An odd film from 1968, cashing in on the psychedelic era and not making much sense. As it drags from one lecherous male to another who from their position in society want to use it to molest our young heroine Candy (Ewa Aulin ). Candy is a sort of a... (read more) An odd film from 1968, cashing in on the psychedelic era and not making much sense. As it drags from one lecherous male to another who from their position in society want to use it to molest our young heroine Candy (Ewa Aulin ). Candy is a sort of a Twiggy version of Marilyn Monroe in her innocent way, with raspy voice and alluring sexuality. It was just cringe worthy that all these male figurers came on to her in a very forceful manner and she didn’t put with much of a fight. But may be that was its satirical edge. That it was a comment on the times of young women’s sexual liberation and the exploitation by men in society. Or maybe it just a sex romp! So you have the poet Richard Burton (was really into his role) as a dandy dressing drunk, Walter Matthau as a repressed general, Ringo Starr who is awful in his role as a Spanish gardener (what was his accent!!!!), the Addams family John Astin as a perverted uncle and also playing her father, James Coburn as a egotistical surgeon, Charles Aznavour as a hunchback and Marlon Brando (who is the most fun here) as a fake guru. But I always watch these films for the clothes and the scenery; it has that crisp look with its colours and isn’t badly directed. But the narrative drags which lets it down.

If the official account is to believed then the 1960s were a decade characterised by a quite extraordinary amount of shagging. Oh sure, there might have been a whole load of other stuff going on at the same time; the not-insubstantial amount of drug-... (read more) If the official account is to believed then the 1960s were a decade characterised by a quite extraordinary amount of shagging. Oh sure, there might have been a whole load of other stuff going on at the same time; the not-insubstantial amount of drug-experimentation, all that - often decidedly dubious - political posturing, and a surprising amount of interior decorating being done by the newly unleashed breed of hippie-toffs. But there was no way anyone was going to let any of these trivial distractions get in the way of all that rumpo. And although when you hear the people who were actually there at the time talk about the period post-pill and pre-AIDS now, they usually describe it in the kind of wistfully twinkling tones one might think more appropriate for the discussion of a beloved childhood pet, they also always make it abundantly clear that - for those in showbiz set at least - everyday existence was something of a gargantuan knockers and/or sausage fest.

And with sex very much on the brain for all those entertainment industry movers and shakers, it was only natural that the artistic endeavours of the day should start to become a little bit racier too. The music industry swiftly obliged, an early example of this trend evidenced by John Lennon's blowjob-requesting toe-tapper Please, Please Me. Soon the charts were awash with smut; from the Who's hymn to the joys of masturbation, Pictures of Lily, to the shameless propositioning of Paul McCartney's Why Don't We Do It in The Road?. Hell, even the Status Quo tried horning in on the act with Auntie Nellie, their paean to cross-generational incest (er, probably). And in those freewheeling days, where music led the movies soon followed. But while the likes of Blow-Up brought sexual explicitness to a wider audience, the voracious appetite for all that free love suggested a picture where bonking was the main concern, rather than mere subsidiary activity, could turn out to be something of a box-office bonanza. Accordingly, 1968 saw the release of Candy, a film conceived and marketed as the smutbuster to end all smutbusters. The picture was drawn from somewhat unusual source material, being based on a ten year-old pornographic novel, a work its author had been so dissatisfied with that he had left it to a friend to complete. However, the decade which had elapsed since Candy's initial publication had seen the profile of said author undergo an exponential rise, particularly in regard to his work in the motion picture industry. The name of the gentleman in question was Terry Southern (once described by Peter Nicholls as 'the intellectual's favourite softcore pornography writer'), and, by the time Candy arrived on the silver screen, he was at the height of what would prove to be the most profitable spell of his writing career.

If you could make a living out of the company you keep then Terry Southern would have tasted success far earlier in life than he actually did. Despite making the acquaintance of the likes of Cocteau and Sartre during a period spent living in Paris, despite friendships forged with such notables as Ginsberg and Kerouac while he resided in Greenwich Village, by the time the 1960s rolled around Southern had as yet been unable to parlay the fruits of his own penmanship into a significant career move. This was to soon change however, with Stanley Kubrick's prescient decision to turn his big-screen adaptation of Peter George's novel Red Alert from tense thriller to atomic-era black comedy, a move which resulted in him engaging Southern's services as scripter (the director apparently being an admirer of Southern's novel The Magic Christian). Needless to say, the film which resulted from this collaboration, Dr Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, delivered that rare marriage of critical adulation and box-office profit, and served to instantly elevate Southern onto the screenwriter's A-list. The next few years saw Southern garner further success on the likes of Barbarella and The Cincinnati Kid, as well as finding himself regularly engaged in the role of uncredited script-doctor, a duty for which he was frightfully well-remunerated. In addition to this, Southern was now becoming something of a hot property in his own right, and accordingly anything bearing his name was regarded as a commercially attractive proposition. As a result, the end of the sixties saw the delivery of not one but two filmic adaptations of Southern novels, with both Candy and The Magic Christian receiving the big-screen treatment (the movie version of the latter - the book which had charmed Kubrick so successfully - was released the year after Candy and failed to prove much of a success. Strangely, as in Candy, Beatles' sticksman Ringo Starr was cast in a major role, but we will talk more of him later).

The sheer amount of talented individuals involved in the production of Candy was quite incredible. Charged with the task of adapting the book was a wordsmith who could legitimately argue that he, and not Terry Southern, was the hottest screenwriter in the world at the time. Buck Henry's last movie had been The Graduate, a picture which had earned him an Oscar nomination and more importantly, as Strangelove had done for Southern, had identified him as a writer who both understood and could articulate the emergent counter-culture with skill and wit, and yet still deliver movies which would play to a wider audience. And in addition to Henry on scripting duties, there were major cinematic talents involved in many of the other off-screen roles. Art direction was the responsibility of Dean Tavoularis, who would soon after embark on the working relationship with Francis Ford Coppola that delivered The Godfather Trilogy, The Conversation and Apocalypse Now, amongst others. The movie's framing sequences, depicting Candy descending from and ascending to outer space, were an early assignment in the career of special effects maestro Douglas Trumbull, who would subsequently link up with Southern's old cohort Stanley Kubrick on 2001: A Space Odyssey, before going on to work with Spielberg and Ridley Scott on the influential Close Encounters and Blade Runner respectively, as well as becoming a director in his own right with Silent Running and Brainstorm. And if the behind-the-scenes talent roster was an impressive one, then the faces in front of the camera were really something else, director Christian Marquand (primarily an actor, having made his first screen appearance in Cocteau's La Belle et la bete before going on to star in Roger Vadim's And God Created Women) assembling a starry cast which featured such notables as Walter Matthau, James Coburn, Richard Burton, John Huston, and - most remarkably of all - Marlon Brando. The stage was set for the creation of something truly remarkable; an all-star extravaganza, both intellectually sound and oozing acerbic wit, perfectly attuned to the mood of the era. And with lots of breast shots too. But before we get on to how successful Marquand and his collaborators were in fulfilling that ideal, it might perhaps be beneficial if I provide a quick synopsis of what actually goes on in Candy.

We have already established that the film Candy was based on a book written by Terry Southern. We have also already established that Terry Southern was a clever guy, the kind of guy who moved in the same circles as the likes of Cocteau and Ginsberg, the kind of guy who was not intimidated by a phonecall from Stanley Kubrick asking him to come and help pen his new movie. So when Terry Southern was charged with the task of writing a pornographic novel, it was perhaps only natural that he felt the urge to intellectualise this most frowned-upon of literary genres, to come up with something that was as much Night of the Hunter as hunt the sausage. And to this end, he produced Candy, which transposed Voltaire's Candide to modern America, detailing the misadventures of a young girl (obviously Voltaire wrote about a bloke because women weren't allowed to do shit in pre-revolutionary France), whose fundamentally pure essence is gradually destroyed by the men she encounters. Is this like Candide? I have no idea. To paraphrase Phil Tufnell on his loans commercial, I know nuffin' about Voltaire. I don't know if Voltaire was his first name or his last name. I don't know if it was his only name, like Prince or Mika. I don't know if it was his real name or a nickname, like Trigger off Only Fools and Horses. The only thing I know about Voltaire is that a young Talleyrand visited him right before he died. And that's it.

So, the movie Candy opens with the titular heroine arriving on earth, a cosmic angel, ready to bless all she comes into contact with. It is swiftly established that Candy Christian exerts a very powerful effect on any man she meets and the only male figure she can trust is her own father (as portrayed by John 'Gomez Addams' Astin, who also takes the part of Candy's Uncle Jack, a far more lascivious character than his brother and a role that Astin seems to revel in, playing him like a dirty version of his famous TV persona). Candy finds herself subjected to the advances of rock n' roll poet McPhisto (the well-cast Richard Burton as a character surely derived from those literary glitterati types that Southern was so familiar with), before becoming the focus of the sexual urges of her family's Mexican gardener Emmanuel (yes, Ringo Starr plays a Mexican. And, again, I'm not saying any more on this subject for now). Fearful for his daughter's moral fibre, Mr. Christian decides to move her to New York but, as they board the plane to make this trip, he is wounded in a scuffle and slips into a coma. The flight they are taking is aboard a military craft and, while they are airborne, Candy finds herself having to deal with the amorous desires of Walter Matthau's inept but officious General Smight.

Arriving in New York, the still unconscious Mr. Christian is taken to see the flamboyant and unorthodox physician Dr. Krankheit (Coburn). But while Krankheit does accede to treat Candy's father, he also forces himself upon her and she has to flee the hospital before she has had the chance to see if Mr. Christian will recover. As she wanders the city, Candy encounters a series of strange individuals (including Charles Aznavour's bizarre wall-crawling, hunchbacked thief), all of whom are primarily interested in jumping her bones. Eventually she falls in with a Maharishi-type guru, who conducts his business from the trailer of an articulated lorry (unbelievably this is the character that Marlon Brando ended up with. One can only assume it was the casting director's holiday in that particular week). Under a distinctly lame spiritual pretext provided by the Guru, the couple indulge in epic love-making sessions, lasting the time it takes the truck to transport them right the way across America, from the streets of New York all the way to the deserts of California. From here, Candy takes on a new companion, a silent, masked man, and it is the revelation of his true identity which finally provides the moment when Candy's faith in human nature is irrevocably shattered, forcing her to retreat back to the stars.

Candy clearly aims to do for society at large what Dr. Strangelove did for the arms race, being intended as a coruscating satire on the moral bankruptcy of the authority figures of the day. However, in their attempts to achieve this goal, director Marquand and his undoubtedly talented cohorts seem to have overlooked the manner in which Kubrick's earlier film articulated its darkly humorous scenario through a supremely disciplined exhibition of movie-making, which never at any point lost sight of what its ideological objective was. Candy in comparison is slovenly paced, often incoherent and wildly uneven in tone. An example of this is the movie's sex element. Are the scenes of Candy and her many male suitors meant to be titillating, or are they meant to repulse, exhibiting as they do older - supposedly wiser - men taking advantage of a naïve young girl? The film seems to want it both ways, the black comedy not coming at the expense of some entertaining slap n' tickle. The lack of clear purpose is endemic of the picture as a whole, with Marquand failing to apply any form of identifiable directorial technique to his movie. Scenes go on for interminable periods of time, unfailingly arch dialogue assuming precedence over any form of dramatic action, audience interest levels nose-diving as a consequence.

This malaise extends to the cast who, in spite the galaxy of attendant big names, largely fail to engage. While the least heralded of these players, Ewa Aulin in the central role, delivers a weak performance, with her beauty failing to translate into cinematic charisma, she is actually no worse than many of the superstars with whom she shares screen time (she also deserves some credit for being forced to spend large chunks of the movie soaking wet and in various states of undress, whilst being pawed by men old enough to be her great-uncle). As already noted, Brando is not exactly the perfect fit for his role of mystic shaman and the legendary actor looks pretty embarrassed to be there, his half-baked performance being about as far from his Streetcar and Waterfront glory days as Wolverhampton is from the Pitcairn Islands. You might expect James Coburn to do better, with the actor having already exhibited a prior sureness of touch in zany sixties flicks The President' Analyst and Our Man Flint (which, along with TV show Adam Adamant Lives!, provided the template for the Austin Powers movies). But the Magnificent Seven and Great Escape star appears bored and disinterested here, never threatening to squeeze much comedic juice out of mad doctor Krankheit. Richard Burton proves more engaging, but it is very hard to escape the suspicion that the pissed-up, egotistical McPhisto did not exactly present the most stringent of challenges to the dramatic abilities of the Welshman.

Which brings us to Ringo Starr. Let's not forget Ringo was still a Beatle at this time, post-Sgt. Pepper, pre-White Album, and the casting of a genuine Fab in your movie was still perceived as a virtual invitation to start printing your own money. A Hard Day's Night and Help! had also seen Ringo emerge with significant credit, indicating that - while he might have been his band's lesser light in terms of song-writing - he was a confident screen performer with a surprisingly deft comic touch. However this was an assessment based on the former Richard Starkey's performances as himself, not as a Mexican horticulturalist struggling with his sexual temptations. Perhaps sensing his role as Emmanuel asks questions his acting might struggle to answer, Ringo elects in the main to play his Mexican in the style of a scouse drummer, although ill-advisedly he does make a stab at the accent, resulting in what is surely not only the worst accent there has ever been in a film, but also the worst accent there will ever be in a film too. It's a brogue so bad as to make Dick Van Dyke's massacring of the cockney twang in Mary Poppins instantly sound as authentically east-end as Ray Winstone. Manfully trying to mount a fightback against this litany of ignoble displays are John Astin in his duel roles of Candy's father and uncle, and - best by far - Walter Matthau as the hapless, bellowing military-man Smight. Matthau is probably the only performer to emerge from the whole affair with his reputation enhanced, succeeding in infusing his role with distinctive character and great energy, his immaculate comic timing providing the humour which is so conspicuous by its absence elsewhere in the movie.

'Folly' is a term often used when describing those productions of the fifties and sixties which included a raft of big-name actors in cameo roles, which appear to have had a mountain of cash thrown at their production, but which crucially never seem to have involved anyone who either cared quite enough or had the creative vision to ensure the finished film possessed any kind of coherent tone or exhibited any real degree of quality. And it is hard to escape the feeling that this is a piece of terminology which fits Candy like the proverbial glove. The message of the movie seems to be that the authority figures who, while afforded huge respect and deference by the general populace, are in actuality as emotionally and morally derelict as everyone else in bourgeois society (Terry Southern had the not-very endearing habit of castigating humanity at large as the mortal enemies of such free-thinking libertarian visionaries as he and his Hollywood friends - despite the fact that many of the people he was pouring scorn upon where presumably buying tickets for his movies and keeping him in his luxury lifestyle). But in marked contrast to the crystal clarity of intent displayed by Dr. Strangelove, Candy's central theme never really hits home, becoming lost in the procession of only fitfully amusing episodes. The film that Candy is actually most evocative of is the original Casino Royale (another picture Southern did uncredited script work for) and, as anyone who has seen that picture will testify, that is not much of a recommendation. Both films seem to advocate the idea that simply gathering together a bunch of famous actors and then filming them, while throwing some hip visuals and sounds into the mix, will result in a picture which is frightfully on the pulse, and the film-makers will be consequently exonerated from concerning themselves with such trivialities as plot and characterisation. But while the law of averages results in a few of the random elements present in Candy generating some interest, the alarming looseness of it all will rapidly infuriate and alienate the vast majority.

So, while raised from interesting foundations, Candy proves to be rather on the lame side, never managing to find a satisfying identity or identifiable purpose. Perhaps the void at the heart of this picture is best articulated by Candy Christian herself in one of the final scenes of the movie. As she enters a temple and finds herself face to face with a statue of Kali, the many-armed Hindu goddess of death, she finds herself crying out 'What does it all mean?'. From the evidence provided by the preceding two hours of her movie, you would have to reply with 'Ultimately love, not a lot'.

ace soundtrack, daft movie, marlon brando bit is good

Brando is a love guru...what more to ask?

A messy and overlong adaptation of the Terry Southern novel. Eurotrash goddess Ewa Aulin is lovely in the title role.
A couple of members of the all star cast escape with their reputations intact but it's all pretty embarrassing (particularly Ringo ... (read more) A messy and overlong adaptation of the Terry Southern novel. Eurotrash goddess Ewa Aulin is lovely in the title role.
A couple of members of the all star cast escape with their reputations intact but it's all pretty embarrassing (particularly Ringo Starr..). There are a few laughs though, mostly involving John Astin.

If you liked the Wall because it was fun while you were high you'd like this....I on the other hand, HATED IT!!!!

Pure kitsch. Brando as an Indian guru, Matthau as a horny U.S. Army officer, Ringo as a Mexican gardener, and Burton as a raving drunk (that's a stretch). Awful script and dreadful directing. Somehow fun. Too much acid in those days...