Best film of 1960? Part One - Adventure.

Remember the Alamo?  Not the real one, of course. The 1960 release starring John Wayne, Richard Widmark and, in a wild bit of casting, Laurence Harvey. (oh, and let's not forget Frankie Avalon).

A group of plucky Texans led by Congressman (and former King of the Wild Frontier) Davy Crockett (Wayne), mount a futile but heroic last stand against the forces of the Mexican General, Santa Anna.  Amongst this doughty number is another all-American hero, Jim Bowie (he of the knife), played by Richard Widmark. Representing the "stuffed shirt" approach to martyrdom, is cavalry officer, William B. Travis (Harvey).

For those of you who haven't yet seen it, a warning. This might be one of those films in which even John Wayne gets killed...

Of course, what the heroes of the Alamo really needed was a gang of mercenaries with hearts of gold...

(psssst!  say nothing to Akiro Kurasawa about this!)

The seven guys who turn out to be magnificent, start out as a bunch of rogues (for the most part). 1960 was a good year for adventures featuring loveable or at least admirable rogues - sometimes out for themselves. Long before George Clooney put together his team, Frank Sinatra was Danny Ocean:

Meanwhile, in not yet swinging Britain, disgruntled ex-army officer, Jack Hawkins was signing up a crack team of his own:

The British film industry was still making capital from the events of the second world war and, if Jack Hawkins was busy playing a soldier gone to the bad, there was always Kenneth More to turn to:

Adventure stories aren't just for grown-ups though and 1960 saw Disney get in the act with this classic children's live action film, starring John Mills (who of course, also won the war on several occasions) :

Science fiction had passed its first heyday (Klaatu had long since barada'ed his nikto). Nevertheless, before George Lucas reinvented the genre with Star Wars, 1960 saw the release of one of the classic sci-fi films. Long before there was Kylie, and even a little bit before there was Rolf, there was Rod Taylor - Australia's finest?

But if you wanted adventure, if you wanted heroism, if you wanted excitement, romance and high Olivier camp, in 1960, you probably wanted this:

Classic film moment...mind you, my Dad always wondered why they didn't just point out some corpse and say "that's Spartacus, over there. That dead 'un!"

Burt Bacharach - no 'one hit wonder'.

The suave dude on the piano has written over seventy US hits (over fifty of which charted in the UK).

His collaborators range from the familiar (Dionne Warwick, Dusty Springfield) to the experimental (Elvis Costello) to the almost bizarre (Ronan Keating, and Dr Dre).

The music of Burt Bacharach is for some people, the sound of the sixties.

Even though Burt's first recorded song was written in 1952 for Nat King Cole, the list of hits produced by Bacharach (and his best known lyricist, Hal David) in the sixties is astonishing. So many of the enduring and best-loved anthems of the era are Bacharach and David compositions:

However, given that Bacharach compositions often feature unusual chord progressions and instruments not usually associated with pop music (eg the flugelhorn used on "Walk on By"), even some of the stars blessed by his songs have taken a little convincing".

Despite writing such sixties classics as "24 Hours from Tulsa", "Walk on By" and "Anyone Who had a Heart", the first Bacharach composition to reach number one in the American charts was a 1968 release featuring Herb Alpert.

When it came to chart-topping, the sixties were better for Bacharach in the UK. By the time "This Guy's in Love with You" reached the top of the US charts, Burt had already had several UK number ones (the first being "Magic Moments" for Perry Como in 1958). Bacharach songs reached number one in the UK, on five occasions.

In later decades, Bacharach and his songs have continued to take on new challenges, adapt and be adapted to new styles of arrangement and delivery. More than one has become the signature tune of its most committed performer.  Take this version of a song written in 1964.

Perhaps like Andy Williams, Burt Bacharach represents a cosier 1960s (certainly not the one of Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and The Rolling Stones). Of course, there is a darker side to his work (and especially to some of his collaborations - give a listen to his 1998 album with Elvis Costello, Painted from Memory).

But this is an escapist nostalgia blog, so we'll close on a sweet and harmonious note, with one of Bacharach's most hopeful songs, performed by the artist whose career is most closely associated with his creations:

Burton and Taylor - the great romance of the sixties

It was one of the great romances in human history - a beautiful, powerful woman and a rough but charming hero. Their passion was epic, as were their fights.  One way or another, the earth clearly moved whenever these two were in the room together.  Antony and Cleopatra - re-incarnated for the fortunate sixties.

Elizabeth Taylor was Hollywood to the core - the pretty child star who grew to claim the title of the "World's Most Beautiful Woman" whilst maturing into one the finest screen actors (or as they were known in the sixties - actresses) of her generation.

'For her own person, It beggared all description'

After several attempts at marriage (Nicky Hilton, Michael Wilding, Mike Todd, and Eddie Fisher) this queen of Hollywood finally found her Mark Antony, both figuratively and literally.

Richard Burton was born Richard Jenkins in Port Talbot (1925). One of thirteen children, his acting career was inspired by a teacher, Philip Burton who encouraged, mentored and eventually adopted him.

When Richard and Elizabeth met and fell for one another, on the set of the epic 1963 film,  Cleopatra, she was still married to Fisher (and he to his first wife, Sybil). Exit stage left, two spouses, enter, stage right, perhaps the greatest romance of the age.

They would remain linked for the rest of their lives - marrying twice and divorcing twice, along the way.  Glamorous and talented, they also became extremely rich (Burton, a charismatic stage and screen presence, became major box office through his link with Taylor).

Taylor and Burton in 1966's Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolff for which she won her 2nd Oscar.

And then, of course, there were the gifts...

Elizabeth wearing the 69.42 carat cartier diamond, later known as the Taylor-Burton diamond.

...and...the gifts...

The engagement ring - the Krupp diamond - a mere 33.19 carats.  Call that love?! 

The intensity - fuelled by "impressive" alcohol consumption (especially on his part) - led to divorce in 1974. 

The very next year, they remarried but, as with many second chances, it didn't last. Nine months later they parted again, though it is said he rang her every day for the rest of his life.

Richard Burton died in 1984. Still remembered as one of the great acting voices of the 20th century (Listen to Under Milk Wood or his narration of the 1970s cult album War of the Worlds), he was one of a generation of British 'hell-raisers' (which included Richard Harris, Oliver Reed and Peter O'Toole). 

He was also a man who loved a certain woman...

Marianne Faithful - mischievous muse...

If your dad is a major in the British Army and a professor of psychology and your mum is a Sacher-Masoch (ie. descended from that Sacher-Masoch), it might not be all that surprising if you turn out to be... well...interesting.

"My first move was to get a Rolling Stone as a boyfriend. I slept with three and decided the lead singer was the best bet."

Mick and the "other two", by the way, arrived on the scene after Marianne had married and had a son with artist John Dunbar. But then, Marianne seems always to have exuded a cocktail of posh-needy-naughtiness that men (well, a hell of a lot of them) found difficult to resist.

Several Stones classics of the sixties owe something to her (she was even - after legal proceedings - given a writing credit for "Sister Morphine").  

"Sympathy for the Devil" (inspired by a book Marianne gave Mick), "You Can't Always Get What You Want" (was this about her or aimed at her?), "Wild Horses" are all linked with Marianne.

Not only that but the Beatles song "And Your Bird Can Sing" as well as "Carrie Anne" by the Hollies both refer to her.

Marianne also developed a career in acting - bringing with her that familiar, irresistible wildness threaded with vulnerability:

"Now you know the thrill of wrapping your legs round a tornado of pounding pistons!" Gulp!

While the seventies were a lost era of addiction and anorexia (with Marianne at one time living on the streets of Soho) the very end of the decade saw her release Broken English an album which relaunched her musical career (and gave her critical acclaim which her work continues to gain for each new album).

Over the years, she has gone through several metamorphoses in each of which she could be described as 'untouchable' (though in vastly differing senses of that word). 

As for Marianne nowadays... ask almost any guy of a certain age... gulp!

'Make your own kind of music' - Mama Cass.

The Mamas and the Papas

Mama Cass Elliot was one of the more striking and unusual of 1960s pop stars.  A key figure in Californian dreamers, the Mamas and the Papas  (and was there ever a more sixties name for a group?) she was born Ellen Naomi Cohen on September 19, 1941 in Baltimore, Maryland.  

She performed with a series of moderately successful groups including The Mugwumps and The Triumvirate, with Tim Rose and John Brown, later to become The Big 3 (with James Hendricks in place of Brown) and make several national TV appearances.

In 1965, Cass went out to the Virgin Islands to join Denny Doherty and John and Michelle Phillips. These three had been performing as The New Journeymen.  When Cass joined, the foursome launched as The Mamas and the Papas:

There is a version of the story that has Doherty and the Phillipses dropping acid just before Cass makes her (unexpected) entrance - in typically flamboyant dress - looking, according to John Phillips like "a giant mushroom".  Whatever the truth of this, it was certainly the case that, having worked with Cass in the Mugwumps, Doherty was happy to have her join them.

What Cass brought to the group, besides her beautiful voice, was a crucial kind of balance - even though John Phillips resisted her inclusion arguing that she couldn't hit the notes needed (whilst apparently having strong reservations about her build).  Cass refused to hide, the larger she got, the brighter and more "way out" her clothes seemed to get.  She was, you might say, Madame Ambassador for the Big, Beautiful Woman.

Cass certainly made for an interesting contrast, visually, with the more conventional "beanpole" beauty of Michelle Phillips (25-year-old John had left his wife and two kids for Michelle - she was just sixteen at the time).

When the group finally split, in 1971, Cass was free to pursue her solo singing career. She died of heart failure in 1974, during an extremely successful concert series in London.  The night of her death, she had been on the phone to Michelle telling how thrilled she was with the standing ovations at the London Palladium.

Although they were far from the biggest pop sensation of the decade, the Mamas and the Papas have carried forward some essence of the sixties for future generations. They sold over forty million records worldwide, and their sweet harmonies still feel like a musical arm wrapped around your troubled shoulders...