Wouldn't it be nice to break away from your current going-nowhere lifestyle and make a fresh start in a newer, better body living your dream existence. That's what happens here to rich, bored, middle-aged banker Arthur Hamilton, who long ago lost his smile and after being contacted out of the blue by a friend he believed was long dead, finds himself presented with that very chance.
Despite himself and somewhat against his will he signs a Faustian pact with an organisation referred to only as "The Company" set up by its suitably patrician, offbeat founder who gives Hamilton, now given the name and identity of a deceased young artist called Tony Wilson, his final pep-talk before the procedure goes forward. Said procedure involves faking his own death, then undergoing excruciating plastic surgery and placement in a remote community by the sea at the nearest faraway place, alongside like-minded individuals who have already undergone the same treatment.
So it is that Wilson finds himself free to indulge his long-ago thwarted ambition as a budding artist by day and when not working, catch a wave with strolls along the beach. Boy, it seems he has the idyllic existence he thought he always wanted, especially when he makes friends with his very own surfer girl and seemingly completes his assimilation by immersing himself with her in an orgiastic naturist bacchanal.
But that's not the end of the story. Constantly encouraged by his zen-like man-servant to hold a party for his neighbours, under the influence of too much alcohol, Wilson becomes aware he just wasn't made for these times and returns in his new guise to his former wife and realises that the warmth of the sun is no compensation for what he's lost. This leads to him basically requesting the Company to reset his reset button, but it seems that this isn't Company policy, leading to a suitably Kafka-esque, nightmarish conclusion.
A commercial failure at time of release, John Frankenheimer's dark, dystopian movie has much to commend it, beginning with Saul Bass's title credits sequence with grotesquely distorted facial close-ups anticipating a key plot development, Jerry Goldsmith's doomy soundtrack and James Wong Howe's usual marvellous, deep-focus black and white photography. I also liked the quirky, almost surrealistic touches of having Randolph rendezvous with the Company via a meat-packing factory and his sponsor's predilection for crispy chicken as he encourages Hamilton to sign his life away.
However, God only knows I was bored by the over-indulgent grape-making scene and irritated somewhat by this reborn Peter Pan's new Wendy, an ocean-loving hippy-chick he encounters on the beach.
In the end while there was much to admire, I wasn't quite convinced by this here today, gone tomorrow fantasy although I can see why it might have spooked another famous Mr Wilson, Brian, the genius pop producer who apparently when he saw this film, experienced far from good vibrations and which only further upset his already damaged psyche.
Apparently Brian read lots of references to himself in the movie, but I just can't see how he'd imagine that, can you...?
Despite himself and somewhat against his will he signs a Faustian pact with an organisation referred to only as "The Company" set up by its suitably patrician, offbeat founder who gives Hamilton, now given the name and identity of a deceased young artist called Tony Wilson, his final pep-talk before the procedure goes forward. Said procedure involves faking his own death, then undergoing excruciating plastic surgery and placement in a remote community by the sea at the nearest faraway place, alongside like-minded individuals who have already undergone the same treatment.
So it is that Wilson finds himself free to indulge his long-ago thwarted ambition as a budding artist by day and when not working, catch a wave with strolls along the beach. Boy, it seems he has the idyllic existence he thought he always wanted, especially when he makes friends with his very own surfer girl and seemingly completes his assimilation by immersing himself with her in an orgiastic naturist bacchanal.
But that's not the end of the story. Constantly encouraged by his zen-like man-servant to hold a party for his neighbours, under the influence of too much alcohol, Wilson becomes aware he just wasn't made for these times and returns in his new guise to his former wife and realises that the warmth of the sun is no compensation for what he's lost. This leads to him basically requesting the Company to reset his reset button, but it seems that this isn't Company policy, leading to a suitably Kafka-esque, nightmarish conclusion.
A commercial failure at time of release, John Frankenheimer's dark, dystopian movie has much to commend it, beginning with Saul Bass's title credits sequence with grotesquely distorted facial close-ups anticipating a key plot development, Jerry Goldsmith's doomy soundtrack and James Wong Howe's usual marvellous, deep-focus black and white photography. I also liked the quirky, almost surrealistic touches of having Randolph rendezvous with the Company via a meat-packing factory and his sponsor's predilection for crispy chicken as he encourages Hamilton to sign his life away.
However, God only knows I was bored by the over-indulgent grape-making scene and irritated somewhat by this reborn Peter Pan's new Wendy, an ocean-loving hippy-chick he encounters on the beach.
In the end while there was much to admire, I wasn't quite convinced by this here today, gone tomorrow fantasy although I can see why it might have spooked another famous Mr Wilson, Brian, the genius pop producer who apparently when he saw this film, experienced far from good vibrations and which only further upset his already damaged psyche.
Apparently Brian read lots of references to himself in the movie, but I just can't see how he'd imagine that, can you...?