I only watched this film because I was determined to spot Patrick McGoohan in an early film role. I watched Laurence Harvey as the aimless, charming character he plays, thinking of his breakthrough role as the surly grasping man at the top. Good old Anton Diffring flashing his gnashers in all their gap-toothed glory. Shelley Winters as an innocent rather than a Vamp. It was all jolly good stuff. I kept wondering where I'd seen the Sally Bowles character before.
My McGoohan moment came and went, he went through a gamut of emotion, exercising his foreign accent in his entrance, quite keen, then looking thoroughly bemused as his part became slapstick, not to say fed up by the last you saw of him. I almost packed the film up at that point, but decided I might as well see the end. It had become a little surreal by then so I was curious to see how they would wrap it up.
In what I would guess would have been the theatrical Third Act, it all became clear. The affable nonsense of the earlier scenes was all thrown into focus by the stark, grim realisation that evil was about to take over the world. The characters each found their own ways to escape or avoid it and I was pleased for all of them. It was in these final scenes that it suddenly dawned on me who Sally Bowles was. She was the timid, tragic victim in one of my favourite ever films: 'The Haunting'. The actress I was always confusing in my mind with Deborah Kerr, as a fragile feminine beauty.
Some readers may now be remarking 'What a dork! It says Julie Harris on the cover!' But I didn't remember this person as Julie Harris. The name meant nothing. I remembered her as poor Eleanor and Eleanor has haunted me for years. I prefer to believe that, rather than me being an unobservant dork, it is a tribute to the talent of Ms Harris that for most of this movie I simply didn't recognise her.
Anyhow, the point is that, but for my compulsion to watch a movie just to see an early bit-part of one favourite, I would never have seen a starring role of another. I find a certain peace in the discovery.
My McGoohan moment came and went, he went through a gamut of emotion, exercising his foreign accent in his entrance, quite keen, then looking thoroughly bemused as his part became slapstick, not to say fed up by the last you saw of him. I almost packed the film up at that point, but decided I might as well see the end. It had become a little surreal by then so I was curious to see how they would wrap it up.
In what I would guess would have been the theatrical Third Act, it all became clear. The affable nonsense of the earlier scenes was all thrown into focus by the stark, grim realisation that evil was about to take over the world. The characters each found their own ways to escape or avoid it and I was pleased for all of them. It was in these final scenes that it suddenly dawned on me who Sally Bowles was. She was the timid, tragic victim in one of my favourite ever films: 'The Haunting'. The actress I was always confusing in my mind with Deborah Kerr, as a fragile feminine beauty.
Some readers may now be remarking 'What a dork! It says Julie Harris on the cover!' But I didn't remember this person as Julie Harris. The name meant nothing. I remembered her as poor Eleanor and Eleanor has haunted me for years. I prefer to believe that, rather than me being an unobservant dork, it is a tribute to the talent of Ms Harris that for most of this movie I simply didn't recognise her.
Anyhow, the point is that, but for my compulsion to watch a movie just to see an early bit-part of one favourite, I would never have seen a starring role of another. I find a certain peace in the discovery.