Showing posts with label Starring: Gert Fröbe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starring: Gert Fröbe. Show all posts

The Longest Day (1962)


At 178 minutes, this war epic is aptly named. It’s painfully slow: almost an hour goes by before a shot is fired. A D-Day drama with an all-star cast (42 international stars, according to the cover text), it tries to be panoramic in scope and ends up disjointed and unfocused. There are way too many characters in too many locations. Indeed, new people are being introduced (with title cards) pretty much all the way through. Weirder still, some of the big names – such as Richard Burton – are hardly in it at all. John Wayne is miscast: simply too clumsily wooden and ponderous to be credible as a lieutenant colonel. Meanwhile, the Germans are presented as bumbling and stupid, when clearly they were far from that. But the film is so keen to work as simplistic propaganda that it has no interest in humanising the enemy or even crediting them with tactical skills. It’s self-conscious about its propaganda, too. There are several jarring moments when characters tell each other that this day will go down in history and never be forgotten. The film should show rather than tell. There’s not a hint of moral ambiguity. As such it turns dynamic world-changing events into something surprisingly dull.

Goldfinger (1964)


Third James Bond film. Lots to enjoy this time around, not least a strong storyline with a clear narrative arc. The Aston Martin DB5 is iconic and looks stunning on those winding mountain roads. Shirley Eaton’s death by gold paint remains memorable. There are convincing villains in the form of the hat-throwing OddJob (Harold Sakata) and the blandly evil Goldfinger (Gert Fröbe). There’s an amusingly extended golfing scene that seems more about macho one-upmanship than anything else. There’s the absurdly named Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman) leading a daft flying circus of glamorous girls who drop poison gas from tiny planes above Fort Knox.

This line from Sean Connery stood out as jarring and extraordinary: “My dear girl, there are some things that just aren't done, such as drinking Dom Perignon ’53 above the temperature of 38 degrees Fahrenheit. That's just as bad as listening to The Beatles without earmuffs!” Clearly Bond was pitched at the parents, and not at the kids. He was still part of the old order.