THE RUNNING MAN: Blu-ray (Columbia, 1963) Arrow Academy

“Time is running out for the running man,” poster art publicity for Carol Reed’s The Running Man (1963) proclaimed. Mercifully, the same cannot be said of the picture’s long-overdue reputation, much maligned in its day, but since rife for rediscovery, thanks partly to its forced absence from public view for far too long. Indeed, The Running Man is one of those movies most have probably never seen. Certainly, it never made the rounds as late-night TV fodder. And, if the picture made money theatrically – and it did – Reed was to never speak of it during any of the many interviews and retrospectives on his career. Reed’s first picture after being unceremoniously deposed from the set of Mutiny on the Bounty (1962) due to clashing creative differences with its star, Marlon Brando, The Running Man is based on a novel by Shelly Smith – little known to all but the crime cognoscenti these days, and adapted with expert wit and dialogue by screenwriter, John Mortimer, who stayed fairly close to its source material – with alterations made only to placate the reigning code of censorship. Mortimer’s rare skill for writing idiomatic dialogue had augmented many a great and ghoulish thriller, including 1961’s The Innocents, and 1965’s Bunny Lake Is Missing. For The Running Man, Mortimer’s skills are working overtime. Think it is easy to write dialogue that doesn’t sound as though it’s rehearsed? Try it sometime.
Ironically, after The Ballad of the Running Man (the novel’s full name), Smith would never again enjoy such renown as an author. And even more curiously, despite its many virtues to be discussed shortly herein, The Running Man has been shamelessly overlooked as a valid part of Reed’s canon, and this, despite a cast featuring three of the decade’s most bankable and handsome stars; Laurence Harvey, Lee Remick and Alan Bates. Shot on location, almost entirely in Spain (Algeciras, Cádiz, and, Andalucía), also Gibraltar, with interiors at Ardmore Studios in Ireland (to accommodate Harvey, who could not shoot in England due to its tax laws), The Running Man is gorgeously lit and luminously photographed by cinematographer extraordinaire, Robert Krasker.  That the resultant movie somehow feels less of a valiant successor to Reed’s memorable spate of thrillers – ironically, all of them with the word ‘man’ in their title (Odd Man Out, 1947, The Third Man, 1949, The Man Between, 1953, and, Our Man in Havana, 1958), is unfortunate, as, in retrospect, The Running Man has a great deal to offer the first-time viewer and, on the whole, is a nimble and occasionally nail-biting and suspenseful tale of human folly.
Something of a prima donna, Laurence Harvey tested everyone’s patience on the set; particularly Carol Reed, with whom he chronically clashed, and co-star, Lee Remick, whom he toggled between mistreating or avoiding altogether between takes, leaving Remick feeling abused and deflated. Miraculously, none of this insolence creeps into either performance. Remick, at the top of her game, looks utterly ravishing besides; Krasker’s camera, transparently in love with her impossibly crystal-blue and sparkling eyes. It ought to be said: Lee Remick was not only a radiant beauty but an even rarer talent. In The Running Man she manages to channel a guileless guilt, inner torment, self-loathing and wounded pride. We get a sincerely sad woman whose affections are unexpectedly transferred from one man to another.  Reed’s acceptance to make The Running Man for Columbia Pictures was one he would quickly come to regret, mostly due to the conflicts incurred between him and Harvey – shades of the Brando debacle on ‘Bounty’ that had given him the old heave-ho at MGM and left Reed with a lot of proverbial baggage and ‘egg’ on his face. Suffering a crisis of confidence, Reed might have retreated from the picture-making biz altogether, as his contemporary, David Lean would later do after the disastrous New York critic’s reception to Ryan’s Daughter (1970). Except that Reed needed a movie to firmly re-cement his legacy in Hollywood. Alas, the critical response to The Running Man only seemed to suggest Reed had not only lost his nerve, but equally, his unique storytelling sense of style.   
Perhaps as assurance, on The Running Man Reed chose to surround himself with long-time behind-the-scenes collaborators whom he implicitly trusted: Krasker – his favorite cinematographer, composer, William Alwyn - to write the score, and editor, Bert Bates. Interestingly, The Running Man would put a period to all these time-honored alliances; Krasker and Bates, never again to work for Reed, and Alwyn, in fact, never to write for film – concentrating the rest of his career on composing five symphonies, four operas, and, a handful of concertos and string quartets – a very prolific artist. Relatively speaking, pre-production on The Running Man went smoothly. Lee Remick almost did not do the picture; considered as a last-minute replacement for Marilyn Monroe on the chronically delayed Something’s Gotta Give (1962) over at Fox before that movie’s co-star, Dean Martin, refused to budge unless the studio re-hired Monroe. So, Remick, who had gone as far as fittings and screen tests to fill the part, was plucked from its roster to rejoin The Running Man’s cast. As for Alan Bates, he accepted the role of the mercurial Stephen with some trepidation. “That’s the only time I worked on a film for commercial reasons,” Bates later recalled, “…it seemed a good thing to be with a famous director and a famous actor and a famous actress.”
And in 1962, Laurence Harvey’s star had risen to incalculable heights. Harvey, whose hedonistic abuse of cigarettes and alcohol would eventually usher him into an early grave (he was only 45 years old in 1973 when stomach cancer claimed him), was one of the most driven personalities working in pictures then; slavishly committed to his career and, in an era when stars made one or two pictures a year, pushing through a production slate of 5 major roles in under twelve months, leading one anonymous actor to quip, “Larry demands at least a half hour between films.”  While no one could challenge Harvey’s work ethic, his attitude towards fellow co-workers was often intolerable. He could be counted upon to be abrasive and egotistical to a fault. And Harvey’s verve to succeed was not above a little on-off ‘courtship of Columbia Pictures’ former president, Harry Cohn’s widow, Joan Perry Cohn – the uber-socialite whose connections in Hollywood arguably served Harvey well. One has to truly wonder about Laurence Harvey – a man who, in retrospect, seemed poised to self-destruct on his own ego, despite being afforded every opportunity to succeed without it. And Harvey also had grave contempt for Hollywood’s corporate influencers.  “The people who run the companies today are no longer interested in films, but only in greed, lining their pockets and destroying what was once a great field of entertainment and sometimes even an art. In order to survive, one has to be continually fighting their negativity and stupidity. Where one time, we could spend all our efforts and energies on performance, we now have to watch every other aspect of the business…”
It is perhaps difficult to fault Laurence Harvey for his swelled head, as critical acclaim and success seemed to come too easy to him. Either that, or he was, in fact, just that damn good. However, if, as it has been suggested, some people are just born to be wrecked – or rather, wreck themselves – then Harvey decidedly was a poster child for such self-destructive behaviors.  “Someone once asked me, ‘Why is it so many people hate you?’” Harvey once mused, “…and I said, ‘Do they? How super! I'm really quite pleased about it.’” And, even if Harvey’s glibness was a ruse, or if only half the rumors about his bluntness are true, he had his share of passionate friends too, including no less Hollywood glitterati then Elizabeth Taylor, with whom he made two movies. Taylor remained steadfast and true to their friendship, visiting Harvey just weeks before he died. Upon learning of his death, Taylor issued a heartfelt statement, in part reading, “He was one of the people I really loved in this world. He was part of the sun. For everyone who loved him, the sun is a bit dimmer today.”
Because Laurence Harvey had made so much money working in Hollywood, he absolutely refused to return to his native England, where he would have had to pay an exorbitant amount in taxable earnings. So, production was switched from Shepperton Studios to Ireland and then, of course to all those sun-lit Spanish vistas. If Harvey was ultimately disillusioned by The Running Man, he could at least revel in the circus troupe-like atmosphere that transformed the production into one on-going fiesta, nightly populated by more than 2500 locals and an intercontinental mix of English and Spanish crew. Frequently, Reed shot all night, in San Roque alone, from 9pm until 5am. While in Spain two minor tragedies occurred, the first involving Lee Remick, whose limousine was sideswiped by a truck along a stretch of narrow coastal highway. The limo was totaled, but Remick – who managed to escape with only minor shock – was back on the set barely an hour later. The other ‘incident’ involved stunt pilot, John Crewdson and camera operator, John Harris, whose 2-seater plane took a nose-dive off the Rock of Gibraltar. Again, and even more miraculously this time, the men escaped with relatively minor injuries, treated at the nearby military hospital.
The Running Man begins with a prologue in Croydon, England. Stella Black (Lee Remick) has just returned to the modest flat she once shared with her seemingly late husband, Rex (Laurence Harvey) who apparently died in a freak gliding accident over the Channel. As Rex’s body was never recovered, the mourners attending the widow now encourage her to look to the future and perhaps even plan a vacation getaway. The wrinkle: Rex did not die and Stella damn well knows it. In fact, he has been hiding out under an assumed name at a seaside boarding house for nearly three months. The couple has staged everything to perpetrate a fraud of £50,000 against the Excelsior Insurance Company, whom Rex blames for ruining his business by previously failing to pay out a legitimate claim. Rex narrowly avoids being spotted by Excelsior agent, Stephen Maddox (Alan Bates) who arrives at the flat to discuss payout details with Stella and confirm that Rex’s ‘death’ was not suicide – for which Excelsior would not have to shell out one dime. Convinced of her sincerity, Stephen releases the funds.  Stella and Rex now plot their next move: Rex, to fly to Paris at once, and Stella, to collect the insurance payout and hightail it to Málaga, Spain for their pre-arranged rendezvous.
In Málaga, Rex steals the passport of Jim Jerome (John Meillon), an Australian sheep farmer, whose identity he successfully adopts, dying both his pencil-moustache and pate blonde.  When Stella arrives in Málaga, she finds her husband greatly changed, having adopted a rather laissez faire attitude towards life with an international sect of fair-weather friends who believe Stella is Jerome’s casual girlfriend. At the bank, Rex and Stella convert the insurance money into a draft that can be cashed anywhere in the world – a process that will take one week. Rex encourages his wife to play along; a front Stella finds annoying, since ‘Jerome’s’ friends include some fairly attractive women who are constantly lingering around him with dishonorable romantic intentions. Now, Rex reveals an even more insidious plot – to have ‘Jerome’ die so they can collect even more insurance money. It all seems perfect, or rather, perfectly diabolical; except that Stephen Maddox has resurfaced, claiming coincidentally to be in Málaga on a holiday. Stephen asks Stella out for dinner. She declines. However, Stella finds Stephen more genuine and affectionate than her own husband. Rex is possessive and jealous. But does he really love Stella?  Believing Stephen’s arrival in town is too convenient, a ploy by Excelsior to investigate their payout further, Rex encourages Stella to placate Stephen’s ‘interests’ and befriend him long enough for the bank draft to go through.
The decision to keep Stephen close leads to unexpected complications. Stella begins to fall for Stephen and he for her.  Now, Rex deliberately places more obstacles between him and Stella, who just wants to be with her husband, using Stella as bait to reel Stephen in. Rex notices Stephen is frequently scribbling things down in a small notebook he carries with him everywhere. Rex instructs Stella to get closer to Stephen to learn its contents. At the beach, Rex deliberately ruins Stephen’s camera with which he had photographed them earlier. Now, Rex orders Stella to sneak into Stephen’s room and obtain his notebook. Discovering her in his bedroom, Stella feigns an invitation to go to bed. They do, and Stella realizes how much she cares for Stephen. She also learns since their last meeting; Stephen has quit the insurance racket to work for a paint company. In fact, his arrival in town is purely coincidental – a luxury getaway paid for by his future employers as a bonus. The booklet he has been writing in is merely a personal diary of all the best restaurants and hotels to stay in while he is on holiday. Inadvertently, Stella lets it slip that ‘Jerome’ is Rex, but then manages to cover up the slip. However, when Rex returns from Málaga, Stephen plays a percentage and calls him by his real name. Although Rex cleverly avoids acknowledging it, he now believes Stephen knows all about their scam. His new plan is to ditch Stephen and cross the border into Gibraltar. Relieved, Stella does not tell Rex what she has found out about Stephen.
The next morning, Stephen awakens to find one of Stella’s expensive earrings in his bed, left after their previous afternoon of love-making. Hearing Rex and Stella’s car drive off, Stephen pursues the couple in his own car, determined to return the earring. Once again, his motives are misperceived by Rex, who invites Stephen to follow them high into the mountains for a drink, but then proceeds to run Stephen’s car off the road along a narrow precipice. Mercifully, the wreck is witnessed by a pair of local road workers who rescue Stephen moments before his car plummets down a steep ravine. Unknowing Stephen has survived the wreck, Stella is terrorized by the murder she believes Rex has just committed. His greed, now insatiable, takes over. Rex leads authorities on a spirited car chase. At some point, Stella manages to get out of the car and flee into the city on foot, briefly ducking into a church, only to be rediscovered by Rex and, this time, taken hostage to keep his secret.  Unable to cross into Gibraltar, Rex learns the truth from Stella – everything, including the night she spent in Stephen’s bedroom. Incensed, Rex tries to strangle Stella, but is prevented from killing her by the police. Now, Rex makes a daring attempt at escape, driving past security guards at the aerodrome to a single-engine Cessna on the tarmac.  The plane, alas, suffers from a leaky fuel line, something Rex does not realize until shortly after takeoff. The engine fails and Rex crashes into the sea. He is rescued by the coast guard, but dies on a stretcher at the docks as Stella looks on. Reunited with Stephen at the police station, Stella keeps up appearances, insisting Rex is Jerome, a man she barely knew and only just casually met while on holiday. Stephen goes along with her story as Stella watches the harbor patrol with Rex’s body aboard, pull away – all their careful plotting come to not.
Although The Running Man turned a profit, it was not the bell-ringer Columbia had hoped for; nor, did it exonerate Reed of the stigma of being considered past his prime.  Certainly, this was not the picture for which Reed would prefer to be remembered. So, in subsequent interviews, even after his wildly successful musical adaptation of Oliver! (1968) swept the Academy Awards and re-cemented Reed as a director of choice, he continued to remain silent about The Running Man, as though to justify the critics’ backlash with his own shame.  Yet, in hindsight, The Running Man is a fine film. If not top-tier Reed, then at least it is certainly far from the turkey status most critics ascribed it in 1964. In fact, The Running Man is a fairly absorbing thriller, despite its decidedly more laid-back approach. In hindsight, the one let down here is Laurence Harvey. True confession: personally, I have never found Harvey a particularly compelling actor. Even in The Manchurian Candidate (1962), arguably his finest hour, he just seems to be bringing up the rear, over-shown by Sinatra and Angela Lansbury’s titanic performances. Despite his star-billing here as the eponymous ‘running man’, the one essential Harvey cannot convey is Rex’s inexplicable sense of self-entrapment. And, in the grand finale, Rex’s inability to remain level-headed, or even true to himself, results in a man quite unable to regain his moral compass, spinning wildly out of control.
After shooting was completed, Carol Reed went off to Ardmore Studios with his editor, Bert Bates to begin the arduous process of cutting the movie. Alas, in poor health, Reed’s concentration repeatedly failed him. For the first time in his career, he seemed to wallow in self-pity and increasingly was incapable of making the sort of executive decisions necessary to get the job done on time and under budget. Bates was patient for a time, but became exacerbated by Reed’s stalemate. This created a rift in their professional working relationship. And Reed, allowing anxiety to overtake him, could not shake the feeling The Running Man was becoming yet another cringe-worthy reason for the critics to snap at his heels. Most of them did after The Running Man had its world premiere; labeling it ‘pedestrian’ and ‘old-fashioned.’ Reed was heavily criticized for his inability to remain relevant with the times.  The picture relies heavily on its glorious sun-filtered vistas and exotic locales to inform and inspire the audience to stay tuned for what comes next and this seems to be the biggest complaint critics had when it premiered; the lack of mounting suspense, though hardly mounting dread that permeates virtually every frame in the movie’s third act. Better still, the performances of Lee Remick and Alan Bates are exceedingly well-informed, despite Bates later claiming he was completely unaware of his character’s true motivations and spent every take, firmly believing he had somehow failed his director. Miraculously, this insecurity translates into a cagey quality that makes the audience hang on with baited anticipation for Stephen’s next move, wondering, along with Stella and Rex, whether or not he is actually in search of the truth or just a casual bystander.
I find my once galvanized and unanimous praise for Sony Pictures Home Entertainment on the wane these days. While the studio continues to excel at releasing both back catalog and current movies in near to pristine condition, on Blu-ray and in 4K, of late, they appear to be cherry-picking which catalog titles get the 5-star treatment, especially when farming out movies to third-party distributors like Arrow Academy. The Running Man is an uneven offering; first, as it has never been made available on any home video format, it therefore, should have been afforded a stellar debut, and second, that the remastering efforts herein completely skirt even basic digital clean-up that would have rendered it otherwise, almost perfect.  Much of the image yields exquisite color, showing off cinematographer, Robert Krasker’s gorgeous work in its very best light. Colors are rich and vibrant, and contrast is excellent. However, right from the beginning, something is remiss; the Columbia logo, faded and exceptionally grainy, followed by a main title sequence – designed by Maurice Binder – riddled in heavy age-related dirt and speckling.
From here, we segue into the first optical dissolve, depicting Rex’s funeral service. Opticals are always problematic, although with proper care applied, they can be brought ‘almost’ in check with current viewing standards and expectations. Herein, however, the opticals are a dirty/grainy mess. The grain is so thick it distorts the image, and colors here lean toward vinegar syndrome with ruddy flesh tones and a decided rosy push. It’s Pathe color, which doesn’t help. And even as the image thereafter continues to steadily improve, it still suffers from sporadic color density issues and chronic age-related artifacts. In some scenes, the speckling almost vanishes. But in others, it distracts.  The 2.0 PCM audio is passable, though just, and gives a good ‘vintage’ representation of the theatrical experience, albeit with minor hiss and pop.  For an Arrow release, extras are thin. We get an informative audio commentary from Carol Reed biographer, Peter William Evans, and a nearly half-hour featurette, rather slapdash in its assemblage of new and vintage interview clips. Lee Remick’s appearance at the National Film Theatre, appears as a badly worn audio-only offering accessed over the main feature. There is also another track showcasing William Alwyn’s score, plus an image gallery and a collector’s booklet with new essays by Barry Forshaw. Bottom line: The Running Man is a movie rife for rediscovery. If you’ve seen it before, I promise you, it is far better than you remember it. And if you have never seen it, then you are in for a sincere treat. The Blu-ray is a bit of a disappointment – imperfect and not up to Sony’s usually high standards. Regrets.
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
3.5
VIDEO/AUDIO
3
EXTRAS
3

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