Saturday, January 02, 2021


What to do about Jon Finch? He can look as wan and bloated as any British drinker but when the dialogue and co-star is right, boy oh boy, he's like a prime era Peter O'Toole (in richly Shakeseparean, commanding voice crossed with a delightfully dissolute feyness) possessing a young Jim Morrison's dandy jaw line and heroic drug intake. Robert Fuest's dark, freewheeling, and--for a long time--hard to find British sci-fi satire from 1973, THE FINAL PROGRAMME (distributed stateside by Corman's New World Pictures as The Last Days of Man on Earth) is finally here in a stunning new transfer. Now we may marvel and swoon over Fuest's beguilingly surreal production design (he's the man behind the Phibeses), Finch's alcohol-enriched roaring, literate energy, and a roster of sublimely-etched side characters. Marred only by the occasional groan-worthy satiric jabs at consumerism's future ouroboros vanishing point (the world's supposed to be ending, but the budget can't afford crowd scenes or anything too dystopian, so we have to take Finch's word for it) and a kind of disappointing resolution, it's worth checking out for the game and hearty. 

Taking leaps of adaptive liberty (I'm told) with Michael Moorcock's countercultural touchstone (in Britain) novel, it's the tale of libertine military hardware collector and helicopter and (off-camera) jet pilot Jerry Cornelius (Finch). After a native funeral up in Lapland for his genius billionaire father, Jerry makes immediate plans to resolve inheritance disputes with the other heir/s by dropping napalm on the ancestral mansion and jetting off to some private island with his sister (it's implied they've some weird incestuous connection). So first he needs the napalm; that means running around London, meeting eccentric arms dealers played by future Raiders of the Lost Ark villains, and so forth. In the meantime, feeling some strange passive-aggressive urge to be helpful, Jerry agrees to help the three of his father's Quentin Crisp-ish scientist cronies locate the "final" computer program that dad was working on, on a disc or a tape now hidden deep in a safe inside a vault inside a safe room inside the family's heavily burglary protected mansion. To this end, Jerry teams up with the scientist's sexy androgynous computer programmer Miss Brunner (Jenny Runacre) who has some (off-camera) habit of absorbing her lovers and/or anyone whose knowledge she seeks to possess, like a sexy amoeba. The program everyone wants seems to involve involves some Miss Burnner and some Italian pretty boy waiting in the car, and it's supposed to bring about the savior of the new dawn, a self-replicating perfect hermaphrodite human --the best of all man and woman has to offer -- a fusion of two brains--two genders-- into a single all-knowing being that can finally formulate and answer the ultimate scientific question.... why? and what the hell are we even doing here?

Sure, like so many films of the era, its quixotic attempt to be both satiric and hip crosses from subversive into dated camp at times, but only because there are so many cool elements in place the uncool stand out too sharply (i.e. imagine the fusing Dr. Strangelove and Myra Breckinridge): superfluous cameos like an ineffectually mugging Sterling Hayden as eccentric arms dealer Wrongway Lindbergh ("the Wrong way is the right way!") reek of that late-60s 'older stars trying to fit into the counterculture by showing up in cameos wearing kooky-colored glasses and fringe jackets - groovy). There's also proto-twee bits like Jerry and Miss Brunner flying up to Lapland in a balloon (rather than the more expensive Phantom F4, which Jerry supposedly owns and never shuts up about, perhaps?). There also massive gapes in the narrative weave which a good editor could have either trimmed or filled in: Jerry's quest for napalm (he pronounces it "Nepal-m") goes nowhere, and the rescue of his strung-out sister from his junky brother Frank's druggy clutches never really pans out. We never really see the sister until much later so any inkling of what kind of strange incestuous reason he has for this is left unexplained. This is a film that blithely skips over vast and possibly interesting mythic arcs that may be in Moorcock's novel in favor of hit and miss futuristic satire, like a restaurant where wine and alcohol comes in dehydrated cubes (Jerry orders French toxic river sludge, demanding to know 'which bank' it was culled from) or a retro one-line gag-filled pinball arcade where Jerry meets his stoned napalm connection (Ronald Lacey). 

But the cool outweigh the cringe: in addition to the brilliant playing of Finch and Runacre, Basil Henson, George Coulouris, and Graham Crowden are matchless as the three older scientists who follow Ms, Brunner around; their deft worldly comedic rapport makes up for all the elements that seem to be missing.  Far from the usual stuffy bowler-and-brolly types we'd expect to be harumphing in the background or the dreaded reverse (that Richard Lester-ish style of conservative faux-hipness), this gaggle of older scientists manage the hitherto impossible - each being cool and individual while functioning as a cool ultra-dry comedy team together. As ging scientists unconcerned with the surface flash, they deliver all the straight facedness required to convey now-or-never urgency for a complicated experiment that's beyond mad/daft and that needs to be executed at a certain, looming time. The result is the perfect level of 'is this supposed to be funny or not?' ambiguity. 

He is... nefarious

Perhaps the only film that comes close in its weird mise-en-scene and storyline is 1971's Hammer film Blood from the Mummy's Tomb. In that film too, we may remember, a strident dominatrix-y intellectual badass female (Valerie Leon) runs roughshod over trios of stumbling old men scientists (George Coulouris and Aubrey Morris appear in both) while teaming up with a fey amoral aristocratic hipster (James Villers instead of Finch) to bring about some earth-shattering prophecy by ushering in a new kind of woman. As did Leon in Blood, In Programme, Runacre handles her carnivorous authority with cool throaty confidence and instantly establishes a deep in-the-moment sultry rapport with Finch's Jerry, one cool young super genius sexy cool titan to another. One can't help but wonder as to what a great Lady Macbeth she would have made opposite Finch in Polanski's 1971 film instead of Francesca Annis (though she was perfectly fine). It's their scenes together--and her beating up Jerry's brother (in-law?), the manipulative junky Frank (Derrick O'Connor)--that really crackle. 

Overall it's a film free of villains, unless you count Frank, who's taken over the family estate, setting all the futuristic alarms and traps --including psychedelic light attacks ("designed to cause pseudo-epilepsy:), elaborate inflatable tunnels (a mix of a carnival bouncy castle and Corman's Masque of the Red Death), poisoned gas, and poisoned needles shooting out of walls while the siblings shoot at each other in weird homemade futuristic air guns (just to be extra weird, perhaps?)

But all of that is fine with me because of the cocky actorly rapport with Runacre and Finch as these kind of super-cool amoral hedonist next-gen scientific wits in fabulous clothes and --in his case--a kind of foppish arrogant feminine elegance; hers, a Bowie-esque androgyne sexy-cool. With her tousled orange hair and natty slacks and his too-tight black velvet blazer and black nail polish, they're a superb-looking team, like they've spent a lot of time improv --they're destined to entwine! 

Hint: Fans of Hammer films (and their ilk) might recall Runacre as playing a great insane red-dress wearing schizophrenic Folies Bergère dancer in the same year's The Creeping Flesh.

Taken all in all it for what it is as well as what it isn't, you may groan a bit but you also may just enjoy Fuest's wicked sense of design style (the underground Lapland Nazi submarine pen and other futuristic sets evoke fond memories of Fuest's work on several Avengers episodes and the Egyptian tomb interior of his Dr. Phibes Rises Again). I kept thinking I wanted to live down there, on that glorious underground submarine pen, and get drunk with these people ("The classic sanctuary fixation" notes Ms. Brunner), that I too may wind up safe and sound after the last days, well-rested, drunk, and ready for the new dawn.

Note the empty burgundy bottles behind them while brainstorming in Jerry's flat. His freezer is empty except for hundreds of McVities' Dark Chocolate Digestives. I can really relate. This is how cool bachelor pads really look but are never seen anymore.

Navigating the family mansion's "defences"
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