The Missiles of October (1974)

          The Cuban Missile Crisis has been dissected and explored to a level of granular detail by dramatists and historians and politicians ever since those harrowing events of October 1962 concluded, since it’s very likely that was the closest the world has ever come to thermonuclear war. Yet as this excellent made-for-TV drama underscores, the lasting lesson is not just how easily men of hostile intent nearly drove two nations into globally destructive conflict, but how skillfully men of conscience defused the situation. Historically, much of the credit for ending the crisis rightfully goes to then-Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy for a crucial strategy suggestion he made late in the game, but The Missiles of October conveys that the world was saved by the collective efforts of RFK, President John F. Kennedy, and Soviet Premier Nikita Krushchev, among many others. In today’s post-9/11 era of brinksmanship and escalation, the lessons in The Missiles of October are perhaps more important than ever.

          From an aesthetic perspective, The Missiles of October is highly unusual. Shot on videotape, it’s essentially a recording of a play, even though many cinematic flourishes are employed. (For instance, each act opens with a shot of a giant board bearing the show’s title and flags, with the camera zooming into the flag of the nation where the act’s first scene takes place.) Moreover, The Missiles of October is quite long, running two and a half hours even without commercials, so the storytelling is gradual, methodical, and specific. Viewers are taken all the way from the U.S. government’s first discovery that Russian missile bases are being assembled on the island nation of Cuba to the final resolution between the U.S., thrown into a defensive posture by the presence of missiles 90 miles off the coast of Florida, and the U.S.S.R., desperate to save face even though surrender is the only sane option. A fantastic cast tells the story, with William Devane’s alternately contemplative and intense portrayal of JFK dominating. He’s matched almost perfectly with Martin Sheen, who plays RFK. Together, they sketch a believable family bond while also expressing the horrible stakes of the crisis in their pained faces.

          Whereas Devane and Sheen mimic the Kennedy brothers’ famous Boston accents, Howard Da Silva uses an unadorned American vocal style while playing Krushchev. In context, this choice works, because viewers aren’t distracted by dialect or subtitles while parsing the subtle moves that Krushchev made while maneuvering around Kremlin hawks to avoid disaster. Others familiar players in the cast are Ralph Bellamy, Dana Elcar, Michael Lerner, and Nehemiah Persoff, and character actor Thayer David provides occasional narration. Seen today, The Missiles of October might strike some viewers as aesthetically deficient, what with the grainy newsreel clips to illustrate military action and the use of minimalistic sets. Nonetheless, this film articulates the broad strokes of a key event in world history, as well as many of the most important nuances, with grace and power, eventually morphing from a docudrama to a taut thriller. The time one invests to watch The Missiles of October is rewarded handsomely.

The Missiles of October: GROOVY

1776 (1972)

          Adapted from the 1969 Broadway show of the same name, 1776 is an epic-length musical about the Second Continental Congress, the fractious delegation that represented the American colonies during the Revolutionary War and eventually ratified the Declaration of Independence, thus severing the U.S. from Great Britain. While producer Jack L. Warner (a founder of the studio that bears his family’s name) is to be commended for bringing such historically important subject matter to the screen—and for allowing his collaborators to treat the material intelligently—the movie is a lumbering beast.

          Running various lengths owing to changes made during its original release and reissues (the most widely available version runs about three hours), the movie has a strange rhythm, with long stretches performed as straight drama without music. Furthermore, some determinations of when characters should burst into song make little sense. At its most unfocused, the picture stops dead for “He Plays the Violin,” a love ballad sung by Thomas Jefferson’s wife (Blythe Danner) about her husband’s sexual prowess. Still, there’s almost as much interesting stuff in the movie as there is pointless nonsense like “He Plays the Violin.”

          The main storyline involves John Adams (William Daniels)—who is portrayed, unwisely, as an overbearing snob—trying to ram the idea of independence down the throats of his Continental Congress colleagues, particularly those from Southern states. The film’s best number, “But, Mr. Adams,” features Adams and others, including Benjamin Franklin (Howard Da Silva), dumping the chore of writing the Declaration onto a nobly self-sacrificing Jefferson (Ken Howard). During this scene, the filmmakers combine clever choreography, rousing music, and witty lyrics into purposeful satire. Many noteworthy sequences, however, are bereft of songcraft. After all, revered playwright/screenwriter Peter Stone (Charade) wrote the book for the stage musical and the screenplay for the film, and his dialogue is generally quite choice. For instance, the spirited floor debates that Stone renders, which were inspired by the memoirs of Continental Congressmen, feature charged exchanges about capitalism, elitism, monarchism, and—the thorniest subject of all—slavery.

          Had Warner’s team mercilessly cut the show down to, say, two hours, they could have zeroed in on the essential drama of forming “a more perfect union.” As it stands, for every potent moment—the song “Cool, Cool, Considerate Men” is a savage number about right-wing politics, and the harrowing “Molasses to Rum” skewers Northerners for their hypocritical attitude toward slavery—there are a dozen scenes that serve no important purpose. Furthermore, except for the catchy “But, Mr. Adams,” Sherman Edwards’ music is generally mediocre; his melodies are labored, and his taste for operatic grandiosity is tiresome.

          And in terms of generating audience engagement, the movie also badly wants for a strong sympathetic performance. Daniels is far too prickly to serve as a leading man for an epic musical, Da Silva’s penchant for cheap comedy is undignified even though he lands a few successful jokes, and Howard is simply too vanilla. In fact, the performers who come off best are bad guys John Cullum and Donald Madden, playing two obstinate Southern representatives. When the strongest players in a story about the formation of America portray characters opposed the formation of America, that’s a sign something is awry.

1776: FUNKY