The Lord of the Flies (1963)

“The Lord of the Flies” is a surreal yet documentary-like, micro-budgeted stark black-and-white staging of William Golding’s novel of children stranded on a Pacific island, left to their own wild imaginations and ultimately violent tendencies. As with the book, this is a stellar display of that animal (weak or cruel) inside all of us, and the great lie of childhood innocence. The boys here set out to mimic adults, and they do well at it. Look at the body count. There’s something about director Peter Brooks’ wonky sound-recording and often haphazard cinematography that makes this feel less like an adaptation that a capturing of the novel, from the nonsensical dialogue the children trade in, to the “take my ball home” with a slice of pulverizing violence. Brooks funded much of the production, having the cast live on an island for real. Genius. Daring. Hugh Edwards breaks hearts as Piggy, the boy who trusts too much, while Tom Chapin terrifies as Jack, the monster who feels it’s his God-given right to rule the weak. Very modern Republican. At 50 years old, “Lord” is still a tough watch as anything recent, including the tepid 1990 remake. A