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"End of the line, effendi." Sam Fuller turned in the finished canvas to the producers, who proceeded to slash it beyond recognition. Editing is particularly obtuse in the first underwater sequence among hungry fish, though the pungent images remain Fuller's and nobody else's: The mother of the devoured diver receives his earnings and, after a second of grave contemplation, licks her thumb to count the bills, looking for all the world like Thelma Ritter in a hijab. The yarn is a laconic anagram of Pépé le Moko, The Wages of Fear and the Buñuel of Death in the Garden, which informs its Mexico-as-Sudan makeshift magic. Wandering hens and ceiling fans abound in the Arabian fleapit run by a rotund "true capitalist," the smirking gunrunner (Burt Reynolds) finds himself stranded in it. The sunken MacGuffin of "shark protein" figures in the Wellesian metaphor of predators (cp. The Lady from Shanghai), the Yankee professor (Barry Sullivan) and his gal (Silvia Pinal) hire the stranger for a bit of treasure-hunting and set up a caustic triangle. "You can dive any time you want. As far as I'm concerned, you can stay down there." Shards of divine sordidness survive the vandal's hatchet: The introductory close-up of the runty pickpocket exhaling cigar smoke, oddball gags involving eggs and razor blades, Arthur Kennedy's riotous burlesque of the plastered doctor from Stagecoach in a red fez. Chum and gun comprise the punchline, appreciated by Corman and Herzog for the amble verve and good humor in the face of disaster. "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves was one hell of a fairy-tale, too." With Enrique Lucero, Manuel Alvarado, and Francisco Reiguera.
--- Fernando F. Croce |