Stills That Speak #11

 

So Much Meat on the Hoof. Can Cornel Bring One Down?

STS: Three That Speak to Survival

Been fasting this week. Told by You Tube that it’s a good idea. They could be wrong, in which event I’m in little better circumstance that casts of three seen of late to rise and fail during the mid-sixties when bare-fist survival stories had not a vogue perhaps, but did appear to come out of nowhere in a seeming lump. Said trio unique for ferocity of content and unblinking grip at reality were The Naked Prey, Sands of the Kalahari, and Flight of the Phoenix, each deserving of success none would get, proof again that good pictures never assured good grossing. Movies were/are called candy-coated, then comes ones like these refusing to compromise, each spanked by a shocked trade and put-off public. I recall them coming/gone on scant notice. The Naked Prey limped to the Liberty as part of a Saturday only combo skipped by me for a too harrowing trailer. Cornel Wilde chased by natives through seeming whole of Africa was anti-Tarzan and reassurance that series had stood for. I was not old enough at twelve to process what looked like non-stop torture for Wilde, him in mid-fifties capable of astonishing feats not unlike Burt Lancaster at same age scaling sheer rock in same year’s The Professionals. I’d be years steeling myself to watch The Naked Prey, a kind of dread discoloring the interim. All know certain titles that compel and yet repel. Will they do psychic damage should we submit? Criterion has a splendid Blu-Ray to argue for The Naked Prey as one of key features done in the sixties, utterly unlike anything out the same decade, shamefully ignored then and still so now.

Torture Served Stark, and Never Mind the Guy They Roast Over an Open Fire

If auteuring may be defined, let alone exemplified, by any single artist, then surely it is by Cornel Wilde, who expressed by talent, let alone life and limb, his philosophy re man and limits humanity will pass where faced by savagery unchecked. I’ll venture that The Naked Prey is a lot more shocking today than in 1965-66 when it nibbled at edges of decorum movies upheld to that time. We’d witness crumble of the Code where a Naked Prey and ones like it (but wait, there was nothing like The Naked Prey) bent boundaries film hitherto observed, 1968 official recognition of a mainstream letting its ship of rules go ahead and sink. Of raw meat also served in ’65 was Sands of the Kalahari, the “baboon” one I heard mention of at school but missed a first go round despite a spectacular pressbook Col. Forehand gave me which cover had long-fanged apes forward lunging in full color, Paramount putting such aggressive sell on little else that blighted year. The Liberty brought back Sands of the Kalahari for a Saturday double where we'd finally intersect, my anticipation and appetite for baboons fierce as that aroused by Pom Poms and Baby Ruth. Guess Col. Forehand knew impolite product where he saw it, or maybe Paramount’s field man tipped him off that these were best snuck in on shortest terms, then hustled out before parents caught the odor. Worry over warpage of young minds had basis where such shows applied, Sands of the Kalahari cruelest exploration of man’s inhumanity to other men and a woman (Susannah York). Sands is of classic “ordeal” structure. Can ones off a wrecked plane survive on a parched and endless desert? All are reduced to same level of beasts that stalk them, Sands of the Kalahari Brit-cast and backed, if shot in South Africa, a re-teaming for folk behind Zulu success previous (director Cy Endfield, star Stanley Baker).

Not Your Next In-Flight Movie, I Hope

Sands of the Kalahari is one for watching in maximum comfort, “This could never happen to me” a soothing accompany, but not altogether as Kalahari fights complacency with brass knucks. Again, those baboons. They scared me more than otherwise apes in any movie. Did Stuart Whitman get extra pay for fighting one to the death with bare hands? Hope so. I would have been for handing out Academy Awards to Kalahari’s entire cast. For once such a trophy could mean something. We sweat with these unfortunates and wonder how one could endure even a fraction of what they go through. That last applies to the cast in undoubted real misery of shooting where clothes they wear become rags or discard altogether over two hour’s spread. Imagine Susannah York went from this to A Man for All Seasons. An actor’s life for thee but not for me (York incidentally gives a performance for the ages). S. Baker, Stuart Whitman, Nigel Davenport, Theodore Bikel, and Harry Andrews also suffer admirably. How much different to simulate such horror than to know it for real? Full marks for this ensemble. Same for miserable lot downed by defective aircraft in Flight of the Phoenix, star-hoisted by James Stewart as pilot for the group with direction by Robert Aldrich. Fox expected mighty things from Flight, entrusting $5.3 million to the negative and shooting on domestic desert floor rather than crossing oceans to do same. Reviews were rapturous but the public pointed thumbs down. Too many by now had bought color televisions. That much as anything was what put films in a doom loop during the mid-sixties. Fox chart, like every company else’s, dripped red in 1965 when Flight of the Phoenix did crash of its own ($3.4 million lost), proof again that you can make them good, excellent even, and still lose it all and more. Aldrich never got over the beating Phoenix took. At least there is Criterion to celebrate greatness achieved, their Blu-Ray outstanding with as fine extras. Stewart and distinguished support roast under a pitiless sun and we’re 142 minutes frying with them. Takes mettle to make this march, again mood of your moment to dictate.

This Should Have Clicked Instead of Jim in True Downer Shenandoah of a Same Year

Occurs to Me That All Three of This Week's Selected Shows are Triumphs of the Human Spirit

What did it say about 1965 where three of such stripe appeared, not by design obviously, just circumstance of culture giving birth to strikingly similar ideas around a same time, varied creators speaking similar language with all to depict hardship at levels not explored before by movies. There’d be little reward for harsh cards dealt, but what could they reasonably expect? Flight of the Phoenix was seemingly most hopeful of the lot, at least from money-spent-standpoint. There has to be hope in any venture, these three expressed by endurance and ours for enduring hours where no matter how well executed the telling, we take punishment same as those stricken on screen. There is precious little humor among the lot. We’d not want that for storytelling integrity kept intact. No one could accuse The Naked Prey, Sands of the Kalahari, and Flight of the Phoenix of being soft around the middle. None gave in to boxoffice call for compromise. How did Cornel Wilde negotiate studio support for a project so outlaw as The Naked Prey? --- him far from a Top Ten name in 1965-66 or any time. The Naked Prey collected $687K in domestic rentals. Short of walloping worldwide, it surely lost money. There would not be network airplay for Prey nor Sands of the Kalahari, which collected $931K in domestic rentals. Again hope … for another Zulu?, but word-of-mouth for Kalahari, Prey, and Phoenix was likely reserved if not ruinous among ticket buyers if not admiring critics (seldom much help in any event). Go At Nervous System Risk, leave kiddies home till a next Disney or Elvis, women will surely shun, all such reactions to collapse the boxoffice. I’d not discount these or claim “we weren’t ready” for these sorts of entertainment (but how “entertaining” was patron ordeal, detractors might argue). I instead say seek them out because all score in ways unique and not captured elsewhere, certainly not of timid now, and probably they won’t be equaled, even approached, again. Here’s too to note: None resolve on bummer basis --- you won’t go home to suck the gas pipe. I felt in fact invigorated by the outcome of all three. Fact the group are accessible in High-Def, streaming, discs, etc., well … there go excuses for not rooting them out. Go watch and collect Scout badges for doing so, earn real “Courage Awards.”