JOHNNY COOL (1963)

A surprising box office success, this one-hundred-three-minute film, distributed by United Artists, produced by Peter "Rat Pack" Lawford, and directed by William Asher, Miss Montgomery's third husband, has some believability issues, and its mix of tongue-in-cheek humor with gangster elements simply lessens the impact of contract assassins. It could be argued that Silva did for contract killers what James Coburn did for spies with his Derek Flint character. It is light-years away from the wallop two years earlier by Blast of Silence. However, Asher does a fine job with pacing and the authenticity of location shooting. The film’s violence is not visualized, but it gets the point across and may have set a new trend for assassins without a moral conscience. A Billy May jazz score also provides the right amount of kick when needed. Why this popular poster has three people in the crosshairs who are not targeted is, at the very least, misleading.

Henry Silva carries this film, in the early stages of his typecast career—he was even intimidating as a mobster in the Jerry Lewis comedy, Cinderfella. Silva’s emotionally detached persona advanced the type to a higher violent quotient by the late Twentieth Century. At certain angles or lighting, his facial structure may appear as though he had reconstructive surgery after a serious face plant. His eyes seemingly lack any iris, just giant pupils.

Elizabeth Montgomery is believable in an emotionally difficult, roller-coaster role. Witnessing Silva easily dispense with an obnoxious bar patron in a nightclub, she is instantly attracted to the button-eyed Silva in the worst way. Her boredom is quelled by his mysterious aura. His persona overpowers all her discernment. She is all-in for Silva. Danger is always teasingly attractive to Hollywood. 

Marc Lawrence is riveting during the opening scenes, thanks, in part, to years of portraying movie gangsters. As an exiled American gangster (the original Johnny Cool) living in Sicily, he has bigger plans for Silva than the local mercenary he has become. A look-alike is killed in Silva’s place so Lawrence can reinvent him for the American market as the oxymoron “cultured assassin.” He wants Silva to take out each former associate residing in America. Lawrence has equipped him with a detailed history of all things underworld. Silva 2.0 has memorized it all. He removes his mismatched costume beard and takes the name of Lawrence’s character, the moniker in the film’s title. After establishing himself in New York City, his next “take-out order” sends him to Las Vegas.

Silva infiltrates a Vegas crap game with no real relevance to the plot. Sammy Davis, Jr. (as "Educated") wears an eye patch similar to the one he used for a while after his 1954 injury. In real life, long since fitted with a glass eye, he uses the patch here as a subtle comedic prop. Davis has a knack for rolling winning numbers. After a few winning rolls in a row, his nervousness demands he lift his eye patch—since Silva is holding a gun to his head—just to make sure he is still using the same die. Another Vegas heritage connection, comedian Joey Bishop, takes an amusing turn as a fast-talking Los Angeles used car shyster who prevents Montgomery from getting a word in edgewise during her purchase.

Montgomery is seriously abused by two thugs posing as police officers. The originally filmed violent assault ended on the editing floor for 1963 audiences. Sliva crosses their path after they exit their vehicle in town. With their laughter and exchanged words, Silva makes a miraculous assumption that she is the subject of their "fun." After checking on her, he returns to the duo's car and knifes them both. Back to his "to-die list," ruthless casino owner John McGiver is up next. Also not leaving the room is his confidence man, the then-popular comedic pundit, Mort Saul. He provides an eye-opener for the hitman. He calmly informs Silva that Lawrence is using him as he was used. Murder's delivery boy. Unemotional Saul is aware he faces eternity at the trigger finger of an embarrassed and angry Silva. Jim Backus plays an unethical contractor whose day is permanently cut short by a briefcase mix-up. When off camera, leaving a scene, Backus provides his "Mr. Magoo" laugh. I am not sure why, other than the cartoon was popular at the time. Very silly.

Then there is an amusing “filler” scene involving a Vegas tour bus driver. The local police are looking for a suspicious passenger, one of several lined up outside the bus. Silva, who already “confessed” his religious views against gambling to the driver, is in a flowery tourist shirt with three cameras around his neck. Looking down the line, the police are convinced by the bus driver that Silva could not possibly be wanted for anything. Just look at him. A guy in line with a cowboy hat is bragging to Silva about the money he won, exclaiming, “Boy, I murdered ‘em!” He asks how Silva did, and he blandly replies, “I did all right.” It is the cowboy who gets yanked out of line. 

Silva and Montgomery are off to Los Angeles, where she learns his background, which does not faze her much. She is the getaway driver for Silva’s latest hit on an oil baron, Brad Dexter, treading water in his pool. With her convertible idling atop an overlook, she hears an explosion, and then she and her windshield become spotted with blobs of chlorine water in a rather creepy moment. They drive away, and she attempts to process all of Silva's detailed instructions about doing ordinary things until her time comes to reconnect with him back in New York City. She goes to a hair salon and pulls up curbside. It is clear she has issues with parallel parking. Upon exiting the salon, she noticed a patrol officer looking over her 1962 Ford parked at nearly a fifty-five-degree angle. Guessing “what would Cool do,” she abandons the car. This is a big error. She will never know the officer was only giving her a ticket for an expired parking meter. A second officer hits pay dirt by discovering fragmented pieces in the car's interior, typical of a homemade bomb. 

Silva's killing efficiency may be hard to believe, but JC is also an expert con artist. Posing as a photojournalist on assignment, he uses a motorized outdoor window washing system to inch his way up to the upper-floor skyscraper office of Telly Savalas, a New York mobster kingpin. In what would otherwise be a comedic parody scene, Savalas turns to see Silva’s head slowly rising outside his window. As surprising as this is, the only thing concerning him is the rifle pointed in his direction. Smartly edited out is Silva's slow getaway descent.

Joining friends for a Newport Beach yacht party, Montgomery finally has a reality check. Though still disturbingly attracted to Silva, she realizes he is a despicable human. She reveals Silva's location, and the East Coast “brotherhood” puts him in a straitjacket and then explains in very specific detail how his life will slowly and painfully end. Not so cool, Johnny.

Notes: James Van Heusen wrote a nearly incoherent title song as if Sammy Davis Jr.—totally without blame—was making up the song on the spot. A perpetual motion tune with rambling lyrics by, sorry to say, Sammy Cahn, who seems to have written too many words for Van Heusen's given notes. 

Finally, there is a mystery involving an FBI agent, played by Douglas Henderson (above), with only one tinted eyeglass lens. We have already seen Davis with an eye patch. Now this. It would be strange for the director to suggest this. It is not explained. I chalk it up to another quirk of the film. 

THE PRIZE (1963)

This rather long, illogical Communist spy yarn, distributed by MGM, fits the era and is more suspense than thriller, more nonsense than common sense. Director Mark Robson formed the Irving Wallace novel into a blend of intrigue and sarcastic wit.  Alfred Hitchcock's influence is quite evident, even in the glaring process screen backgrounds, but there is certainly nothing low-budget about this film, what with the lead cast's salaries and crew in Stockholm. The intricate plot takes about fifty minutes to get propelled, while the subplots lengthen the film with no relevance after exiting the theater. Right from the opening credits, with its use of snare drums and syncopated rhythms, you may guess correctly that Jerry Goldsmith wrote the score.

Newman arrives in Stockholm with skepticism about receiving his Nobel Prize in Literature. His lack of Nobel enthusiasm and less-than-classy behavior does have its effect on attendees. Newman tells the press he has not written a book in years and wonders why he was nominated in the first place. The committee is aghast to learn he has maintained a living by writing pulp fiction detective novels. All their noses automatically turned upward.

Elke Sommer, in her first American role, serves as Newman's assistant upon arrival. She is strictly by the book and expects no hanky-panky on the drive from the airport. Every moviegoer knows it is just a matter of time before she succumbs to Newman's bright blue eyes. Her character is one-dimensional and not thoroughly defined, relying only on her memorable attractiveness and stacked hair. Which was all that was needed for most males of the era. No one came out of a Sommer film stunned by her acting skills. Do not confuse this film with another of her roles in The Oscar (1966). That film takes the prize for the most embarrassing high-profile film of the Sixties. I digress.

On a 180-degree career path to Sommer is the classically pretty Diane Baker. Her upper-class, reserved appeal is her strongest asset for her intermittent role, with little to suggest she is integral to the script. She plays the niece of Edward G. Robinson's pivotal character. But there is little for him to do. He is also on the Nobel ticket but is kidnapped by the Communists with his “identical twin brother” taking his place. The plan is to move Uncle Edward behind the Iron Curtain, giving his brother the propaganda opportunity to make disparaging remarks about the U.S. during his acceptance speech. When Robinson 2.0 unites with Baker, it is not clear if she is part of the scheme or not. But Newman notices a change in Robinson's manner upon their second meeting, but no one takes him seriously except a couple of Communist agents. Newman becomes their primary target. His wit goes into hiding.

For a writer with little appetite for real-life dangers or the expertise to handle such, Newman manages a couple of fantastical escapes. His processed “Hitchcockian” fall into the river is reminiscent of the falling scenes in Vertigo. How he survived such a free fall, one may wonder. However, the real prize goes to the scene with the Communists trying to run him down on an iron truss bridge. Not successful, the agents pursue on foot. A farm truck approaches the bridge in a blur. Newman runs to the opposite side of it. After it passes, the agents are dumbfounded by his vanishing act. Even if Newman knew where to get a superhuman handgrip on the side of the truck, the force would have pulled his writing arm from his shoulder socket! His screams of agony would have made him easy to track. But there he goes, clinging to the side of the truck, face to face with a goat, in 007 glory. It is a ridiculous moment.

In the end, Newman has the Nobel thrust upon him anyway, making little sense after insulting the Nobel committee, nor for doing anything to warrant it. Like former President Obama receiving his Nobel during his first year.

Note: On the road to a career peak, after a few speed bumps, this movie is tailor-made for the likes of Newman. An anti-establishment figure with grumpy witticisms. Doubt there were other “A-listers” as appropriate, though James “Our Man Flint” Coburn comes to mind. Not necessarily James Dean, had he lived. Newman inherited a couple of roles that were slated for him. Then again, Dean, displaying his lack of interest in the Nobel Prize upon his arrival in Sweden, may have bested Newman's portrayal.