Scott Joplin (1977)

          Piggybacking on the renewed popularity of Scott Joplin’s music that emanated from its use in The Sting (1973), this biopic tracks the rise and fall of Joplin, the first African-American composer to receive mainstream notoriety. Alas, the picture is delivered via the stilted artifice of a formulaic backlot production. Costumes look as if they just came from a warehouse, props and sets seem absurdly pristine, and director Jeremy Paul Kagan’s blocking and dramaturgy are pedestrian. It doesn’t help, either, that the film’s weakest performance is its most important. Billy Dee Williams, a charmer who did fine work in romantic and supporting roles throughout the ’70s, simply lacks the chops to play every dimension of Joplin’s turbulent life. Williams is too restrained in quiet scenes, and too unnatural in volatile moments. Another fundamental problem with Scott Joplin is that the movie hews painfully close to the standard playbook for cinema stories about artists who fall from glory to ignominy.
          The story begins jubilantly, with Joplin joining the ranks of “professors” who pound out tunes in Deep South whorehouses. Eventually, Joplin’s desire to compose his own music leads Joplin and his best friend, Chauvin (Clifton Davis), to enter a piano-playing contest in St. Louis. This event brings Joplin’s music to the attention of Stark (Art Carney), a music publisher who recognizes Joplin’s talent and the novelty of marketing a black tunesmith. With this key professional relationship in place, Joplin is off on a journey that soon includes marriage to the lovely Belle (Margaret Avery), although the syphilis Joplin contracted back in his brothel days spoils domestic bliss. And so it goes, through episodes of success and failure, until Joplin wanders off into obscurity at the end of the movie while narration describes his posthumous resurgence in the ’70s. Scott Joplin gets more and more turgid as it plunges deeper into Joplin’s life, because the movie succumbs to florid melodrama and wildly overwritten dialogue; only the most innately spontaneous performers amid the supporting cast manage to imbue their scenes with believability. Thanks to infectious music and a sprinkling of interesting biographical details, the picture merits a casual viewing, although the subject matter deserved better than this wax-museum recitation.

Scott Joplin: FUNKY

Where the Red Fern Grows (1974)

          While I freely admit a weakness for sentimental dog stories, Where the Red Fern Grows held my attention much more than I anticipated, which I interpret as a testament to the way the substance of the piece compensates for the Christian-themed sermonizing that permeates the narrative. After all, Where the Red Fern Grows seems highly unlikely to engage cynical viewers (myself included), because it’s a guileless yarn about pure-hearted country folk enduring the Depression, and the movie is scored with tunes penned by the Osmonds and warbled by Andy Williams. American cinema doesn’t get more whitebread. Furthermore, Where the Red Fern Grows has a sketchy budget—a problem the filmmakers easily conceal since every character in the movie is dirt-poor—and the dialogue is spoon-fed because the intended audience includes young children.

          Still, the bittersweet nature of the story, the sincerity of the acting, and the vivaciousness of the locations grant the movie an appealingly nostalgic glow. Thus, even though the actual filmmaking is crudely mechanical, many scenes capture the simple joy of a young boy romping through the woods with four-legged friends, and the overall narrative tells a redeeming story about the protagonist discovering mortality. The picture is so edifying that it borders on being educational, but at the same time, it steers clear of the goopy emotional excess one might expect from, say, a Walt Disney Company treatment of similar material.

          Based on a 1961 novel by Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows is about Billy (Stewart Peterson), an adolescent living in the Ozark Mountains with his impoverished family. All Billy dreams about is having coonhounds so he can hunt in the woods, but buying such animals is beyond his family’s means. Working odd jobs in between his chores at home, Billy saves enough to buy two pups, whom he names Ann and Dan, and then he trains them to be champion trackers. Adventures including a dangerous storm, a hunting contest, and a nasty encounter with a mountain lion ensue. Through it all, Billy earns the respect of his parents (played by Beverly Garland and Jack Ging) and he learns life lessons from his grandfather (played by James Whitmore). Billy also endures a few run-ins with rotten redneck youths, and he encounters death on several sobering occasions.

          Director Norman Tokar, a veteran of many family pictures featuring animals, tells the story in an unvarnished style, bridging sequences with lyrical soundtrack passages integrating music and narration (which is spoken by Rawls, the author of the novel). Whitmore, unsurprisingly, does most of the heavy lifting in terms of acting, although Peterson makes up for in earnestness what he lacks in skill. While Where the Red Fern Grows isn’t a children’s film for the ages by any measure, it’s a solid entry into a beloved genre. (Those who share my affinity for canines will, of course, get more out of the experience than other viewers.) A belated sequel, Where the Red Fern Grows: Part Two—with Doug McKeon taking over the Billy role—was released straight to video in 1992.

Where the Red Fern Grows: GROOVY

The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh (1977)

          As most people recall from childhood, A.A. Milne’s classic character Winnie the Pooh is a loveably simple bear who lives in a fantasy realm called the Hundred Acre Wood. Along with animal friends including Eeyore the Donkey, Kanga and her baby Roo, Owl, Piglet, and the irrepressible Tigger—as well as human companion Christopher Robin—Pooh is the device by which Milne told sweet stories about devotion, friendship, and love. Given this combination of cute-animal whimsy and inspirational themes, Pooh was a natural subject for cartoon adaptation by the Walt Disney Company. Disney initially released three theatrical shorts, Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree (1966), Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day (1968), and Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too (1974), which were compiled—along with a small amount of new material—for this feature.

          Since Milne’s books were anthologies, the compilation of the shorts works exceptionally well for The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, with one “chapter” flowing seamlessly into the next. Additionally, because the vignettes integrate clever references to their literary sources—shifts between scenes are often depicted by cutting to book pages featuring an illustration that becomes the first shot of the next scene, and so on—The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh gracefully balances animated entertainment with a visual celebration of reading. The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh is lovingly designed, with gentle hand strokes visible in character delineation and wonderful washes of color permeating backgrounds. (While Disney didn’t retain the exact character designs from E.H. Shepard, who illustrated the original Pooh books, Disney’s style honors the spirit of Shepard’s work.)

          Predictably, the one area in which Disney succumbs to sticky-sweet excess is sound, since the studio created the aural aspect of the Hundred Acre Wood from scratch. Voice actor Sterling Holloway incarnates Pooh as the spirit of childlike innocence, just as John Fiedler (as Piglet) and Clint Howard (as Roo) personify adorableness with the squeaky little voices they provide for their characters. (It helps that narrator Sebastian Cabot provides a solidly adult sound for balance, and that voice actor Paul Winchell, as Tigger, channels eccentricity and exuberance instead of mere cuteness.) The music, by Mary Poppins tunesmiths Richard Sherman and Robert Sherman, also registers quite high on the glucose scale, especially with such silly wordplay as “Hip Hip Pooh-Ray” (the title of one of the Shermans’ songs).

          As for the “many adventures” depicted in the film, they’re mostly slight contrivances designed to showcase endearing characters. In order, Pooh gets into trouble while trying to score his favorite snack, honey; the animals of the Hundred Acre Wood face a torrential rainstorm; and Tigger makes mischief with his incessant bouncing. Adults may find 74 minutes of this stuff a bit hard to take in one sitting, but The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh is about as edifying as children’s entertainment gets, in terms of exposing young viewers to wholesome themes of belonging, community, and companionship.

The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh: GROOVY

Slaughter (1972) & Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off (1973)

          For various reasons, it’s not entirely accurate to call the 1972 Jim Brown movie Slaughter a blaxploitation flick. After all, ex-football player Brown was already a movie star before the blaxploitation genre emerged; he’s nearly the only actor of color in the movie; the story takes place outside the urban milieu normally associated with the genre; and certain tropes in Slaughter, such as the lead character’s sexual appeal to white women, had been present in Brown’s cinematic output since the late ’60s. That said, even if Slaughter wasn’t conceived as a blaxploitation movie, it was completed and marketed as one—the funky Billy Preston theme song and the “stickin’ it to the man” vibe of promotional materials reflect the influence of films including Shaft (1971). Anyway, if all this quibbling about categories seems tangential to the movie itself, that’s because Slaughter is so vapid that there’s not much to discuss in the way of actual content.

          Brown stars as Slaughter, an ex-Green Beret whose parents are murdered by mobsters. After killing two functionaries in reprisal, Slaughter is offered amnesty by the Feds so long as he travels to South America and takes out higher-level mobsters. That puts Slaughter into the orbit of crooks including Hoffo (Rip Torn), whose girl, Ann (Stella Stevens), is assigned to seduce Slaughter. (Torn lends a fair measure of weirdness, and Stevens mostly parades around in various states of undress.) A romantic triangle emerges, and everything leads, inevitably to a big showdown. Director Jack Starrett fills Slaughter with car chases, fistfights, shoot-outs, and nudity—Stevens’ topless appearance is probably the most memorable scene in the movie—but it’s all quite crude and routine. Brown holds the thing together, more or less, with his casual cool, and it’s a kick to hear Slaughter describe himself as “the baddest cat that ever walked the earth.” Thankfully, costar Don Gordon livens things up by providing comic relief as Slaughter’s unlikely sidekick; as is true for every other actor in the picture, however, he’s forced to make the best of clichéd dramatic situations.

          When the Slaughter character returned to movie screens a year later, in Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off, a new creative team was in place, led by director Gordon Douglas, and their mandate was clearly to make a full-on blaxploitation joint. Unlike its predecessor, Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off is filled with hookers, pimps, slang, terrible clothes, and white women who can’t get enough of Slaughter—played, once more, by Brown. Deepening its blaxploitation bona fides, the sequel even boasts a high-octane funk score by the Godfather of Soul himself, James Brown. The story is diffuse, because even though the plot kicks off with another murder/revenge scenario, the narrative gets mired in convoluted underworld machinations. Furthermore, there’s zero urgency in the story until the very end, so Slaughter spends lots of time driving around, enjoying meals, and getting laid. Plus, in lieu of the previous film’s Rip Torn, the sequel’s main villain is played by Ed McMahon, better known as Johnny Carson’s second banana. McMahon does competent work, but he hardly makes a formidable opponent for “the baddest cat that ever walked the earth” (a line reprised in the sequel). Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off also loses points for a narrative predicated on wildly incompetent assassins, seeing as how the lead character survives a crazy number of attempts on his life. Neither of the Slaughter films is genuinely awful, but neither of them is anything special, either.

Slaughter: FUNKY

Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off: FUNKY

Moon of the Wolf (1972)

          For about three-quarters of its brief running time, the TV movie Moon of the Wolf unfolds like a bland but professionally made murder mystery, combining smooth performances with a fair amount of Southern-fried atmosphere, befitting the setting of a small island community in Louisiana. During the last quarter of the picture, however, Moon of the Wolf remembers that it’s actually a monster movie, and the quality of the piece drops precipitously, thanks to hackneyed situations and substandard makeup. So, while it’s accurate to say that Moon of the Wolf is a bust as a creature feature, the movie works fine as an undemanding thriller that simply happens to contain a very silly conclusion involving a rampaging lycanthrope. David Janssen, all disdainful crankiness, plays a small-town sheriff investigating a series of brutal killings, which the unsophisticated locals blame on wild dogs. Over the course of his investigation, the sheriff uncovers tawdry secrets about a wealthy landowner (Bradford Dillman) and his beautiful sister (Barbara Rush); the sheriff also digs into the lives of a physician (John Beradino) and a tempestuous redneck (Geoffrey Lewis).

          As directed by Daniel Petrie, a reliable professional with an enormous résumé that includes such respected projects as the award-winning telefilm Sybil (1976), Moon of the Wolf is crafted with more care than the forgettable material deserves (although the monster stuff at the end seems half-hearted). Petrie gets especially good work out of Rush, an elegant beauty who has primarily worked in B-movies and small-screen fare; playing the wayward daughter of a moneyed clan, she invests her part with dignity and poignancy. (Never underestimate an actor who refuses to accept the limitations of the movie in which she’s been cast.) Dillman has some fine small moments as well, playing an aristocrat who’s mortified to have his privacy invaded by circumstance, and nobody does bug-eyed rural rage quite like the versatile Lewis. If all of this praise seems excessive for an obscure TV movie about werewolves, rest assured the goal here is not to suggest that Moon of the Wolf is by any measure a good movie; it’s not. But in the realm of schlocky ’70s horror, thoughtful storytelling is a rarity to be praised when found, even if that’s not the element one actually wants from schlocky ’70s horror. Still, better some decent performances than a bunch of mindless gore, right? Right? On second thought, don’t answer that one.

Moon of the Wolf: FUNKY

The Asphyx (1973)

          The core idea of The Asphyx is so fascinating that it seems likely someone will eventually revisit the material, if not necessarily by mounting a direct remake then by contriving a more exciting story around the premise. Set in Victorian England, this UK horror picture—which is really more of a Poe-esque psychological drama with macabre elements—concerns a scientist preoccupied with death. More specifically, Sir Hugo Cunningham (Robert Stephens) is part of a paranormal society that, while taking photographs of people as they die, stumbles across a possible means of capturing on film souls exiting bodies. Yet after Hugo inadvertently records a personal loss on a primitive move camera, he realizes that instead of the soul, he’s been making images of the asphyx of each dying individual. (A concept borrowed from old mythology, the asphyx is a personal demon arriving to claim the soul of one specific being just before the end of life, so each living thing has its own asphyx.) Through morbid experiments, Hugo determines that if he captures the asphyx of any being, then the being gains immortality. As in all genre-fiction stories about mad doctors playing god, things go poorly, with bloodshed and ironic tragedy unfolding around Hugo.

          On the plus side, The Asphyx is a handsomely mounted production, with careful costuming, detailed sets, and glossy cinematography. The movie also features several nasty moments, such as the handling of corpses, although the filmmakers almost completely avoid outright gore. Plus, as noted earlier, the asphyx notion is creepy, and the filmic representation of the asphyx—a ghostly form with a skeletal face, visible only in a beam of specially concocted blue light—has a visual kick.

          On the minus side, The Asphyx is slow and talky, a problem made worse by the cast’s stiff acting. Stephens has some fun with extreme scenes (notably the bit in which his character voluntarily electrocutes himself), though he’s a poor substitute for, say, Peter Cushing. Similarly, Asphyx director Peter Newbrook assembles scenes tidily but lacks the gusto and luridness of a proper UK horror helmer (think Freddie Francis, Roy Ward Baker, etc.). Costars Robert Powell (as the scientist’s aide) and Jane Lapotaire (as the aide’s fiancée) are even less interesting than leading man Stephens, though Powell does call to mind the eclectic modern-day British actor Richard E. Grant. The Asphyx offers a fairly intelligent alternative to the usual pulpy delights of ’70s horror, and the script—by Brian Comport, from a story by Christina and Laurence Beers—gives considerable attention to ethical/scientific/philosophical ruminations. The cost of this approach, however, is that The Asphyx feels dry and monotonous except in its biggest moments, but even then, the movie wants for actual jolts.

The Asphyx: FUNKY

Soul Soldier (1970)

Originally titled The Red, White, and Black—but also marketed under the name Buffalo Soldier—this awful Western seems as if it was conceived to be an ensemble story about the exploits of free black men fighting for the Union Army in the American frontier circa the years immediately preceding the Civil War. Unfortunately, the film’s amateurish storytelling treats this worthwhile subject like grist for the melodramatic mill, substituting clichés and nonsense for meaningful narrative. Much of the picture comprises an uninteresting romantic triangle involving two enlisted men and the beautiful seamstress who is married to one of the men but trysts with another; there’s also a lot of screen time devoted to patrols in Indian country, which generates a few limp action sequences. Characterization is in short supply, because the people in Soul Soldier (or whichever of the film’s many titles one prefers) are all paper-thin contrivances. The basic plot involves ladies’ man Eli (Robert DoQui), who enlists in the Army to avoid the wrath of jealous husbands. Eli’s sent to a fort commanded by Col. Grierson (Cesar Romero), where Eli meets Julie (Janee Michelle), with whom he falls in love. Later, Julie’s dalliance with Eli’s friend and fellow solider, Sgt. Hatch (Lincoln Kilpatrick), causes strife. Yawn. Shot in the flat, ugly style of late ’60s/early ’70s television—and edited so aggressively (and haphazardly) that the whole discombobulated thing runs just 77 minutes—Soul Soldier provides a few fleeting moments of vapid entertainment, mostly owing to the diligence of actors DoQui and Kilpatrick, who try valiantly to surmount the lifeless material. (Athlete/political activist Rafter Johnson appears, inconsequentially, in a supporting role, so his star billing is deceptive.) Despite DoQui’s and Kilpatrick’s endeavors, a few well-delivered lines and some effectively simulated camaraderie are hardly reason enough to romp through this slag heap of random scenes, especially when cheap production values and a horrifically bad score—which wobbles between bleak motifs and inappropriately exuberant horn statements—accentuate the shoddiness of the enterprise.

Soul Soldier: LAME

Citizens Band (1977)

          While not a particularly interesting movie, the offbeat comedy Citizens Band represents the convergence of two interesting careers. For director Jonathan Demme, the movie was a breakthrough studio job after making three low-budget exploitation flicks for producer Roger Corman. For second-time screenwriter Paul Brickman, the movie provided a transition between working on existing material (Brickman debuted with the script for 1977’s The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training) and creating brand-new characters; Brickman later blossomed as the writer/director of the extraordinary Risky Business (1983). A further point of interest is that while Citizens Band tangentially belongs to the mid-’70s vogue for trucker movies, it’s much more concerned with the possibilities of a communication format to bridge distances between people. In other words, this is an earnest project from serious people, so it can’t be discounted. Nonetheless, watching all 98 minutes of the loosely plotted and sluggishly paced feature requires abundant patience.

          Since Citizens Band never even remotely approaches outright hilarity, the charms of the picture are found in small character moments and—one of Demme’s specialties—scenes that celebrate human compassion and understanding. One wonders, however, whether a shambling assortment of kind-hearted vignettes was what Brickman had in mind, since certain sequences feel as if they were conceived to become full-on comedy setpieces. While Demme’s preference for intimacy over spectacle gives Citizens Band an amiable sense of reality, this directorial approach results in a decidedly low-energy cinematic experience.

          Anyway, in lieu of a proper storyline, the movie has a number of interconnected subplots. The main character, if only by default since he has the largest number of scenes, is Spider (Paul LeMat), a small-town CB-radio operator who watches out for truckers and vainly tries to keep emergency frequencies free of outside chatter. Spider lives with his ornery father (Roberts Blossom), a former trucker, and Spider’s part of a love triangle involving his on-again/off-again girlfriend, Electra (Candy Clark), and Spider’s brother, Blood (Bruce McGill). The Spider scenes are quite sleepy except when he plays vigilante by destroying radio equipment belonging to rule-breaking CB operators. Another thread of the movie involves a long-haul trucker nicknamed “Chrome Angel” (Charles Napier), who is revealed as a secret bigamist; the first meeting of his two wives plays out with unexpected warmth. There’s also some material involving various eccentric radio enthusiasts, such as Hot Coffee (Alix Elias), a plain-Jane hooker catering to truckers. The movie toggles back and forth between various characters, presenting one inconsequential scene after another. (Don’t be fooled by the exciting opening sequence of a truck derailment; thrills are in short supply thereafter.)

          Citizens Band has a slick look, thanks to inventive cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, though it’s questionable whether his moody style actually suits the material. Yet the presence of artful lighting is just one more random point in Citizens Band’s favor. The movie’s a collection of many things, some of which merit attention; the problem is that these things never coalesce into a worthwhile whole.

Citizens Band: FUNKY

The Doll Squad (1973)

Cheap, dull, and silly, this would-be espionage thriller introduces an all-female commando group of U.S. secret agents, tasked with infiltrating the remote fortress of a former American spy who plans to sell a synthesized version of the bubonic plague to international criminals. (As with James Bond movies, a clear influence on this laughable endeavor, it’s better not to waste too much energy scrutinizing the practicality of the villain’s scheme.) Produced and directed by one Ted V. Mikels, The Doll Squad is about as glamorous-looking—and as well-acted—as a drivers’-ed instructional movie. Michael Ansara, a deep-voiced character actor known for his roles in the original Star Trek series and such ’70s genre fare as The Manitou (1978), is the closest thing to a recognizable name in The Doll Squad. He plays the bad guy, badly. Ansara was perfectly capable of interesting and even memorable work in the right context, so the fact that even he was defeated by the suffocating crappiness of The Doll Squad says volumes about the picture’s substandard approach to everything—action, cinematography, directing, editing, writing. (The so-called “special effects” are particularly crude, with bright flashes superimposed on the screen whenever the filmmakers wish to suggest an explosion.) The Doll Squad isn’t a complete disaster, because the storyline basically makes sense (in a cliché-ridden way), and because some viewers might find distraction in the ample curves of starlets including Francine York, who plays the lead “doll,” and Tura Santana (a veteran of many Russ Meyer productions). That said, The Doll Squad is an exploitation movie without much exploitation, since the titular ladies never disrobe past bikinis—except for Santana, who does a quick bump-and-grind in a strip club at one point. The shootouts deliver low thrills, too, with squibs aplenty popping as the squad mows down dozens of enemy soldiers—who, in the nature of these sorts of movies, stand around waiting to get shot except when the plot requires them to suddenly become formidable. The whole enterprise is scored with atrocious music that sounds like a hybrid of porn tunes and the sort of frenetic, horn-driven jams that used to run beneath Hanna Barbera’s cheaply made superhero cartoons. Oh, and the clothes and hairstyles? Unimaginably bad, even for the ’70s.

The Doll Squad: LAME

Kid Blue (1973)

          Throughout the ’60s and ’70s, adventurous filmmakers stretched the boundaries of the Western genre in previously unimaginable ways, often using stories set in the American frontier as allegories for contemporary themes. Yet while such provocateurs as Peckinpah and Penn mixed irreverence with ultraviolence, some filmmakers dabbling in the postmodern-Western arena opted for a gentler approach. For example, consider Kid Blue, a ingratiating comedy of sorts starring Dennis Hopper. The picture was written by Bud Shrake and directed by TV veteran James Frawley, who capitalized on his experience with such lighthearted series as The Monkees to earn gigs directing a handful of ’70s diversions, including the silly The Big Bus (1976) and sublime The Muppet Movie (1979). Translation: Don’t dig too deep into Kid Blue for auteurist statement, because Frawley mostly just plays traffic cop for the peculiarity permeating the story.

          Hopper plays Bickford, a second-rate outlaw-turned-drifter who wanders into the small town of Dime Box, looking to quit the criminal life for something more predictable. Alas, Bickford quickly gets on the wrong side of Sheriff “Mean John” Simpson (Ben Johnson)—who, in Bickford’s defense, probably doesn’t have a good side—which means that living righteously turns out to be as much of a hassle as criminality. Still, Bickford finds solace in the friendship of a sensitive factory worker, Reese (Oates), who evinces qualities that suggest a closeted homosexual. (Oates plays the put-upon textures of this character beautifully.) Bickford’s life is further complicated by trouble with women, because Reese’s wife, Molly (Lee Purcell), is a hot-to-trot spitfire who wants more than Reese is able to give, and Bickford’s old girlfriend eventually shows up, as well. Meanwhile, Bickford befriends an eccentric by the name of Preacher Bob (Boyle), who lives on the outskirts of town while he constructs a flying machine that he hopes will take him up in the air and away from the provincial rhythms of Dime Box.

          The filmmakers play heavily into Hopper’s offscreen persona, portraying Bickford as a hippie unfairly constrained by the Establishment’s rules; in one key moment, Bickford undoes his ponytail and shakes out his long tresses like a Woodstock Nation resident letting his freak flag fly after a long shift at a 9-to-5 gig. And if the superimposition of ’70s ideas and themes onto the Western milieu is a bit forced, that’s a small price to pay for the enjoyably strange textures of Kid Blue. Dime Box is unlike the towns in most Westerns, because it’s filled with believably individualistic people—who, with the obvious exception of Preacher John, are defined more by their troubled inner lives than by their peculiar outer behavior. Dime Box has more than its share of shortcomings, including a slow pace, a deficit of big laughs, and an unmemorable ending. Furthermore, Hopper’s performance can be grating at times, so the actor fails to generate much audience empathy despite his character’s sad-sack plight. Nonetheless, while it’s unfolding, Kid Blue takes viewers to novel places, and it does so with charm and compassion.

Kid Blue: GROOVY

200 Motels (1971)

Created by eccentric rock musician Frank Zappa, the bizarre musical 200 Motels undoubtedly means more to Zappa fans and/or those habitually ingesting controlled substances, if not both. Belonging to neither group, I found almost nothing of virtue in 200 Motels. In fact, sitting through the movie’s 98 minutes—notwithstanding the passages that I’m fairly sure I slept through, but who can tell given the movie’s shambling excuse for “structure”—was an experience best described as laborious. Therefore, I can’t in good conscience suggest that plentiful redeeming qualities lurk in the wilds of 200 Motels, although it’s possible that’s true. As the saying goes, I calls ’em like I sees ‘em, and watching 200 Motels, I saw nothing but an endless barrage of self-indulgent nonsense. The title apparently refers to the temporary lodging that rockers inhabit while on tour, and Zappa drew material from the life of his on-again/off-again backing band, the Mothers of Invention. The plot (presuming there actually is one) concerns a band stopping off for mid-tour adventures in the town of Centerville, where one member leaves the group—or something like that. 200 Motels comprises lots of disassociated sketches, intercut with experimental passages that feel like bad examples of film-school endeavors (think mimes and A/V Club-style video effects), as well as a third layer of performance, during which the Mothers play with a full orchestra. Ringo Starr appears periodically, portraying a man dressed up like Frank Zappa, and the Who’s madman drummer, Keith Moon, appears every so often wearing a nun’s habit. Broadway actor Theodore Bikel pops up at regular intervals as some sort of MC in a military uniform. The real Zappa floats through the film like a ghost, mostly visible while conducting the orchestra in performance segments, Oh, and actresses playing groupies bare their breasts, because what’s a ’70s rock saga without some good, old-fashioned sexual objectification? The Mothers play songs including the interminable “Penis Dimension,” which largely comprises singing the word “penis” over and over again. It’s all quite exhausting to watch, and if there’s a central joke running through 200 Motels, it escaped me.

200 Motels: SQUARE

Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) & Blood for Dracula (1974)

          Although these two horror flicks are often marketed as Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein and Andy Warhol’s Dracula, the Pop Art icon was only nominally involved in the production of the features. The actual writer-director behind these lurid riffs on the work of Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker was Paul Morrissey, who previously made features including Flesh (1968), Trash (1970), and Heat (1972) for Warhol. Flesh for Frankenstein is more noteworthy than Blood for Dracula, because it’s hard to think of another X-rated ’70s horror movie that gleefully presents incest, mutilation, and necrophilia in 3D. And if Flesh for Frankenstein is ultimately dull and silly, adventurous viewers should not deny themselves the “pleasure” of watching campy German actor Udo Kier, who plays Baron von Frankenstein, repeatedly molesting the gall bladder of the “female zombie” he’s building from the body parts of various women. This mad scientist gets off on his work, big time.
          Unsurprisingly, the plot takes considerable liberties with Shelley’s original narrative. The Baron is preoccupied with creating a master Serbian race defined by superhuman sex drive, so he kills people whom he perceives as having desirable organs, then repurposes their innards. Meanwhile, the Baron endures a twisted marriage to his sister, Katrin (Monique van Vooren), with whom he has fathered two children. Alas, she’s hot for everyone except the Baron. Eventually, the Baron kills a local man, Sacha (Srdjan Zelenovic), using his head to complete an in-progress “zombie.” Sacha’s pal, Nicholas (Joe Dallesandro), investigates his friend’s disappearance and learns of the Baron’s weird scheme. The movie climaxes with the unveiling of a male and female monster, which results in widespread bloodshed and sex (sometimes at the same time).
          Made somewhat in the style of Hammer Films’ horror movies, with elaborate sets and lush Old World locations, Flesh for Frankenstein has a glossy widescreen look but feels amateurish on every other level. The acting is terrible and the script is inane. Moreover, the gonzo quality of the gore—organs dripping with viscera are pushed toward the camera for full 3D impact—is beyond ridiculous. Combined with the over-the-top sex scenes and the goofy nature of Kier’s performance, Flesh for Frankenstein is perhaps best described as a cartoon for sickos. Which, come to think of it, seems pretty much on-brand for Warhol.
          While still campy in some ways—notably the ridiculous performances and stilted dialogue—Blood for Dracula is much more of a “real” movie than its predecessor. The narrative merely uses Stoker’s enduring character as a jumping-off point, because Blood for Dracula concerns the titular fiend (Kier) scouring Italy for virgins. (Or, because Kier plays the role with his thick German accent intact, “weer-juns.”) The opening of the picture is interesting, portraying Dracula as pathetic figure dying of malnutrition; he slathers himself in hair dye and makeup to give the impression of health, and he whines endlessly to his manservant Anton (Arno Jeruging) about how he’d rather die than face the struggle of hunting for victims.
          Most of the movie takes place in an Italian estate, where Dracula works his way through four eligible daughters of a once-respectable household; now financially destitute, the family’s patriarch happily offers up his daughters as potential brides to the visitor who is presented as a “Middle European aristocrat.” Complicating Dracula’s quest is the presence in the household of a communistic handyman (Dallesandro), who also happens to be sexually involved with two of the daughters. (Hilarity ensues whenever Dallesandro speaks in his Brooklyn accent; for instance, upon learning that Dracula digs virgins, he asks his lovers, “So what’s he doin’ wit’ you two whoo-ers,” stretching the last word into two syllables.)
          Periodically throughout Blood for Dracula, it seems Morrissey believes he’s making a proper drama, so he lingers on dialogue scenes and artful shots, creating tedium because the acting is so awful. Even the sex scenes are dull, despite abundant nudity. Still, the movie looks fantastic, and some flourishes linger, such as the nasty scenes of Dracula vomiting when he unknowingly drinks the blood of fallen women. Blood for Dracula eventually echoes Flesh for Frankenstein with an outrageous finale filled with comically staged dismemberments. Nonetheless, Blood for Dracula is never as outright bizarre as Flesh for Frankenstein, which is both a good and a bad thing—in (mostly) steering clear of self-parody, Blood for Dracula falls squarely in the realm of mediocrity.

Flesh for Frankenstein: FREAKY

Blood for Dracula: FUNKY

Walk Proud (1979)

 

          By the end of the ’70s, soulful actor Robby Benson had played so many variations of the “sensitive teenager” type that he was undoubtedly eager for new challenges. This would appear to be the only possible explanation for Benson’s casting in Walk Proud, a periodically intense drama about a young Los Angeles Latino who wrestles with issues of personal identity when he realizes he might have outgrown his allegiance to a street gang. Yes, you read that right: Latino. Benson, a native Texan of Jewish extraction, is many things, but Hispanic is not one of them. Even with his famously expressive blue eyes hidden behind dark contacts—and, it seems, his skin slathered in some sort of bronzer—Benson looks completely ridiculous in every frame of Walk Proud. The funny thing, however, is that he actually manages to give a somewhat credible performance, perhaps because he’d already gained so much experience singing the song of the anguished adolescent. Anyway, Benson’s casting is so jaw-droppingly wrong that one can easily consume Walk Proud as a campy misfire and get a few laughs out of the experience, especially when the soundtrack explodes with distinctly non-Chicano synthesizer textures during the violent finale. For those willing to suspend disbelief, though, Walk Proud tells a poignant story.

           Emilio (Benson) is a high school student who runs with a dangerous crowd called the Aztecs. When Emilio falls for a gringo classmate named Sarah (Sarah Holcomb), who sees more potential in him than he sees in himself, Emilio starts to question his role as an Aztec. This identity crisis is exacerbated when Emilio learns a secret about his lineage and when the Aztecs’ conflict with another gang escalates to lethality. Much of the picture comprises everyday scenes of Latino life, including a quinceañera and an excursion to Mexico, so the respect the filmmakers pay to their subject matter is basically admirable. And if the gang stuff is jacked up a bit for effect, that’s an understandable concession to dramaturgy. (Screenwriter Evan Hunter knew his way around stories of at-risk youth, having penned the 1954 novel The Blackboard Jungle, one of the genre’s bedrock texts.) For the most part, Walk Proud works, in a clumsy sort of way, whenever it sticks to the colorful milieu of Hispanic gang culture. Conversely, the movie wobbles whenever it becomes a typical Benson tearjerker, with Holcomb weakly filling the role usually occupied by regular Benson costar Glynis O’Connor. Alas, the movie doesn’t know when to stop, going so far as to include Benson’s angst-ridden delivery of an anti-violence speech featuring the creaky old line, “Where does it end?” Nonetheless, Walk Proud features a string of effective moments—as well as a few unintentionally campy ones—and it has the advantage of novelty.

Walk Proud: FUNKY
 

THX 1138 (1971)

          George Lucas’ first feature, the sci-fi thriller THX 1138, is not for everyone, since the subject matter is grim and the execution is self-consciously arty. (Some might say pretentious.) Nonetheless, THX 1138 is inarguably the headiest sort of mainstream science fiction—a film of ideas disguised as visually resplendent escapism. Slotting nicely into the Orwellian tradition of fantastical allegory, Lucas’ movie depicts a future Earth where the working class has been figuratively and literally reduced to automatons. The film’s main character, THX 1138 (Robert Duvall), is bald drone wearing an all-purpose white uniform. That makes him a carbon copy of nearly everyone else occupying the mechanized city in which THX lives and works. The masses are kept in line by government-issued drugs that suppress individuality and sexual appetite. Moreover, frightening robotic police officers patrol the city, suppressing any nascent forms of insurrection. Eventually, THX and a coworker, LUH 3417 (Maggie McOmie), defy the social order by ditching their daily drug regimen, which allows their long-suppressed human qualities to surface. Acting on unexpected attraction, the couple seeks out private places to explore each other’s bodies—and, eventually, each other’s souls. Once discovered, the illicit relationship places THX and LUH in grave danger.

          There’s more to the film’s complex plot, including bold statements about dangerous intersections between religion and totalitarianism, but the core of the piece involves THX and LUH risking everything to discover if there’s more to life than their dehumanizing routine. Whereas in Star Wars (1977) Lucas uses his considerable storytelling gifts to create an intoxicating alternate universe filled with adventure and excitement, in THX 1138 he employs a methodical approach to define a milieu governed by sleek surfaces and omnipresent walls. The leading characters are literally ghosts in the machine until defiance compels them to regain their identities. Some of the visuals in THX 1138 are exquisite, such as the scene of THX and LUH making love in a white room that seems like the living incarnation of infinity, and some of the visuals in the movie are terrifying, such as the vision of metal-masked cops on futuristic motorcycles chasing the heroes through sleek tunnels. The picture can be opaque at times, as if it’s more of an experimental endeavor than a dramatic presentation, but the soulfulness of Duvall’s performance grounds even the most esoteric scenes. (Having twitchy Donald Pleasance in the cast as THX’s workplace superior doesn’t hurt, because nothing can suppress his idiosyncratic energy.)

          Ultimately, the intellect and style of THX 1138 linger in the memory the longest: Consider the long-lens shots that suggest alienation, the wildly imaginative sound work that simulates otherworldliness, and so on. Every frame of THX 1138 underscores why Lucas’ talent could not be denied, no matter how much he was demoralized by the problems that plagued this picture after its completion. For those unfamiliar with the saga, Warner Bros. bankrolled the project because Francis Ford Coppola agreed to serve as executive producer, but then the studio hated Lucas’ original cut and shaved half an hour off the running time. Adding insult to injury, the movie flopped. Heretical as it may sound to Lucasfilm purists, however, the 95-minute Warner Bros. cut isn’t a bad way to see THX 1138, because a little of the film’s chilly tone goes a long way. That said, Lucas—ever the tinkerer—returned the project 30 years later, creating a 121-minute director’s cut that includes, predictably, juiced-up special effects that clash with the original 1971 footage. (The alterations are less irksome than Lucas’ changes to his first three Star Wars movies.) THX 1138 may not be essential ’70s cinema, per se, but it’s easily among the smartest sci-fi movies of the decade. Furthermore, as one of only three featues Lucas directed prior to his late-’90s resurgence, it’s a milestone in one of Hollywood’s most important careers.

THX 1138: GROOVY

The Tenant (1976)

          Roman Polanski’s most perverse movie—and that’s saying a lot—is almost certainly his 1976 psychological thriller The Tenant, which features such provocative signifiers as cross-dressing, duplicity, psychological torture, and suicide. Taken solely at face value, the picture is bewildering and nasty. Embraced as satire, however, The Tenant represents a wicked commentary on the madness of contemporary life and the toxic influence that inhumane social structures can have on individuals. Yet while many other Polanski movies lend themselves to straight analysis, with narrative symbols clearly representing specific psychological and/or sociopolitical concepts, The Tenant is deliberately ambiguous. Whether the movie feels playful or pretentious depends on the individual viewer’s perspective, of course, but as with all of Polanski’s work, elegant visuals and peerless technical aspects demand attention. In other words, The Tenant can’t be dismissed as a lark, even though it’s entirely possible that’s how Polanski approached the project.

          The auteur himself stars as Trelkovsky, an everyman who rents an apartment in an old Paris building. The unit became vacant when the previous tenant, Simone, jumped from one of the room’s windows and nearly died. Trelkovsky’s motivations are murky from start to finish. He visits Simone in the hospital, where she’s bandaged from head to toe, then meets Simone’s beautiful friend, Stella (Isabelle Adjani). The duo bond—if that’s the right word, given the morbid circumstances—by witnessing Simone’s death after a sudden emotional outburst. Later, as Trelkovsky explores his peculiar relationship with Stella—for instance, he never dispels her incorrect assumption that Trekovsky and Simone were friends—the protagonist experiences an even weirder dynamic with his new neighbors. Eventually, our “hero” comes to believe that building residents including Monsieur Zy (Melvyn Douglas) and the never-named concierge (Shelley Winters) are scheming to transform Trelkovsky into a replica of Simone. Hence the aforementioned cross-dressing and, inevitably, Trelkovsky’s own suicide attempt—or, if the climax is interpreted differently, his victimization by would-be murderers.

          The Tenant has a muted, dreamy look courtesy of genius European cinematographer Sven Nykvist, and composer Philippe Sarde lends an appropriate degree of menace to the soundtrack. Plus, as always, Polanski’s sly camerawork, distinguished by cleverly hidden cuts and moves, brings viewers into the action with seductive ease. The singular mood of The Tenant has undeniable power, an effect accentuated by the opacity of the performances. Polanski’s acting is strangely charming, although he’s got an impenetrable quality, while supporting players including Adjani, Douglas, and Winters merely represent colors in the movie’s surreal tapestry. As written by Polanski and frequent collaborator Gerard Brach (working from a novel by Roland Topor), The Tenant is unrelentingly odd in every aspect except its storytelling. And that, perhaps, is the most devious aspect of the picture; instead of delivering a cryptogram of a narrative via wild style, Polanski serves this peculiar dish on a bed of classicism. This has the effect of suggesting that, on some level, the real world provides such inherently insane context that the weird events of The Tenant make perfect sense.

The Tenant: FREAKY

J.D.’s Revenge (1976)

          An imaginative mash-up of blaxploitation and horror, this New Orleans-set thriller concerns a mild-mannered law student who gets possessed by the spirit of a 1940s crook intent on payback against a murderous hoodlum. Featuring a fair amount of visual panache—think sepia-colored flashbacks and tricky mirror shots during which the protagonist sees another face instead of his own reflection—J.D.’s Revenge is consistently entertaining even though the storyline is alternately murky and overwrought. Much of the film’s potency stems from its nasty depiction of the hero’s behavior while possessed—the hero beats up a senior, slaps around and rapes his girlfriend, and nearly murders a dude by slashing him repeatedly with a straight razor. Whatever its faults, J.D.’s Revenge can’t be accused of timidity.

          Glynn Turman, the amiable star of Cooley High (1975), plays Isaac, an unassuming guy who’s stressed out from his studies but happily involved with an understanding girlfriend, Christella (Joan Pringle). One evening, Isaac and Christella attend a hypnosis show at a Bourbon Street club. While he’s hypnotized, Isaac is invaded by the spirit of J.D. Walker (David McKnight), a criminal who died violently. As the movie progresses, Isaac suffers repeated episodes during which J.D. overtakes Isaac’s body, causing Isaac to act with uncharacteristic savagery. Christella gets the worst of it, receiving two nasty beatings during sexual assaults. Furthermore, Isaac—while under J.D.’s control—tracks down the two men who were present when J.D. died. J.D.’s murderer is a gangster named Theotis Bliss (Fred Pinkard), and that man’s brother is a gangster-turned-evangelist named Rev. Elijah Bliss (Louis Gossett, Jr.). The plot gets unnecessarily complicated whenever the Bliss family is involved, but repeated flashbacks to the awful moment when both J.D. and his sister were murdered underscore why J.D. is so hungry for revenge.
          Screenwriter Jaison Starkes loses the thread of the story at regular intervals, relying on such inexplicable contrivances as J.D.’s spirit wasting time on adventures before tracking down his enemies; additionally, it’s hard to accept the idea that Isaac escapes police capture despite committing multiple heinous acts. Nonetheless, if one can ignore the picture’s myriad logical lapses, J.D.’s Revenge offers plenty of lurid thrills. The image of slight Turman strutting around in 1940s gangster garb while menacing people with his straight razor is unnerving, and the rape scenes are horrific. Plus, even though most of the film’s performances are perfunctory, Gossett is electric in all of his scenes, whether he’s frenetically testifying through church sermons or channeling anguish during the finale.

J.D.’s Revenge: FUNKY