(1970)
Dir - Richard C. Sarafian
Overall: MEH
A British giallo of sorts that even had the good sense to spend its first act in Pompeii and utilize a spontaneous flute and bongo score that would fit right at home in a Luciano Ercoli movie, Fragment of Fear unfortunately suffers from some inescapable flaws. For one, David Hemmings makes for an unlikable protagonist, even if his curmudgeon frustration with his situation is understandable. A former drug addict turned successful author, his benevolent Aunt is murdered, no one seems to care, and then he is harassed by a clandestine organization that goes out of their way to make both the police and his fiance convinced that he is using again and paranoid to the gills. This leads to one of the most awkward wedding ceremonies ever filmed that will only make one feel awful for his bride-to-be, (and real life wife), Gayle Hunnicutt, begging the question of why she is so committed to such a charmless stick-in-the-mud in the first place. Based on John Bingham's 1965 novel of the same name, the plot only kicks into high psychological gear during its closing moments once Hemmings has clearly snapped his pickle, but everything else that came before the finale is too unhurried and mundane to stay invested in.
(1973)
Dir - Robert Fuest
Overall: MEH
Overall: MEH
Significant as the only cinematic adaptation of a Michael Moorcock novel, The Finale Programme, (The Last Days of Man on Earth), comes from writer/director Robert Fuest who was hot off of both entries in the Dr. Phibes series. Sadly, his work here is more self-indulgent than satisfying, but the film's off-the rails narrative and wild set design at least gives it some sort of memorability, be it perhaps not entirely intentional. Jon Finch plays the son of a recently deceased scientist who came up with some kind of design for a self-replicating human that people are after, but there sure are a lot of other side-arcs and characters to keep track of along the way. Sterling Hayden shows up for a scene looking like Fidel Castro, Patrick McGee almost buys the coveted microfilm, Derrick O'Connor and Finch engage in not one but two needle-gun action scenes, Sarah Douglas shows up for a few seconds as Finch's bed-ridden and forcibly drug-addicted sister, there is an arcade where go-go dancers bounce around in bubbles, there is a fortified lair with epileptic booby-traps, and the ridiculous finale fuses Finch with Nazi femme fatale Jenny Runacre into a hunched-over Neanderthal that is supposed to be the Messiah. It is nonsense from front to back and whatever satirical tone was meant to come through in Moorcock's source material gets disastrously muddled, but if one gives up in trying to make heads or tails of it from the onset, a fun time can be had by watching it all spiral out of control.
(1978)
Dir - Paul Morrissey
Overall: WOOF
Paul Morrissey's infamous take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's often-filmed The Hound of the Baskervilles came after his bizarre Italian horror pairings with Udo Kier, and though it lacks the off-color sleaze of those two movies, (as well as that in his earlier Andy Warhol collaborations), it instead leans into the comedy full-force with the celebrated Beyond the Fringe duo of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, respectfully. Cook and Moore penned the screenplay along with Morrissey, twisting the source material into a heady combination of juvenile, annoying, and straight-up bizarre gags. Most of the known British character actors crank-up the sillies to eleven, often shouting their lines, aggressively mugging, and flaying about with exaggerated accents in tow. Joan Geenwood goes full Linda Blair at two instances, levitating her bed, sticking out a lizard tongue, spinning her head around while projectile vomiting, and turning her eyes into glowing colors as Moore flies out of the window twice in a row. At another instance, Denholm Elliot loudly smothers his Chihuahua as is continually pisses all over Moore, plus he and Cook do a farcical bit about a one-legged man applying for a runner job that feels as if it goes on for forty-seven minutes. It is a loud, relentless, and stupid mess that even fans of the usually reliable talent herein will find insufferable.
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