The Homecoming: A Christmas Story (1971)

          More than a year before TV viewers began visiting Walton’s Mountain on a weekly basis, the adventures of America’s favorite Depression-era family reached the small screen with The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. Adapted from the writing of Earl Hamner Jr., as was the subsequent 1972–1981 series The Waltons, the movie has a slightly different cast from the weekly series but the same nostalgic warmth. Among the actors who debuted characterizations here that continued through the weekly series is leading man Richard Thomas, who plays elder son John Boy. (The series’ much-parodied trope of all the characters saying “good night” to each other before the closing credits emerges fully formed in this first installment.) While the overarching theme of familial love and devout spirituality shielding poor people from the hardships of the outside world might strike some viewers as too sickly-sweet wholesome, the execution of this fine telefilm is sufficiently humorous, lively, and specific to make The Homecoming: A Christmas Story abundantly appealing. 

          The Homecoming: A Christmas Story is all about setting the stage for an uplifting climax, but Hamner—who wrote the script—and director Fielder Cook are so rigorous in how they pursue narrative goals that the ending feels sturdy instead of manipulative. The simple premise is that the large Walton family, living in rural Virginia, awaits the return of patriarch John Walton (Andrew Duggan), who has been forced to take a job 50 miles away and can only get home on weekends. Matriarch Olivia Walton (Patricia Neal) struggles to provide for the couple’s many children, some of whom are nearing adulthood and some of whom still anxiously await Santa. Various complications make Olivia’s task formidable. Money is too tight for extravagant gifts, and the means by which neighbors make ends meet test Olivia’s strict religious beliefs, so she’s vexed when John Boy accepts favors from a pair of biddies who sell bootleg liquor.

          Most vignettes involve humor, an emotional sucker punch of some sort, and the learning of a lesson—as when the older kids feed Bible verses to their younger siblings during a contest with Christmas gifts as a prize. Some scenes explore passages in life, such as the sequence of teenaged Mary Ellen asking John Boy about dating and kissing. Much of the plot revolves around John Boy’s awkward assumption of a surrogate-father role, a situation complicated by his secret desire to become a writer.

          All of this stuff pays off quite well, even if Hamner occasionally betrays a weakness for cutesy scripting. At his best, he channels homespun pragmatism through Olivia’s dialogue (“Santa Claus is poor this year, just like everyone else”), and his management of a huge number of speaking roles is impressive. All in all, The Homecoming: A Christmas Story provides either a satisfying one-and-done entertainment or, for those so inclined, a charming gateway into the world of the Waltons. FYI, neither Duggan nor Neal returned for the series, with their roles assumed by Ralph Waite and Michael Learned, while beloved vaudeville star Edgar Bergen’s role in the pilot film as Grandfather Walton later went to Will Geer.

The Homecoming: A Christmas Story: GROOVY

The Marcus-Nelson Murders (1973)

          Significant as the first appearance of Telly Savalas’ popular TV crimefighter Lt. Theo Kojack, whose last name was altered slightly once the character earned his own series a few months later, The Marcus-Nelson Murders works well as a stand-alone story about the complexities of police work. Extrapolated from a real-life case that informed the Supreme Court’s famous Miranda ruling, The Marcus-Nelson Murders depicts the callousness with which the NYPD railroads an innocent man who makes an easy patsy for a high-profile crime. The Miranda ruling stipulated that suspects must be informed of their rights at the time of arrest, but the young man at the center of The Marcus-Nelson Murders gets arraigned on murder charges before he even realizes what’s happening. As written by the highly capable dramatist Abby Mann (an Oscar winner for 1961’s theatrical feature Judgment at Nuremberg), this adaptation of Selwyn Rabb’s book Justice in the Back Room has the flavor and toughness of Sidney Lumet’s myriad New York crime films, right down to the varied shadings of morality.

          The story begins with a mysterious attacker invading a Manhattan apartment. Two of the women who live there are brutally murdered during the home invasion. Public attention compels the police to throw enormous manpower onto the case. Among the investigators is Kojack. He mostly lingers on the sidelines for the first half of this long film, though director Joseph Sargent periodically features domestic interludes between Kojack and his on-again/off-again lover, Ruthie (Lorraine Gary). After cops in Brooklyn arrest a simple young black man, Lewis Humes (Gene Woodbury), on an unrelated charge, they become convinced Humes was responsible for the murders. The Brooklyn cops coerce a confession with a toxic combination of charm and violence. Kojack moves to the foreground after Humes is indicted, and the detective senses something isn’t right about the evidence incriminating Humes. What follows is the meticulous process by which Kojack and crusading lawyer Jake Weinhaus (José Ferrer) pursue the truth. Along the way, thorny issues (institutionalized racism, police procedure, unreliable eyewitness testimony) make it difficult for the heroes to see daylight, even as Humes rots in a cell.

          The Marcus-Nelson Murders covers a lot of ground, so at times it feels more like a miniseries than a movie. Some supporting characters resonate, including aggressive Brooklyn prosecutor Mario Portello (Allen Garfield), while others get lost in the shuffle. The picture also has false notes, such as casting B-movie stalwart Marjoe Gortner as a Puerto Rican. Nonetheless, the overarching theme—how the pursuit of justice intersects with the rights of the accused—comes through powerfully. Excepting the jaded narration he provides, Kojack is not the film’s most interesting element, so it’s no surprise producers overhauled the character for his weekly series, transforming the rechristened “Theo Kojak” from a principled observer to a wisecracking rulebreaker.

The Marcus-Nelson Murders: GROOVY

1980 Week: Private Benjamin

          After years of sharing top billing with male costars, Goldie Hawn finally scored a major box-office hit of her own thanks to Private Benjamin, the military-themed comedy that she also helped produce. Hiding a multilayered feminist message beneath a silly farce about a Jewish American Princess becoming a soldier, the picture has just enough substance to make up for the paucity of laugh-out-loud jokes. And while supporting players including Armand Assante and Eileen Brennan excel in juicy roles, Hawn‘s goofy appeal anchors the picture. Private Benjamin is all about the ridiculous spectacle of a tiny blonde with doe eyes running around obstacle courses in fatigues, complaining about damage to her fingernails and the unsatisfactory accommodations in her barracks. If there’s a major flaw in Private Benjamin, it’s that the movie lacks a big mission that tests the title character’s mettle—essentially, the sort of third act that was contrived for the following year’s military-themed comedy, Stripes (1981). However, Private Benjamin is only nominally about the Armed Forces, because soldiering is just a phase the title character passes through on the way to self-actualization.

          The movie begins with a lively wedding sequence, during which spoiled Judy Benjamin (Hawn) suffers a surprising loss: Her brand-new husband, Yale (Albert Brooks), dies of a heart attack during wedding-night sex. Devastated and lost, Judy meets a friendly stranger named Jim (Harry Dean Stanton), who offers a new life filled with adventure and luxury. By the time Judy realizes Jim is a military recruiter, she’s fallen for his vision of Army service as an extended vacation. Basic training sets her straight, especially when Judy clashes with stern Captain Lewis (Eileen Brennan), but Judy soon realizes she needs to see this thing through because she’s never accomplished anything. Her journey is complicated when she meets dashing Frenchman Henri (Assante), so a dramatic question takes shape: Will Judy discard her newfound sense of pride by settling back into the narcotizing cycle of domesticity and wealth?

          The script for Private Benjamin is shallow, and the writers tend to portray men as one-dimensional ogres. (Cowriter Nancy Meyers, later to become a rom-com titan, received her first credit—and her first Oscar nomination—for Private Benjamin.) Yet Private Benjamin works. The movie presents a steady stream of lighteheated moments, some of which contain a measure of sociopolitical resonance. Oscar-nominated Brennan makes a strong impression as a woman succeeding in a man’s world through pure toughness, while Assante explodes with energy and machismo, playing a special kind of dreamy jerk. Hawn floats through it all, coming across as bubbly even when her character is despondent, and setting the mood with her seemingly effortless comic skill and a touch of solid dramatic acting. She was rewarded with such impressive box-office success that a Private Benjamin TV show soon followed. Running from 1981 to 1983, the show replaced Hawn with Lorna Patterson, although Brennan reprised her supporting role.

Private Benjamin: GROOVY

McCloud (1970)

          While not a direct continuation of the Clint Eastwood movie Coogan’s Bluff (1968), popular TV detective series McCloud was inspired by that film, hence Herman Miller’s credits as screenwriter of the Eastwood picture and creator of the TV series. Both projects employ the novel image of a cowboy cop transplanted to New York City, solving crimes with frontier toughness, old-fashioned common sense, and a warm charm that drives cosmopolitan women wild. Right from this first episode, which is sometimes known by the titles “Portrait of a Dead Girl” and “Who Killed Miss U.S.A.?,” star Dennis Weaver cuts a striking image, his tall frame swathed in a sheepskin coat and capped by a cowboy hat. Yet Marshal Sam McCloud of Taos, New Mexico, is not portrayed as a bumpkin. Quite to the contrary, he’s a tireless investigator whose courtly manners disguise an agile mind.
          The notion is that because he’s free of big-city hangups and pretentions, he sees things more clearly than his metropolitan counterparts, spotting holes in theories, logic problems in alibis, and omissions from crime reports. It’s worth nothing that he’s also smooth with the ladies, because one of this pilot film’s most enjoyable scenes is an exchange of erotic banter between Weaver and leading lady Diana Muldaur.
          Nonetheless, despite being cowritten by the reliable team of Richard Levinson and William Link, the first McCloud mystery isn’t especially memorable beyond the effective introduction of the protagonist. After capturing a fugitive in New Mexico, McCloud escorts his prisoner to New York, where the man is set to testify in a high-profile murder case. Criminals posing as cops kidnap the prisoner, compelling McCloud  to recapture the man and therefore restore his dignity as a lawman. This leads McCloud to explore the facts of the murder case, in which a Latino busboy stands accused of murdering a white beauty queen. Naturally, McCloud discovers problems with evidence incriminating the busboy and makes his way, slowly but surely, toward the identity of the real killer. Accompanying the marshal through his first New York adventure is Chris Coughlin (Muldaur), writer of a best-selling book about the case. At various times, McCloud encounters an activist priest, a jaded fashion model, a morally ambiguous lawyer, and other big-city types who provide stark contrast to the plain-talking protagonist.

          Even though the story underwhelms, the film is quite watchable. The acting is slick (watch forRaul Julia as the priest and Julie Newmar, of all people, as the model), while director Richard A. Colla gives everything an expensive look with blurry foreground objects and fluid camera moves. As for Weaver, he's in the zone from start to finish, channeling an aw-shucks Gary Cooper vibe without ever seeming artificial or cloying. Although McCloud never became a proper weekly series—like Columbo and McMillan and Wife, it aired as a series of telefilms—the franchise captured the public’s imagination, running from 1970 to 1977. Weaver reprised the role for 1989’s The Return of Sam McCloud.

McCloud: FUNKY

Cannon (1971)

          Investigators with offbeat gimmicks were a staple of mystery fiction long before television came along, but by the ’70s, Hollywood had perfected the art of repackaging the same old whodunit storylines by featuring unusual protagonists. Columbo hid his wit behind a façade of simple-mindedness, McCloud was a cowpoke in the big city, Ironside was confined to a wheelchair, Kolchak solved paranormal mysteries, and so on. Yet some of these gimmicks were so threadbare as to be almost laughable. The most notable attribute of private investigator Frank Cannon, who fought crime during five seasons spanning 1971 to 1976 and returned for a 1980 telefilm, is girth. Yep, he’s big. Corpulent, fat, morbidly obese, rotund—take your pick. The character has other traits, but his size is a point of conversation from his first appearance forward. Thanks to smart scripting and a winning performance by star William Conrad, Cannon spends the enjoyable pilot movie that preceded his weekly series coming across as clever and dogged and resourceful. He even gets into brawls and foot chases. Characters remark on his weight, as does Cannon himself, but mostly he gets down to the tricky business of solving a murder and untangling a conspiracy. Particularly because this pilot has such a fine supporting cast of versatile character actors, it’s unsurprising the movie connected well enough with audiences to trigger a series. But, still, the sheer laziness of the whole enterprise—this one’s different, see, because he’s fat! There’s a reason they used to call TV a vast wasteland.

          One day, ex-cop Cannon gets a letter from Diana Langston (Vera Miles), the widow of an old friend. Traveling to the small desert town where she runs a motel, Cannon investigates the man’s death and gets stonewalled by local cops including Lt. Redfield (J.D. Cannon) and Deputy Magruder (Earl Holliman). Turns out the whole small town is under the thumb of crime boss Virgil Holley (Murray Hamilton), and things get even more complicated once Cannon discovers that Lt. Redfield’s sexy wife, Christie (Lynda Day George), has dangerous romantic ties outside her marriage. Despite several attempts on his life as well as threats of incarceration, Cannon helps Diana learn how and why her husband died, cleaning up Diana’s town in the process. Written by series creator Edward Hume, the Cannon pilot has the same qualities as other series from Quinn Martin Productions (The Fugitive, The Streets of San Francisco, etc.), notably crisp characterizations and strong visual interest, so even when the story gets garbled—a common trap for mystery shows—the action, locations, and performances command attention. (Also featured in the cast are Norman Alden, John Fiedler, Lawrence Pressman, Barry Sullivan, and Keenan Wynn.) Is the story about anything? No. And excepting a few twists, is the story genuinely fresh or surprising? No again. But detective shows are comfort food, and in that regard, Cannon is a hearty meal, suitable for the appetite of its protagonist.

Cannon: GROOVY

Ransom for a Dead Man (1971)

          On its own merits, the made-for-TV crime picture Ransom for a Dead Man is an enjoyable if somewhat far-fetched story about a murderess trapped by the complications of her attempt at committing the perfect crime. The title refers to her main gimmick—killing her husband, then pretending he was kidnapped and using doctored audio recordings to create the illusion of his voice delivering ransom demands while police are present to hear the phone call. Playing the murderess is the highly capable Lee Grant. She conveys nefarious duplicity while her character acts the victim, and she unleashes nastiness when her character pushes a stepdaughter out of the way so the murderess can claim her dead husband’s fortune. Still, Ransom for a Dead Man emphasizes plot over characterization, and the filmmakers never bother to humanize the murderess. So why bother talking about this picture? Because the police officer who finally traps the murderess is none other than Lieutenant Frank Columbo of the LAPD.

          As played by Peter Falk in dozens of TV movies spanning 1971 to 2003, Columbo is one of the most popular crime-fighters in small-screen history, even though he never appeared in a proper weekly series. The reasons for his popularity are plainly evident throughout Ransom for a Dead Man, and, in fact, Grant’s character explicitly describes the investigator’s unique methodology in a monologue, detailing how Columbo disarms suspects by pretending to be absent-minded, gullible, and simple, even though he’s remarkably clever, observant, and shrewd. Ransom for a Dead Man is such a thorough introduction to Columbo that even the character’s famous rumpled raincoat makes its first appearance here. Yet in some ways, Ransom for a Dead Man isn’t the ideal template for the many Columbo adventures that followed, seeing as how the lieutenant employs a civilian to execute a dangerous and legally questionable sting operation as the final trap for snaring the resourceful murderess. To find a pristine example of Columbo’s sleuthing, it’s best to check out the character’s next appearance and the first official episode of the recurring telefilm series, Murder by the Book, which broadcast later in 1971. The pedigree of that one explains why it’s so good: Steven Bochco wrote the script and Steven Spielberg directed.

          Getting back to Ransom for a Dead Man, you’ll note that the phrase “pilot episode” has not yet been used. Like a Columbo mystery, this gets tricky. Originally played by Bert Freed, Columbo first appeared in “Enough Rope,” a 1960 episode of The Chevy Mystery Show. The episode’s writers, Richard Levinson and William Link, repurposed the character for their play Prescription: Murder, which in turn became a 1968 TV movie with Falk as a less disheveled version of Columbo. Therefore it wasn’t until Ransom for a Dead Man that the version of Columbo beloved by generations of TV fans made his debut, raincoat and all.

Ransom for a Dead Man: FUNKY

The Streets of San Francisco (1972)

          A solidly made cop show that ran for five seasons and is perhaps best remembered as the vehicle that delivered Michael Douglas to stardom, The Streets of San Francisco made the most of the locations referenced in its title. Rather than living entirely on backlots, familiar Los Angeles locations, and soundstages, as was true for many generic police programs of the ’70s, The Streets of San Francisco used the glorious views and loping hills of the Bay Area as supporting characters. Watching veteran Detective Lt. Mike Stone (Karl Malden) and passionate young Inspector Steve Keller (Michael Douglas) confront crises and probe mysteries every week, it was believable that San Francisco was the home to an endless array of interesting stories.

          That being said, the tale told in the pilot movie is weak. One problem, of course, is that the movie sprawls across an hour and 40 minutes, stretching the routine premise of the show well past the breaking point. Another problem is that producers put way too much focus on guest star Robert Wagner, who plays a lawyer with connections to a murdered woman. Whereas strong pilots situate viewers in the worlds of the leading characters who will drive the ensuing series, The Streets of San Francisco pilot shoves Stone and Keller to the background. (In subsequent episodes that boasted vivid central narratives, this trope worked more effectively than it does here.)

          The pilot begins with the death of a young woman named Holly Berry (Kim Darby). Stone and Keller find a peculiar clue on her body—a laminated business card bearing the name of lawyer David Farr (Wagner). The storyline then trudges along two parallel tracks. In present-day scenes, the cops try to piece together a picture of Holly’s life. In flashbacks, viewers learn about Holly’s affair with David, which is fraught with issues because she’s a hippie living on the fringe and he’s a member of high society with a reputation to protect. Based on a novel by Carolyn Weston, the pilot storyline is really more of a melodrama than a proper mystery. Uninspired work by the so-so supporting cast reflects the tepid nature of the material; beyond Darby and Wagner, the pilot features Tom Bosley, Mako, and John Rubenstein. Throwing the whole thing in a weird new direction is the climax, which switches the tone from police procedural to supernatural thriller.

          Happily, things got better on The Streets of San Francisco once it went to series. Motifs that seemed incidental in the pilot, like Malden’s way of imbuing his seen-it-all character with dogged optimism, grew as the series developed. Concurrently, Douglas found his footing by creating a persona befitting the spectacular head of hair that he sported throughout his run on the series; by the time Douglas left the show, just prior to its final year, he had become an Oscar-winning producer and he was well on his way to becoming a movie star. No surprise that his replacement, Richard Hatch, wasn’t able to keep the Streets of San Francisco going, though Hatch later found cult fame as the star of the original Battlestar Galactica series.

The Streets of San Francisco: FUNKY

The Night Stalker (1972)

          Seeing as how this playful horror show is not only a modestly budgeted telefilm but also the first of two pilot movies that preceded a short-lived series, The Night Stalker has cast a long shadow. A cult favorite for its mixture of humor and shock value, The Night Stalker and the weekly show it spawned—Kolchak: The Night Stalker—have been repeatedly cited by producer Chris Carter as the principal inspiration for his enduring X-Files franchise. Indeed, prior to The Night Stalker, it was rare for episodic television to feature ghouls and and monsters, except in the safe zones of anthology shows (e.g., The Twilight Zone) and comedies (e.g., The Munsters). Tellingly, one of the key players behind The Night Stalker, producer Dan Curtis, tested the public’s tolerance for small-screen scares by creating the vampire-themed daytime soap Dark Shadows, which ran from 1966 to 1971.

          The Night Stalker teamed Curtis with gifted fantasist Richard Matheson, who adapted the script from a book by Jeffrey Grant Rice. Like Curtis, Matheson was highly skilled at making spooky stuff palatable to TV viewers—witness his success with episodes of The Twilight Zone and the Steven Spielberg-directed telefilm Duel (1971). But enough about pedigree. While The Night Stalker is particularly interesting for its place in TV history, the movie is fun on its own merits, although its power to thrill has dulled with the passage of time and the accompanying coarsening of filmed entertainment.

          Darren McGavin, perfectly cast, plays Carl Kolchak, a low-rent reporter with a vivid imagination. Exploring the circumstances of bizarre murders in Las Vegas, Carl latches onto the wild idea that the killer is a real-life vampire—not a crazy person who acts like a mythical bloodsucker, but an actual supernatural creature. Naturally, this notion vexes Carl’s long-suffering editor, Tony Vincenzo (Simon Oakland), as well as local authorities including the hot-tempered Sheriff Warren A. Butcher (Claude Akins). Undaunted, Kolchak gathers enough evidence to persuade everyone that the preternaturally resilient murderer Janos Skorzeny (Barry Atwater) must be staked in the heart. Easier said than done.

          Unfolding with the familiar rhythms of a police procedural—clues, setbacks, witnesses, etc.—The Night Stalker builds a decent head of steam, with reliable TV director John Llewellyn Moxey delivering a lively version of the Dan Curtis house style. Think dramatic lighting, slow-burn suspense sequences, and zesty fight scenes. McGavin’s performance, as well as the motor-mouthed dialogue that Matheson provides for the actor, elevates the material considerably. Kolchak’s exasperation at the reluctance of authorities to believe the obvious is palpable, and his tap-dancing way of trying to play events for his advantage is consistently amusing. If there’s a weak link in the formula behind this piece, it’s Curtis’ usual predilection toward showing things full-frame instead of opting for mystery—the producer subscribes to the blunt-force-trauma school of storytelling.

          Nonetheless, the combination of the offbeat material and McGavin’s winning performance was worth sustaining, hence a second telefilm, The Night Strangler (1973), which Curtis directed from a Matheson script, and the 20 weekly episodes of Kolchak, airing between September 1974 and March 1975. A poorly received revival series, titled The Night Stalker and featuring Stuart Townsend in the lead, flamed out over the course of 10 episodes in the 2005–2006 TV season.

The Night Stalker: GROOVY

Quincy, M.E. (1976)

          There are certain TV shows for which I must confess inexplicable affection, and Quincy, M.E. is one of them. While certainly not a bad series—the receipt of 10 Emmy nominations during the show’s eight-year run indicates that it was a cut above the usual fare—Quincy, M.E. simply used a fresh gimmick to explore familiar murder-of-the-week terrain. The gimmick, of course, was forensic medicine, which is now commonplace on the small screen but which had not been the focus of a weekly TV show prior to 1978. Yet while the device of finding clues on corpses gave Quincy, M.E. novelty during its first few years, the real glue of the show was Jack Klugman’s delightfully cranky performance in the title role. Seemingly every week, the intrepid coroner lost his temper because someone failed to value human life as highly as the abrasive but saintly Dr. Quincy. Just as often, Klugman exclaimed some variation of the phrase, “It was murdah!” Good stuff.

          The show’s pilot movie, subtitled “Go Fight City Hall . . . to the Death,” provides 75 minutes of solid entertainment, with all of the show’s cast and tropes fully formed. When a woman is murdered on a Los Angeles beach, medical examiner Quincy finds perplexing clues, much to the consternation of hardnosed LAPD detective Lt. Frank Monahan (Garry Walberg), who’s all about closing cases quickly and therefore doesn’t have time for Quincy’s conspiracy theories. Yet the coroner is unstoppable when he detects something amiss at a murder scene, so Quincy connects the woman’s death to her job at City Hall, then finds a pattern linking the woman’s demise to the deaths of other City Hall employees. Quincy yells at people a lot, shaming them into supporting his investigation, and the pilot’s main running joke involves Quincy ditching his girlfriend, Lee (Lynette Mettey), in the middle of dates so he can pursue leads. Present and accounted for are series regulars Val Bisoglio, as Quincy’s bartender buddy, Danny; Robert Ito, as Quincy’s lab assistant, Sam; and John S. Ragin, as Quincy’s unctuous boss, Dr. Asten. (Pilot guest stars include Hollywood stalwarts Henry Darrow, Woodrow Parfrey, Hari Rhodes, and George Wyner.)

          Written by series creators Glen A. Larson and Lou Shaw, the pilot grinds through a few pedestrian sequences—including the requisite car chase—while also reaching unique high points like the scene in which Danny and Quincy get a prostitute drunk so she’ll stick her head into a noose for a medical experiment. If the mark of a good mystery show is the unconventional lengths to which the hero will go to answer difficult questions, this scene alone explains the appeal of Quincy, M.E. by combining Klugman’s mischievous charm with the character’s obsessive nature. Added bonus: The pilot contains the full scene from which producers extrapolated the show’s opening-credits vignette, featuring Quincy dissecting a corpse while police recruits faint.

Quincy, M.E.: GROOVY

Hart to Hart (1979)

          Frothy romantic intrigue somewhat the vein of the old Thin Man movies, Hart to Hart was the pilot movie for a series that ran from 1979 to 1984. (Eight reunion movies came afterward, airing from 1993 to 1996.) With former 1950s matinee idol Robert Wagner in the leading role, the Hart to Hart series never aimed for hipness or relevance, instead presenting the lighthearted adventures of jet-setting millionaire and his beautiful wife as they solve crimes for a hobby. Seen today, the pilot movie is creakier than ever, so it’s actually more interesting to note behind-the-scenes trivia than to explore the onscreen content. Two of Wagner’s famous paramours appear in the telefilm. His wife at the time of filming, Natalie Wood, makes a goofy cameo as an actress in a Southern-belle costume, and his future wife, Jill St. John, plays a supporting role. The series was created by novelist Sidney Sheldon, and the pilot was cowritten and directed by the prolific Tom Mankiewicz, who scribed many of James Bond’s ’70s outings and contributed to Superman (1978). Overseeing the whole project were producers Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, the titans of trash TV in the ’70s and ’80s.

          Anyway, after a friend dies under mysterious circumstances, dashing businessman Jonathan Hart (Wagner) promises the friend’s widow that he will investigate. Clues connect the dead man to a pricey health farm, so Jonathan hits the road in his jaunty sports car. Along the way, he gets into a playful road race with a beautiful redhead, who leaves him in the dust when he gets pulled over by a cop. Jonathan reaches the health farm and encounters the redhead again, so they spar verbally—and yet that night, she slips into his room and his bed. Because, to the surprise of absolutely no one, she’s actually his wife, Jennifer (Stefanie Powers), recently returned from a European trip. The Harts investigate the health farm together, discovering a conspiracy to brainwash rich guests in order to steal their money. Concurrently, Jonathan flirts with yet another beautiful redhead, Sylvia (St. John), ostensibly to find more clues.

          All of this plays out in tedious fashion. The elaborate introduction to Jennifer’s character feels like a cheap attempt at a Hitchcockian flourish, and Mankiewicz’ would-be pithy dialogue is like champagne that’s lost its fizz. As for the leads, they’re both so vacuous that they seem more like gregarious party hosts than actual performers. Meanwhile, supporting players including James Noble, Michael Lerner, Roddy McDowall, Stella Stevens, and Mankiewicz favorite Clifton James play forgettable roles with bloodless professionalism, and future series regular Lionel Stander, who portrays Jonathan’s gravel-voiced butler, Max, is underused. Judging from the longevity of the franchise, the folks behind Hart to Hart obviously did something right, but it’s hard to determine what that is by watching this thoroughly enervated pilot.

Hart to Hart: FUNKY

The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams (1974)

          Thanks to its mixture of gorgeous images of the American West and heartwarming themes, watching The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams is a bit like living inside a John Denver song for 93 minutes, which is to say that the movie conveys a deeply attractive vision of frontier life without the burden of realism. Like the transcendent mountains in Denver’s songs, the wilderness of The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams is a place where Indians and wild animals are simply friends whom the protagonist has not yet met, where every day is a new opportunity for wholesome adventures in picturesque valleys, and where any sort of hardship can be resolved in the space of a montage set to gentle music. This sort of wish-fulfillment storytelling may be silly, but The Life of Times of Grizzly Adams meshed with the back-to-nature idealism of the early ’70s. Produced for a reported $140,ooo, the independent feature grossed a remarkable $65 million and spawned a TV series with the same star, Dan Haggerty, which ran for two seasons.

         Based upon the adventures of real-life figure James Adams, who lived in the California wilderness during the 19th century and demonstrated a remarkable facility for taming animals, including grizzly bears, the movie was produced by Sunn Classic Pictures, a company primarily known for its “pseudoscience” documentaries about the Bermuda Triangle, Bigfoot, and the like. True to form, The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams shamelessly blends fact and fiction. In this telling, Adams (Haggerty) flees civilization when he’s accused of a crime he did not commit, which never happened to the real Adams. The movie then presents episodes depicting Adams’ assimilation into the mountain-man lifestyle. He rescues a bear cub and names the cub Benjamin Franklin. He rescues a wounded Crow warrior, Nakoma (Don Shanks), who teaches Adams survival techniques. Adams endures a raft ride down whitewater rapids, escapes close encounters with black bears and mountain lions, and so on. At various intervals, the story stops dead for cutesy vignettes depicting animal behavior, such as the amusing sequence of a raccoon trying to navigate a branch hanging over a river. The whole piece is presented with wall-to-wall narration delivered in folksy style by Bill Woodson, who also provides the speaking voice that emanates from Haggerty’s mouth during the film’s few dialogue scenes.

          In terms of credibility and weight, The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams is quite shoddy, basically the low-budget equivalent of a Disney nature film. Nonetheless, the Utah locations are spectacularly beautiful, and Haggerty cuts a believable figure with his massive frame, flowing blond hair, and bushy beard. The filmmakers also cleverly frame the piece with scenes about Adams’ feelings toward the daughter he left behind when he ventured into the mountains, giving The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams the illusion of being a properly structured narrative.

The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams: FUNKY

Little House on the Prairie (1974)

          A precursor to the oppressively wholesome dramatic series of the same name, the telefilm Little House on the Prairie is a solid piece of work considering that principal creative force Michael Landon generated 98 minutes of slick entertainment without employing any real dramatic conflict. Famous for his role as Little Joe Cartwright on the megahit Western series Bonanza (1959-1973), Landon served as coproducer, director, and star for this adaptation of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s book. The book, second in a long series extrapolated from the author’s childhood adventures, offers a warm autobiographical sketch of the Ingalls family’s relocation from Wisconsin to the Kansas prairie circa the 1860s. As dramatized by Landon, from a script by Blanche Hanalis, Little House on the Prairie is a heartening study in goodness, perseverance, and tolerance.

          Dauntless patriarch Charles Ingalls (Landon) leads his family on a dangerous trek through rough rapids, unforgiving plains, and winter storms until they arrive in open land they believe is available for settlers. Befriending a grizzled but kindly settler named Isaiah Edwards (Victor French), Charles and his wife, Caroline (Karen Grassle), build a small house in which they nurture their children, despite the ever-present threat of hostile Indians and natural disasters. Putting a heavy focus on religious faith, the film depicts the Ingalls clan surmounting the Indian problem quite easily—since it turns out the local natives are friendly people interested only in cultural exchange and the trading of goods—and surviving the potential catastrophe of a brush fire thanks to divine intervention, in the form of a sudden rainstorm. Through it all, Charles teaches lessons while sounding a lot more like a ’70s family therapist than an Old West pioneer. Charles and his relatives talk about their feelings a lot, particularly in scenes between Charles and his daughter Laura (Melissa Gilbert), whose character provides the film’s narration. (This device continued during the series, in which the Laura character inherits the nickname “Half-Pint.”)

          Landon’s performance in this movie is charismatic to a fault, since many scenes feel as if they were designed solely to showcase the saintly qualities of the protagonist, and even the moments when Charles displays weakness embellish the hero-worship approach. That said, humanistic values are commendable in any context, and it’s hard to fault the film’s message about the importance of familial loyalty, hard work, and humility. Plus, there’s a lot of narrative business about the ubiquity of dirt on the prairie, and there’s even a running gag about spitting, so the film isn’t totally antiseptic—though it’s close. As to whether the world actually needed 204 episodes and three reunion movies continuing the Ingalls odyssey, well, that’s a discussion for another day.

Little House on the Prairie: FUNKY

The Rockford Files (1974)

          The beloved ’70s detective series The Rockford Files got off to a, well, rocky start, when the show’s first installment, titled “Backlash of the Hunter,” was broadcast as a telefilm several months before weekly episodes began airing. As developed and written by series producers Stephen J. Cannell (later to become the king of the escapist action show) and Roy Huggins (who previously created the series The Fugitive and Maverick), the Rockford Files pilot contains most of the elements that gave the series its laid-back charm. Ex-con Jim Rockford lives in a trailer on the beach in Malibu, soliciting clients through an ad in the phone book. Something of an upbeat cynic, Jim expects the worst from people but hopes for the best. Perfectly capable of holding his own in fights, Jim nonetheless relies on avoidance, deceit, and trickery, since he’d rather do things the easy way. His network includes a crass LAPD detective; a squirrelly career criminal whom Jim met in the slammer; and Jim’s own dad, Joseph “Rocky” Rockford, a beach bum who handles odd jobs while Jim’s in the field. Most important of all, the pilot has James Garner in the leading role. Formerly the star of Higgins’ series Maverick, Garner is perfectly cast as a seen-it-all smartass who endures humiliating setbacks as often as he scores unlikely victories.
          Alas, the pilot movie tells a convoluted, inconsequential, and uninteresting story that’s delivered by way of one-dimensional characters and laborious plotting. The pilot also lacks the avuncular presence of series costar Noah Beery Jr., who played Rocky in the weekly episodes. (The pilot’s Rocky is Robert Donley, a capable actor who cannot match Beery’s avuncular flair.) As for the actual storyline, it’s a whodunit about a hobo killed at an LA beach, and Jim’s client is the hobo’s daughter, Sara (Lindsay Wagner, who later toplined The Bionic Woman). Clues eventually connect the murder to an old crime in Las Vegas, but the actual case is secondary to what the pilot reveals about Jim’s methodology. He cheats during fights. He lies to authorities and informants and suspects. He cuts deals on his day rate because clients are few and far between. “Backlash of the Hunter” is frustratingly uneven, though Garner’s charm and the skill of the supporting cast—which also includes Michael Lerner, Stuart Margolin, Bill Mumy, Joe Santos, Nita Talbot, and the indestructible B-movie icon William Smith—compensate for the iffy narrative. Once The Rockford Files found its groove, the series ran for six seasons, leaving the air in 1980, and then resurfaced between 1994 and 1999 for eight TV movies, all featuring Garner.

The Rockford Files: FUNKY

Kung Fu (1972)

          “I seek not to know the answers,” soft-spoken Shaolin priest Kwai Chang Caine says at one point, “but to understand the questions.” And that, in a handful of words, captures what made the Western TV series Kung Fu (1972-1975) unique. Superficially, the novelty of the series involved juxtaposing Eastern martial arts with the traditional milieu of the American frontier—and, for that matter, giving Eastern martial arts some of their earliest mainstream exposure in the U.S. On a deeper level, the series was about spirituality, seen through the prism of a soulful young man struggling to reconcile his quest for inner peace with the realities of a violent world. That fascinating paradox infuses the Kung Fu pilot movie, which has aged beautifully. A strong piece of work introducing all of the clever stylistic flourishes of the series while remaining grounded by leading man David Carradine’s compelling performance, Kung Fu works well both as a stand-alone narrative and as a lead-in for the subsequent series.

          As did episodes of the weekly show, Kung Fu cuts back and forth between “present-day” scenes of the American West and flashbacks to China, tracking Caine (Carradine) as he makes his way through the U.S. with only the humble rags he wears and the small pack he carries on his back. In flashbacks, we learn that when he was an orphaned child, Caine won entrance to a Shaolin temple by demonstrating endurance and humility. Trained in martial arts and spirituality, Caine left the temple but soon found trouble—after witnessing the pointless murder of a beloved teacher, Caine responded by killing the Chinese nobleman who was responsible. Fleeing China to avoid execution, Caine travelled to America, where his long-lost brother lives. The contrivance of the series is that while Caine searches for his brother, he happens upon a new group of troubled people every week, helping them with his combat skills and his transcendent worldview even as bounty hunters hired by the Chinese aristocracy try to capture or kill Caine.

          In the pilot movie, Caine finds work on a railroad crew, eventually leading a rebellion against callous white overseers who endanger Chinese laborers in the name of quick profits. As directed by Jerry Thorpe, who later won an Emmy for directing one of the series’ weekly episodes, the Kung Fu pilot is visually impressive. The Western scenes are crowded and dusty, while the flashback scenes to the temple have a magical quality thanks to image-softening lens filters, moody lighting, and the selective use of slow motion. (The abundance of candles within the temple, as well as the gentle flute music on the soundtrack, adds to the soothing effect.) Playing Caine’s principal mentor, the blind Master Po, Keye Luke gives an indelible performance, making the script’s fanciful analogies and aphorisms sound like wisdom for the ages. Radames Pera is equally well cast as Young Caine, capturing the character’s determination and need for connection, and it’s a kick to see David Carradine’s real-life younger half-brother, Keith Carradine, playing Caine as a teenager.

          Not every episode of the ensuing series works as well as this pilot movie, and some of the stylistic flourishes lost their potency through repetition. (Furthermore, the less said about the 1987 TV movie Kung Fu: The Next Generation and the 1993-1997 syndicated series Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, both of which are set in the present with David Carradine playing a descendant of his original character, the better.) Nonetheless, the first Kung Fu movie set a high bar in terms of artistic, cultural, and thematic ambition. No surprise, then, that controversy emerged over its authorship—to this day, rumors persist that Bruce Lee generated the idea for the show, although what’s undisputed is merely that Lee was briefly considered for the leading role.

Kung Fu: GROOVY

The Emigrants (1971) & The New Land (1972)

          Screened in tandem, The Emigrants and its sequel, The New Land, comprise nearly seven hours of narrative material, all depicting the travails of a 19th-century Swedish family that relocates from their homeland to Minnesota. Accordingly, the first question that must be asked is whether cowriter/director Jan Troell needed seven hours to communicate the story that he tells across the two pictures. The simple answer to that question is no, but the simple answer is deceptive. It’s inarguable that both The Emigrants and The New Land contain superfluous scenes. Similarly, both films suffer from extraordinary bloat. Important scenes drag on past the point of impact, minor scenes are given too much screen time, and Troell periodically stops the drama cold to linger on an idyllic shot of a stream or a panoramic view of a forest. Both films are so indulgent, from the perspective of content and pacing, that it’s tempting to joke that Troell set out to tell an epic story in real time.

          Yet buried inside the expanse of these movies, and indeed woven into the very fabric of scenes that run longer than they should, is something deeply important—a sense of chronological weight. In telling a story about an era that precedes the fast-paced modern age, Troell found an appropriate style for conveying the drudgery of work, the monumental scope of international travel, and the sheer hardship of survival. Making audiences feel as if they’d been on an exhausting journey wasn’t the only way to explore the themes of the Vilhem Moberg novels upon which the two films are based, but it was an artistically credible way of doing so. No surprise, then, that massive acclaim was showered upon The Emigrants and The New Land both at home in Sweden and internationally.

          The first film introduces viewers to Karl Oskar Nilsson (Max Von Sydow) and his wife, Kristina (Liv Ullmann), as well as Karl Oskar’s younger brother, Robert (Eddie Axberg). In the broadest strokes, Karl Oskar realizes that he cannot sustain life in Sweden anymore, thanks to a deadly combination of famine, poverty, and religious persecution. With several children in tow, the Nilssons and several of their friends embark on a brutal journey from Sweden to America. By the time Karl Oskar finds what he deems the perfect location for a new homestead in the woods of Minnesota, the first movie is over. The New Land dramatizes the struggles that Karl Oskar, his family, and other Swedes encounter while trying to become successful farmers despite language barriers, limited resources, and the threat of hostile Indians. Much of the second picture is devoted to a harrowing adventure that Robert experiences when he leaves the homestead to seek gold in California.

          Although joyful moments occur periodically, deprivation and tragedy dominate The Emigrants and The New Land. Part history, part soap opera, and part tribute to indomitable settlers, these films are monumental in their dimensions. The stories cover decades, and the entire lives of certain characters are depicted. Troell accentuates subtle tropes, so many scenes feel impressionistic or even surreal, even though the movies address certain topics (especially religion) with detailed dialogue. At their best, these pictures have the sort of immersive realism that later became commonplace in American miniseries derived from literature. The Emigrants and The New Land require tremendous attention, patience, and stamina from viewers, so the movies are not for everyone, especially because the narratives are bleak. By any measure, however, the films represent extraordinary accomplishments.

          The labors of Troell and his collaborators were recognized by entities including the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences—both movies were nominated as Best Foreign Film in their respective release years, and The Emigrants has the odd distinction of receiving Oscar nominations in two separate years, because when the film was rereleased, it earned a nomination as Best Picture, rare for foreign films in any circumstances. FYI, Hollywood generated a short-lived TV series based on the material. Costarring Kurt Russell, The New Land aired for all of one month in the fall of 1974, flopping so badly that half the produced episodes were shelved.

The Emigrants: GROOVY

The New Land: GROOVY