Milestones (1975)

           A filmmaker deeply committed to expressing his far-left political ideology onscreen, Robert Kramer directed the awkward but impassioned Ice (1970), then codirected this sprawling hybrid of documentary and fiction—although Kramer participated in many other projects, Ice and Milestones are probably his most enduring statements. Codirected by John Douglas, Milestones explores the lives of myriad characters connected to Vietnam War-era counterculture. Most of the people who appear onscreen are hippies who’ve dropped out of mainstream society to live in communes and/or radicals who’ve had legal trouble stemming from activism. The picture also features perspectives from the preceding generation, courtesy of parents vexed by the choices of their adult children. Had a more disciplined filmmaker tackled exactly this material—picture an Altmanesque epic—it could have become the definitive cinematic record of its time. Alas, Milestones is a minor historical artifact that many viewers will find boring and pointless.
           Instead of using narration, onscreen text, or at the very least crisp introductory vignettes, the filmmakers spew a largely formless collage of conversations and moments, forcing viewers to intuit much key information through context. As the picture churns through multiple “storylines,” a term that’s only somewhat applicable here, viewers watch folks hang out, share experiences, and talk (endlessly) about their feelings. All of this stems from the queasy mixture of documentary and fiction. Some elements feel like real life caught on camera—particularly the pieces depicting a woman preparing for natural childbirth. Other elements are obviously staged, including two crime scenes. Viewers can make reasonable assumptions about when characters are presenting scripted (or at least prompted) dialogue, as opposed to speaking extemporaneously, because moments featuring “acting” are painfully amateurish.
           Still, a general theme emerges from the sprawl—what do antiwar radicals do once the focus of their activism disappears? Do they return to their families? Do they get jobs? Or do they try to live their counterculture ideals permanently? As one character suggests, “a revolution [is] not just a series of incidents but a whole life.” Unfortunately for all but the most sympathetic viewers, Milestones buries this worthy concept inside a series of drab scenes that span more than three hours. That’s a lot of time to spend watching grungy 16mm footage of hippies strolling naked through the woods, engaging in low-key rap sessions (plus the occasional argument), and so on.
           Excepting the aforementioned crime scenes (plus the climactic sequence of natural childbirth that unfolds in full view of the camera), the most engaging bits are conversations during which characters either speak directly to the movie’s theme or inadvertently capture their historical moment with Me Decade psychobabble. In a particularly absurd moment, self-involved Jimmy, identified as a onetime zoology professor who ditched academia for activism, expresses what a heavy trip it might be to participate in raising his preadolescent son: “I’m his father, and I have a very special kind of relationship. I mean, I dig other kids too, but I can’t brush away my feelings. I mean, maybe it’s just part of me that I have to get on top of.” As if parental obligations are some old-fashioned hangup.
           Kramer and Douglas had to do their own thing, but in retrospect they might have been wise to ditch the fiction elements and focus on capturing life among left-leaning young adults at a confusing time. Whenever the filmmakers try to get overt, they stumble badly, as with a silly dream sequence or the laughable cut from dialogue about a character with fragile emotions to a shot of that character dropping a piece of pottery that shatters.

Milestones: FUNKY

Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

          While I’m a reasonably adventurous cinefile, the reputation and running time of Chantal Ackerman’s acclaimed character study Jeanne Dielman kept it near the bottom of my to-view list for decades—I was challenged to muster enthusiasm for a 3.5-hour picture comprising extraordinarily long takes of mundane activities. Even when Jeanne Dielman was named the greatest film of all time by Sight and Sound in 2022 (more on that later), the movie seemed as if it would be a slog to watch. Now that I can finally report back from the other end of Jeanne Dielman’s 201 minutes, of course I understand that being a slog to watch is part of the picture’s design. It’s open to debate whether the film’s abnormal length was the best way achieve her goals, but clearly Ackerman wanted viewers to feel as numbed by repetition as the leading character does. Accordingly, the key question is whether the movie rewards viewers’ time. I believe the answer is yes, though perhaps not to the degree implied by Jeanne Dielman’s placement on the Sight and Sound list.
          For those unfamiliar with the picture, it depicts three days in the life of fortysomething widow Jeanne (Delphine Seyrig), who lives with her young-adult son, Sylvain (Jan Decorte), in a Brussels apartment. Jeanne supports the household with sex work, receiving one client per day as part of a highly regimented routine. Up each morning to prepare breakfast and send Syvlain off to school; cleaning, errands, and meal preparation interspersed with occasional childcare for a neighbor’s infant; then evenings spent serving dinner and helping Sylvain with schoolwork, even though he’s so absorbed in reading that he barely communicates with his mother. (The boy’s age and grade level is never stated, but he’s either a high-schooler or a college student.) Jeanne Dielman is as rigidly structured as the title character’s lifestyle, with chapter breaks identifying transitions between days, and the glacially paced plot only gets cooking about halfway through the movie, when an unexplained change in Jeanne’s mental state causes her to become dislodged from everyday activities, for instance dropping a spoon or forgetting to close one button on her housecoat. All of this is preamble to a single noteworthy event, which won’t be spoiled here but which retroactively imbues Jeanne Dielman with layers of meaning.

          It should be apparent by now that appraising Ackerman’s movie by conventional standards is pointless—even though the narrative has an ordinary shape, the style is borderline experimental. Ackerman deliberately avoids opportunities to take us into her leading character’s mind, forcing viewers to extract Jeanne’s psychology from her behavior. (The director reportedly coached leading lady Seyrig to constrain her facial expressions.) Viewers get enough information to grasp the contours of Jeanne’s life, but then Ackerman adds the element that makes Jeanne Dielman so challenging—outrageously long takes of activities ranging from the cleaning of dishes to the preparation of meals. Throughout Jeanne Dielman, a static camera watches Seyrig do uninteresting things in their full durations. Presumably the film’s advocates zero in on this aspect as one of the picture’s great strengths, a means of forcing viewers to engage with the grinding tedium of domestic work.

          And then there’s the climax, which provides a bracing commentary on the toll such domestic work, done in the service of men, has on women.
         I’m certain the film’s champions would argue that it must be watched repeatedly in order to appreciate its profundity. I don’t see that happening anytime soon, though I acknowledge my willingness to watch comparatively dim-witted entertainment films over and over again compares poorly with my reluctance to spend another 201 minutes with Jeanne. Nonetheless, I feel confident that I took much of what the film has to offer from one viewing. Jeanne Dielman is, in its idiosyncratic and unwieldy fashion, both a crisp statement and a potent conversation piece. But could it possibly be the greatest film of all time, as the contributors to Sight and Sound’s list determined? No. It is difficult to perceive that designation as anything other than a rebuttal to decades of male-dominated cinema discourse. However, exalting Jeanne Dielman over enduring films directed by men could also be seen as an amplification of Jeanne Dielman’s message—in a patriarchal society, a women has to make a hell of a noise to get heard.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles: GROOVY

Gene Hackman, 1930-2025

          Obituaries are not generally a part of this blog, but a rare exception is necessary to mark the passing of Gene Hackman, not only my favorite actor of the ’70s but my favorite actor, full stop. Nothing I could say here is likely to change your appreciation of his gifts—if you’re a reader of this blog, you know what he accomplished in The French Connection (1971), The Conversation (1974), Superman (1978), and so many other films before, during and after the ’70s. He was a master of his craft. He was also, unquestionably, a master who commodified his gifts, often to his detriment. Given the unusual circumstances of his career, namely his lack of conventional leading-man looks and the fact that he didn’t achieve stardom until he was in his 40s, it’s hard to blame the guy for cashing in with The Poseidon Adventure (1972) after winning his first Oscar (for The French Connection). However, it’s also easy to lament that Hackman spent so much of his time acting in junk. The man did a volume business, only periodically focusing on projects truly worthy of his talents.

          As a lifelong fan, it bums me out that his last movie was the disposable comedy Welcome to Mooseport (2004), but I can reasonably assume that Hackman figured if those were the type of projects on offer circa the mid-2000s, retirement was preferable. While those of us who study film history enjoy thinking in terms of bodies of work and legacies, Hollywood professionals often prioritize real-life considerations over how their choices impact filmographies. At a certain point, it’s time to leave the stage. (By the way, no comment is offered on what appear to be the peculiar circumstances of Hackman’s death because lot of questions have yet to be answered.)

          The vexations of his filmography notwithstanding, Hackman rendered a string of indelible performances during a screen career that spanned so many decades different generations likely perceive him in different ways. In the ’60s, he climbed the ranks of supporting actors through work in features and TV, notching a particularly memorable appearance in Bonnie and Clyde (1967). In the ’70s, he was outrageously productive, toplining the aforementioned titles while also sculpting delicate characterizations in I Never Sang for My Father (1970), Cisco Pike (1972), Scarecrow (1973), and Night Moves (1975)—he even found time for a delightful comic turn in Young Frankenstein (1974). Moviegoers in this period knew Hackman as a charismatic, forceful actor capable of transmitting on myriad frequencies. He could bluster (even overact) when that suited the assignment, and he could express fine gradations of human emotion.

          His work in the ’80s was not as consistently distinguished, but every so often he connected with a role that suited him well. I recall with great appreciation his anguished ex-soldier in Uncommon Valor (1983), his earnest basketball coach in Hoosiers (1986), and his sly investigator in Mississippi Burning (1988). Then, of course, came that great victory lap in the ’90s, beginning with Unforgiven (1991) and a second Oscar for that picture. Whether he was squaring off with Denzel Washington in Crimson Tide (1995), scoring laughs in The Birdcage (1996), or paying homage to The Conversation with a similar role in Enemy of the State (1998), Hackman time and again proved there were few limits to his abilities. He essayed his last great film role in Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tennenbaums (2001), thus bridging his work from the the glory days of the New Hollywood to the emergence of Gen-X groundbreakers. His retirement denied viewers the chance to see how he might have explored older age through his performances (and his interactions with fresh-thinking younger directors). Flip side, our screen image of Hackman remains forever charged with virility.
          I didn’t know the man, and I’ve heard enough stories to intuit that he could be a thorny character. On more than one occasion, I’ve encountered remarks to the effect that he was ambivalent about acting, largely because he grew up at a time when performing wasn’t considered a manly endeavor. In my imagination, this tension regarding Hackman’s chosen profession is part of what imbues his screen work with such tangible energy—it’s not hard to believe that, on some level, discomfort about being Gene Hackman translated to comfort being other people while cameras rolled. Whatever the reasons behind his greatness, I’ve yet to encounter a Hackman performance I find completely uninteresting.

          There are times when he seemed bored—particularly during the iffy stretch between Mississippi Burning and Unforgiven—and there are times when enervated scripting and lifeless directing undercuts whatever Hackman’s trying to achieve. A bad movie is a bad movie, and Hackman made plenty of them. But, in my estimation, the mark of a fine actor is not how well that performer rises to the challenge of great material, but how well that performer elevates mundane material. Of course Hackman is magnificent in The Conversation—one cannot imagine another player serving that extraordinary film any better. But just watch him in something like Zandy’s Bride (1974) or Bite the Bullet (1975), two offbeat but unquestionably flawed Westerns he made during his early days as an A-lister. In these pictures, Hackman attacks adrenalized scenes with ferocious intensity, and he articulates quieter moments with genuine vulnerability.
          No other actor has commanded my attention, and rewarded my viewing, at the level or scale Hackman has. I felt wistful when he retired from acting, and today I feel wistful again knowing there will never be a final capper to his glorious run. It is ungallant of me to imply that his huge trove of excellent work isn’t sufficient, but every exceptional performer leaves fans wanting more.

Johnny Vik (1977)

          Tucked into the deepest crevasses of the ’70s-cinema landscape are a few low-budget obscurities that are interesting because of their aspirations even though the films are amateurish and unsatisfying. Johnny Vik, for example, aligns with familiar tropes by centering an emotionally disturbed Native American who endures PTSD and socialization problems following service in Vietnam. Yet the picture differs in an important way from others that explore similar terrain—Johnny Vik is almost completely devoid of onscreen violence. Instead, the clumsily rendered picture tries to reveal the turbulent inner life of its protagonist, with writer-director Charles Nauman occasionally employing bizarre hallucination scenes to show viewers how the title character sees the world. The fact that you’ve never heard of Johnny Vik, together with the fact that Nauman’s only other credit is a documentary released in 1968, rightly indicates that Johnny Vik doesn’t achieve its goals. The movie is alternately confusing, dull, melodramatic, silly, and weird, without ever committing strongly enough to any of those sensibilities to make a strong impression. Nonetheless, Nauman and his collaborators deserve some credit for inverting the paradigm that yielded so many disposable flicks about crazed vigilantes.
          When we meet him, Johnny (Warren Hammack) comes across as a small-town simpleton who can’t hold down a job. Typical of the muddled first act is a scene of Johnny pointlessly watching two guys vandalize a cop car to the accompaniment of music that sounds like the Benny Hill theme. Eventually, circumstances compel Johnny to become a fugitive/recluse hiding in the forest outside his hometown, and once Nauman reveals the transformed Johnny—long hair, thick beard—the movie finds a bit more focus with scenes of Johnny experiencing visions in the wilderness. (In one vignette, he imagines a faceless figure of death sitting atop a pile of branches.) Meanwhile, Johnny befriends local teen Pola (Kathy Amerman), who takes horseback rides near Johnny’s hiding place. Hence her delivery of ponderous voiceover lines (“The emptiness followed him, haunted him, like a caravan of death”). None of the metaphysical stuff makes much sense, but one can feel Nauman grasping for profundity. Despite performances that range from inept to pedestrian, and notwithstanding his lack of cinematic prowess, Nauman conjures a handful of oddly soulful moments when he’s not distracted by nonsense including gratuitous nudie-cutie scenes.

Johnny Vik: FUNKY

The Player (1971)

Watching this lifeless low-budget drama about the misadventures of a small-time pool hustler will deepen your appreciation for the visual ingenuity of The Hustler (1961) and its sequel The Color of Money (1986) because those films make billiards seem exciting. While one could put forth a feeble argument that the tedium of The Player accurately depicts how time-consuming contests of skill can seem dull to everyone but active participants, it’s doubtful that writer-director Thomas DeMartini’s goal was to bore viewers. Then again, seeing as how The Player had a microscopic release before disappearing for more than 50 years, it’s not as if DeMartini had many viewers to bore. Anyway, thanks to the enterprising folks at YouTube channel FT Depot, a mostly intact version of The Player appeared online in 2024, allowing the curious to appraise its virtues. The film concerns Lou Marchesi (Jerry Como), a slick player mentored by real-life pool star Minnesota Fats (who portrays himself). Yet interactions with Fats are largely peripheral to the story, which follows Lou’s transfer of romantic affection from supportive Linda (Carey Wilmot) to manipulative Sylvia (Rae Phillips). As goes Lou’s love life, so goes his pool career. These characters and their relationship dynamics are deeply uninteresting, a flaw exacerbated by DeMartini’s penchant for aimless montages set to goopy love ballads—and that’s on top of his predilection for numbingly repetitive pool scenes set to interminable loops of generic rock/funk music. Beyond the flimsy plot, The Player suffers from a bloated runtime, flat visuals, and terrible acting. Nonetheless, some cinemaniacs might find the picture of minor note because it evokes the pool-hustler world in a believable (read: unglamorous) way, and there’s always a frisson associated with rediscovering a movie once thought lost.

The Player: LAME

MIA: Rare ’70s Movies

Hey there, groovy people! It’s been a few years since I reached out for help tracking down elusive movies, and longtime readers will recognize a few titles here from previous posts of this nature. Anyway, here’s the drill—in my quest to paint as full a picture of ’70s cinema as possible, I’d love to track down some or all of the following movies, which have eluded my normal pathways for finding films. I prefer to patronize only legit sites, so thanks in advance for not recommending iffy bootleg portals, and of course if anyone can lay their hands on physical media I’d be into making the appropriate arrangements. (Alas, the VHS rig that served me well for many years has transitioned off this mortal plane, so I’m living that DVD/Blu life.) Some of these pictures may be truly lost, but for the obsessive cinema blogger, hope always burns bright. Oh, and I’m especially interested in tracking down Black Chariot, a 1971 drama with Bernie Casey, because a 4K restoration has been making the rounds but, as sometimes happens, I didn’t hear about an LA screening until after the fact. Any tips on future chances to catch this one would be greatly appreciated! Similarly, thanks so much for anyone who can help me lay my retinas on . . .

 
Black Cream a/k/a Together for Days (1972) directed by Michael Shultz
The Black Pearl (1977)
Challenge (1974) & The Brass Ring (1975) with Earl Owensby
Country Music (1972) with Marty Robbins
Death Play (1976) with James Keach
Dirty Movie (1973) with Tom Skerritt
Distance (1975) with James Woods
Dreams of Glass (1970)
Events (1970) feat. Robert Altman
Extreme Close-Up (1973) written by Michael Crichton
A Fable (1971) with Al Freeman Jr.
The Gentle People and the Quiet Land (1972)
Goodnight Jackie a/ka/ Games Guys Play (1973)
The Great Balloon Race (1977)
Hanging on a Star (1978)
Irish Whiskey Rebellion (1972) with William Devane
Last Foxtrot in Burbank (1973)
Legacy (1975) directed by Karen Arthur
Life Study (1973) with Tommy Lee Jones
The Limit (1972) with Yaphet Kotto
No Longer Alone (1978) feat. Billy Graham
Okay Bill (1971) directed by John G. Avildsen
The Only Way Home (1972) with G.D. Spradlin
Prisoners (1975) with Howard Hesseman
Richard (1972) with Mickey Rooney
Sammy Somebody (1976) with Susan Strasberg
Scream, Evelyn, Scream! (1970)
Shhh (1975) with Rita Moreno
Silence (1974) with Will Geer
Spirit of the Wind (1979) with Chief Dan George
Walk the Walk (1970) with Bernie Hamilton
Welcome to the Club (1971) with Jack Warden
Who Says I Can’t Ride a Rainbow? (1971)
Willy & Scratch (1975) with Claudia Jennings
You’ve Got to Walk It Like You Talk It or You’ll Lose That Beat (1971)

Inside Amy (1974)

The basic premise of low-budget exploitation flick Inside Amy is solid enough that if the picture had been written and directed with a modicum of skill, it could have become a memorably sleazy thriller. Charlie (James R. Sweeney, billed as Eastman Price), a successful lawyer hurtling toward middle age, has grown bored with marriage to alluring but straight-laced Amy (Jan Mitchell), so when he learns about a local nightclub catering to swingers, he pressures Amy into visiting the club with him. This inevitably leads the couple to a wife-swapping party. At the moment of truth, Charlie can’t perform with a stranger, but Amy gets it on with several partners, even though she says afterward she still loves her husband. Driven mad by jealousy, Charlie systematically hunts and kills Amy’s playmates. In an alternate universe, some imaginative striver made this picture with Charlie and Amy as fully rendered characters, thus yielding a morality tale about the tension between sexual fantasies and marital reality. In this universe, director Ronald Victor Garcia—later to build a respectable career as a cinematographer and occasional director, mostly for television—executed Helene Arthur’s lifeless script clumsily. The kills are bland, the sex is tame, the film has virtually zero tension, the acting is mostly terrible, and the finale is thoroughly anticlimactic. Inside Amy doesn’t even rate highly in terms of kitsch, except perhaps for the scolding title song (“Amy, you better straighten out or be prepared to meet your fate”). As if Inside Amy wasn’t sufficiently lurid, the picture was later released as both Super Swinging Playmates and Swingers Massacre.

Inside Amy: LAME