Surely one of the most tatty, inept, and certainly most bonkers productions from a British studio since 'Fire Maidens From Outer Space' over a dozen years previously, it seems Zeta One was originally planned on a considerably more ambitious scale, only to soon run into financial trouble.
John Hamilton, Tony Tenser's indispensable chronicler, reveals that construction work on the studio had still not been completed during shooting. James Robertson Justice didn't have a proper dressing room and understandably was not pleased. Not in the best of health following a stroke the year before, he made sure he was out of the mess at the first opportunity. Anyhow he's completely wrong, and not in any good way, as the sadistic Major Bourdon. They'd have done better to have cast the amazonian Nita Lorraine, the 'Angvian' failing to keep a straight face in the fight scene (and briefly memorable wielding a whip in 'Curse Of The Crimson Altar') as Zeta's adversary, or to take it to a further stage of silliness, Rita Webb, who puts in an appearance as a bus conductor with Charles Hawtrey in a scene that misses a chance to be funnier.
Robin Hawdon's James Word, so called apparently so they could use a hilarious tag-line on the lines of 'His Word is our Bond' and whose main activity seems to be confined to between the sheets, only function is to attempt to make sense of what passes for the narrative. Mission impossible. One flashback confusingly ends with him in bed with one of the Angvians before switching to him in the same bed with Yutte Stensgaard, as part of the framing device. A typically inane scene toward the end sees him drive up to a field, go through a hedge and then wander around, then back to the car for some waterproofs. And that's it. Meanwhile Dawn Addams' Zeta remains a peripheral figure throughout.
At least Zeta can boast Johnny Hawksworth's jazzy, driving opening score, and the costume department made delightful use of their minuscule budget on the wigs and outfits, if that is the word, of Zeta's followers: Valerie Leon, for one, can rarely have looked more alluring. Anyhow, once the deadly tedious opening sequence was out of the way, it was more fun than the laboured attempts at humour of Joe Losey's infinitely more prestigious 'swinging sixties' spoof, Modesty Blaise, which I also watched recently.
John Hamilton, Tony Tenser's indispensable chronicler, reveals that construction work on the studio had still not been completed during shooting. James Robertson Justice didn't have a proper dressing room and understandably was not pleased. Not in the best of health following a stroke the year before, he made sure he was out of the mess at the first opportunity. Anyhow he's completely wrong, and not in any good way, as the sadistic Major Bourdon. They'd have done better to have cast the amazonian Nita Lorraine, the 'Angvian' failing to keep a straight face in the fight scene (and briefly memorable wielding a whip in 'Curse Of The Crimson Altar') as Zeta's adversary, or to take it to a further stage of silliness, Rita Webb, who puts in an appearance as a bus conductor with Charles Hawtrey in a scene that misses a chance to be funnier.
Robin Hawdon's James Word, so called apparently so they could use a hilarious tag-line on the lines of 'His Word is our Bond' and whose main activity seems to be confined to between the sheets, only function is to attempt to make sense of what passes for the narrative. Mission impossible. One flashback confusingly ends with him in bed with one of the Angvians before switching to him in the same bed with Yutte Stensgaard, as part of the framing device. A typically inane scene toward the end sees him drive up to a field, go through a hedge and then wander around, then back to the car for some waterproofs. And that's it. Meanwhile Dawn Addams' Zeta remains a peripheral figure throughout.
At least Zeta can boast Johnny Hawksworth's jazzy, driving opening score, and the costume department made delightful use of their minuscule budget on the wigs and outfits, if that is the word, of Zeta's followers: Valerie Leon, for one, can rarely have looked more alluring. Anyhow, once the deadly tedious opening sequence was out of the way, it was more fun than the laboured attempts at humour of Joe Losey's infinitely more prestigious 'swinging sixties' spoof, Modesty Blaise, which I also watched recently.