaunt down a dorm room corridor is a highlight, before the film passes into genuine musical territory for its closing five minutes, as it builds on those nods to Fred Astaire – tapping, a character who insists on being called “Freak Astaire”, the film’s title and occasional blasts of the old Gershwin standard Things Are Looking Up – by exploding into an all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza. That song is one of the loveliest from A Damsel in Distress, the London-set 1937 musical that gave Fred a brief break from Ginger, and almost destroyed the career of the 17-year-old Joan Fontaine. Leaping into musical territory is a filmic trick that can go very badly wrong, but it’s done with such sincerity and such a genuine love for the genre that it’s a move of complete inspiration.

The cast is largely excellent. Gerwig – who strongly resembles Stillman’s last leading lady, Sevigny – was a heroine of the “Mumblecore” genre before her break-out performance opposite Ben Stiller in Greenberg. Speaking in that curious way common to all the director’s central characters and asked to essentially carry the film in an extremely tricky part, she’s absolutely magnetic: juggling conflicting, contrasting character traits from one moment to the next, as her character variously finds and loses herself, helps and hinders others and may be either a life-saver or a joke. Analeigh Tipton – who was the babysitter in Crazy, Stupid, Love – plays Lily, and has much in common with Gerwig, in that her strikingly large features appear to be trying to escape from her face. As a new addition to the group, her character is forced to wrestle with their peculiarities, whilst negotiating a love life that sees her periodically deceived, confused and asked to have sex in an uncomfortable way. It’s another busy part and she’s fine in it. It took me a little while to acclimatise to the English Rose (Megalyn Echikunwoke), but she, erm, grew on me increasingly throughout the movie. The fourth member of the group, Heather (Carrie MacLemore), a principle-light dummy, seems a strangely conventional part, at least on first viewing, but MacLemore tackles it with admirable gusto.

The performances from the men aren't as uniformly strong, though Stillman does at least share out the great lines. Adam Brody is good as strategic developer Charlie (yes, the familiar Stillmanian names Charlie and Fred appear again), and Billy Magnussen makes an amusing idiot, but Ryan Metcalf – as the blue-eyed, fairly unattractive, fairly unintelligent Frank – is a touch inconsistent, and Hugo Becker isn’t great as Lily’s unconventional latin lover. Perhaps the best of the bunch is Zach Woods in a cinematic first: the Chris Eigeman character not played by Chris Eigeman. His potential baddie (yes, another Stillman villain called Rick – and this time he’s a journalist as well) is reminiscent of Eigeman’s Nick in Metropolitan, who I can confidently say is the funniest movie character of all time. Even funnier than Lee Tracy in Blessed Event. While Eigeman doesn’t turn up this time (which is a crying shame), two other members of the Whit Stillman Stock Company do appear: Taylor Nichols – a key part of his first two films – and Carolyn Farina, the Jane Austen-loving love interest in Metropolitan, whose career inexplicably failed to ignite in the early ‘90s. Fans of modern TV comedy will also be glad to see appearances by Arrested Development's Maeby (Alia Shawkat) and deadpan Parks and Rec star Aubrey Plaza, playing Depressed Debbie, who is – if anything – even more sardonic than her small screen character April.

Damsels’ treatment of mental illness is confrontational, but it’s unusual in that it's neither sensationalist, simplistic nor in bad taste. While some characters utter troubling or controversial views (a street cleaner memorably says that people who commit suicide are selfish, thinking only of themselves, as he has to deal with the "mess"), Stillman credits his audience with enough intelligence to see the potential irony in such statements, and draws humour not from the plight of depressed people, but from the in-film battle over those people’s minds, and from farcical details - like an unhappy student leaping from the top of a fairly squat building and hurting his leg. Characters who have mental illness, obsessive personalities or psychotic episodes have often peopled Stillman’s work. It takes a great writer, and an empathetic one, to mine humour not from their predicaments, but from their circumstance, and question perceived wisdom about how they should be treated.

I like Whit Stillman more than any other modern filmmaker: for his glorious dialogue, challenging, surprising worldview and superbly-drawn characters. With this belated return to the screen, he had plenty to live up to. So how does Damsels measure up? Well, on a first viewing, it’s a worthy addition to the canon, with the slightly underwhelming digital visuals – a touch too bright and TV movie-ish – quickly forgotten thanks to an engrossing, meandering story, superb work from Gerwig and a script that has more great lines than anything I’ve seen so far this decade. But who watches Whit Stillman films just once? Barbarians, that’s who. Metropolitan (a romantic comedy-adventure in the land of the aristocracy and one of my favourite 10 movies of all time), the exceptional Barcelona and the finale to his “doomed bourgeois in love” trilogy – The Last Days of Disco – have all got better and better with each watch: revealing telling lines and sublime jokes you missed first-time around, highlighting the perfectly-rounded characters, and showcasing the cleverness and coherence of his themes and his singular viewpoint. It’s only repeat viewings that will reveal the precise depths of Damsels’ myriad charms. (4)

***

SHORT: One Froggy Evening (Chuck Jones, 1955) – Hysterically funny cartoon about a builder who finds a singing frog from the 19th century and tries to make a fortune. The gag about the “psychopathic hospital” doesn’t play so well today (I know I'm touchy), but the rest of it is amazing. (3.5)

***

SHORT: 2:20 (Jason Wingard, 2011) – The winner of Virgin’s shorts competition is an OK sci-fi snippet about a man who inherits a pair of glasses that show him when everyone around him will die. I think you know where this is heading. (2)

***

A big thumbs-up to the organisers, who had put real thought into the launch, with a pianist playing old standards, tap dancers, and Damsels-themed freebies for everyone attending: doughnuts beforehand, and a bar of soap and a sheet of dance steps on the way out. Our two tickets only set us back £11. We also got complimentary popcorn from Virgin Media, which makes up for that time they messed up our bill and then threatened to sue us. Just about.

Harold Lloyd, The King's Speech and Tarzan's most annoying friend - Reviews #53

You know Harold Lloyd. Dark hair. Glasses. Smart suit. Hanging from a clock. I've been watching a heap of his films of late. Here's some stuff about them.

Harold Lloyd in...

For Heaven's Sake (Sam Taylor, 1926) - Wow. This will take some beating. A genuinely beguiling, hilarious Harold Lloyd comedy about a spoilt millionaire getting involved with a mission, to win the heart of a girl (Jobyna Ralston). I find Lloyd's work pretty variable. This is one of his less ambitious films but - along with The Kid Brother - the best I've encountered, with a touching romance, stunning set pieces and the funniest drunks that side of Frank McHugh. And the Robert Israel score is one of the loveliest things I've ever heard. (4)

Grandma's Boy (Fred C. Newmeyer, 1922) - Reactionary but charming and pastoral Harold Lloyd vehicle. Nearly missteps with a flashback sequence, then pulls it out of the bag, before climaxing in typically exciting fashion. (4)

A Sailor-Made Man (Fred C. Newmeyer, 1921) - Lloyd's first feature, coming in at a trim 47 minutes, isn't as good as Chaplin's (The Kid), but turns out better than Buster's (The Saphead), with neat characterisation, clever sight gags and an exuberant action climax. Pretending you're a cushion and then kicking someone up the bum so they fall into a swimming pool is always going to be funny. Special mention too for the penultimate scene, where Lloyd just can't get a kiss. (3)

Dr. Jack (Fred C. Newmeyer, 1922) - Unwaveringly pleasant Lloyd vehicle, with our hero as an idiosyncratic country doctor trying to save a sensitive, cloistered girl (Mildred Davis) from her fraudulent doctor, who keeps her dosed up and in the dark. Lots of gentle jokes, before a frenetic finale with more than a hint of Keaton's classic short The Goat, released the previous year. (3)

Why Worry? (Fred C. Newmeyer, 1923) - The first half of this much-praised outing is flatly disappointing, with a super set-up - a hypochondriac gets caught up in a revolution - thwarted by a succession of forced gags. Then suddenly the film bursts into life, climaxing with three hysterical fight scenes and some desperately tender, affecting romantic scenes opposite the wonderful Jobyna Ralston - by far the best of Lloyd's leading ladies, with an easy humour and tremendous natural warmth. There's a sublime closing scene too, which is anarchic, absurd and just plain old nice. (3)

The Cat's Paw (Sam Taylor, 1934) - *SPOILERS* Fine fish-out-of-water Lloyd talkie hampered by a notoriously bizarre final act in which he becomes a dictator. Una Merkel is a glorious leading lady. (3)

Movie Crazy (Clyde Bruckman, 1932) - I read a very enthusiastic review of this sound feature, which is what inspired me to dig out the Lloyd box-set in the first place (I bought it when it came out, watched half of the stuff on it, then got sidetracked and stuck it in a cupboard). Ironically, it's one of his weaker features, with its dearth of genuine belly laughs extending to a notably laughless, scoreless finale, which is essentially just a brutal fight. That's not to say the film doesn't offer plenty of enjoyment. Harold remains an engaging hero, Constance Cummings is a likeable and agreeably modern leading lady and there are some funny set-pieces, like our hero accidentally ruining her car, and his famous "magician's coat" sequence. But the Hollywood setting isn't adequately exploited (it hurts a little that there are no gag cameos; sometimes being independent must suck) and the highs just aren't as high as you'd hope, meaning it can't come close to matching Lloyd's silent classics. It would take Preston Sturges to give him the talkie - and the swansong - he deserved, some 16 years later. (3)

Hot Water (Fred C. Newmeyer and Sam Taylor, 1924) - Little-seen Harold Lloyd comedy is disappointing, disjointed and stressful rather than funny, at least in its first half. Picks up a bit in the second, with a couple of nice thrill sequences. (2.5)

... and here are the rest of the January reviews:

CINEMA: The King's Speech (Tom Hooper, 2010) - Brilliant stuff. As my girlfriend said: "I thought Colin Firth would be Oscar-worthy, but I didn't know he'd be good as well." And he is. Astonishingly good. The script isn't always faithful to the history, we could have used a little less symbolic Churchill and there's a slightly saggy bit at the end of the first third full of Gambon and Pearce, but for the most part this is stirring, funny and riotously enjoyable, with super support from Bonham Carter, Rush and the ever-underrated Anthony Andrews. (4)



The Last Days of Disco (Whit Stillman, 1998) - I dismissed this somewhat on first viewing, as it can't touch Stillman's other entries in the "doomed bourgeois in love" trilogy, Metropolitan and Barcelona. Also, three of the characters look pretty much identical, which meant I found the plot a little hard to follow. Silly old me. A rewatch reveals it to be a minor classic, with Stillman's typically fine ear for dialogue, another brilliant Eigeman performance and plenty of astute commentary on youth, romance and popular culture. I'll catch it again soon. (3.5)

Let Him Have It (Peter Medak, 1991) - Excellent but virtually unwatchable recounting of the Derek Bentley miscarriage of justice. Powerful, polemical and superbly acted across the board, with Paul Reynolds (Press Gang's Colin) matching Eccleston and veterans Courtenay and Atkins. I'll never watch it again, though, as I still feel bloody dreadful a day after seeing it. (3.5)

Quick Change (Howard Franklin and Bill Murray, 1990) - Considered by everyone to be "the great lost Bill Murray comedy", which I think makes that untrue. It's funny, entertaining and offbeat, with a particularly strong opening 15 and plenty of surprises thereafter, even if it's marginally less compelling than Scorsese's unjustly neglected After Hours, with which it has much in common. (3.5)

The Social Network (David Fincher, 2010) - Not quite great, but fascinating and entertaining, with a strong script and performances. (3.5)



The Night They Raided Minsky's (William Friedkin, 1968) - Not much story, but a dazzling evocation of burlesque in the '20s, with a wonderfully eclectic cast: Jason Robards, Jr., Bert Lahr (the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz), Britt Ekland, Norman Wisdom and Fender from Bilko. (3.5)

Flushed Away (David Bowers and Sam Fell, 2006) - I avoided this first time around, due to the apparently unappealing subject matter (I'm as up for a poo gag as the next man who finds poo really funny, but I wasn't sure I wanted to spend a whole film down the toilet), so it's nice to find that it's actually a really refreshing movie. The animation looks a touch primitive compared to recent ventures and Hugh Jackman is all wrong voicing our toffish protagonist, but Winslet's love interest is appealing, the supporting characters are really funny and the chase sequences are genuinely thrilling. (3)

CINEMA: The Green Hornet (Michel Gondry, 2011) - It seems half-finished, with iffy retro-fitted 3D, extended comic interludes crowbarred in pretty much indiscriminately and a minimal amount of Gondry magic. I really didn't care, as it made me laugh a lot. (2.5)

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (Edgar Wright, 2010) - Flashy, memorable and yet still a bit disappointing really, given the fields of lovingly-tended hype surrounding it. There are loads of good things in it (sight gags, non-sequiturs, one-liners - "Your bad is saying 'My bad'"), but it doesn't quite work as a whole - like Igby Goes Down. And Kieran Culkin is the best thing on show - like Igby Goes Down. Wright's uber-stylised direction and cut-to-the-quick editing provides plenty of colour while cramming about eight hours' worth of stuff into just two, and the supporting cast is really strong, but Cera is uncharacteristically annoying (and, no, I don't think that's intentional) and his chemistry with Lucy McClane is non-existent. Added to which, her character isn't developed beyond a cool wardrobe. And most of the music is a bit weak. Sorry. Still quite good though. (2.5)



Atonement (Joe Wright, 2007) - Knightley is surprisingly good, as is the kid, and the Dunkirk sequence is a knockout (Wright is clearly a fine director), but I'm not sure what the point is. Is it clearer in the novel? (2.5)

Starsky & Hutch (Todd Phillips, 2004) - Good fun, with a few big laughs. I'll watch Owen Wilson in anything (except Meet the Little Fockers). Snoop Dogg has quite a high-pitched voice. (2.5)

Con Air (Simon West, 1997) - Vivid characterisations make this OTT actioner a touch better than average, but the last half hour is pretty boring, and capped off with a hideously ill-judged coda. Cusack and Malkovich are really effective, but then they always are. (2.5)

The Queen (Stephen Frears, 2006) - There are impressive things in it - particularly Mirren - but it's overly repetitive and, like so many of the supporting performances, contrives to just miss the target. Peter Morgan can only write one type of film, can't he? And this is no Frost/Nixon. We could probably all live long and happy lives without the stag metaphor. (2.5)



Torchy Blane.. Playing with Dynamite (Noel M. Smith, 1939) - We wrapped up another series with this one, the final entry in Warner's popular B-movie run of the late 1930s. Blane was the inspiration for Superman's Lois Lane, the name partly drawn from Lola Lane, who played the character in one outing. Glenda Farrell was the only true Blane, though, appearing in seven of the nine entries and getting it supremely, effortlessly right each time. Absent here, Farrell is obviously missed, but Jane Wyman does an unexpectedly strong job of deputising, and Allen Jenkins is very good as her cop boyfriend, replacing Barton McLane. Absent-minded desk sergeant George Guhl is also elsewhere (literally this time), but ever-present Tom Kennedy is back for more as Gahagan, the soft detective with a yen for composing verse. The key for the series was really the performances. The first Blane film, Smart Blonde, benefited from snappy, clever dialogue, but generally the scripts were rushed, meaning the plots were full of holes and the patter erratic. Here, the story is better than usual, with Blane getting slung in jail to befriend gangster's moll Sheila Bromley, though her tactic of getting there - raising 11 false fire alarms - is slightly questionable, and her supposed rivalry with the police evaporates after about 10 minutes. Still, it's tense and enjoyable, with an abrupt ending that works quite well. (2.5)

She Knew All the Answers (Richard Wallace, 1941) - Fun romantic comedy with Franchot Tone, Joan Bennett and such familiar faces as William Tracy (Pepe from The Shop Around the Corner), Thurston Hall, Chester Clute and Billy Benedict in support. Bennett is a showgirl trying to get her boyfriend's stuffy uncle (Tone) to approve of her, so as to free up his mammoth inheritance. He's inheriting money, incidentally, not mammothseses. Instead, Tone takes a bit of a shine to her. The film borrows liberally from Easy Living in its stocks-and-shares subplot - and can't approach the majesty of that cast-iron classic - but it's all very pleasant, and they go to a fair at Coney Island. (2.5)

Dark Alibi (Phil Karlson, 1946) - Unusually well-directed Monogram Chan with an atypically coherent plot. Among the best of the series, then, though still dirt-cheap, with the familiar paucity of scriptwriting class reflected in the cut-price aphorisms. It's worth repeating that these Poverty Row programmers aren't a patch on the Fox films, which are simply wonderful, but fans will probably want to investigate them, once they've worked their way through those earlier classics. (2.5)



I'll Be Yours (William A. Seiter, 1947) - Pretty weak remake of The Good Fairy, with excessive re-writing losing the essence of the original and Tom Drake completely miscast in the Herbert Marshall role. It's one of the final four Deanna Durbin films, which she derided in her 1983 interview with David Shipman. It's perhaps not quite as bad as she made out, but it's streets behind Three Smart Girls or Mad About Music. (2)

Pulp (Mike Hodges, 1972) - A smug, disengaging and often incoherent homage to pulp fiction. There are a few bright moments, a handful of funny in-jokes (that nevertheless betray a certain desperation) and Lizabeth Scott's only movie appearance since 1957, but really it's just a massive disappointment - like a failed version of Gumshoe. (2)

Turner & Hooch (Roger Spottiswoode, 1989) - I saw bits and pieces of this when I was little (I'm 6' 3" now), but thought it deserved a proper go because I read a post on Empire Online raving about it, albeit with the caveat that it had a nostalgic pull. It was alright: Hanks was pretty decent, I'm really not sure about the ending. (2)

Bridget Jones's Diary (Sharon Maguire, 2001) - A zeitgeisty novel becomes undemanding, conventional romantic fare mining the comedy of embarassment. The three leads are all decent, but the script isn't. The Auschwitz joke made me wince. Death camp uniforms, lol. (2)



Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (Steven Spielberg, 2008) - Oh dear. Annoying dialogue, action scenes largely shorn of their trademark wonder, a laughably awful plot and a terrible baddie. Even John Hurt's rubbish in it. It makes Temple of Doom look nearly good. Half a mark for the ghost village and old times' sake. (1.5)

"Through the forest I carry the mail/Singing better than a nightingale/As great a lover as postman/And particular friend of the mighty Tarzan."
Tarzan and the Mermaids (Robert Florey, 1948)
*SOME SPOILERS*
The last, and by far the least, of the Weissmuller Tarzans. It's stultifying, truth be told, with a risible storyline utilising a hammy George Zucco, and an inexplicable number of terrible songs (please see above), crooned by John Laurenz. The only brightspots are the snippets of Robert-Florey-does-Robert-Flaherty faux-documentary footage, some decent underwater photography, a bit where loads of stuntmen leap off a cliff and the unexpected octopus duel (it won't be unexpected anymore; sorry). The remaining 61 of the 64 minutes consist of Tarzan swimming and people getting into and out of boats (calling to mind that famous review of They Were Expendable; alas, the similarities end there), as well as those bloody songs. Even Johnny Sheffield and the decent Cheetas had buggered off by this time. RKO's revival of the popular MGM series ultimately created one minor classic of its kind (Desert Mystery), two enjoyable timewasters (Triumphs and Huntress), a pair of iffy, cheesy romps and this dud. (1.5)