Welcome Home Soldier Boys (1971)

          Something of a thematic predecessor to the Sylvester Stallone hit First Blood (1982), this grim melodrama depicts the travails of four Green Berets who return to the U.S. after service in Vietnam, only to discover that their personalities are so fundamentally changed by their harrowing overseas experiences that they no longer fit into normal society. Released amid the first wave of pictures exploring the impact of PTSD on Vietnam vets, writer-director Guerdon Trueblood’s movie has as many problems as it does virtues. The character work is thin, the psychology is dubious, and the story becomes cartoonish toward the end. Yet alongside Trueblood’s countless missteps are several vivid moments, a pervasive sense of melancholy, and a propulsive overall narrative—even though it’s hard to believe a lot of what happens, viewers never doubt that something terrible is imminent.

          Leading the vets is Danny (Joe Don Baker), a hulking country boy enamored of traveling to California with his comrade-in-arms, Kid (Alan Vint), in order to start new lives as farmers. The plan is to raise some hell along the way, accompanied by Fatback (Elliot Street) and Shooter (Paul Koslo). Viewers’ first clue that all is not right with the group occurs when they pick up a sexy hitchhiker, take turns with her, and toss her out of a moving car when she has the temerity to ask for money. The vets share a moment of panic before pressing onward as if they just narrowly escaped a skirmish with enemy combatants. Later, things get even more debauched when a creepy hotel clerk (Geoffrey Lewis) gives the vets the run of his place while also providing a steady supply of booze and women. By the time the group reaches Danny’s childhood home, they’ve crossed some point of no return, morally speaking. Violence becomes inevitable.

          It’s hard to imagine what Trueblood might have done differently to put this thing over, since Welcome Home Soldier Boys operates well outside human reality for much of its running time, and the climax is as outrageous as it is disquieting—at some point the picture transitions from metaphorical to silly. Nonetheless, the actors, Baker especially, convey a sense of tragedy, as if the vets don’t realize how deeply years of killing for Uncle Sam scarred their souls. The vets also seem bewildered by the scorn they encounter from civilians. In one scene, Danny reveals to a woman that he’s killed 113 people. She laughs. Small moments like that resonate even when Trueblood’s clumsy attempts at grandiosity don’t.

Welcome Home Soldier Boys: FUNKY

The Shadow of Chikara (1977)

          A low-budget adventure/horror flick set in the American South right after the Civil War, The Shadow of Chikara is pleasant enough to watch for fans of ’70s drive-in junk, because it features a handful of familiar actors as well as a slew of wild narrative concepts. Like so many films of the same type, however, The Shadow of Chikara illustrates the gulf between conception and execution. On paper, the plot sounds creepy and eventful, but on film, the storyline is pointless and vapid. For much of the running time, nothing really happens, and the ending is so inconsequential that even calling the finale a disappointment requires exaggeration. That said, the movie avoids some obvious traps in that it’s neither punishingly stupid nor punishingly ugly. If you dig the notion of folks grimacing and growling while sporting period costumes and trudging through dirty forests, then you’ll have an acceptable experience watching this picture. If you expect more, this one’s not for you.

          During the final days of the Civil War, Confederate soldier Wishbone Cutter (Joe Don Baker) consoles a dying comrade, Virgil Caine (Slim Pickens), who shares the location of a cave in which a cache of diamonds is hidden. After returning home to discover that his wife left him for a Yankee, Wishbone becomes a nomad determined to find the diamonds, so he assembles a crew including a geologist (Ted Neeley), an Indian guide (John N. Houck Jr.), and a woman (Sondra Locke), the latter of whom Wishbone rescues from rapists. The group heads to an Arkansas mountain supposedly guarded by the spirit of a giant demon bird, and, predictably, bad things happen—causing Wishbone and his people to question whether they’re bedeviled by locals protecting a treasure or beset by supernatural forces.

          The mild allure of this piece is likely apparent in the preceding description. For instance, if hearing that Joe Don Baker plays a dude named Wishbone Cutter doesn’t pique your interest, then you and I don’t groove on the same things. Hell, Baker even plays the role with mutton-chop sideburns. Baker is best during moments of macho posturing, though the picture allows him to clumsily express sensitivity now and then. Pickens lends kitsch value, though he’s only in the movie very briefly, and it’s novel to see Neeley in his first sizable nonmusical role after scoring in the stage and screen versions of Jesus Christ Superstar.

The Shadow of Chikara: FUNKY

Mongo’s Back in Town (1971)

          Telling the story of a hit man who returns to his old neighborhood for a contract job that’s imbued with family issues, the made-for-TV melodrama Mongo’s Back in Town is fairly thoughtful in terms of characterization and themes. Making the piece even more interesting is a noteworthy cast: Joe Don Baker, Charles Cioffi, Sally Field, Anne Francis, Telly Savalas, Martin Sheen. Excepting Baker and Field, none of these players has room to do much that’s out of the ordinary, but their collective efforts, in tandem with director Marvin J. Chomsky’s understated storytelling, ensure that Mongo’s Back in Town feels like something more than a typical small-screen crime picture. The murky script has something to do with Mongo Nash (Baker) answering a call from his brother, low-rent gangster Mike Nash (Cioffi), to off someone. Local cop Lt. Pete Tolstad (Savalas) sees Mongo arrive, so he knows what’s up and tries to prevent bloodshed. Meanwhile, Mongo happens across Vikki (Field), a young woman who recently left her home in rural West Virginia to start a new life in the big city. Compelled by a combination of lust and pity, Mongo gives Vikki a place to stay, putting her in the crossfire as the date of the big hit approaches. Also pulled into the drama are a moll (Francis) and Tolstad’s partner (Sheen).

          Although the plot of Mongo’s Back in Town is alternately convoluted and pedestrian, it’s possible to watch the movie just for the acting and character work. On that level, it’s fairly rewarding. Baker gets to carry most of the picture’s dramatic weight, and he does so gracefully. Playing a thug defined by his past choices and the patterns they created, Baker shows glimmers of sensitivity in his scenes with Field, because even though she’s not purely innocent—a wise choice on the filmmakers’ part—she’s redeemable, which may or may not be true of Baker’s character. This unpredictable relationship creates dramatic tension of an emotional sort, which offers an effective complement to the ticking-clock suspense stemming from the contract killing. Yet it’s not as if Baker’s character comes across as some gentle giant in a world of nefarious hoodlums; some of the crimes that Mongo commits are horrendous. Less dimensional are the cop scenes, with Sheen’s character offering by-the-book contrast to his partner’s instinctive style. And to call the material with Francis’ character threadbare would require overstatement.

          Still, the best elements of Mongo’s Back in Town work well enough to make the picture worthwhile. Polished and quiet, Mongo’s Back in Town favors gentle shadings of morality over flamboyant action scenes, so the film’s creative team deserves credit for trying something different within the parameters of a familiar genre. 

Mongo’s Back in Town: FUNKY

Speedtrap (1977)

          Action-packed nonsense about an insurance investigator chasing a resourceful car thief, Speedtrap stars the jovial Joe Don Baker and features several noteworthy supporting players, plus oodles of ’70s trash-cinema texture. We’re talking artless photography, cheesy original songs, ghastly fashions, synthesizer-infused background music, and enough vehicular mayhem to fill a dozen Burt Reynolds movies. The characterizations are vapid, the story runs the gamut from stupid to trite to unbelievable, and the whole thing lumbers along for an unnecessarily long 113 minutes. In sum, if you take your ’70s exploitation flicks with a dollop of anarchy and a pinch of kitsch, Speedtrap might be your, well, speed. When the story begins, cops are baffled by a series of brazen car thefts, because the criminal uses a gadget to start car engines by remote, then steers them clear of prying eyes before hopping behind the wheel for high-speed getaways. Enter Pete Novick (Baker), a swaggering PI with adversaries and buddies throughout the police force. In particular, Pete shares a semi-romantic bond with a uniformed cop nicknamed “Nifty” Nolan (Tyne Daly). But never mind that, because like most of the story elements in Speedtrap, the relationship with Nolan is of little consequence throughout most of the film’s running time.

          After the usual predictable clashes with police-department boss Captain Hogan (Morgan Woodward), Pete chases a few cars to no avail before enlisting the aid of his buddy, ace mechanic Billy (Richard Jaeckel). Meanwhile, the mysterious thief pisses off a gangster named Spillano (Robert Loggia) by stealing a car containing a suitcase full of drugs. More car chases ensue, leading to a series of goofy plot twists during the final act. The scene-to-scene continuity of Speedtrap doesn’t merit attention, and in fact the overall palatability of the movie is dependent upon each viewer’s tolerance for repetitive car-chase sequences. On the plus side, the action is virtually incessant, zesty actors spew campy dialogue during the rare occasions when the movie slows down, and Baker makes the whole thing feel like a party by wearing a shit-eating grin in virtually every scene. Watching Speedtrap will almost certainly cost you a few hundred brain cells, but if you dig what this ridiculous movie is selling, that might be a fair trade.

Speedtrap: FUNKY

Adam at Six A.M. (1970)

          There’s an amusing parallel to be found between the star and the subject matter of Adam at Six A.M., a well-made post-Graduate character study about a young intellectual who rebels against the psychological constraints of middle-class society. Like the protagonist, leading man Michael Douglas, the eldest child of Hollywood legend Kirk Douglas, gained career access because of his father’s accomplishments. Unlike the protagonist, however, Michael Douglas dove headlong into the family business. The story begins with Adam Gaines (Douglas) completing a school year as an assistant professor of semantics at a West Coast university. At first glance, he seems to possess all the trappings of success—a snazzy car, a steady job, and a sultry girlfriend, Joyce (Meg Foster). Yet when Adam receives word that a relative has died in Missouri, he impulsively ditches his comfortable situation for a road trip, curious to experience the textures of a simpler lifestyle. Immediately upon arriving in small-town America, Adam meets recent high-school graduate Jerri Jo Hopper (Lee Purcell), a pretty and sweet girl who is dazzled by Adam’s big-city bona fides. Then Adam takes a job on a road crew alongside amiable hick Harvey Garvin (Joe Don Baker), marking an abrupt shift from cerebral endeavors to physical labor.

          Once all the pieces of the story are in place, screenwriters Elinor and Steven Karpf reveal that Adam has traded one social trap for another, so narrative tension emanates from the question of whether Adam can find a niche for himself in the Midwest. The Karpfs’ script is generally quite strong, with sensitive characterizations and thoughtful dialogue—as well as a few artfully constructed visual metaphors—and the movie as a whole walks a fine line between objectively depicting and snidely satirizing the people who fill America’s heartland. (For instance, the central love story works because Jerri Jo is shown to be more complex and savvy than a mere girl-next-door caricature.) There’s no question that the filmmakers’ sympathies lie with Adam—who represents the existential malaise of late ’60s/early ’70s youth culture—but Adam at Six A.M. plays fair because the hurtful consequences of the lead character’s I-gotta-be-me decisions are clearly dramatized. And if the film’s final images hit with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, everyone involved in the picture gets points for trying to say something meaningful in a literary way.

          In terms of technical execution, Robert Scheerer’s smooth direction keeps scenes brisk and purposeful, and the acting is solid. Douglas underplays effectively, accentuating his character’s amusement at provincial attitudes without coming across as smug, and Purcell illustrates the iron will hidden behind her character’s unassuming demeanor. Baker lays on his signature good-ole-boy charm, contributing humor and menace in equal measure, and indestructible character actor Dana Elcar delivers a vivid turn in a small but crucial part as a judgmental townie.

Adam at Six A.M.: GROOVY

Charley Varrick (1973)

          B-movie director Don Siegel was on a serious hot streak in the ’70s, capping his previously erratic career with a run of wonderfully entertaining dramas and thrillers, notably the four ’70s movies he made with actor Clint Eastwood. Charley Varrick was Siegel’s first movie after he and Eastwood scored with Dirty Harry (1971), and the picture proved the director’s appeal wasn’t predicated solely on his access to the former Man With No Name. A tight little crime thriller with a sense of playful humor (even though it contains plenty of vicious violence), Charley Varrick stars the inimitable Walter Matthau as a pilot-turned-crook who inadvertently steals over $750,000 from the Mob, then tries to wriggle free of the ensuing hit that’s ordered on him. Based on a novel by John Reese, the picture stacks one clever twist upon another, so even though the plot’s a bit overstuffed—the picture runs 111 minutes, and it could have lost a supporting character or two without any diminishment in quality—Charley Varrick moves along at a zippy pace.
          Set in the Southwest, the movie begins when Charley (Matthau) and his accomplices rob a small-town bank. The crime goes badly, resulting in several deaths, so a police manhunt begins. But that’s not the real trouble. It turns out the bank was a dead drop for laundered Mafia money, which means Charley pilfered from the wrong people, and, alas, giving the money back and apologizing won’t satisfy the aggrieved parties. Crooked banker Boyle (John Vernon) enlists brutal but silver-tongued enforcer Molly (Joe Don Baker) to track down and kill the thieves. Since Charley did a stretch in prison and knows his way around the underworld, much of the picture comprises fascinating scenes of Charley planting seeds for his ultimate escape plan while constantly remaining a step ahead of his relentless pursuers. Along the way, Charley expertly handles a hot-tempered accomplice (Andrew Robinson), a duplicitous counterfeiter (Sheree North), an opportunistic secretary (Felicia Farr), and other shifty characters.
         Because Matthau was always so good at making devious characters seem likable, it’s great fun to watch him incarnate a calculating son of a bitch who’s perfectly willing to throw accomplices in the line of fire if that’s what it takes to survive. Plus, because the story establishes that the people chasing Charley are completely reprehensible, our sympathies always lie with the “hero,” even though he’s a liar and thief. Siegel gets a lot of visual mileage out of such dilapidated locations as junkyards and trailer parks, sketching a netherworld of career criminals who hide their illegal enterprises behind borderline legitimate businesses—a crappy photo studio on a second-floor walkup in an apartment building, a crop-dusting concern in the middle of nowhere, and so on. Better still, Siegel hits the perfect everyone’s-expendable tone for this sort of thing, using low angles and quick cuts and the nerve-rattling rhythms of Lalo Schifrin’s score to amplify the danger in every corner of this seedy little universe. The acting is uniformly colorful, with Farr and North, among others, contributing seen-it-all stoicism while Baker and Vernon incarnate gleefully sociopathic attitudes. Flying above it all—sometimes literally, since he pilots a biplane during the thrilling finale—is Matthau, caustic and unimpressed even during the most frightening of circumstances.

Charley Varrick: GROOVY

Junior Bonner (1972)

          Although it’s a horrible cliché to say that Hollywood success is a double-edged sword, the sentiment is apt when considering Junior Bonner, a lovely dramatic film that probably would have enjoyed broader acceptance had the reputations of the film’s director and star not created inappropriate expectations. The director is Sam Peckinpah, who made this soft-spoken movie as a reprieve from the violent action sagas for which he was famous, and the star is Steve McQueen, whose most popular films involve glossy escapism. As the quiet story of an aging rodeo champ who returns to his hometown with an eye toward resolving longstanding family strife, Junior Bonner is probably the last thing anybody anticipated from Peckinpah or McQueen. Combined with the near-simultaneous release of several other movies about rodeo riders, the disconnect between what audiences wanted from the people behind Junior Bonner and what the picture actually delivers helped ensure a rotten performance at the box office. Happily, critics and fans have elevated the movie to greater notoriety in the years since its original release, because Junior Bonner represents a nearly pitch-perfect collaboration between director and star. (It’s also a damn sight better, in terms of resonance and substance, than the duo’s hit follow-up, 1974’s The Getaway.)

          When the movie begins, Junior (McQueen) trots into Prescott, Arizona, after a grueling and unrewarding rodeo ride. While recuperating in preparation for another shot at the bull that threw him, Junior wades into the fraught relationship of his parents, hard-drinking carouser Ace (Robert Preston) and no-bullshit survivor Elvira (Ida Lupino). As Junior tries to help mend fences, he also must contend with the crass ambitions of his little brother, Curly (Joe Don Baker), who wants to raze old homes (including his parents’ house) in order to build a cookie-cutter development. The contrast between Junior’s old-fashioned independence and his brother’s ultra-modern avarice allows Peckinpah to channel one of his favorite themes—the passing of the West, and the values it represents—through the tidy narrative of Jeb Rosebrook’s screenplay.

          McQueen proves once again that there was more to him than just an impressive macho image, using precision of language and movement to express his character’s inner life as efficiently as possible. McQueen is loose when he needs to be, as during scenes of barroom rowdiness, and tight when he needs to be, as during vignettes illustrating subtle family tensions. Preston channels his charming boisterousness into the character of a loveable rascal, and Lupino is believable as a woman who’s been put through the wringer by a challenging marriage. Baker and costar Ben Johnson contribute two different types of manly energy, with Baker conveying winner-takes-all selfishness and Johnson tight-lipped toughness. For the most part, Peckinpah eschews his signature excesses—the trademark slow-motion shots are used sparingly—so Junior Bonner is a great reminder that before he was a provocateur, Peckinpah was a storyteller. If only by dint of lacking mythic characterizations and over-the-top violence, Junior Bonner is probably the simplest Peckinpah feature, and that’s a good thing.

Junior Bonner: GROOVY

Checkered Flag or Crash (1977)

This car-race picture comes awfully close to qualifying as entertainment, but dodgy editing and vapid storytelling eventually become so distracting that it’s hard to classify Checkered Flag or Crash as anything other than a dud. Set in the Philippines, the movie depicts a 1,000-mile road race that attracts sportsmen driving cars, dune buggies, and motorcycles. Part demolition derby, part endurance test, and part speed trial, the race scenario offers great potential for action, comedy, and drama. Alas, writer Michael Allin and director Alan Gibson mostly substitute shots of cars driving through dirt patches and thick jungles for actual cinematic content. Joe Don Baker stars as champion driver “Walkaway” Madden, a bearish American, and Susan Sarandon costars as C.C. Wainwright, a car-magazine reporter who rides shotgun in Madden’s rig during the race. The other significant characters are Bo Cochran (Larry Hagman), the race’s good-ol’-boy organizer, and “Doc” Pyle (Alan Vint), Madden’s ex-partner and a rival driver. The movie largely comprises so-so racing footage, interspersed with cutesy romantic-banter scenes involving Baker and Sarandon. While both actors display their considerable innate charm, there’s no chemistry between them, and the characters are underdeveloped to the point of barely existing. Furthermore, there’s no tension in the movie, since Madden’s first-place finish is never in doubt. (After all, most of the other drivers are portrayed as losers and/or nincompoops.) The picture has decent production values, but these don’t count for much because the shooting and cutting of racing scenes is sloppy—camera angles are so close that it’s hard to distinguish details, and the editing relies on blur shots for connective tissue. Considering that Checkered Flag or Crash is a race movie, the presence of substandard racing footage pretty much scotches the whole deal. Yet the movie’s most galling element, by far, is the atrocious music score, which has a cornpone Nashville-meets-Vegas quality. Some of the cues seem pulled from old Hee-Haw sketches, and the title song is the worst kind of truckstop earworm.

Checkered Flag or Crash: LAME

Mitchell (1975)

One of the least interesting entries in the ’70s cycle of action movies about cops behaving as lawlessly as the criminals they pursue, Mitchell features a disjointed storyline, lackluster action scenes, and perfunctory acting. The movie is more or less coherent, but it’s also boring, clichéd, and stupid. Hulking B-movie star Joe Don Baker plays the title character, a dim-bulb detective who gets mixed up with sophisticated crooks, so the bulk of the story involves Baker’s character trying to outwit people whose intellects greatly surpass his own. This sort of premise worked well in a zillion other movies; for instance, Baker offered an entertaining, Southern-fried spin on similar material in Walking Tall (1973). Yet everything about Mitchell feels half-assed. Baker isn’t the right casting for a tough city cop, since he’s unmistakably a good ol’ boy from Texas, and he plays nearly every scene like light comedy, even though death and destruction follow in his wake. As directed by the normally reliable Andrew V. McLaglen, Mitchell wobbles between escapism and seriousness, so it seems likely that many of the film’s tonal problems emerged during postproduction. After all, there’s no excuse for the inclusion of cornpone country singer Hoyt Axton’s lackadaisical theme song during a lengthy love scene between Baker and leading lady Linda Evans—for several excruciating minutes, Mitchell becomes the equivalent of the worst type of Burt Reynolds romp. Future Dynasty star Evans is as forgettable as always, while the actors playing the villains—the great Martin Balsam and the emphatic John Saxon—are wasted in one-dimensional roles. (Saxon’s big scene is a silly chase involving dune buggies.) Virtually nothing in Mitchell works, and the climax is beyond ludicrous. Baker’s character commandeers a helicopter to chase after bad guys who are in a boat, transfers from the helicopter to the boat, and takes out a henchman with a metal hook. All the while, the main villain simply stands at the boat’s controls, waiting to get shot instead of taking defensive action. But then again, seeing as how he’s stuck in an awful movie, can you blame him?

Mitchell: LAME

Golden Needles (1974)

          The first 10 minutes of this actioner from Enter the Dragon director Robert Clouse are wonderfully trashy. Over a shot of a primitive golden statue, a narrator explains hokey lore about how the statue’s design reveals secret acupuncture points—used properly, these points release incredible sexual pleasure, but used improperly, they lead to instant death. Hence the statue’s name: “The Golden Needles of Ecstasy.” Cut to a decrepit, wheelchair-bound Chinese man getting escorted into a modern-day acupuncture parlor for a session with the needles. Once the session is completed, the man rises to his feet, magically invigorated and ready for private time with his young female escorts—until two bad guys enter the parlor carrying flamethrowers. The assailants torch the old man, his ladies, and the acupuncturist before absconding with the statue. That’s how to get the cinematic party started, folks!

          Although the remaining 80 minutes of Golden Needles pale by comparison in terms of energy and verve, the movie has an appealing quality of loopy escapism. The picture combines Far East exotica with mysticism, sex, violence, and a slew of lively performances that border on camp. Golden Needles is ridiculous, but that’s why it’s fun to watch, even though the overwrought plotting eventually slows things down. The gist of the story is that various parties in Hong Kong want to acquire the “Golden Needles” statue. Dan (Joe Don Baker) is a towering American who knows his way around the local underworld, so he’s hired by visiting American Felicity (Elizabeth Ashley) to steal the statue, in exchange for cash and sex. (Dan drives a hard bargain, wink-wink.) Eventually, Dan finds himself in the midst of a caper that involves a kooky American crime boss (Burgess Meredith) and various representatives of the Hong Kong mob.

          Given his previous success with martial-arts pictures, Clouse hits the chop-socky button every so often, with kicks and punches thrown by Baker, Jim Kelly (Black Belt Jones), and sexy Asian actress Frances Fong. Yet Golden Needles is only marginally a martial-arts flick, because the action scenes tend to focus on bare-knuckle brawls and death-defying escapes—at one point, Dan gets trapped in a factory into which a bad guy has released dozens of snakes. (An exciting score by Lalo Schifin helps pull together the random story elements.) Golden Needles won’t meet anyone’s criteria for quality cinema, but for sheer silly excitement, it’s hard to beat a movie that features a pervy Meredith licking his lips while his giant black manservant receives potentially lethal acupuncture, or that features man-mountain Baker leading pursuers on an epic chase through an overcrowded Hong Kong harbor and the surrounding area.

Golden Needles: GROOVY

Walking Tall (1973) & Walking Tall Part II (1975) & Final Chapter: Walking Tall (1977)

          The Walking Tall franchise provides an object lesson in diminishing returns. The first picture has a certain crude but undeniable power, meaning follow-ups were inevitable. Yet critical lashings and meager box-office returns for the second and third pictures did not deter the films’ producers from generating a TV movie, titled A Real American Hero, about the same real-life historical figure who inspired the franchise. Later, a different company picked up the reins by creating a short-lived Walking Tall TV series in 1981. And then, decades after it seemed as if the Walking Tall brand was exhausted, a remake of the original film was released in 2004 (with Dwayne Johnson as Pusser), and the remake begat straight-to-video sequels (enter Kevin Sorbo). What gave the series its staying power? Well, if you believe the self-mythologizing of the late Buford Pusser, the subject of all of these stories, he was a real-life action hero. A former wrestler who became the sheriff of Tennessee’s McNairy County, Pusser took on organized crime and won, purging McNairy of moonshiners, prostitutes, racketeers, and so on. Yet justice came at a terrible price. Pusser’s wife was murdered, and he died under mysterious circumstances just a year after the first Walking Tall movie was released.

          Or at least that was the perception until a 2025 investigation unearthed evidence suggesting Pusser killed his wife. One imagines the next cinematic treatment of Pusser’s life, if there ever is one, will bear little resemblance to the pulpy sagas of the ’70s.

          The first movie, simply titled Walking Tall, was based on a nonfiction book about Pusser. At the beginning of the story, Pusser (Joe Don Baker) gives up wrestling for a quiet life in his native McNairy County, only to discover the area is overrun with crooks. Idealistic and stubborn, Pusser gets into hassles with the area’s criminal element. Before long, he’s beaten, mutilated, and left for dead. Unable to exact justice via the legal system after his recovery, Pusser runs for sheriff and wins, becoming a one-man vengeance squad. The title relates to his signature weapon, a four-foot wooden club that he uses to beat evildoers (as in, “Walk tall and carry a big stick”). One of the most interesting elements of the movie is Pusser’s gradual education about things like search-and-seizure laws and suspects’ rights; he evolves from recklessly kicking ass to slyly trapping bad guys through their own misdeeds. Meanwhile, he tries to build a stable home life with his wife, Pauline (Elizabeth Hartman), and their two kids.

          As directed by competent journeyman Phil Karlson, Walking Tall moves along at a good clip even though it runs 125 minutes; call it the Citizen Kane of fascistic southern-fried vigilante pictures. Plus, by the time the movie slides into its final act—during which Pusser metes out bloody justice while half his face is masked in bandages following a near-fatal assault—Walking Tall becomes just a little bit deranged. (How deranged? The plaintive theme song is performed by, of all people, Johnny Mathis.) Baker is in his natural element here, exuding badass ’tude and cornpone charm, so it doesn’t really matter that the rest of the cast is largely forgettable; only crusty character actor Noah Berry, Jr., as Pusser’s papa, makes an impression. The aesthetic is pure Me Decade garishness, the FX team is generous with the fake blood, and every narrative point is made with the subtlety of a hammer to the forehead. The amount of sweat pouring from actors seems to reflect how hard they're working to generate lurid entertainment.

          The real-life Pusser’s death cast a morbid pall over Walking Tall Part II, in which the statuesque Bo Svenson assume the leading role. Lacking Baker’s charisma, Svenson struggles through emotional moments and relies on his intimidating physique to sell action scenes. Further, he seems too gentle to play a man who’d rather crack skulls than read suspects their rights. It isn’t giving much away to say the original Walking Tall ends with Pusser killing the men who murdered his wife, or that Walking Tall: Part II dramatizes his attempts to arrest the crooks who ordered the hit. The sequel adds swampy flavor, with supporting characters bearing names like “Pinky Dobson” and “Stud Pardee,” and the caliber of the supporting players is a slight improvement on the first film. Reliable actors including Luke Askew and Richard Jaeckel add energy, though leading lady Angel Tompkins is largely decorative as a temptress hired to ensnare Pusser. And while periodic car chases and shootouts keep things lively, there’s too much aimless yakety-yak—not exactly Svenson’s strong suit as a performer. Worse, the way the movie addresses the real Pusser’s death is highly unsatisfying.

          The last of the ’70s Pusser flicks, the oddly titled Final Chapter: Walking Tall, is as interminable as it is unnecessary. Fabricating a thin story to depict what happened to Pusser between the climax of the previous film and his death—while, of course, presenting a wholly unsubstantiated conspiracy theory in order to name Pusser’s killers—Final Chapter: Walking Tall mostly features Pusser (Svenson again) fretting about his troubles. A long scene of Pusser weeping over his wife’s grave represents the nadir of Svenson’s acting in the series; he tries mightily but can’t conjure anything genuine. Weirdly, the makers of Final Chapter: Walking Tall often forget they’re cranking out an exploitation flick, instead trying to generate wholesome family drama. Pusser saves a kid from an abusive father, romances a girl-next-door secretary, and generally tries to set a positive example for his kids—yawn. Literally an hour of screen time elapses before serious action occurs.

          Anyway, one last item for trivia buffs—two performes who appear in all three ’70s Walking Tall movies are teen idol Leif Garrett, as Pusser’s son, and character actor Bruce Glover, as Pusser’s deputy. Best known for playing a gay hit man in the 007 romp Diamonds are Forever (1971), Glover also sired oddball actor-director Crispin Glover.

Walking Tall: GROOVY

Walking Tall Part II: FUNKY

Final Chapter: Walking Tall: LAME

Framed (1975)

          Drive-in pulp done right, Framed puts Southern-fried star Joe Don Baker into his most comfortable role: a tough-talking everyman pushed to violent extremes by horrific circumstance. Offering a shady spin on Buford Pusser, the lawman Baker played in Walking Tall (1973), this picture casts the actor as Ron Lewis, a gambler who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Driving home from a big game one night, he comes across two cars parked on a country highway, and exits his own vehicle to offer assistance. When an unseen person shoots at him with a gun, Ron dives back into his car and makes tracks. Later that night, a cruel small-town deputy shows up at Ron’s doorstep, ostensibly to make a bust but really to start a fight. Realizing he’s been set up to die, Ron defends himself and kills the deputy. Then, thanks to collusion between various corrupt local officials, Ron’s railroading is made complete when he’s sentenced to a four-year stint in jail. And that’s the just first third of the movie: After all this happens, Ron makes surprising alliances inside the big house before coldly seeking revenge (and the truth) upon his release.

           Briskly written by Mort Briskin and directed with meat-and-potatoes economy by Phil Karlson (both of whom worked with Baker on Walking Tall), Framed delivers the B-movie goods from start to finish. The characterizations are clear and purposeful, the dialogue is pithy and sometimes clever, and the violence is nasty. In particular, the close-quarters fight between Ron and the deputy in Ron’s garage is a bone-crunching brawl with persuasive stunt work and plentiful splatter; it’s hard to watch the scene without flinching. The rest of the movie is just as intense, even though the picture follows a somewhat leisurely pace (106 minutes is lengthy by revenge-flick standards). Baker is a quintessential ’70s lead, a hulking good ol’ boy in a leisure suit cracking wise and kicking ass, so it doesn’t matter that the rest of the cast is largely anonymous. The great Brock Peters shows up for a smallish role as a cop who recognizes Ron’s innocence, and Gabriel Dell is funny as an easygoing hit man who drifts in and out of Ron’s life. Ultimately, it’s all about the crime and the grime, and Framed has those elements in abundance.

Framed: GROOVY

The Pack (1977)

          Nature-strikes-back pictures were all the rage after the success of Jaws (1975), but most rip-off projects stretched credibility too far (killer bees, killer rabbits, killer octopi, and so on.). Therefore it’s great fun to find a Jaws-influenced thriller with a story that actually works. In The Pack, based on a novel by David Fisher, a tiny resort island gets overrun by stray dogs when summer people abandon their pets; the animals turn vicious after several days of exposure and starvation, and when their leader gets infected with rabies, the pack becomes a nightmare for the handful of locals left on the island. As written for the screen and directed by B-movie stalwart Robert Clouse (Enter the Dragon), The Pack is a no-nonsense shocker in the classic mode, keeping nettlesome details like characterization and nuance to a bare minimum while focusing on gruesome dog attacks.

          To the picture’s great credit, many genre clichés are avoided, so instead of a callous local official trying to keep a lid on the danger lurking in the woods, the townies do everything they can to protect people. Furthermore, there’s only one instance of characters stupidly wandering into a part of the island where they might be attacked, but even that scene is defensible because at the time the characters venture off, they’re not yet aware of how bad the puppy problem has gotten. (A bigger hiccup is the battle sequence during which the heroes miss obvious opportunities to take out their attackers with close-quarters gunplay.)

          The movie’s hero is fish-and-game guy Jerry (Joe Don Baker), a recent transplant to the island who is building a family with his girlfriend Millie (Hope Alexander-Willis) and her two kids. Jerry’s local compatriots are sardonic innkeeper Hardiman (Richard B. Shull) and crusty seaman Cobb (R.G. Armstrong). Enduring the ordeal along with the locals is a late-season tour group headed by a bank president (Richard O’Brien) who hopes his sad-sack adult son (Paul Wilson) will get laid with the good-time gal (Sherry Miles) brought along expressly for that purpose.

          The Pack follows the standard creature-feature playbook, beginning with isolated attacks and escalating toward greater intensity as the animals become more brazen and their potential victims become more desperate, so there aren’t many narrative surprises. That said, The Pack delivers the goods with effectively staged scare scenes, and there’s a bittersweet undercurrent to the movie since the dogs are themselves victims. The movie is aided tremendously by the work of composer Lee Holdrige, an industry veteran with hundreds of credits for features and TV; his Jerry Goldsmith-style score uses taught strings and percussive rhythms to jack up suspense in a highly entertaining fashion. And while acting doesn’t matter a whole lot in a project like The Pack, everyone does just what he or she is supposed to do, and Baker cuts a reassuring figure with his easygoing demeanor and ever-present shotgun. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

The Pack: GROOVY

Wild Rovers (1971)

          Even though he enjoyed a long and lucrative career directing light comedies, it’s a shame Blake Edwards made only one proper Western, because Wild Rovers reveals the writer-director’s unexpectedly lyrical approach to the cowboy genre. Starring the unlikely but compatible duo of William Holden and Ryan O’Neal, the gorgeous-looking movie tracks the adventures of a pair of cowpokes whose foolhardy decision to rob a bank triggers a series of deadly events.

          Presented as an old-school epic, complete with a musical overture and an intermission, the film moseys along at a deliberate pace, but it’s never boring; the locations and photography are intoxicating, the action is exciting, and the performances keep everything lively. Moreover, Edwards’ inventive screenplay presents a rich mixture of familiar Western tropes and witty flourishes; the best original elements include novel characterizations and sharp dialogue.

          Holden plays Ross Bodine, a veteran cowboy who’s ready to settle down even though he doesn’t have a financial stake, and O’Neal plays Frank Post, a young man still naïve enough to believe he can shape his own destiny. When Ross casually mentions one day that the only cowboys with money are those who rob banks, Frank gets his teeth into the notion and eventually talks Ross into performing a heist. The movie takes its time getting to this point, creating a persuasive sense of camaraderie between the protagonists before things get sticky, and the robbery sequence is offbeat.

          Instead of busting into a bank at daytime, the men casually intimidate the bank owner at his home during evening hours, holding his wife and daughter at gunpoint while forcing him to head to the bank and unload the vault. Charged with overseeing the hostages, Frank bonds with a puppy and protects the banker’s family from a mountain lion rather than doing anything menacing. Narrative choices like these make Ross and Frank compelling characters—we see how easily they buy into the romantic fantasy of a victimless crime, and feel their anguish when they realize how badly they miscalculated.

          Holden adds an unusual color to his standard world-weary persona, accentuating amiability over cynicism, and O’Neal gives a performance that’s as naturalistic as anything he’s ever done. Eschewing the usual rouge’s gallery of overly familiar onscreen varmints, Edwards surrounds his leads with carefully chosen supporting players—including Joe Don Baker, Moses Gunn, Karl Malden, James Olson, and Tom Skerritt—all of whom make valuable contributions. Framing the actors’ work are spectacular widescreen images created by veteran cinematographer Philip Lathrop, a regular Edwards collaborator; his crisp photography of a sequence in which Ross breaks a wild bronco in a snowy field is particularly outstanding, making the sequence a joyous celebration of the cowboy lifestyle. Even the film’s music is noteworthy, with the great Jerry Goldsmith subtly expressing everything from jubilance to heartbreak.

          The unhurried pace of Wild Rovers ensures the picture isn’t for everyone, but the film’s unexpected emotional complexities reward patient viewers with a tough, elegant statement about masculine identity. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Wild Rovers: RIGHT ON

The Outfit (1973)

          An action thriller with an effectively unvarnished style, The Outfit presents a believably grim portrayal of life among professional criminals. The picture also features a tasty cast—led by Robert Duvall, in one of his first star turns after achieving notoriety with The Godfather (1972)—plus contributions from a pair of top action specialists, composer Jerry Fielding and cinematographer Bruce Surtees. Orchestrating the onscreen violence is writer-director John Flynn, arguably best known for helming a subsequent tough-guy flick, Rolling Thunder (1977). If dwelling on peripheral information suggests that trivia pertaining to The Outfit is more interesting than the movie itself, that’s somewhat true. While the movie is not without its pulpy merits, the content and vibe are so perfunctory that The Outfit fails to leave much of an impression (unless you’re Quentin Tarantino, who devoted an entire obsessive chapter in Cinema Speculation to this flick).

          Based on a novel by bestselling crime guy Donald E. Westlake (via his Point Blank alias Richard Stark). The Outfit stars Duvall stars as Macklin, a small-time hood who once helped rob a bank controlled by Mobsters. In the aftermath of the crime, Macklin ended up in jail and his brother, who participated in the robbery, ended up dead. That’s why Macklin and the third robber, Cody (Joe Don Baker), embark on a campaign to rip off Mob-controlled operations until they compel the Mob into paying them off. Unsurprisingly, the Mob—personified by big boss Mailer (Robert Ryan)—doesn’t like the idea of caving to blackmailers, so a war ensues, with Macklin and Cody alternating between raiding Mob establishments and engaging in shootouts with enforcers. Caught up in the action is Macklin’s companion, Bett (Karen Black), who occasionally serves as an accomplice. 

          Although The Outfit neither presents a discernible theme nor transcends its genre limitations, the picture accomplishes what it sets out to accomplish. The shadowy look of the movie suits the frontier-justice milieu. Some flourishes are intense, as when Duvall’s character shoots a thug’s hand to demonstrate dominance. Regarding the actors, second lead Baker’s country-fried blend of charm and menace lends helpful dynamism given how extremely Duvall underplays his role; laconic Hollywood vet Ryan gives one of his characteristically seething late-career performances as the main villain (his main scene with Duvall is a highlight); future Blade Runner costar Joanna Cassidy turns up in her first significant role, playing Ryan’s irritable arm candy; and Richard Jaeckel, Bill McKinney, and Sheree North add verve to small roles.

The Outfit: FUNKY