Kill

This movie is not for everyone, but I think it is a 70's classic. Directed by Romain Gary, and starring his wife Jean Seberg (just after her nervous breakdown), this is a strange, dreamlike, bizarre film. There are some great moments in this film- sort of a cross between a spaghetti western, ClockWork Orange and Performance. Jean Seberg herself is perfectly cast in this as the bored housewife Emily looking for a thrill--and off to Pakistan (well, OK it was filmed in Spain) she goes! The renegade she meets, Brad Killian (name obviously in reference to his dedicated profession of killing every drug runner he can find), is played by the wonderful Stephen Boyd. In his leather-clad outfit and wild hair, he makes for a great anti-hero as he seduces Emily, and turns the cards on her husband, played by the excellent James Mason. The music is amazing, and there are a host of classic Italian character actors in this flick as the bad guys. Oh, and Curd Jergens shows up too! It's a great 70's trip - I highly recommend this if you can track it down on IOFFER.

An extremely remarkable feature, partly because of Romain Gary's script, the husband of Jean Seberg, which does not appear from the information. This multi-award winner writer (of for instance *The Roots of Heaven* (directed by John Huston with Errol Flynn) shot himself December 2nd 1980 one year after the suicide of his wife Jean Seberg, who was hounded to death by the FBI for no valid reason at all. This film was maybe their last major collaboration, and the script (the story of the film) is ingenious, James Mason in the final *ballet* scene seeing his worst nightmare come true. Romain Gary was a survivor of the Holocaust, which is touchingly described in his autobiography "Promise at Dawn", perhaps the most brilliant and moving epic of a mother ever written, in which every word is true.

An absolutely dire thriller about an ex-Interpol agent turned assassin who tries to wipe out porn merchants and drug dealers in Pakistan. This is confusing, nasty and atrociously directed, with an extremely high death rate but little else. Stephen Boyd must have wondered what he had done wrong to go from the giddy heights of Ben Hur to this shambolic mess. As for James Mason, it's almost enough to make a grown man cry to see such a fine actor in such garbage.

Twice winner of the prix Goncourt ,Romain Gary was a very famous writer whose books were often transferred to the screen :"la promesse de l'aube" (two versions including one by Jules Dassin) , "les racines du ciel" ("the roots of Heaven " by John Huston),"la vie devant soi" (probably the best of Simone Signoret's latter days performances). He was less lucky in the cinema ;his first effort " les oiseaux vont mourir au Pérou"( featuring. Jean Seberg ,his then wife till 1970)got unanimous thumbs down ;his second work passed unnoticed in his native country although it did feature the strangest face of the French cinema (Daniel Emilfork ,unfortunately wasted ) along with a cosmopolitan cast . The intentions were good: drug-traffickers , helped by corrupt politicians , and mainly junkie kids ,a subject often passed over in silence (the movie begins with a strong indictment of drug addiction among children and of the political system of certain countries) . The treatment is heavy -handed : a lot of female nudity in a night club where the black owner sings the blues (totally irrevelant in that context) ,a risqué scene between Seberg and Boyd -outrageously made up in his first sequence as though he was featured in a horror movie ;the scene when Seberg removes the blanket to kiss her lover good morning and discovers a corpse with a banana in his mouth is guaranteed to net nothing but horselaughs;ditto for the final massacre , filmed in slow motion ,as it was often used in the early seventies .Editing is absurd ,and I dare you to catch up with this cock and bull screenplay. There must be a dead body a minute in this thriller, so if you can get an eyeful with the nude slaves in the club,do not expect any suspense : Seberg searching for her hotel in the night and living the perils of Pauline takes the biscuit .This clever feminist actress should have known better. Both Jurgens and Mason seem to wonder why they got involved in that business.

In our digital, high-tech world today, just about any chimp with a relatively inexpensive camera has the ability to go out and ape a tale in the vein of directing idols like Tarantino, Scorsese or, hell, Chris Columbus. And thank God most of these efforts are never seen by the majority of a viewing public. But 3 decades ago, one actually had to get a bit of funding to nab a star like James Mason or Jean Seberg. Quite a lot of moolah was needed up front to gather a competent crew and pay for exotic locales. So somebody please tell me what possessed "Superman"-producer Alexander Salkind to fund one dime on this absolutely incompetent, horridly amateurish production?

Since the story centers around the drug trade, one can only assume a lot of this substance crept up at the craft service table. How else can you explain the incoherent directing and Grade Z acting of this international production? In a nutshell, James Mason is a head hitman honcho for a global drug crime fighting unit, headed by the lumbering piece of granite known as actor Curd Jurgens. Mason methodically has shot down some of the world's leading drug kingpins for the safety of us all. Jean Seberg, acting like Ann Heche on a bad day outside Fresno, plays his bored wife who darts off to Pakistan and falls into the arms of the lumbering piece of petrified wood known as actor Stephen Boyd. Boyd is a renegade hitman, having severed his ties with the do-gooder crime unit, and is on a mission to route out a double agent within the organization. Based on this simple description alone, if you haven't figured out who the double agent is going to be, perhaps this movie's 110 minutes will keep you in suspense.

Director Romain Gary's pathetic work on this film renders it not only a bad movie, but unfortunately, one that does not improve with "Mystery Science Theater"-like derisive commentary as you sit and watch it. (I don't know, maybe MST has already tackled a version of this flick). The editing is so needlessly choppy, perhaps Salkind only gave Gary unexposed trims of five seconds to film this lackluster narrative. Supposedly shot in Spain, Tunisia, and Afghanistan, we never really know where the hell we are, because an establishing shot is rare, and relativity of any locale to the plot is even rarer. It just looks like the same dusty trail road being used over and over, and a backroom at a Spanish studio being redressed to look like a hotel suite, a safehouse, etc.

The acting is downright sad. When Stephen Boyd first encounters Seberg, he interrogates her by simply spinning her around and around under some low-level gel lights, causing her to get...a little dizzy? Gary has the actors scream at each other, directly into the lens, and the glazed, wide-eyed hamming they do at the camera makes you want to jump out of the chair and go slap their agent, or their manager, somebody! Boyd, in particular, appears so depressed to be in this car crash of a film. Unshaven and wearing an all-leather outfit, he morosely behaves like Jim Morrison hanging over the balcony on Sunset Boulevard after dropping some bad peyote. On the flipside, James Mason doesn't say much in his early scenes, and I started to think, "thankfully he had the smarts to know to cut his own lines so he won't come off as horrendously as the others." But, oh, no, Jimmy starts barking the dismal dialogue about 20 minutes in, and one only hopes he had a decent guest house on location in Kabul or wherever the hell he was dragged to, to compensate for how bad he comes off in the film.

I cannot effectively describe the ineptitude and lack of talent displayed in this movie. My jaw literally dropped open in stupefaction several times. The only person that comes away from this compost heap of celluloid somewhat unscathed is ace stunt driver Remy Juliene who does what little he can to enliven the halfway mark with a typical (but needless, plotwise) car chase across the Afghani wasteland. The movie's finale reaches a pinnacle of laughability and dumbstruck awe when several individuals engage in a shootout. The whole thing is staged like Monty Python's hilarious tennis bloodbath sketch lampooning Sam Peckinpah films. And a fantasy sequence showing an ascension to heaven and hell has got to be seen to be believed. Conceived by technical advisor "Frank Fantasia", I simply slipped off the sofa convulsing with laughter, along with a sense of horror realizing people actually sat in a screening room somewhere and said, "Oh yeah, Frank, that sums it up. That's great!"

Even a one star rating would not convey how awful this movie is, so my rating: 0 out of ****.