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DVD Review: LADY IN CEMENT / Gordon Douglas (1968)

November 30th, 2008 by Scott Marks

Lady in Cement (1968)
Directed by Gordon Douglas
Written by Marvin H. Albert and Jack Guss based on Albert’s novel
Starring: Frank Sinatra, Raquel Welch, Dan Blocker, Martin Gabel, Pat Henry, Richard Conte, Lainie Kazan, Steve Peck, Richard Deacon, Christine Todd, Joe E. Lewis and B.S. Pulley
Running Time: 93 min.
Photographed by Joseph Biroc in and DeLuxe Color

Rating: ★☆☆☆☆

The third installment of the Gordon Douglas, Frank Sinatra so-called “Tony Rome” trilogy continues the series stellar display of fag bashing and obsessive depiction of women as props, or in this case shark bait.

Sinatra kicks off the proceedings by playing an underwater scene without once getting wet. His stunt double fends off a drugged, toothless shark before discovering a blond naked “broad” anchored in cement. He spends the rest of the picture traversing Miami and dispensing verbal sexual slurs to every chickie baby he meets. Emerging from a pool, a sizzling Raquel Welch instantly sizes up the five-foot-seven crooner’s game: “Shall I scream rape now or wait and phone in a complaint?” Without the benefit of so much as a word, Ms. Welch had perfectly pegged Tony Rome’s idea of interpersonal relationships.

This is a Frank Sinatra picture for people who couldn’t afford to shell out the $5.95 (1960 price) plus airfare and accommodations, to attend a Rat Pack summit live at the Sands in Vegas. No, he doesn’t sing and Dino, Sammy, Joey and the excommunicated Peter Lawford didn’t make this scene. Prior to From Here to Eternity, “The Voice” appeared in a string of whimsical studio musicals. After the horses’ head gag and an Oscar, Mr. Sinatra was always careful to maintain a separate career as a serious dramatic movie star. When it came to directors, Frank gave what he got. With the exception of a certain Ferris wheel incident on the set of Some Came Running, he freely granted Liza’s dad Vincente all the time and demands the master filmmaker required. For John Frankenheimer and George Axelrod’s controversial The Manchurian Candidate, executive producer Frank raised the money (ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies), consented to rehearsals, met every 6 am call time and put in a full’s day’s work. In other words, he did what he was handsomely being paid to do.

For others less gifted, he took the dough, showed up at noon and walked off the set at four. Ever wonder why so many of the lesser Sinatra vehicles were filmed in resort towns? The scripts, and subsequently the films, were structured around his swingin’ lifestyle. While in Vegas, Frank would perform two shows nightly, party till dawn, knock off a few broads, catch some daylight shut eye and devote a couple hours to picture making.

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Emulsion Compulsion makes pilgrimage to secular Bob Hope command post

November 29th, 2008 by Scott Marks

I awoke Black Friday morn with a peculiar ringing in my head. Like a cripple hobbling to Lourdes, the power of Hope beckoned me to Seaport Village to once again bathe in His glory. It was the busiest shopping day of the year and even in this most penurious of holiday seasons, throngs turned out to buy into the Hope mystique. In the shadow of the battleship Midway, hundreds flocked for reasons many didn’t know. Standing before Bob’s bronze replica reminded me of my initial brush with the oracular one.

Like a flying saucer buff at his first UFO convention, I feel compelled to finally make public a secret encounter I had with the sentient overlord, the right Reverend Lester Leslie Towne Robert “Bob” Hope. He first appeared before me in the Autumn of 1997 at the most unassuming of places: the Von’s supermarket in Burbank, California. My plane had just touched down at Burbank airport, now known as The Bob Hope Airport, and I stopped at the grocer’s to pick up some supplies. While at the checkstand, a ringing, similar to the one that awoke me earlier today, began to violate my cerebral cortex. Slowly I turned to see a familiar, albeit bent over and aged, ski-nosed “comic”  being led up the frozen food aisle by his Aryan manservant.

Under cover of darkness, Mr. Hope was given his nightly airing, plodding the same land that he owned decades before. It also gave Dolores an excuse to get him the hell out of the house for a few minutes.

Grabbing the keys from my driver, I made a mad dash for the camcorder resting in the trunk of the car. Recorder in hand, I caught up with Him in the parking lot. Surrounded the oracle, I began pelting him with comments and questions:

Scott Marks: Thanks for all the great movies. I’m a big fan of your work in Frank Tashlin’s Son of Paleface.
Mr. Hope: Huh?
SM: Would you elaborate on Tashlin’s working method?
Mr. Hope: Huh?
SM: Mr. Hope, do you agree with Iain T. Benson’s conclusion that suppressing religious symbols is an “equally terrible harbinger of anti-religion masquerading behind two veils: a veil or ignorance and a false veil of neutrality.”
Mr. Hope: Huh?
SM: Are there cue cards in the afterlife?
Mr. Hope: Huh?
SM: Do you get to see other dead celebrities naked?
Mr. Hope: Huh? Huh?
SM: Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of a secret government agency bent on interfering with the thought patterns of millions of people world wide.

He looked back at me and my blood ran cold. There was no response. A uniformed member of the Von’s Courtesy Patrol approached me and cautioned, “You’re standing in a no Hope zone. ” He looked around and lowering his voice said, “Beat it, buddy. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.”

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