Showing posts with label Lana Turner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lana Turner. Show all posts

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

THE BIG CUBE (1969)


Here’s one I meant to review earlier but got sidetracked for reasons that still escape me. I caught it on DVD a couple of months ago with my hubby. I remember vividly his reaction to it. It was a mix of smirks and sarcasms from beginning to end, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really blame him. I mean how could I? This film is kind of whack—and it stars none other than the queen of high-gloss cinema herself, Miss Lana Turner. Anyone who’s caught her in gems such as IMITATION OF LIFE or PORTRAIT IN BLACK knows of her killer looks but limited talent. But as usual I was the only one who got a kick out of them that faithful day; so much so, in fact, that I now rank her presence in THE BIG CUBE as one of the must-sees of the psychedelic ‘60s. And that’s saying something when you think of all the overblown performances we had already witnessed during that time: Patty Duke in VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, Kim Novak in THE LEGEND OF LYLAH CLARE, Stephen Boyd in THE OSCAR… 


Turner plays a retired stage actress going slowly mad on LSD. What she fails to notice is that it’s all the doings of her stepdaughter who hates her guts, and you would too if you had to listen to all of those godawful step-mommy advices Turner gives while stealing the attention of the girl’s precious dad. Precious is a farfetched word to describe the goings-on of a selfish bloke who only wants to be with Lana, especially on the Pacific sea where he ultimately loses his life in a boating accident, rendering survivor Lana the executor of his estate. Of course, daughter dear will have none of that, hence the plan to make her go cuckoo. Meanwhile there is even a sillier subplot involving medical student George Chakaris (WEST SIDE STORY) and his free-spirited entourage charming his ways into the stepdaughter’s bank account. This guy is a major douche but you’ll have a ball following him as he schemes a plan to win big. 

What’s even more ridiculously cool about THE BIG CUBE is that the over-the-top scale is never determined, meaning you could be caught off-guard at any time. From an impromptu striptease at a private party to a bad acid trip at a popular night club, not to mention the many crazy drug-induced antics of Lana Turner herself (always dressed to the nines by the great Edith Head), THE BIG CUBE gives you nothing more than entertainment sleaze. Who cares if it got more plot holes than my used knitted sweater or that the stepdaughter sports a Swedish accent even though she’s supposed to be an American (educated overseas is the explanation). The fun never strays, and that’s the best thing about it. And before you know it, The End appears and you find yourself cursing the gods of bad cinema for having reached its plateau with this one. 

I have seen my share of Lana Turner movies and I got to admit that her career had never been as beguiling as when she made silly films like THE BIG CUBE. Alas, it was to be Lana’s last project from a major studio (Warner Brothers) before disappearing from the big screen.  Of course she made a semi-comeback on TVs FALCON CREST in the early ‘80s. I had no idea who she was since KNOTS LANDING ruled my world in those days. But trust me, once I became aware of her star appeal it took me no time to catch up on her many films. If you dig her work as much as I do, then you’ll be happy to know that I plan on reviewing other Lana treats, and lucky for us there are so many to choose from.

  

Until next time—Martin




Wednesday, 22 February 2012

PORTRAIT IN BAD… HUH, IN BLACK




How’s this for a fun bad movie premise: queen of fluff Lana Turner plays an unhappy married woman who along with her suave but intense lover—portrayed by the ever one dimensional Anthony Quinn —want to get rid of Lana’s terminally-ill but abusive wealthy husband so they can live happily ever after. Of course their plan goes horridly wrong, and before you can even chuckle at the absurdity of it all—in comes Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee Sandra Dee who would love nothing more than to expose her step-mom’s true colors. You see, she never really warmed to her, and while aware that something fishy is going on, she still has a hard time proving it. Even to her hunky beau John Saxon, whom she has been courting for quite some time. Following me so far? Good.


The fun really kicks in when the greedy business associate of the late husband—played with aplomb by Richard Basehart who’s another evil man in poor little Lana’s life—discovers what’s actually going on. How? Simple: a near bullet hit to his head (by Quinn) and the realization of foolishly having fell for Turner’s little white lies. What results is a bad movie moment you have to see to believe. Turner is hair-pulled, slapped, thrown across the room while looking both pained and demure, when not pushing back her curls nervously to compensate from some serious acting. Then trying desperately to hold her suffering in check (while still looking great in a Jean Louis creation), she is almost hit by a poker but is saved just in time by Quinn who finally shoots Basehart dead. And thank goodness for that, for what ensues is even more insane.


To dispose of the body, Turner is asked to drive a car, but since she doesn’t know how, Quinn has to cajole her into doing it—a kinder gesture than shattering her reflection in a mirror with a candlestick, which he does later on. Of course she accepts. Does she really have a choice? Then, horror on wheels: everything from poor visibility to a sudden thunderstorm to cops showing up occurs in this overlong but outrageous scene. That, plus a Turner fit of all fits in front a precipice (Devil Slide in California) makes PORTRAIT IN BLACK a definite must in bad cinema magic.


Based loosely on a ‘40s Broadway play once associated to Joan Crawford as a film project (!), PORTRAIT IN BLACK only saw the light of day when producer and ultra glam king Ross Hunter got involved some 15 years later. Shot all around San Francisco and using a Vaseline-covered lens whenever aging Lana’s around, PORTRAIT IN BLACK is, indeed, pure guilty pleasure. What Hunter seems to fervently want with this gem, however, is to captivate us with such a fast moving plot and serious situations that even bad movie experts like yours truly will overlook (or feel stunned by) the film’s true identity (nice try, though). But pay him no mind. Because what you get behind this big Technicolor production thriller. penned by original "Charlie's Angels" co-creator Ivan Goff and directed by PILLOW TALK fame Michael Gordon, is one wacky melodrama that will definitely leave some scarring tissues to the eyes and mind. Enjoy.





Until next post—Martin