Not Tonight, Darling

Back in 1971, if you had never seen this and someone summarised it as "young blonde wife, frustrated by her husband's total lack of libido, decides to explore her sexuality", then I'm sure you'd have parted with your 50p at the cinema just as I would.

However, you'd have barely had time to lick your drink-on-a-stick before you'd have realised you'd been sold a pup.

The film says nothing, the acting is dire, the direction non- existent, the storyline meanders, wanders, then concludes by saying "make of this what you will. I give up"

However, this film is not without redemption. Here's why:

a) If you ever wondered what a seedy Soho strip club looked like in the daytime, this is for you. And what about that compere? ("Okay, remove your raincoats")

b) Captain Harrison (Bill Shine) may not be on screen for long but he does have the best lines. ("He called me Bill. Well, it was my name)

c) You really have to see the camera-work in the health club scenes to believe it. The young lady on the vibrator belt especially.

d) Thunderclap Newman playing live (along the lines of The Yardbirds in 'Blow Up' or Alan Price in 'O Lucky Man'). A previous reviewer mentioned this would interest those interested in the music of the era. It does.

e) The, shall we say, 'incredible' dream scene in the grocer's shop. Hard to believe and more than a touch of The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band about it (if you recall Magical Mystery Tour).

So, all in all, a dreadful film if you look on it as a film - but a fascinating slice of what 1971 was capable of, if you come at it from another angle!

A London housewife (Luan Peters) is bored with her sexually cold husband (Jason Twelvetrees -- and yes he is that wooden!) and is lead/blackmailed in to temptation with an Australian travelling salesman (Vincent Ball) and his rather more unbuttoned pals.

There are many films around where the story behind the film is far more interesting than the film itself. There are also films which are more interesting for the background than the foreground. This is both.

London in the early 70's was in a strange hangover of a place -- vice had been clamped down upon and the new thing were films that were sold as sexy, but were actually nothing of the kind (but hey, they have your money by then). Today this is less sexy than post watershed TV!

The one thing that I learn from watching this is that body painting had left the London sex scene as of 1971 and that heavy blue mascara could be worn all day long. Even in bed. Love the last sightings of the those wooden finished cars too.

Thunderclap Newman come on -- and don't (repeat don't) perform their only hit "Something in the Air."

Liz Taylor once said that she won an Oscar of Butterfield 8 because she had an utter contempt for the part (and her life at that time) and the Academy mistook it for great acting. No such luck for Peters who needs her whole life (on screen) to come apart to register emotion.

This is a film that has the air of multiple failure. The acting is cold and wooden and has a pretty bad script. Indeed if you stick with it, it doesn't even reach a conclusion to its rather weak storyline. That really twists the knife in the wound.

Antony Sloman (the director) is said to be one of the biggest film buffs in the UK -- but this proves that watching a lot of good movies doesn't mean you can learn a thing from them!

I agree with all the reviewers here-this is pretty dire in respect of acting, script, dead unpopulated locations, unsatisfactory ending (for those who lasted the course!), limited flesh for those who paid their money in expectation back in the day...But:

It's of some interest as another example of that weird period in the early '70s of the Brit "sex comedy". I assume that the Aussie actor Vincent Ball ("A Town Like Alice" etc.) is thoroughly ashamed of this, though he does get to get down to the adorable Luan Peters. As I write (Nov. 2021) he's still around at 97-bless him! No-one else is worthy of remark, though rock enthusiasts will no doubt savour the appearance of Thunderclap Newman.

So to Ms Peters....she's what we called in the day "a nice bit of crumpet", absolutely perfect body, and well remembered as the Aussie girl in that "Fawlty Towers" episode. There's no other reason really to watch this; the "porn" sequence (more revealed on some overseas markets?) is laughable and, apparently, had to import American specialists as the local actors couldn't get the necessary enthusiasm up!

I liked the gym club sequence near the end where Ms Peters is in virginal white-verily the covered body stimulates more the imagination!

Thanks again to the UK's wonderful Talking Pictures channel for giving these little movies an airing. They will figure in historical studies in the future, believe me!

Now for the true story which explains how such an awful film came to be made and why.

The original screenplay, working title 'The Loving Game', was an intelligently written 3 hander about a, impossible to live with love affair. Alright, it was not exactly 'Casablanca' but not bad for its genre.

The eventual financial backers and distributors of 'Not Tonight Darling' (for such it had been renamed), Border Films, were the very last to be approached in the quest to raise the production budget.

Situated at the time at the very end of Wardour Street, the script had been touted around the circuit and, having been rejected by all and sundry, was surprisingly picked up by Border.

The real reason was simply that they were short of a British produced film which qualified for the Eady levy, allowing the lucrative import by Border of more foreign rubbish......but cheap rubbish.

This small distributor specialised in a more racy film style and the 'quid pro quo' for putting up the cash was a total rewrite. Lots of sex, nudity and a leading lady chosen more for her relationship with a big-wig with responsibility for circuit booking of films than for any special acting skills.

This is not meant to denigrate the lady in question or her acting talent but applies accurately to this production.

As part of the deal, an additional 2 minutes of 'hard-core' shooting were needed close the territorial film rights' sale to the Far East.

And so production started, lurching from one disaster to the next with Border not transferring money into the production company account as agreed and crew and actors going unpaid for long periods.

Finally, the special 2 minutes of hard-core required several good men and true to step up to the mark.

The first attempt at filming proved the old adage that 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'. The poor lads just couldn't keep it up long enough to commit to film.

So a specialist troupe were flown in from New York for the scene and they proved well able to match the director's stringent requirements.

'Not Tonight Darling' was to be the first time that hard core material was sent to Humphries Labs for processing since the censorship laws had changed.

It was not until the rushes were delivered back to the production offices that the crew knew whether or not the scene had been junked. It hadn't and the 2 minutes were the best part of the film (never seen in the UK of course).

With money running out, tempers shortening, writers removing their name from the script and all of the normal problems of post-production, it is not surprising that all that came out was a turkey.

Ah well.........

The demise of the British theatrical feature of the end of the sixties, along with the proliferation of sex cinemas, tempted a number of fringe operators into the production of Girlie Movies.

This one looks quite handsome, with established director of photography Waxman (Waterfront, I Thank A Fool) on board, as a favor to the then young crew. By the standards which must apply, it met the needs. The women are presentable. The dialogue is audible and the plot can be followed without any effort - enough for the demands of the British skin flic.

The real action had already moved on to TV where the technical standards left much to be desired but talent and ideas were showcased. These films proved a dead end.