In Southern Spain with a U.S. team, skydiver Fathom Harvill is approached by a Scottish colonel working for a top-secret Western agency. He's after a vital lost atomic device, and wants her... See full summary »
Leslie H. Martinson
Britain's top pop artiste, Tom Pickle, travels to Bombay, India, circa 1960s to learn to play the sitar (musical instrument) from renowned maestro Ustad Zafar Khan. Tom is taken to Zafar's ... See full summary »
Lucia Lane, an English writer by way of the US, arrives in Bombay to watch the filming of one of her novels. She's nearing middle age, she's had several husbands, she's lonely and ... See full summary »
Against a background of war breaking out in Europe and the Mexican fiesta Day of Death, we are taken through one day in the life of Geoffrey Firmin, a British consul living in alcoholic ... See full summary »
An aging silent movie comic star tries for a comeback by staging a wild party that turns into a sexual free-for-all. The comic ends up killing his mistress and her latest boyfriend. Written by
I remember this one photo I took, in a dress with clusters of lemons on the skirt and this great big feather hat. I must have sent that photo to every director and producer in this town. I waited by the phone for days. Nothing ever happened.
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Something tells me that the story of how this movie even got made is more interesting than what ends up on the screen. Surely, when matching low-budget exploitation producer Samuel Z. Arkoff with the future-classic producing/directing team Merchant/Ivory, something odd must have occurred. Nothing, and I mean nothing about this 1975 film, based on the infamous Fatty Arbuckle scandal, works. The film, sadly, exists to new audiences as a cautionary signpost marking Zarkoff's failed attempt to move toward legitimate mainstream film-making. He should have stuck to his bread-and-butter tripe (such as "The Beast With a Million Eyes").
Here we have tubby James Coco (with over-the-title billing!) throwing a party to lure members of silent-era Hollywood moguls to distribute his self-financed Opus. Complete with songs by the (terribly melodramatic) Raquel Welch, the film sinks deeper and deeper in to awkward, self-indulgent pathos. Poorly acted, directed and designed (with cheaply dressed sets and awful original "period" songs in the background), this film is one to be missed at all costs. Perhaps one day, the true secret to this film's odd conception will be revealed, and it will make some sense. Until then, perhaps a potential viewer would be better off reading a book.
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