Richard Lester's deliberately (and delightfully) silly and absurd musical comedy debut feature, an early Amicus production released in America by Columbia no less, serves as a fabulously frothy primer for his subsequent rock film milestone "A Hard Day's Night." It takes place in some anonymous quiet English country suburb. Bland teen scream leads Craig Douglas and Helen Shapiro conspire to hold a Dixieland jazz festival in order to thwart the portly killjoy mayor's efforts to have both jazz and rock music banned from the town.
Milton Subotsky's script, which brazenly recycles his earlier 50's rock quickie "Rock, Rock, Rock" 's central premise, is little more than a barely serviceable excuse to showcase a marvelously eclectic mix of 25 songs alternating between wildly swinging traditional jazz bands and powerfully primal rock'n'roll stars. The divinely cool Gene Vincent, looking super-smooth with slicked-back shiny black hair and an immaculate gleaming white suit, pile-drives his way through the sublimely groovy "Spaceship to Mars." Chubby Checker grinds his hyperactive hips to giddy glory and gets down with several audience members, roaring the transcendently asinine "Loose Your Inhibition Twist" with infectious full-throttle brio. The Paris Sisters deftly tug at your heartstrings with the beautifully affecting ballad "What Do I Do?". The Brook Brothers lay on the swooning charm, croaning the zesty "Double Trouble" in prime loverboy style. The ever-incendiary Gary (U.S.) Bonds shreds his hoarse, frayed vocal chords wailing his anti-school gem "Seven Day Weekend." Gene McDaniels lays on the heavy high drama and smoky melancholy ambiance something fantastic, declaiming the potently brooding sizzler "You Are Still in My Heart" with strikingly impassioned panache. Del Shannon's heart-wrenching weeper "You Never Talk About Me" goes straight for the sentimental jugular vein. The ebulliently kicking jazz bands, which include such unjustly forgotten acts as Bobby Wallis and His Storyville Jazz Men (Bobby really tears into a super-fine song with his wonderfully worn'n'raspy foghorn grumble), the Dukes of Dixieland, the nicely mellow the Temporance Seven, and the especially cooking Ollita Paterson backed up by Chris Barber and His Band (Ollita delivers a forceful double whammy rendition of the hoary old chestnuts "Down by the Riverside" and "When the Saints Go Marching In"), make for seriously scorching listening as well.
Still, it's Lester's perfectly pacy'n'punchy direction and bravura cutting edge cinematic prowess which gives the film its brilliantly glowing, hopped-up, bustling vitality, a burning energy that's so lively and unbridled that it practically erupts off the screen. Snappy editing, a quick, jumpy tempo, a deliciously dry'n'droll sense of humor, a smartly self-conscious and self-referential flippant tone (Douglas and Shapiro sporadically converse with the film's ridiculously sober narrator), splendidly sour performances by Felix Felton as the pompous, uptight mayor and crusty longtime character actor Arthur Mullard as the dumbbell police chief, and the dazzling virtuoso cinematography (overhead shots, split screen, new images being built over old ones with animated blocks, that sort of flashy stuff) all bear Lester's trademark flair and style, displaying a hearty gusto which in turn makes for irresistible lightweight entertainment.
Milton Subotsky's script, which brazenly recycles his earlier 50's rock quickie "Rock, Rock, Rock" 's central premise, is little more than a barely serviceable excuse to showcase a marvelously eclectic mix of 25 songs alternating between wildly swinging traditional jazz bands and powerfully primal rock'n'roll stars. The divinely cool Gene Vincent, looking super-smooth with slicked-back shiny black hair and an immaculate gleaming white suit, pile-drives his way through the sublimely groovy "Spaceship to Mars." Chubby Checker grinds his hyperactive hips to giddy glory and gets down with several audience members, roaring the transcendently asinine "Loose Your Inhibition Twist" with infectious full-throttle brio. The Paris Sisters deftly tug at your heartstrings with the beautifully affecting ballad "What Do I Do?". The Brook Brothers lay on the swooning charm, croaning the zesty "Double Trouble" in prime loverboy style. The ever-incendiary Gary (U.S.) Bonds shreds his hoarse, frayed vocal chords wailing his anti-school gem "Seven Day Weekend." Gene McDaniels lays on the heavy high drama and smoky melancholy ambiance something fantastic, declaiming the potently brooding sizzler "You Are Still in My Heart" with strikingly impassioned panache. Del Shannon's heart-wrenching weeper "You Never Talk About Me" goes straight for the sentimental jugular vein. The ebulliently kicking jazz bands, which include such unjustly forgotten acts as Bobby Wallis and His Storyville Jazz Men (Bobby really tears into a super-fine song with his wonderfully worn'n'raspy foghorn grumble), the Dukes of Dixieland, the nicely mellow the Temporance Seven, and the especially cooking Ollita Paterson backed up by Chris Barber and His Band (Ollita delivers a forceful double whammy rendition of the hoary old chestnuts "Down by the Riverside" and "When the Saints Go Marching In"), make for seriously scorching listening as well.
Still, it's Lester's perfectly pacy'n'punchy direction and bravura cutting edge cinematic prowess which gives the film its brilliantly glowing, hopped-up, bustling vitality, a burning energy that's so lively and unbridled that it practically erupts off the screen. Snappy editing, a quick, jumpy tempo, a deliciously dry'n'droll sense of humor, a smartly self-conscious and self-referential flippant tone (Douglas and Shapiro sporadically converse with the film's ridiculously sober narrator), splendidly sour performances by Felix Felton as the pompous, uptight mayor and crusty longtime character actor Arthur Mullard as the dumbbell police chief, and the dazzling virtuoso cinematography (overhead shots, split screen, new images being built over old ones with animated blocks, that sort of flashy stuff) all bear Lester's trademark flair and style, displaying a hearty gusto which in turn makes for irresistible lightweight entertainment.