Only now does it occur to me... OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE (1967)

Only now does it occur to me... that Jack Clayton should certainly be in the running for "greatest ever director of child actors." Anyone who has seen THE INNOCENTS cannot fail to be impressed by the child leads (Martin Stephens and Pamela Franklin), who infuse their roles with a spooky maturity and an uncanny depth that almost make you wonder if the children have been possessed for real. [I've already reviewed THE INNOCENTS (1961), and conclude that (alongside THE CHANGELING) it's probably the greatest "ghost story" film ever made.]

Clayton further demonstrated his proficiency in working with child actors in the (flawed, but interesting) adaptation of SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES (1983) and the (Harold Pinter-penned) domestic drama, THE PUMPKIN EATER (1964). I just finished watching OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE (1967), and I have to say he sort of outdoes himself, at least as far as the directing is concerned.

I wouldn't quite call OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE a horror film, but it's more macabre than your usual drama; between its atmosphere and pedigree, I think I can safely shoehorn it into my "Melancholy Horror" genre, which I've described at length here. It has an overcast, oddly unsettling pre-autumn color palette

that carries a "back to school" nostalgia alongside a kind of bleak-hearted English emptiness.

In its own way, I'd call it a minor influence on everything from CARRIE to THE BEGUILED to THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE.

The initial set-up (without getting too spoilery) is that a deeply religious mother has been living from her sickbed, trying to raise seven children of varying ages. Consequently, they have become quite self-sufficient but have developed a complicated socio-political structure, a structure whose key anchor is their daily religious instruction, ominously called "Mother Time."

When Mother dies, the children see little reason to alter the makeup of their insulated household, and therefore decide to bury her in the backyard garden without telling anyone. What follows is a sort of domesticated and more introverted version of LORD OF THE FLIES, filled with unexpected happenings and power struggles and séances and matriarchal cults––it's top-notch wacko melodrama, and I mean that as highest praise. That any of this works at all is a testament to Clayton and his talented child actors. Of course, one of the standouts is THE INNOCENTS' Pamela Franklin,

who seizes a mantle of power and is overwhelmed by deep, pubescent insecurities. The role requires her to run a gamut of human emotion that even lifelong devotees of the craft would find daunting. She is phenomenal.

Also, Dirk Bogarde is in this, too. I won't tell you under what circumstance he appears, but he knows this film belongs to the children and he does not attempt to upstage them.

(He has top billing in this movie, simply because the true stars are little-known child actors.)

In short, if you have an interest in morbid 1960s melodrama, a master's class in child acting, or what I term melancholy horror, OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE is a curiosity worth seeking out.

Film Review: MODESTY BLAISE (1966, Joseph Losey)

Stars: 1.5 of 5.
Running Time: 119 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Monica Vitti, Terence Stamp, Clive Revill, Dirk Borgarde.
Tag-lines: "Nothing can faze Modesty Blaise, the world's deadliest and most dazzlingly female agent!"
Best one-liner: None.

Joseph Losey, Monica Vitti, Terence Stamp, and Dirk Bogarde collaborating on a candy-colored Bond-ian romp sprinkled with houseboys, outrageous mod fashions, gigantic glasswear, and all manner of vivid campitude- what could possibly go wrong? Well, I'll tell you.

How could you possibly misuse this setting? Watch the movie and find out.

First, Losey. A director known for alienation and paranoia trying his hand at a light-hearted spy escapade. And for a first time action/comedy director, I understand there must be an incredible temptation to conclude your film with a chaotic brawl set to something snazzily approximating 'Yakety Sax.' There must be a tremendous urge to have an unexpected ethnic group show up to "comedic" effect (i.e., the Native Americans in CASINO ROYALE or the "zany bedouin" in THE PIRATE MOVIE). In MODESTY BLAISE, it's a sudden army of Arabs. Isn't it hilarious how they all showed up at once, out of nowhere, to do pratfalls? Not so much.

Next, there's Vitti. The muse of Antonioni (for whom she's perfect), she flawlessly portrays existential angst and modern malaise. Unfortunately, she's unqualified to appear in scenes meant to elicit laughter (intentional or unintentional).

She comes across as awkward, stilted, and embarrassed. She basically lacks the comedic chops or sheer presence of Jane Fonda in BARBARELLA, or even Marisa Mell in DIABOLIK.

Then, there's Stamp. One of the finest actors of all time, and they've put the kid gloves on him.

In a muted, sidekicky role, there's really no reason for him to be here. It'd be like making Joan Crawford a Bond girl.

Finally, there's Bogarde, who deliciously sinks his teeth into the role of a purple parasol-twirling mastermind (with a shock of white hair).

Only he emerges unscathed. I don't even have the time (or desire) to further discuss the insufferable pacing, the excruciating runtime, or the humiliatingly out-of-place musical interludes (with unaltered vocals from non-singers Stamp and Vitti). One and a half stars.