I just watched 8/8 episodes on YT. I can't say for sure if the latest digital release. Looks about the same -- even though I had to learn more about Faust later, I can't say for sure about what Lloyd thinks about his sons' weird choice of scripts. But he was in Airplane! I liked both films for different reasons. Burton is at his creepy best and Liz faked Texan as good as anybody. And I'm also a sucker for any Texas movie. Watch Roadie.
I Think Rex Reed wrote this review: Like biblical lepers, the people responsible for an atrocity called "Hammersmith Is Out" should be forced by law to carry a warning bell and cry, "Unclean, unclean!" I used to think Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had no taste. Now I'm convinced they'll do anything for money. I shudder to think what they were paid for this insult to the intelligence of sane moviegoers everywhere, or that they were indeed paid at all to turn out such trash, but "Hammersmith Is Out" is one more nail in their coffin. In this feeble and demented attempt to retell the Faust legend, the devil (Burton) is locked in an insane asylum disguised as a maniac called Hammersmith. With the aid of a retarded orderly (Beau Bridge«) and an illiterate waitress (Taylor), he escapes, breeds crime and pestilence, corrupts the world, launches wars, and litters the scenery with discarded corpses along the way. It must have seemed like a fine idea in the humorous head of Peter Ustinov, who directed it, but did anybody ever bother to read the script? On film, it looks like the hysterical ravings of undisciplined, self-indulgent narcissists who babble incoherently in a d i r e c t descent toward self destruction. They should have taken one hard look at the end result and set t^e negative on "Self-Destruct." Beau Bridges rises up in bed, picks his nose and mumbles about venereal disease. Elizabeth Taylor, as a platinum blonde hash slinger called Jimmie Jean Jackson, rises up behind her greasy counter covered with ketchup (or is it real bloodstains? This is the kind of home movie where it wouldn't seem to matter since they leave all the mistakes in as "camp") and drawls "What'll ya have?" in an Ozark accent that sounds like Judy Canova on a binge. People are always rising up into the frame and leaning on things with no movie to support them. A short cut later, they are both rutting like hogs on top of a garbage sack while a Coca- Cola sign flashes on and off with mutton-headed symbolism. After selling their souls to the devil, he tells them "One of the first things I remember is a lady with a snake," as he munches a shiny apple. The jokes are about that obvious, the desperate attempts at wit are vulgar and cheap. The dialogue is downright filthy, and the performances are obnoxious. Richard Burton walks through the movie in a curious trance, as though in some advanced state of self-hypnosis. Elizabeth Taylor clumps through each scene in a screeching display of self parody, allowing everyone around her to massacre her talent and accent her numerous physical and intellectual handicaps. I didn't think she could sink any lower after X, Y and Zee, but an all- time bottom is reached (even for her) as she ; writhes on a valentine-shaped^ bed with a pig person like two hippos in heat, spouting obscene toilet talk in some kind of orgasmic stupor. Waddling her enormous derriere across the screen in a manner so offensive it would bring litigation from any dignified, self- respecting performer, and saying lines like "I'm the biggest mother of them all," she inspires pity instead of laughs.
I Think Rex Reed wrote this review: Like biblical lepers, the people responsible for an atrocity called "Hammersmith Is Out" should be forced by law to carry a warning bell and cry, "Unclean, unclean!" I used to think Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had no taste. Now I'm convinced they'll do anything for money. I shudder to think what they were paid for this insult to the intelligence of sane moviegoers everywhere, or that they were indeed paid at all to turn out such trash, but "Hammersmith Is Out" is one more nail in their coffin. In this feeble and demented attempt to retell the Faust legend, the devil (Burton) is locked in an insane asylum disguised as a maniac called Hammersmith. With the aid of a retarded orderly (Beau Bridge«) and an illiterate waitress (Taylor), he escapes, breeds crime and pestilence, corrupts the world, launches wars, and litters the scenery with discarded corpses along the way. It must have seemed like a fine idea in the humorous head of Peter Ustinov, who directed it, but did anybody ever bother to read the script? On film, it looks like the hysterical ravings of undisciplined, self-indulgent narcissists who babble incoherently in a d i r e c t descent toward self destruction. They should have taken one hard look at the end result and set t^e negative on "Self-Destruct." Beau Bridges rises up in bed, picks his nose and mumbles about venereal disease. Elizabeth Taylor, as a platinum blonde hash slinger called Jimmie Jean Jackson, rises up behind her greasy counter covered with ketchup (or is it real bloodstains? This is the kind of home movie where it wouldn't seem to matter since they leave all the mistakes in as "camp") and drawls "What'll ya have?" in an Ozark accent that sounds like Judy Canova on a binge. People are always rising up into the frame and leaning on things with no movie to support them. A short cut later, they are both rutting like hogs on top of a garbage sack while a Coca- Cola sign flashes on and off with mutton-headed symbolism. After selling their souls to the devil, he tells them "One of the first things I remember is a lady with a snake," as he munches a shiny apple. The jokes are about that obvious, the desperate attempts at wit are vulgar and cheap. The dialogue is downright filthy, and the performances are obnoxious. Richard Burton walks through the movie in a curious trance, as though in some advanced state of self-hypnosis. Elizabeth Taylor clumps through each scene in a screeching display of self parody, allowing everyone around her to massacre her talent and accent her numerous physical and intellectual handicaps. I didn't think she could sink any lower after X, Y and Zee, but an all- time bottom is reached (even for her) as she ; writhes on a valentine-shaped^ bed with a pig person like two hippos in heat, spouting obscene toilet talk in some kind of orgasmic stupor. Waddling her enormous derriere across the screen in a manner so offensive it would bring litigation from any dignified, self- respecting performer, and saying lines like "I'm the biggest mother of them all," she inspires pity instead of laughs.