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Pipe-smoking Johnny and his floozie Helen are spending an enjoyable evening at Johnny’s desert mansion when a meteor crashes down upon them from the firmament. They immediately head over to Pete Davis Flying Circus and his open-cockpit Bell 47B, whereupon the romantic threesome is treated to an air tour of the crash site. Nary a hair is mussed.

Johnny sees something. Wants to stick his fingers into the jello. Changes his mind. Makes for tarty Helen and Pete instead, just in time to witness the forces of good and evil arriving. We know by the music that Johnny won’t be swayed, and, indeed, he and that slut (defined as an untidy housewife back in the 50s for those of you who think I’m overdoing it) Helen almost crash into the Eye of Sauron on the way to someplace else.

It’s the Joshua trees!

In typical fashion, small-town Johnny doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Together with his dime-a-dance-girl and schoolteacher, Helen, they are intent on convincing hellbilly heaven’s residents that ALIENS ARE COMING! Sheriff Fife is convinced when electrical parts go missing.

Oh-oh. Something is going on with…

INTERMISSION

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Bond. James Bond. Sean Connery. David Niven. George Lazenby. Roger Moore. Timothy Dalton. Ian Fleming. Pierce Brosnan. M. Judi Dench. Great opening credits (as usual), followed by a nice performance from a Pilatus Porter (which also has a starring role in my latest WIP). Xenia Onatopp stays a hop, step and a jump ahead of things for a while. Natalya Simonova is Bond’s latest bit of fluff to end up sharing a life-raft near some god-forsaken collapsing dacha.

After that, it’s all about laser watches, SPIKES, satellites floating about, tank rides, and being somewhere in the Caribbean. Eventually, the bottom falls out of Natalya and Bond are forced to crash land.

Rough and ready Xenia, living out her greatest fantasy, ends up on top until Natalya, who is not actually dead, is revived. Meanwhile, 006, who isn’t dead either, must launch MTG’s Jewish space laser to start all the forest fires something-or-other, or stop something-or-other from happening. Except he can’t, because antenna malfunction. Never fear, though. Natalya ends up onnatop.

With a cameo by Minnie Driver.

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It might be 2016 in the movie, but it’s 1816 in the country. I knew Australia had a bit of a problem moving into the 20th, let alone the 21st, but JFC. Really? There isn’t a “man” in that bar that’s been laid by anyone but a desperate hooker – and chances are she never got paid for her efforts.

The owner is a useless twat who should be forced into the pub’s septic tank to drown in urine and stale beer. The customers are worse, if that’s even possible. They piss standing up at the bar. Urine-stained pants are a thing in Australia, anyway, so it’s not unusual. I’m pretty sure their mothers are a proud bunch, too.

It’s no wonder the useless twat can’t keep help for more than 90 days at a time. And not only that, he proved not to have the testicles to face them when he fired them.

Notwithstanding the foregoing, I’m really looking forward to The Royal Hotel, with Julia Garner and Jessica Henwick.

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Apple pan dowdy and fresh-baked Johnny Appleseed (otherwise known as Richard Conte) ends up in a hooker high-rise on the San Francisco waterfront when Rica (Valentina Cortese) takes a shine to him. Wasting away in the hotel paradise, Johnny is unable to move his illegally parked truckload of Golden produce. Crooked as roll of bailing wire Figlia (Lee J. Cobb) helps himself to the goods. Following a game of noughts and crosses played on Johnny’s chest (don’t ask, I only watch it), high-rise action climbs to new heights. The elevator is interrupted when Rica reveals to hillbilly Johnny his apples are being sold out from under him.

On collecting his due, Johnny can’t keep news of his good fortune to himself. He tells the world while on a phone call to his good girl back home. Everyone in the bar full of crooks, thieves and sweater-girl Rica applauds his buena fortuna. Mayhem ensues, but Johnny knows he’s found a hooker with a heart made of apples.

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Calling Barranca. Calling Barranca. It’s raining. It’s foggy. I don’t think anyone can get through the pass but for the donkey.

Cue the donkey trying to chew away at the whoever he is. Why can’t we see more of the donkey?

Cary Grant, still uptight with a shirt buttoned to the very top until he dons his silk scarf, should have taken a cue from his close pal, Randy Randolph Randy Scott and hand-rolled a cigarette while thinking about things for a while. These guys go through more airplanes than a war based on the Domino Theory. The runway has more water on it than Lake Superior.  Dead pilots pile up faster than the audience can count.

Just what is it about Cary Grant that no matter the movie, that tightass never once unbuttoned his shirt, undid his tie, and opened his suit coat? JFC, but being chased by a crop duster, blown up by a tanker truck, and sliding down some dead president’s nose didn’t tear the arse or the collar button off of the man. Was he covered in hickeys?

But I digress. That’s a different movie. Or is it?